After a hearty dinner with the family, Advik and I find ourselves on a late-night ice cream date. How this man always knows I'm craving one without me even saying a word is beyond me. I guess years of being together does that—you become hyperaware of your partner's needs, wants, and quirks. And honestly? I'm not complaining, as long as it means I get to relish my own customized sundae bowl, stacked with seven different ice cream flavors that absolutely should not go together.
This bowl isn't for the faint of heart, but then again, neither am I. Chaos is a flavor, darling, and I like my dessert the way I like my life—unhinged, unexpected, and controversial.
I place my order and turn to wait—patiently (read: aggressively tapping my foot)—for His Royal Indecisiveness to finally pick a flavor. These Mehrotra siblings, I swear, take forever and a half to watch, taste, and contemplate their options, only to end up choosing the exact same flavor they always get. I mean, why put us poor peasants through the agony of waiting? Why make us roll our eyes so hard they nearly touch our brains if the grand decision is just going to be the usual?
"Advik, for the love of my sanity, just pick one. At this rate, global warming will reverse before you do."
He side-eyes me, looking as unimpressed as ever. "Excuse me for having standards, Mrs. Impatient. Some of us actually respect the art of decision-making and don't just throw the first seven flavors they see into a bowl and call it a sundae."
I dramatically gasp. "Wow. The audacity. My sundae is a masterpiece of chaos. You, on the other hand, have spent ten minutes debating between Classic Vanilla and French Vanilla. What's next? Staring at the ceiling for life's answers?"
He hums, completely unaffected by my sass. "See, this is why I take my time. Unlike some people, I believe in calculated decisions."
I snort. "Advik, it's ice cream, not a real estate investment."
Meanwhile, my chaotic sundae bowl sits proudly in front of me—an absolute abomination of flavors that no sane person would dare put together. But then again, sanity is overrated.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he settles on his usual. I gasp with mock surprise. "Oh my God. What a plot twist. A revelation. A true cinematic experience. The Great Advik Mehrotra chooses his default flavor. Once again. Somebody alert the media."
He smirks, all smug and unbothered. "Mock all you want, but at least my ice cream isn't having an identity crisis."
I shield my sundae dramatically. "Listen here, you basic-flavor enthusiast, my sundae is a work of art. A rebellion against monotony. A revolution."
He leans in, voice teasing. "And a guaranteed stomach ache."
I narrow my eyes. "Say that again and I'll force you to take a bite of it."
He smirks. "You wouldn't."
I grin. "Try me."
He shakes his head, grabbing his ice cream while I grin in victory. Another round in the eternal Falak vs. Advik war: won.
•—•
On our way back home, the car hums with laughter and playful banter—until I see them. A couple standing at the crosswalk, their baby nestled securely against the father's chest in a carrier, while the mother gazes at them with pure, unfiltered love.
My heart plummets.
The playfulness vanishes, replaced by a lump in my throat that refuses to go away. I try to look away, to blink back the sting in my eyes, but it's futile. That image—so simple, so beautiful—stirs something raw within me. A cruel reminder of the bliss we felt for fleeting hours before it was mercilessly taken away in that doctor's cabin.
It's bittersweet how we wove an entire future in mere hours—all from that tiny, life-changing positive on the pregnancy test. Names, nursery themes, who'd be the fun parent, who'd be the strict one. We had already debated over whose genes would dominate—"If the kid inherits Advik's brains, we're doomed."—before reality came crashing down with a negative pregnancy report.
Just like that, the dream dissolved as quickly as it had formed. A part of me laughs at how easily we let our hearts run wild, while another part aches at how quickly we had to rein them back in.
The couple crosses the road, giggling softly, their baby snug in their embrace. A warmth they carry, so effortless, so unshaken.
Unconsciously, my heart whispers, "Waheguru ji, apni meher bacche te banayi rakhna."
I wipe a tear away before turning to look at Advik, only to realize how eerily silent he has been all this while. And what I see shatters my heart into shards.
