The soft rays of morning filtered through the sheer curtains, painting the room in muted gold. Viyansh stirred first, groggy from the long night. He blinked against the light, his mind sluggish, until he felt the weight of something on his face.

A hand.

He gently lifted it away and turned, the haze lifting as reality pressed down on him. Married. Again.

Beside him lay Samyukta, lost in the tranquility of sleep. Her hair spilled across the pillow in messy strands, her lips parted ever so slightly, a faint frown etched between her brows as though even in dreams she was not at peace.

For a moment he simply watched her, caught in something unexplainable. Before he could think better of it, his hand lifted of its own accord, brushing across her forehead. His thumb smoothed over the crease, and the frown melted into serenity.

A small smile tugged at his lips, quiet, almost reluctant. But then awareness crashed over him. He froze, snatched his hand back, and cursed himself under his breath. What the hell are you doing, Viyansh?

Throwing the blanket aside, he rose. It was already nine.

Yet she slept on, oblivious to time, curled in the safety of dreams. He paced the room restlessly, unsure whether to wake her. His mother would expect her to be up, but how did one wake a wife he barely knew? So he waited.

The silence was broken suddenly by the sharp, urgent cry of a baby from the corridor. Instantly, Viyansh straightened, every nerve alert. At the same moment, Samyukta stirred. Her lashes fluttered open, adjusting to the surroundings. And then the memory of last night returned like a slap.

Her eyes darted around the room, then to him.

“What… what time is it?” Her voice was groggy, hesitant.

He stood by the door, already dressed for the day, his phone in hand. “It’s nine in the morning, ma’am,” he said dryly, though not unkindly.

Color drained from her face. Nine? Her first morning in this house and she had overslept. Fear pricked her spine, what will they think of me? A mixture of dread and embarrassment made her stumble as she scrambled toward the bathroom, barely steady on her feet.

Half an hour later, the door of the closet opened.

Samyukta stepped out, her transformation startling. Draped in a powder-pink saree that flowed like mist around her, she looked composed, her damp hair tied half up, half down, the faint sheen of water still glistening at the ends. She carried herself with quiet determination, as though willing away the panic from earlier.

But the sight that met her eyes stilled her steps.

Viyansh sat on the couch, his phone pressed to his ear, speaking in a clipped business tone. But it wasn’t the conversation that rooted her in place, it was the baby nestled securely in his arm.

The child was impossibly small, his tiny fingers curling against Viyansh’s chest, his innocent eyes blinking against the morning light.

Samyukta’s heart squeezed. So fragile. So untouched by the storms that had brought them here.

And Viyansh, his voice remained sharp, authoritative, but his free hand moved with unconscious gentleness, patting the baby’s back in a steady rhythm. The sight was disarming. For a man she had only seen as cold, distant, restrained, it was jarring to see this side of him.

She stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the picture of father and son, a hundred questions rising in her throat, but not a single word finding escape.

The tiny whimpers of the baby filled the quiet room. Veer shifted restlessly in his father’s arms, making small, frustrated gestures with his little fists. At four months old, the world was still a mystery to him, his language was his cries, his gurgles, the subtle wrinkling of his forehead.

“It’s your vaccination day tomorrow, hmm?” Viyansh murmured absentmindedly, his deep voice softening as he rocked the child. He spoke into the phone with the other hand, issuing crisp instructions to whoever was on the line, yet between sentences his tone melted into coos reserved only for his son.

But then, he stilled.

Across the room, leaning lightly against the wall, stood Samyukta.

Her saree glowed in the pale morning light, powder pink against her skin, her damp braid resting against her shoulder. She wasn’t adorned in jewels or makeup, just herself, serene and unembellished. Her gaze, however, was what held him frozen. She was watching, watching him and the baby.

For a moment, he forgot the person on the other end of the call. The way her eyes lingered made something twist in his chest, soft, almost dangerous.

He ended the call quickly. Silence followed, broken only by Veer’s faint babbling.

“I… I’m sorry,” Samyukta said suddenly, her voice low, unsure. “For being late. I didn’t mean to, last night I forgot to set an alarm. It won’t happen again.”

He blinked at her, surprised. Apologising? For this? He frowned slightly, not in anger but in confusion. Why was she treating such a small matter like a fault?

Clearing his throat, he shook his head. “It’s alright. No need to explain. Everyone woke up late today.” His tone was even, final.

But his eyes returned to her, noting the way hers were now fixed on the baby in his arms. He could not read the expression, was it hesitation, or something warmer? Did she find Veer a burden, or was there… softness there?

He adjusted the baby carefully and rose from the couch. The moment he did, she stepped forward.

Her movements were tentative but deliberate, as if guided by something stronger than thought. Her gaze never wavered from the child.

“If…” she paused, her voice almost a whisper, “if you don’t mind, can you give him to me? I’ve never… I’ve never seen a baby up close before.”

The words struck him with unexpected force. Never seen one? How untouched her world must have been for her to admit that so innocently. He studied her for a long moment, searching for any trace of pretense. But she stood with quiet earnestness, her hands empty, her posture patient.

She was his wife now. He could not deny her this. Still, a trace of protectiveness surged through him, instinctively wary of anyone else holding his son.

“You can take him,” he said slowly, his voice a little firmer than before, “only if he doesn’t cry in your arms.”

Her face lit with something almost childlike, a mix of eagerness and determination. “He won’t,” she assured quickly, as though sealing a promise.

Then, almost hurriedly, she began slipping off the rings adorning her fingers. One by one, each piece of metal clinked softly against the wooden side table until her hands were bare. She looked up at him, eyes steady, silently asking again for permission.

Something tugged inside him at the sight. She wasn’t thinking about appearances or impressing him. She was just… trying. Trying to hold his son with care.

And against his better judgment, against the walls he had built around himself, Viyansh felt a corner of those walls shift.

He stepped closer, the baby still secure in his arms, and for the first time, considered what it would mean to let her touch a part of his life that mattered most.

Stay tuned.