The one i didn't see coming

Arik Kunze

A jweller and designer

Arik worked at Atelier Vaelora for 10 years, designing some of their most successful jewelry. Despite leading major projects, he never got public credit — the company kept all designs under their brand name. Many designers were sidelined the same way. He and few of their designers quit and now he run his own small company VAARA JEWELS which is slowly getting recognition.

Arik's mother wanted him to get married.

But Arik wanted his workashop known before settling down - but fate clearly had another thing planned for him.

Arik pov

It was the day my mother brought her friend and her daughter home to introduce and discuss engagement of my brother the girl and my brother Vash they have already met and came to the conclusion that they are ready to marry.

I walked into our house only to realize the girl sitting across the hall was her. The same girl who once helped me on a rainy day outside my old workplace — not that she recognized me.

But I remembered, how she admired my work like it actually mattered. Maybe it was a crush... a quiet one I left in that rainy parking lot.

Flashback

It had just rained — Arik stepped out of the building, carrying a large cardboard box filled with his design sketches and models.Absent minded..One small misstep on the uneven concrete, and the box in his hands tipped. He didn’t fall hard, but the contents — spilled across the wet floor.

He crouched down instantly, flustered, trying to gather them before the moisture seeped in. A few pages had already smudged. That’s when he noticed a hand reaching out — picking up the scattered sheets.He didn’t see where she came from, but she dropped beside him with calm urgency, already picking up the sheets ,carefully sorting his soaked paper.She hadn’t come from inside the building. She was already there — sitting under the awning beside a sleek white van with an emergency emblem. A paramedic team vehicle, clearly. She must’ve been waiting

That’s when she appeared.

> “You alright?” she asked, glancing at his knee.

She was wearing a half-zipped paramedic jacket, ID badge tucked into her pocket.

> “I’m fine. Just… tired.”

His voice cracked a bit. Unintended.

She gave a quiet nod, then held up one of his designs — a necklace frame shaped like unfolding wings, stones arranged like frozen stardust.

> “You made this?”

He nodded, brushing his hair back with a damp hand.

> “It’s stunning,” she said.

She said it like someone who didn’t know the craft — but respected the magic of it.

> “I don’t usually care about jewellery,” she added, almost laughing at herself. “But this… I think I’d actually wear this.”

He didn’t know what to say.

For a second, the stress faded. The sting of his resignation, the silence of his colleagues, the storm inside — all of it paused.

She helped him repack the files.

> “Was just waiting here,” she said, gesturing at a nearby parked ambulance van. “There was an accident in the next colony. My team’s wrapping up.”

He looked at her again — tired but alert, calm in a way that only people trained to see pain could be.

> “Thank you,” he said, quietly.

> “No big deal,” she smiled. “You looked like someone who needed a little help today.”

And then, just like that, she stood and walked away.

.

.

Now here she was — Aira. Paramedical field. Smart, composed, and blunt. The kind of person who doesn’t pretend to like things she doesn’t. She wasn’t giggling at everything, she wasn’t impressed easily. My brother on the other hand.. A full-blown rebel. Racer by passion, chaos by default.

He’s the one our mother called “free spirit.”

I used to be one too — back when I still rode Blacky like I had no deadlines, before I joined the atelier and gave up racing for “respectable stability."

As for how my mother knew Aira-

Simple. My mom teaches dance and fitness — zumba, classical mix, all that. Aira’s mother joined her class last year. Two moms talking about their kids and suddenly we’re in a living room facing a future nobody asked us for.

Ruthy, my sister, had dragged me to the engagement dinner. I kept it formal — smiled, greeted, kept things polite. Couldn’t even get a proper chance to talk with her. Just as I was about to start a conversation, a client call came in, and I had to leave.

Still.. I won’t lie — something about her stayed with me. I crushed hard.

Weeks later, they came to my workshop to buy engagement rings. That’s when we spoke again. She didn’t recognize me at first.

Honestly that stung. I didn’t expect her to remember everything, but I thought maybe… the designs, the moment — something.

She started asking me if she was making the right choice — about Vash, his nature, if she could trust him.

He’s loyal. A bit too into fashion and aesthetics for my taste, but he means well. And yeah, he had a girlfriend once. That was ages ago — I hoped he told her that already.

