HIM AND HER

He held her hand in his like the universe cradles the Earth, firm, gentle, protective. As if letting go would mean everything would unravel. As if she was the center of everything he knew to be real.

She looked up at him, into the eyes she had fallen for long before she admitted it. Eyes that held entire galaxies. One a warm, caramel brown that made her feel like golden hour lived inside him, the other a deep, ocean blue that mirrored the storms and calm of her own soul.

He gazed at her with the kind of intensity that made the world blur. Every word unspoken between them lived in that moment. He stepped closer, his hands finding her waist and pulling her toward him until there was no space left. She clung to him instinctively, like her heart recognized its home.

His forehead rested gently on hers, his breath mingling with hers, steady and warm.

Her ear settled beside his chest, and she heard it, the soft, strong rhythm of his heartbeat, pulsing like a promise. Like it had been waiting just for her.

"I won’t say I’ll bring you the stars or the moon,” he murmured, his voice low and full of meaning. “But I will be there in your lowest moments. When you’re cold and no one’s near to hold you, you’ll find me. Always. Arms open, waiting to wrap around you. Because sweetheart, you don’t just rule my heart… you rule my whole existence. I’m nothing without you. But with you, I’m everything I’ve ever wanted to be.”

He said it like a vow. Like a truth carved into the bones of the universe.

He held her tighter, like she was the most precious thing he’d ever touched, and he was terrified of the day she might slip from his grasp.

She melted into his embrace, heart fluttering at his words. No one had ever made her feel like this before. Seen, wanted, treasured. It was overwhelming in the best way, like her soul had been wrapped in warmth after a lifetime of frost.

She slowly pulled back, just enough to look at him again. Into those eyes.

Two different colors. Two different worlds. Yet perfectly made to meet hers.

He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and cradled her cheeks with reverence, like even the act of touching her was a kind of sacred ritual. He stared at her, memorizing every inch of her face, as if he was afraid time might steal the details.

“I was a blank page,” she whispered, voice barely louder than the breeze, “before you painted me with your love… and I became a masterpiece, created by your hands, your heart, by you.”

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His lips found her forehead, soft and full of affection. And in that kiss, she felt it all. Their past, their present, and the infinite future waiting to unfold.

Two strangers who had once met by accident, now bound by something beyond reason. Beyond fate.

A love written not just in promises, but in presence. Not just in moments, but in the quiet in-betweens. A love written in stars, and skin, and

SILENCED

"Why do you overreact to everything? Seriously, you women are such a pain in the head," he yelled, his voice echoing through the house like thunder. His words were sharp, laced with disdain and frustration. His eyes burned with fury, not because of what she said, but because she dared to speak at all.

"I wasn’t overreacting," she replied softly, her voice trembling. "I was just expressing my opinion, Mark."

She backed away slowly, inching toward the corner of the room. Her eyes scanned for an escape, her body already anticipating what would come next.

"Shut up! In my house, you are not allowed to speak against me!" he roared, taking long strides toward her.

She didn't move fast enough.

He grabbed her by the hair from behind, jerking her back with cruel force. His other hand came up to her face, not with tenderness, but with dominance. He cupped her cheeks, squeezing, making it impossible for her to look away.

"Mark, please..." she whispered, tears spilling over her lashes. "Leave me alone."

"Shut up," he snapped, and his hand flew across her face.

The slap sent her crashing to the floor, her head hitting the ground with a dull thud. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, the metallic taste filling her senses. Pain radiated across her cheek, but worse than the physical pain was the humiliation. The helplessness.

"You’re not permitted to speak in my presence!" he shouted again, venom in his voice.

He turned to the cabinet, yanked it open, and pulled out a leather belt. Her heart dropped into her stomach.

"Please... please stop," she begged, crawling back, trying to shield herself.

But for an hour, her screams echoed off the walls, unanswered. He struck again and again, each lash of the belt burning her skin, bruising her soul. She cried until there were no tears left, her voice reduced to a whisper, her pleas drowned beneath his cruelty.