His grip on the steering wheel is so tight that his knuckles have turned white. His head is reclined against the headrest, turned toward the window—away from me. As if he's trying to shield his emotions, pretending he hasn't just witnessed the same sight that has gutted me. As if that didn't scratch open the wounds that barely started healing.
But he has to know—this isn't just my grief. It's ours.
We lost our little one before he even had a chance to exist. A mere report shattered our dream of parenthood, and Advik has just as much right as I do to grieve, to be angry, to cry his heart out. But while I had Avni Maa and Shika Maa to lean on, he had no one. No shoulder to rest his burden on, no space to fall apart. He carries this pain alone, not because he doesn't feel it, but because he wants to shield everyone else from the same heartbreak. And all this while, he had to be my anchor, my strength—even when he was breaking inside. And that—more than anything—makes my heart ache for him.
I grip his hand, prying it away from the steering wheel he's strangling, and a lone tear slips from his eye. Before I can even process it, I'm pulled into a soul-crushing embrace, his face buried in my neck, warm saline drops seeping into my shoulder. I hold him tighter, as if my embrace could glue back the shattered pieces, as if my touch could somehow lessen the weight of his grief. Silent sobs wrack through him, his shoulders trembling with the force of emotions he's held back for too long. And as I feel my rock, my strength, breaking in my arms, my own tears spill freely—because nothing has ever hurt more than seeing him like this.
I switch on the parking lights before turning my full attention back to my husband, whose breaths remain ragged.
I have no words—because no words can soothe this pain. And right now, he doesn't need them. He needs a quiet, unwavering presence—a steady anchor to hold onto until he finds the strength to stand again.
After a few minutes, I gently pull his face away, cupping it in my hands as I wipe away his tears. Pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead, I offer a silent prayer that somehow, in some way, it could mend even a fraction of his broken heart.
Intertwining our fingers, I whisper, "We'll be okay." It doesn't feel true in this moment, but I hold on to the hope that someday, it will.
•—•
The soft rustling of fabric and the muted thud of a suitcase wheel against the wooden floor break the quiet of the early morning. I bite my lip, trying to zip up an overstuffed bag without waking Advik, but the second I glance toward the bed, I find him already awake, one arm lazily thrown over his head, eyes groggy but dark with something unmistakable.
"You do realize we're going for a weekend, right? Not a month?" His voice is thick with sleep, gravelly in a way that sends a pleasant shiver down my spine.
I huff, hands on my hips. "Excuse me for being prepared. Unlike someone who thinks throwing three T-shirts and a toothbrush into a bag is packing."
A slow smirk curves his lips as he pushes himself up, his tousled hair a glorious mess that makes my heart stutter. "Come here."
I narrow my eyes. "Why?"
"Because I said so."
I roll my eyes but take a step toward the bed, only to yelp as he grabs my wrist and tugs me down onto the mattress. A startled laugh escapes me before it's swallowed by his lips on mine, deep and consuming. His hands tangle in my hair, tilting my head back as he kisses me harder, stealing the air from my lungs.
"Advik," I mumble against his mouth, trying and failing to sound stern.
"Mmm?" His lips trail down, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along my jaw, my throat, lower. A sigh escapes me as he nips at the sensitive spot beneath my ear, his hands sliding beneath my shirt to skim the bare skin of my waist.
"We have a flight to catch," I try again, though my resolve is crumbling fast.
He chuckles, his breath warm against my neck. "It's still early. The suitcase isn't going anywhere." His fingers flex on my hips, grounding me against him as his lips return to mine, slow and intoxicating.
I try to protest, but the way he kisses me—possessive, teasing, full of promises—makes it impossible. My fingers thread through his hair, tugging lightly, and he groans against my lips before rolling us over, pinning me beneath him.
"You are an absolute menace," I whisper, my voice barely steady as his lips wander down the column of my throat. Each kiss is slow, deliberate, setting my skin ablaze with the contrast of warmth and the teasing scrape of his stubble. I feel his smirk against my skin before I see it, a wicked, knowing curve of his lips that makes my breath hitch.