She wandered around the display while we talked, and her eyes landed on the pendant — that pendant. Her expression changed. That’s when it clicked for her.

She looked at me like she knew. And I nodded.

She smiled softly, asked how I’d been since that day… and bought the pendant.

Later, I showed them rings. The contrast between them was hilarious — she was clear, wanted something durable and simple. He, on the other hand, was all drama and trends. Honestly? He acted more like the bride than she did. Threw a mini tantrum over the band width — I had to remind him we weren’t designing a crown.

Engagement happened. We remained like well-wishers... maybe friends if you want to stretch it. It’s strange though — how easily my mother took to her. She’s usually dramatic, the kind who rejects girls because their smile felt “dishonest” or their walk “too rushed”. I’ve stopped trying to understand what goes on in her head.

But Aira..Somehow she passed the ‘mom test’.

Now the wedding was actually happening. Vash and Aira. Honestly, I didn’t think it would feel this weird. I took charge of the jewellery shopping — someone had to handle the women in my house. My father’s a man of few words; he’ll just nod at whatever’s placed in front of him. My mother talks like a train on fire. And my sister She’s two months pregnant — her moods could easily outmatch a monsoon storm. So yeah, I was the default sanity in the chaos.

Thankfully, Daniel — my sister’s husband and my best friend — is in the trenches with me. Still can’t believe he became my brother-in-law right under my nose. I was furious when I found out, not because he hid it, but because he took my sister like some quiet heist.

Anyway, Aira’s jewellery — I designed it myself. She was the simplest client I’ve ever had. No extra sparkle, no loud declarations. Just clear preferences — subtle shapes, soft metal, clean lines. She didn’t even know how rare her clarity was.

The wedding day.

Everything was ready ,guests in their glittering chaos, flowers drowning the air in sweetness — everything was perfect. Except him.

I went to Vaash’s room. No sign.

I checked everywhere

Empty.

Called once.

Called again. Switched off.

Then I saw it — the letter.

Folded neatly, placed exactly where someone would want it to be found.

> “I did something wrong at the bachelor party. It was a mistake. It’s not her fault — she deserves better. I can’t marry her. I’m sorry.”

My vision went red.

Not because he backed out.

But because of her. The girl waiting in bridal room trusting us, trusting me.

I wanted to punch him. Hard.

Maybe that would fix whatever loose screw had fallen out of his stupid head.

my parents walked in.

One glance at the letter in my hand and panic painted itself all over Ma’s face.

That helpless kind of panic only a mother can have when her child ruins not just his life — but someone else’s, too.

And right then, a thick, hot wave of shame rolled through me.

I had no idea how I was supposed to look her in the eyes anymore.

Not as a guest, not as a brother of the groom, not even as a man.

“Don’t tell the guests yet,” Ma whispered, her voice shaky but firm.

“We’ll… figure something out.”

What was there to figure out? The groom was gone.

I didn’t wait for a discussion. My legs moved before my mind could catch up.

I rushed to the bridal suite.

She was standing by the window, back turned.

The light framed her like she belonged in a painting — too poised, too still, too… unaware of the storm that was about to crash into her.

She turned when I entered. And God, she looked stunning.

I couldn’t meet her eyes.

“What happened?” she asked.

I couldn’t speak. My chest was a locked box and every word I needed was sealed shut inside.

So I breathed.

Once.

Twice.

Then—

“He’s not here. He left a letter. He’s… not coming.”

She blinked. Once. Twice.

And then a soft, confused laugh. “What?”

I didn’t repeat myself.

She stared. Waiting for a punchline. For the prank cameras to reveal themselves.

But none came.

The silence cracked — and suddenly, thick, warm tears started to trail down her cheeks.

At first, she cried quietly.

Then the anger came.

She stepped forward, her fingers grabbing my collar, fists trembling.

“Why?! Why would he do this to me?”

Her voice cracked — raw and hurt.

“If he didn’t want to marry, he could’ve said it! I would’ve walked away. It’s not like I had feelings for him, it was just an arrangement— But I trusted him. And I trusted you.”

She looked up at me, betrayal written across every inch of her face.