When he finally stopped, breathing heavily, he looked at her broken form with disgust.

"Go make me food, woman," he ordered.

She couldn’t respond. Her body trembled as she reached for the bedpost, using it to lift herself. Every bone ached. Her muscles screamed. Her spirit was shattered.

This wasn’t the first time. And in this world—his world—a man’s world, it wouldn’t be the last.

While he lived freely, laughed, smiled, existed without consequence, she withered in silence. Every second was survival. Every breath a battle.

Was she alone in this suffering? No. There were countless others. Women whose voices had been stolen. Whose lives had been erased behind closed doors.

He had destroyed her dreams, her dignity, her future. She had tried to escape, once. Twice. But where could she go? With no money, no support, no one to believe her... she was trapped.

The police? Her family? Society? They all turned a blind eye. She was just another woman with “troubles at home.” Just another statistic.

And eventually, she died in silence, without justice. Without peace.

Years later, her daughter found her diary. A worn leather journal tucked between floorboards, filled with ink-stained pages of pain, of a mother she barely knew.

"That's so tragic that this happened to her," the woman whispered, her voice catching in her throat. Tears welled up in her eyes as she traced the handwriting with trembling fingers.

The woman who had given her life had received none in return. Not even after death.

No justice. No closure.

Just silence.

ENEMIES OR SOMETHING MORE

“Careful how you finish that sentence, sweetheart,” he said with a smirk, pressing her gently but firmly against the wall.

She scoffed, eyes sharp with defiance. “What are you gonna do, scaredy-cat? Make me, if you’ve got the guts.”

“Oh, I will,” he murmured, his voice dipping into something low and husky. Dangerous. His gaze dropped to her lips, lingering there with unmistakable intent that made her pulse quicken.

“Eyes up, asshole,” she snapped, narrowing her gaze. “Keep staring, and I’ll make sure you won’t be able to look at anything ever again.”

She shoved him back, but he barely moved. Instead, he laughed quietly, clearly enjoying the fire in her.

“Now, now,” he said, still far too close. “Don’t get mad, sweetheart. You only look hotter when you’re like this.”

Her heart fluttered, and she hated that it did. She blamed the adrenaline. Or the tension. Anything but him.

They were rivals. Always challenging, always fighting. That was all this was. Some stupid power play wrapped in banter and stolen glances.

“Don’t say things like that,” she muttered, folding her arms over her chest. “People might get the wrong idea. Might think you actually like me.”

He tilted his head, considering her for a moment, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. “And what if I want them to think that?” he asked, voice softer now, more serious. “Who said I don’t?”

Her breath caught.

Before she could come up with a comeback, his hand gently lifted her chin, making her meet his gaze. His eyes were locked on hers, no smirk this time. No teasing. It's just quiet intensity. And something else. Something dangerous and real and unspoken.

There was weight in his stare. Emotion she didn’t want to name. Or couldn’t. Or maybe she just wasn’t ready to.

She stepped back quickly, breaking the contact like it had burned her.

Turning, she made to leave, her thoughts swirling too fast to hold onto.

But he caught her wrist gently, almost hesitantly.

“Where are you going, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice back to its usual teasing tone, but his grip said something else.

She looked at him, lips curling into a dry smile. “To hell, you asshole. Now let me go.”

She pulled her hand from his and walked away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking back.

He didn’t follow her.

He just stood there, hands in his pockets, watching her retreat down the hallway with that same small smile tugging at his lips.

It's not the cocky one he usually wore. No, this one was quieter. Almost fond.

Because he knew something she didn’t yet.

She felt it, too.

And sooner or later, she would come back.

Not because he asked her to but because her heart would lead her there.

*********

this is one of my favorite stories I have written till now, my favorite trope enemies to lovers.

comment down below.

What is ur favourite trope?