"You knew exactly what you were getting into, sweetheart," he murmurs against my collarbone, his lips pressing soft and lingering, like a brand only I can feel. "You married me. That one's on you." His voice is laced with smug amusement, but the way his fingers trace slow circles on my waist is anything but playful. It's possessive, loving, a promise.
I sigh dramatically, though my heart is hammering far too fast to sell the act. My fingers slide into his hair, threading through the silky strands as I whisper, "Worst decision of my life."
He stills, lifting his head, eyes locking onto mine with a mix of mock offense and something deeper—something that flickers in those dark, unreadable depths. "Take that back," he demands, his voice lower now, his gaze intense.
I bite my lip, dragging out the silence just to watch the way his jaw ticks in impatience. My fingers ghost over his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin, the faintest prickle of his stubble. "Hmm..." I hum, pretending to think. Then, with a mischievous glint in my eyes, I meet his stare head-on and whisper, "No."
His response is immediate—his lips crashing onto mine with a hunger that steals the breath from my lungs. His weight presses me deeper into the mattress, his body molding against mine like he belongs there, like we were made to fit this way. The kiss is searing, demanding, and when his hands slide up my sides, fingertips grazing my heated skin, a shiver rolls down my spine.
His lips trail a path of fire down my neck, lingering at my shoulder before returning to capture my mouth with an intensity that makes my toes curl. Every touch, every kiss is a silent plea, a promise, a reminder of everything we are.
"Still think it's the worst decision?" he murmurs against my lips, his voice rough, edged with amusement and something far darker.
I shiver, my fingers digging into the solid muscle of his biceps as I fight to catch my breath. "Maybe... I need a little more convincing." My words are teasing, but my voice betrays me, breathy and wanting.
A low chuckle rumbles from his chest as his lips ghost over my jaw, a deliberate torment before he claims my mouth again, deepening the kiss until the world around us disappears. No packing, no flight, no responsibilities—just him, just us, tangled in warmth, in need, in something deeper than words can hold.
Time ceases to exist, and when I finally pull away, my forehead resting against his, my chest rising and falling in time with his, I barely find the strength to whisper, "Okay, okay. I take it back."
He smirks, his thumb grazing over my cheek. "That's more like it."
I groan, exasperation laced with fondness as I attempt to pry myself from his hold. "Now let me pack before we actually miss the flight."
Instead of letting me go, his arms tighten around me, his warmth wrapping me up like a cocoon. "Mmm, I think we should just stay in bed," he murmurs, his lips grazing the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. His voice is thick with lazy amusement, but there's a quiet plea beneath it, a soft, unspoken request to just stay a little longer.
I laugh, unable to resist the way my heart clenches at his touch. Leaning in, I press a kiss to his nose, my lips lingering for a second longer than necessary. "Tempting, but no."
He exhales dramatically, his grip loosening just enough to let me slip away—but not before he steals one last kiss. It's slow and lingering, his lips moving over mine with an unbearable tenderness, as if memorizing the feel of me, as if telling me without words how much he loves me. By the time he pulls back, my breath is stolen, my thoughts hazy, my heart racing in my chest.
As I stumble back toward my half-packed suitcase, I can still feel him—his lips like a phantom touch against my skin, the warmth of his hands branding me, the teasing promise in his gaze that tells me this wasn't over.
This trip was going to be interesting.
•—•
The airport is a whirlwind of movement—suitcases rolling, hurried footsteps echoing, announcements crackling over the speakers. The scent of coffee and anticipation lingers in the air, yet amidst the chaos, our group lounges near the departure gate, already drawing amused stares.
Advik's gaze flicks to Yug's suitcase, brows furrowing as he gives it a light nudge with his foot. "Why does it feel like you packed bricks in here? What, planning to smuggle the Golden Temple back home?" His lips twitch, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Yug scoffs, shooting him a look of practiced exasperation. "Some of us actually plan ahead. Unlike you, who's probably surviving on Falak's packing skills."
I arch a brow, a slow smirk curling at my lips as I slip my arm through Yug's. "That's exactly right. He's hopeless."
Advik presses a hand to his chest, his expression the picture of wounded betrayal. "The audacity. My own wife, throwing me to the wolves." But his grin gives him away, eyes dancing with amusement as they flicker to mine.