“You promised me, Arik. I asked you, and you said— you said I could trust your brother.”

She broke down in my arms. Just collapsed into me like her soul gave up for a second.

But my hands… they didn’t rise to hold her.

I couldn’t.

Because everything falling apart was from our side.

And then the door slammed open.

Her mother stormed in, followed by mine.

Angry words were exchanged.

“How could you assure us and then— this?!”

“You think we wanted this to happen?”

“My daughter’s life is not your family’s rehearsal!”

My father, silent till now, looked straight at me.

“Will you marry her?”

My heart skipped.

I looked at her. She was done. Exhausted. Not crying now. Just… cold.

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

“But I can’t see her cry like that ever again. I’d do anything to make sure those tears never fall again.”

But what if she didn’t want that?

The argument dragged on — messy, sharp-edged words, family egos clashing — until I asked to speak to her alone.

She didn’t even look surprised.

I found her standing near the corridor, hugging herself.

“If I were to marry you… would you?” I asked gently.

She looked at me like I had asked her to jump off a cliff.

“You don’t need to take responsibility out of pity, Arik. Or guilt. Or some twisted sense of honour.”

“It’s not that,” I said. “I’m not forcing you. I just— I’ll respect whatever you decide. But I promise, I’ll never disrespect you. I’ll never make you feel like this was charity.”

It was long silence

Then nodded.

“But,” she added sharply, “if anything goes wrong… even a little wrong… I want it in writing — we’ll divorce. No drama. Just clean exit.”

I didn’t flinch.

“Fair.”

.

And just like that — a wedding that was never supposed to happen…

began anyway.

Not with love.

Not with romance.

Almost like everyone was holding their breath, hoping it wouldn't fall apart mid-ritual.

But the moment her parents placed her hand in mine — something shifted.

A flutter, deep and unexpected.

Like butterflies had been caged too long and finally found a reason to move.

But then... I noticed her dress.

The one she picked with him.

Even the ring on her hands… still had his initials.

And that feeling — that bitter twist in my chest — wasn’t guilt anymore.

It was jealousy.

I married the woman he was supposed to.

The one he walked away from.

It stung.

The rituals ended. We reached home.

No one said much.

Later, in the room, she sat silently — still in that same dress, now wrinkled by the weight of the day.

I finally spoke.

“We don’t have to pretend. We’ll be like most arranged marriage couples. We’ll take time… figure it out.”

She nodded. No breakdown.

Just one line:

“I’m okay with that. But don’t expect anything more. Not yet.”

And honestly?

That felt fairer than anything else that happened today.

We shared the same bed that night.

The bed was big enough, thankfully.

She took her corner. I took mine.

A pillow fortress in the middle, like an unspoken peace treaty.

Morning came. Her luggage arrived.

Over breakfast — mostly silent, just polite sips and spoon clinks — I told her,

“I’ve set up my place near my work. We’ll go there after this.”

She didn’t ask questions. Just nodded.

When we reached, I showed her around.

Just two rooms — a bedroom, a workroom, a kitchen, and a large hall.

Spacious but simple. No drama, no decoration. Just function.

“This isn’t just my home anymore,” I told her. “It’s ours now. Do whatever you want with it.”

She looked surprised for a second. Then smiled, small but real.

And that smile stayed with me longer than I’d admit.

She unpacked, rearranged a few things.

Hung up a windchime that didn’t match anything but somehow belonged.

We started adjusting.

Slowly. Quietly. Awkwardly.

I had assumed she was one of those neat, controlled people.

But Nope.

Turns out she’s chaos in disguise.

Messy hair. Messier closet.

Noisy sleeper..

And exercise .. no no in home.

Not that I mind.

It was… weirdly refreshing.

She wasn’t shy, but she had these weirdly awkward moments. Like she didn’t know what to do with her hands while talking. Or she’d rehearse a joke in her head before saying it out loud — and then mess up the punchline.

Somehow, we became normal friends.

Just “pass the salt” and “you forgot your charger again” kind of ease.

She’s also the world’s slowest cook.

First time she tried making dal, I thought she was researching a thesis on each lentil.

Eventually, I took over the kitchen.

Didn’t complain.