Rudra Papa exhales loudly, shaking his head as he clasps his hands together in exaggerated relief. "Can we just take a moment to appreciate the miracle that we're all here? Together? No last-minute disasters?"
Ahaana doesn't even blink, her arms crossing as she levels him with a look. "Dad, don't jinx it. We haven't boarded yet."
I steal a glance at my husband, who's leaning effortlessly against a pillar, exuding a quiet confidence that makes my heart stutter. The airport lights cast a golden hue over his sharp features, his fitted hoodie and jeans doing little to hide the lean strength beneath.
He catches me staring. And smirks.
Before I can even think of looking away, he's already closing the distance, his arm curling around my waist as he tugs me flush against him. A gasp escapes my lips, but it quickly morphs into a shiver as his breath ghosts over my ear.
"Caught you," he murmurs, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just below my earlobe.
A thrill shoots down my spine, warmth pooling in my chest. I huff, feigning indifference. "Shut up."
But I don't pull away.
"You guys are disgusting." Sahil's groan shatters the little bubble we've built around ourselves. "Can you at least pretend to be normal in public?"
Advik only grins, his eyes glinting with mischief as he pulls me even closer. "Not my fault your love life is dry, bro."
Sahil glares daggers at him. "Excuse me? Ahaana, tell your brother to behave."
Ahaana, arms folded, simply tilts her head, amusement flickering across her face. "Why? This is fun. And our love life is dry." Yug and Advik high-fives at that making Sahil narrow eyes at his wife.
Avni Maa, ever the composed matriarch, sighs as she pinches the bridge of her nose. "You're all children. Literal toddlers."
"Hey, hey," Samyak Paa interjects, throwing an arm around her shoulders with a wide grin. "We're fun toddlers."
"You turned sixty this year," Rudra Papa snorts, arms crossed in mock seriousness.
Samyak Paa's head snaps toward him, scandalized. "Fifty-seven, dum-dum."
Before the so-called youngsters —oldies— can start an actual argument, Shika Mom—who has been watching the chaos with barely concealed amusement—suddenly perks up, her voice cutting through the bickering.
"Uh, guys? They just announced our boarding." Silence. Then, as if on cue, everyone scrambles to grab their things, the playful jabs momentarily forgotten.
Yug fumbles with his suitcase, nearly tripping over it as he tries to juggle his backpack and phone at the same time. Sahil and Samyak Paa, somehow managing to turn even a simple task into chaos, start bickering over whose boarding pass is whose. Meanwhile, Avni Maa—ever the responsible one—attempts to wrangle the group together, her patience wearing thin.
Advik, completely unfazed by the madness unfolding behind us, slides his fingers through mine, his grip warm and steady. He tugs me closer as we walk ahead of the chaos, his thumb absentmindedly stroking circles on my skin.
He leans in slightly, voice low and teasing. "This trip is going to be a mess, isn't it?"
I glance back at our friends—bickering, laughing, causing a scene as always. Then back at him, his deep brown eyes filled with warmth, amusement dancing in their depths.
A slow smile spreads across my lips. "The best kind of mess."
His answering grin is breathtaking. And just like that, with our hearts light and anticipation buzzing in the air, we step onto the plane, ready for whatever chaos this trip is about to bring.
•—•
The moment we step into our hotel room, I finally let out a deep sigh of relief. The day had been long—between the airport chaos, the flight, and wrangling our group together, my energy was drained. Without a second thought, I faceplant onto the plush bed, inhaling the crisp scent of fresh linens.
Behind me, Advik chuckles, the sound deep and smooth. The door clicks shut, the lock sliding into place. I hear him approach before I feel the dip of the mattress as he settles beside me, propping himself up on one elbow, his other hand reaching out to trace his fingers along my cheek.
"Kya hua mere bugu ko?" His voice is soft, teasing, but there's an undertone of warmth in it. His knuckles brush against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.
I curl out my lips, pretending to pout, but before I can even form a response, his grip tightens at my jaw, and he tugs me toward him.