In fact, I think I started to like it.

Because somewhere between burnt rotis and stolen glances —

this strange not-marriage started feeling… not so strange

.

.

There was always a spark.

No matter how much I calm myself everything feels dreamy.

When our hands brushed in the kitchen.

When she laughed mid-sentence during our forced little “daily talks.”

When she told stories from work — tough, intense, rescue-mission kind of stories — while casually sipping her sweet chai.

She didn’t even know it, but every time she spoke, I listened harder.

Felt deeper.

But under all that--

There was still the ring.

Not mine.

His.

The one she wore — the one tied to that rushed engagement before he bailed — had his initials carved inside.

I never said anything.

But every time I saw it on her finger, something in me twisted.

I couldn’t explain it. Jealousy? Shame? Both?

Maybe it was stupid. Maybe symbolic.

But I couldn’t bear the thought of her wearing a piece of him — not in my house, not as my wife.

So I did the only thing I could.

I made her a ring.

A platinum band with a tiny stone — the kind she once said she liked when we passed my workshop months ago. Back when we were just acquaintances.

And inside

My initials. mine.

I gave it to her one evening. Casual, but my hands were shaking a bit.

She raised an eyebrow, clearly confused.

“What’s this?”

I didn’t know how to say "because that one on your hand doesn’t belong there anymore."

So I said:

“It’s just… I thought maybe it’s time. That ring—it was never meant for this. You deserve one that actually… fits the present. Not the past.”

She stared at it for a while.

Then, wordlessly, she slipped off the old one.

No hesitation.

And slid on mine.

A perfect fit.

She didn’t thank me.

Didn’t smile.

But later that night, I saw her staring at it under the lamp — just turning it slowly between her fingers.

Like she finally felt like something… belonged.

.

.

.

It had been a month since the wedding —

No big milestones.

Just two near-strangers learning to live without stepping on each other’s shadows.

But that day…

I’d forgotten my design file in the morning rush. Some silly last-minute blueprint draft I thought I’d double-checked. I returned mid-morning, cursing under my breath, hoping to grab it before the client meeting.

I opened the door—and stilled.

She was curled on the couch, her back slightly arched, a grimace on her face as if her body was betraying her in real time. For the first time since our wedding, she wasn’t dressed like a polite guest in someone else’s house. She was in soft, rumpled silk — a thin-strapped top and shorts. Aira looked… real. Raw. Not composed, not courteous. And hurting.

I crossed the room in seconds.

She hadn’t noticed me.

A hot pack was pressed to her stomach. Her eyes fluttered open — glassy with pain.

"You're burning," I murmured, touching her forehead. Her skin was too warm. Too pale.

"I’m fine," she whispered, voice a tight string. “Just… cramps.”

I called my friend to handle the client — told him I wouldn’t be in. He didn’t question it.

I turned back to her.

She tried to sit up, wincing hard, one hand clutching her lower back.

“I’ll make lunch,” I said softly, already heading toward the kitchen.

She didn’t protest.

But when I brought it, she couldn’t eat. She tried. Gave up. Vomited everything.

I barely made it in time to steady her.

She stood, wobbling, trying to get to the bathroom — her legs shaking, her body protesting.

Then she stumbled.

I caught her.

There was no thinking — I scooped her up, her weight featherlight but the moment heavy.

Her arms wrapped around me. Unthinking. Needing.

"I can walk," she murmured against my shoulder. But didn’t move.

I didn’t let go.

Inside the bathroom, I helped her sit. She get changed after sometime I made her wear her clothes properly.

The nausea, the burning thighs, the sharp cramps that left her curling into herself.

She didn’t speak much. Just leaned into my touch like it was the only thing anchoring her.

And that warmth — it stayed.

Later that afternoon, I changed the sheets, cleaned up, put her to bed with a fresh hot pack.

She curled up again.

I lay down beside her. Just to be there.

She reached out.

It was instinct, maybe. Or something else.

Her fingers found mine. Then her head found my chest.

And for the first time since the day our names were tied together —

We slept in each other’s arms.

Not because we had to.

But because she needed comfort.

And I — I just couldn’t bear to see her in pain.

I woke up to warmth pressed against my side.