"Argh!" A surprised gasp leaves my lips as his mouth crashes onto mine, claiming me with a hunger that sets my skin on fire. His teeth graze my lower lip before he sucks it into his mouth, drawing out a shaky whimper from me.
While kissing him, my head starts to run wild. We've been romantically entangled since we were teenagers. The kind of age where people are supposed to be reckless and obsessed with hormones—where every conversation ends with a kiss and every silence turns into skin. But mine? My then-boyfriend, now-husband, was busy being the most maddeningly patient gentleman to ever exist.
We didn't even kiss—really kiss—until nearly five years into the relationship. Five years. And not because he wasn't tempted. But because he wanted me to feel safe. Certain. Chosen, not cornered. And his vow made it happen, effortlessly.
Now? Now that he's my husband—he gets his fill. If we're alone, there's no version of the evening where he won't smother me with kisses. And if he's in the mood? He lets me know in that quiet, unassuming way that's still somehow so commanding. And intimate things happen like they're just breathing. Like they belong.
But this man—this absurdly gentle man—has been loving me like a vow since we were fifteen.
He once waited an entire night outside my apartment. After a fight. He didn't call. Didn't text. Just sat in that corner below the building, hidden from my grandfather's eyes. Because he knew Dadaji only leaves for his morning walk at 6 a.m.—and only then would it be "safe" for him to talk without putting me in danger.
That's who he's always been. And somehow, he's only grown more himself.
Since he officially took over Mehr, Rudra Papa has been guiding him with investments. So what does he do? Buys property—real estate, solid assets—and quietly puts them in my name. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like my security is part of his breathing rhythm.
He's obsessed with bikes. Like obsessed. And yet he never buys one. Not because we can't afford it. But because I'm scared. Ever since he fell once with Yug and scraped his knees—I couldn't unsee it. And he remembers. He respects that fear. Rides slowly now, too—even during that Leh-Ladakh trip, where everyone raced like wind, he stayed slow. With me. For me. And our friends teased us about that so much and not once did he mention the real thing.
And our home? The house we live in now? Back in college, I told him once—once—what my dream home would look like. Colours. Textures. Bookshelves in corners. I barely remember describing it, honestly. But when Ahaana asked us for the interior preferences years later, before I could even open my mouth, he pulled out a file. A whole bloody file. Every page, every line, hand-drafted. In his handwriting. My vision, exactly. Not a single thing was off.
I remember just staring at him—this man who remembered my passing daydream like it was blueprints for a cathedral.
And I realised then: I may be the romantic between us, but he's the one who loves like architecture—quiet, steady, permanent.
He's a man who notices. Who remembers. Who takes things I say in passing, in sighs, in moments of pain or longing l've forgotten myself-and builds comfort out of them.
He doesn't love loudly. He doesn't grandstand. But he builds.
Safety.
Sanctuary.
A kind of love that makes me feel like even my silence is being listened to.
And on some random night, when he's asleep and I get the time to watch over him while he's snoring like a pig and I can't sleep because of the noise, I realise just how terrifyingly lucky I am. And how deeply in love he still is with every version of me l've ever been. And I'm in his. In him. And forever going to be.
Somewhere in the haze of my thoughts, I realize I'm no longer lying flat against the bed. I'm straddling him, my hands braced against his chest, his warmth seeping through his hoodie. My hips rock forward—slow, deliberate—earning a sharp inhale from him. His fingers dig into my waist, guiding my movements as the kiss deepens, tongues tangling, breath hitching.
"Fuck, Falak," he groans against my mouth, his voice gravelly, thick with want.
I break away just enough to take in the sight of him—his lips kiss-swollen, eyes darkened, chest rising and falling unevenly. He looks wrecked already, and I revel in the power of it.
His hands slip beneath my top, fingertips tracing up my sides, igniting every nerve in their wake. I shudder, arching into his touch, wanting more, needing more.
He smirks, flipping us in one swift movement, pinning me beneath him. His mouth finds my neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin, his stubble scraping deliciously. I gasp as he nips at the spot just below my ear, his tongue soothing over the sting.
Then, his mouth is on mine. Again.