Soft skin. A breath. Her arm loosely draped over my chest.

For a second, I forgot where I was.

Then it hit me—

We slept like this.

Wrapped up in each other. No awkward space, no overthinking. Just exhaustion and… comfort.

I turned slightly, careful not to wake her.

And that’s when I saw her properly.

She was still in that silk satin slip dress from yesterday, the one she wore when the cramps had torn her down.

The thin strap had slid off her shoulder, her hair a tangled mess against the pillow.

The fabric had shifted, revealing the gentle slope of her collarbone and a soft glimpse below—

Just enough to short-circuit my rational brain.

I swallowed hard, turned my face away.

God. Focus, Arik. She's not even fully well yet.

But something about the way she slept—unguarded, tucked into me like she trusted me without saying it—

It made my chest ache in the gentlest way.

A part of me wanted to reach out, fix that strap, tuck her hair behind her ear.

Another part just... didn’t want to break the spell.

Her lips parted slightly as she shifted, murmuring something inaudible.

My shirt was damp near the shoulder—she must’ve drooled.

I couldn’t help it—

I smiled.

This was new.

The comfort.

We’d been married a month. Technically.

Lived like roommates, mostly. Friends, at best.

But yesterday—when she was hurting, and I held her through it—

something unspoken changed.

It wasn’t about romance.

It was about trust.

And now, seeing her like this, soft and vulnerable and utterly herself—

I realized I didn’t want to go back to opposite ends of the bed.

She stirred slowly, her lashes fluttering before her eyes cracked open, still dazed from sleep.

And then—

that expression.

A furrow of confusion.

Followed by the sudden realization of how close she was to me.

Her cheek was still pressed against my chest.

Her arm quickly pulled back.

The strap of her dress slipped further—

she gasped, instinctively clutching it and scrambling upright, blanket in a tangled mess around her.

“A-Arik?”

I just blinked, still lying back, half amused and half in awe.

Her cheeks had flushed pink—whether from the fever or embarrassment, I couldn’t tell.

“Morning,” I said.

She narrowed her eyes, suspicious.

“You… stayed?”

I nodded, suppressing a smirk.

“You passed out after vomiting and tried to crawl to the bathroom. What was I supposed to do? Take notes for next time?”

She groaned and covered her face with both hands.

“Kill me.”

“Nope. Not happening.” I sat up, running a hand through my hair. “You sleep like a snoring heater, by the way.”

“I don’t snore!”

“You do. Just a little,” I said, holding up my fingers. “Cute, tiny ones. Like a cartoon kitten dying.”

She threw a pillow at me. I dodged. Barely.

But the moment settled.

I looked at her again—really looked.

Her hair was a mess, strap still slipping even though she tugged it back up.

There was a crease on her cheek from the pillow.

God, she was beautiful.

Not in the way I used to think, back when I had a crush.

Not in the way that made me jealous she once walked beside my brother.

But in the way that made my heart pause—

—like this was the first time I was seeing her.

A little chaotic.

Mine.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, wary.

I blinked. “Hmm?”

“You’re smiling like you know something I don’t.”

I leaned back against the headboard, stretching my arms lazily.

“Maybe I do.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“That my wife is messier than I thought.”

“And a snorer.”

“And lowkey adorable when she panics.”

Another pillow hit me.

I let it.

.

.

“Bathroom?” I asked softly.

She nodded.

I started to move to help her, but she sat up with sheer determination written all over her tired face. “I can walk.”

She couldn't.

By step three, she nearly folded in half, gripping the wall like it owed her rent.

I didn’t say a word — just scooped her up again.

“You like carrying me, don’t you?”

“I like you alive, yes.”

Her head dropped to my shoulder, warm breath against my neck. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re heavier than you look.”

“You’re dead.”

We both smiled.

I helped her into the bathroom, waited outside while she changed and freshened up. The water was running. I could hear a soft groan now and then.

When she stepped out, damp hair in a messy bun, face still pale but freshly washed — there was something raw about her. Honest. Not made-up or guest-mode. Just… her.

“Better?” I asked, handing her the heat patch I warmed up.

“A little,” she said, tucking it against her lower back. “Still feel like a truck ran over me and then reversed.”

“Ah,” I nodded solemnly. “Recovery phase.”

Then, like it was nothing, she said, “I’m hungry. Let’s make breakfast?”

“I’ll do it.”

“No. I want to. I feel useless.”

She pulled me by the sleeve toward the kitchen — slowly, limping a little, leaning a little.

She made simple omellete and bread when we are done she reached for the plate.

“Don’t,” I said, quiet but firm.

“But I can—”

“I said don’t.”

My voice dropped before I meant it to. She blinked up at me.

“You cooked,” I added, gentler this time. “Barely standing, might I remind you. You’re done for the day.”

Her hand froze mid-air. “Arik, I’m not—”

I stepped closer, grabbed the plate from her hand, and set it down with exaggerated care. Then I turned to her, one brow raised.

“If I see you near the sink,” I said, “I will stage a protest."

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’ll wear a sign that says, ‘My wife is in pain and still wants to do dishes, send help.’”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious.”

She gave me that stubborn look — the one that made me want to kiss her and shake her at the same time. But today, she was tired. Her shoulders were drooping despite the tough-girl act.

So I leaned in, close enough to make her tilt her chin.

“You’re allowed to rest,” I murmured. “That’s an order.”

“Are you my husband or my general?”

“Both. Sit down.”

She did.

God, that felt good.

I washed up while she sipped her tea like a reluctant princess. Every now and then I caught her staring, a faint smile on her lips — as if watching me do dishes was somehow more intimate than anything else we’d done so far.

When I finished, I tossed the towel on my shoulder, walked over, and gently pulled her up.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Back to bed. You’re still on red-alert.”

“I feel better—”

“Don’t make me carry you again.”

She raised her brows. “You wouldn’t.”

I bent slightly.

She shrieked. “Fine! Fine! I’m going.”

“Good girl.”

She stopped.

Then — blushed.

And I? I didn’t say another word. I just walked behind her, smirking as if I won.

we on our bed

Just... us.

She was curled up on her side of the bed, scrolling something on her phone, legs tangled in the blanket like she was wrestling it into submission. I was finishing an email. Silence filled the space — not awkward, not charged. Just easy.

She looked over.

“You done?”

“Yeah.” I closed the laptop and set it aside.

She patted the space beside her. “Come here.”

No hesitation. I went. Laid down, shoulders touching. Then she reached for my hand — just like that. Fingers finding fingers, thumb gently brushing mine like she’d been doing it for years.

My heart did a thing.

“You’re warm,” she said, eyes still on the ceiling.

“You’re cold,” I replied, pulling the blanket over her more.

“I’m always cold.”

“Guess that makes me your solution.”

She laughed — softly, tiredly. Then, after a beat, turned her face toward me. Her eyes had that sleepy shimmer to them, lashes heavy, but not shutting.

“I like this,” she whispered. “This kind of quiet.”

“You mean me not arguing with you?”

“I mean you here. With me. Like this.”

And then she did it — leaned into my chest, settled her head just below my chin like she belonged there. Like her body knew this spot. My arm wrapped around her instinctively.

Herr breath syncing with mine.

She fiddled with the edge of my shirt.

“Do you think we’re getting... better?” she asked.

“At what?”

“This. Us. Marriage.”

I kissed the top of her head.

“I think we’re learning how to be soft with each other.”

She hummed. “Good. I want to keep learning.

.

.

.

Next week they received call

Vash is back

The moment Vash stepped into the house, the air turned dense. Not a word had been spoken, but Aira’s hand moved faster than her thoughts —

SMACK.

A clean slap across his cheek.

> Vash mother voice shook: “You disappeared. For months, Vash.”

No one interrupted.

And then — like a storm behind a door —

Arik arrived.

His eyes, usually distant and unreadable, were now wildfire. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t wait for reasons.

He punched.

Once.

Vash didn’t fight back.

Twice.

Still nothing.

Arik grabbed his collar, breathing hard, fists shaking.

> “She cried because of you qnd you didn’t even call?”

Aira stepped in, pulling Arik’s arm back, her voice stern and loud.

> “Arik—enough. I said stop.”

But Arik was trembling. His jaw clenched.

And that’s when Aira saw it.

A flicker.