The kiss is deep, consuming, a collision of heat and longing. His lips mold to mine, soft yet demanding, moving with a slow, deliberate hunger that sends a pulse of fire through my veins. My fingers find their way into his hair, tangling in the soft strands, tugging him impossibly closer. He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me, making my stomach twist with heat.
His hands roam over my back, slipping beneath my top, fingertips grazing bare skin, setting every nerve on edge. A sigh escapes me as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue teasing, exploring, tasting.
My body arches into his touch, craving more, needing more. His mouth leaves mine only to trace a path down my jaw, across the sensitive skin of my neck. Each press of his lips sends ripples of pleasure through me, the scrape of his stubble making my skin tingle. His breath is hot against my collarbone as he lingers there, his lips parting, teeth grazing before his tongue soothes the sting.
A whimper escapes me, and his grip tightens at my waist, holding me firm against him. Every slow, languid roll of my hips against his abdomen sends another spark of pleasure through me, even with the clothes perfectly on, making the air between us thick, charged.
The world outside ceases to exist. No hotel room, no trip, no time—just us, tangled in sheets, lost in the fire burning between us.
•—•
The muffled chatter outside stirs me awake, voices overlapping in the hallway as our friends inevitably argue over dinner plans. I don't even need to step out to know exactly how this will play out—Sahil being impossibly picky, Ahaana scolding him like it's her full-time job, and Rudra Papa insisting on ordering enough food to feed an entire wedding party.
Nope. Not happening tonight.
Beside me, Advik shifts, his arm lazily draped across my waist. A small smirk plays on my lips as I glance at him, still fast asleep, his lips slightly parted, his breathing even. We kind of dozed off making out. Not that I'm complaining.
Before the outside chaos gets any louder and actually wakes him up, I quietly slide out of bed, smoothing down my shirt as I tiptoe toward the door. But the moment I swing it open—
I come face to face with Yug's raised fist, hovering mid-air, inches away from knocking.
"Dinner time, Falku darling," he grins, already reaching to tug me out.
I take a quick step back, just in time to spot my in-laws behind him. My heart does a little flip, not from guilt, obviously—we didn't even do anything wrong—but because I suddenly feel like a teenager getting caught sneaking back home past curfew.
Composing myself, I flash an innocent smile. "Dad, actually, Advik is still asleep. If you don't mind, can we have dinner in our room tonight?"
Rudra Papa raises a brow, arms crossed. "Why are you asking as if we'd say no?" Then, with a dramatic sigh, he mutters, "I wanted to have a nice, peaceful dinner with my wife, but some people—" he shoots a pointed glare at Ahaana, who beams at him with a too-wide, definitely-fake smile "—are beyond irritating."
I bite back a laugh, nodding as I step back. "Goodnight, everyone," I say, shutting the door before anyone gets the chance to drag us out.
As I turn back, I find Advik stirring, his long lashes fluttering open, revealing sleepy, drowsy eyes that immediately lock onto me. His hair is a complete, adorable mess—disheveled and soft, strands falling over his forehead in a way that makes me want to run my fingers through them. He blinks at me, his voice husky with sleep.
"What's happening?" he rasps, his tone rough and lazy, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.
I crawl back onto the bed, settling beside him, feeling the warmth of his body radiate toward me. A slow grin spreads across my lips as I prop myself up on my elbows. "We're having dinner here. Alone."
His lips quirk up at the corners, amusement flickering in his half-lidded eyes. He's still groggy, but I can see him waking up—his hand lazily reaching for my waist, pulling me closer.
"Mmm," he hums, his voice still heavy with sleep as his fingers lightly brush against my hip. "I like where this is going."
His touch is leisurely, teasing, but I ignore the flutter in my stomach, rolling my eyes instead.
He tilts his head, studying me with an almost lazy curiosity. "So, what are we eating?"
I grab the room service menu from the nightstand, flipping through it dramatically. "We're ordering room service. I refuse to step out and be dragged into their nonsense."
His lips twitch, that signature smirk threatening to take over his face. "You mean, you don't want to witness Sahil crying over the spice level again?"