Not just rage.

Fear.

And her own heart stuttered.

> Did he think he might lose me? That I might… still care for Vash?

Aira stepped between them, gently but firmly.

> “You both are acting like idiots in a drawing room full of elders. At least show some shame.”

The family — stunned into silence until now — looked away awkwardly, shifting in their seats, unsure whose side to take.

Then came Vash’s voice.

Low.

Guttural.

> “I didn’t cheat on you.”

Everyone froze.

> “At the bachelor party… they made me drink alcohol and it was too much. One of my friends—he dressed up like a girl. Got in my bed. Shirtless. Wig and all. I thought… I thought I slept with someone. I couldn’t remember. I saw pictures. I freaked out.”

His voice cracked.

> “I wanted to tell you, but… Aira, you had this light in your eyes. You trusted me... I couldn’t… break that.”

There was silence. Thick. Tangled.

And then—

Aira laughed.

A wild, broken, half-hysterical laugh that startled everyone. Even herself.

> “You ran away because your friend did drag cosplay and slept shirtless beside you??”

She laughed harder. Tears streaming down. It was both pain and absurdity — melancholy wearing a clown nose.

The elders chuckled awkwardly...while muttering, “Kids these days…”

But Vash didn’t laugh.

His eyes weren’t on Aira anymore.

They were on Arik.

Standing behind her, fists unclenched, jaw still tense.

And for the first time, Vash saw him — really saw him.

Not just as a calm man. Not just as Aira’s support system.

But as a man in love. Visibly. Deeply. Terrifyingly.

There was a fire in Arik’s gaze — not of jealousy, but of unshakeable possession.

As Aira reached back and casually touched Arik’s arm, grounding him, Arik didn’t flinch. He didn’t soften. His eyes stayed locked on Vash.

> “Let this be your last uninvited visit,” Arik said, his voice low but sharp enough to slice ego.

“She’s my wife now.”

No anger. Just truth.

Vash’s throat tightened.

He nodded

The house was finally quiet.

Vash went to his room. The others had tiptoed off to their own corners, leaving behind a thick air of secondhand embarrassment and drama hangover.

Aira sat on the edge of the bed, arms folded, hair a bit messy . She looked up when Arik walked in — still stiff, like someone had wound him up too tight.

> “You’re still mad?” she asked casually, like she was asking if the tea had gone cold.

He didn’t answer.

She sighed.

> “Okay. Don’t talk then. Just stand there like a statue. That’s helpful.”

Arik finally looked at her, guilt and tension all over his face.

She raised an eyebrow.

> “You think I care about whatever happened with Vash?”

He opened his mouth, closed it.

She stood up now, arms still crossed.

> “Look, I’m not a saint, Arik. But I’m not a fool either. I knew the second I agreed to marry you i was done thinking about Vash. Past is past. And honestly? It wasn’t even that deep.”

He blinked.

> “It wasn’t?”

She shrugged.

> “It was... Just trust I developed nothing deep.

Arik gave a tiny, involuntary laugh.

> “You’re serious?”

> “Dead serious. I married you, didn't I?”

A pause.

> “So now stop looking at me like I’m gonna disappear. I'm not going anywhere, okay? You're annoying but... I like annoying people.”

He stared at her, then stepped closer.

> “I still felt like I was losing you today.”

> “Yeah well, you feel a lot. I think too much. We’re a mess. But we’re our mess now.”

She gave him a small smirk.

> “Also... if you think I’d dump you for a guy who literally got pranked into thinking he slept with someone because his friend wore a wig—Arik, I have standards, please.”

That finally cracked him.

He laughed. A real one. His forehead touched hers.

> “You’re ridiculous.”

> “And you’re dramatic,” she replied. “We’re a good combo.”

He leaned in.

Paused.

Waited.

> “You gonna punch me if I kiss you?”

> “Only if you miss.”

He didn’t miss.

Their first kiss was messy, a little uncoordinated, and ended with both of them half-laughing. But it was real.

But as the laughter faded, silence settled again.

And the air shifted.

Arik was still close, too close. His thumb brushed under her chin — slowly this time, no hesitations.

Aira’s smile was still there. But now, it was softer.

He leaned in again.