I snort. "Exactly."
The bed dips as he shifts, stretching like a lazy cat before scooting closer, peering over my shoulder. His breath fans against my skin as he hums in thought, his fingers absently tracing patterns on my arm.
"Alright, what are we feeling?" I tap my finger against the menu. "Chinese? Italian? Or are you going to make me suffer through some weird salad again?"
Advik narrow his eyes at me, looking downright offended. "You loved that quinoa salad last time."
I scoff, holding the menu just out of his reach when he tries to snatch it. "Yeah, because you blackmailed me into eating it."
His lips part, ready to argue, but I cut him off, my voice dripping with exaggerated delight. "How about we order a huge North Indian thali? Drenched in butter and oil and everything that should not go into my body."
Advik gasps like I just committed a crime, sitting up straighter, clutching his chest in pure horror. "Bugu!"
I cackle, flipping onto my stomach, resting my chin on my hands as I watch his over-the-top reaction. "Oh, come on. It's vacation. Live a little."
He groans, throwing his head back against the pillow. "You're actually trying to kill me."
I grin, my heart thrumming with mischief as I move—fast and determined, before he can process what's happening. My knee sinks into the mattress beside him, and then, in one swift motion, I swing a leg over his waist, straddling him with ease. His body tenses beneath me for a split second before he relaxes, a slow smirk creeping onto his lips.
My hands slide up to his neck, not gripping, just holding, my thumbs tracing the warm skin just beneath his jaw. His pulse beats steadily under my fingers, but his eyes—dark, hooded with amusement—are locked onto mine.
Then, I tilt my chin up, voice firm but teasing, dripping with mock authority. "I'm your wife, so listen to me."
For a moment, he just stares, expression unreadable. Then, I see it—the slight twitch at the corner of his lips. A warning. Shit. I realize too late that I've walked straight into his trap.
His smirk sharpens, eyes flickering with something wicked, something dangerous in the most infuriatingly sexy way possible. His fingers, warm and slightly rough, skim along my thighs, tracing the bare skin beneath my shorts, featherlight but deliberate. A tingling sensation spreads through me at the simple touch, but I refuse to react.
His head tilts back against the pillow, his eyes dragging down my body, slow and deliberate, like he's memorizing every inch of me.
And then, in that lazy, husky drawl, he murmurs, "Damn, Bugu. Never knew you were so into BDSM and all." Heat floods my entire face.
For a second, all I can do is gape at him, absolutely mortified. The arrogance in his smirk is unbearable, and I can already hear the teasing that will come after this.
I jerk my hand up, fully intending to smack that smug look off his face, but before I can react—before I can even blink—he moves.
Fast. Effortless. One second, I'm on top. In control.
The next, the world tilts, and suddenly, my back hits the mattress, soft sheets cool against my overheated skin. A startled gasp escapes me, my heart hammering against my ribs as I process what just happened.
Advik hovers over me, his weight deliciously solid, his presence overwhelming. His breath is warm against my cheek, his lips just barely out of reach, teasing. One of his hands pins my wrist above my head, the other pressing into the mattress beside me, caging me in.
My breathing is uneven, but he? Completely composed.
His eyes glint with amusement, lips curving as he lowers his head slightly, his nose grazing my jaw. "If you wanted me to obey," he murmurs, his voice low, thick with playful seduction, "you should've just said so, sweetheart."
Oh, for the love of—
A frustrated groan rips from my throat, and I attempt to smack his chest with my free hand—anything to knock him back down a peg. But he catches my wrist easily, effortlessly, pinning it next to the other.
I am trapped. And he knows it. His chest vibrates with laughter, deep and absolutely infuriating, before he dips down—pressing a quick, featherlight kiss to my nose.
"Shut up, Adv." His smirk widens, but he finally releases me, rolling off with a satisfied sigh, stretching his arms behind his head like he just won a battle. Which he absolutely did not.
"Fine, you win." He sighs dramatically. "We'll drown in butter and regret together."
I cross my arms, still blushing furiously, trying to ignore the warmth still lingering where his hands had been."Damn right, we will."