This time, she didn’t flinch.

Their lips met once more — not awkward this time, not rushed. It was deeper. Warmer. Like all that slow-burning tension finally snapped its fingers.

His hand slid behind her neck.

Her fingers curled into his shirt.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was communication. Hunger. Tenderness. A slow unraveling of months of denial in one beautiful, stupid, heart-thudding moment.

She was the one who pulled back first — breath short, eyes a little wide.

> “That—” she cleared her throat, looking away, flustered, “—was... fine.”

Arik gave a stupid little smirk.

> “Fine?”

> “Shut up.”

She tugged the blanket over herself and flopped down, face red.

He stood there for a second, processing everything.

> “Good night, husband,” she said, voice muffled.

He was definitely not sleeping now

.

.

The next morning.

Sunlight poured into the room like some divine spotlight — unfair, really. Aira was still curled on her side of the bed, blanket wrapped halfway around her like a burrito.

Arik sat up slowly, still stunned.

Like he’d just survived an emotional earthquake and was now waking up in a new world.

She kissed him

He turned to look at her.

She looked... peaceful. Hair a mess, slight frown on her sleeping face like she was about to yell at someone in her dream.

And yet —

his whole chest tightened.

> “What the hell is happening to me,” he whispered to himself, dramatically placing a hand over his chest.

He got up quietly, brushing his teeth with the dazed aura of a man who just realized his wife might be the love of his life and he’s too far gone to do anything about it.

She stretched on the bed, still half-asleep.

> “Why’re you staring at me like a serial killer?” she mumbled.

> “I’m in love with you,” he said, brushing toothpaste off his chin.

She blinked.

> “Huh?”

> “Nothing. I said you snore.”

> “I do not!”

> “You absolutely do.”

She threw the pillow at him. He dodged — barely and laughed all the way into the bathroom.

Breakfast was almost peaceful.

Almost.

Aira stood at the stove, flipping parathas, while Arik hovered beside her like an overgrown child pretending to “help.”

She scowled at him, elbowing him lightly.

> “Go sit down. You’re just crowding me.”

> “I’m emotionally supporting the roti.”

> “You're emotionally annoying me.”

Everyone in the dining room heard them bickering — again. Except this time… it didn’t sound like war. It sounded like home.

Just then, Aira almost dropped a roti.

Arik caught it mid-air with a plate like it was a cricket ball, grinning.

> “And that’s why your husband is here. Reflexes.”

And then, he said it.

Without thinking. Without warning.

> “My wife is cute even when she’s mad.”

Silence.

Like, dead silence.

Aira froze. Arik didn’t even realize what he said. Vash blinked. The parents looked up mid-bite.

> “…Did I just say that out loud?” Arik finally asked, looking horrified.

Aira’s ears turned bright red.

She threw a napkin at his face and marched back to the stove, muttering “embarrassing idiot” under her breath.

--

Vash, sipping chai with the smuggest expression, finally spoke up:

> “Ah. He’s in deep.”

Arik turned to him.

> “What’s that supposed to mean?”

> “Means I can finally relax. You’re not just married — you’re gone, bro. Finished.”

Even their mom joined in, fake-wiping a tear dramatically.

> “Finally…my kid settled.

Dad just cleared his throat and looked at Aira with a grin.

> “Beta, if you’re done blushing, when can we expect grandkids?”

Spoons dropped.

Arik choked on his chai.

> “PAPA??”

> “What? We’re just saying—our genes deserve to continue—”

> “WE BARELY HAD OUR FIRST KISS YESTERDAY,” Aira shouted, then clapped a hand over her mouth as everyone went OOOHHHHHHHHHHH.

Aira turned to stone. Arik slowly slid under the table, covering his face.

Vash clapped like it was stand-up comedy night.

> “This is the best breakfast ever.”

Later, after the chaos calmed and everyone was busy, Vash caught a quiet moment with Arik on the balcony.

> “You’re happy.”

Arik looked at him. No bravado. Just honesty.

> “Yeah. I think I am.”

Vash smiled.

> “I’m glad. I thought I lost you. But… she’s good for you. Better than I ever was.”

Arik looked away, but his eyes softened.

> “You were never the wrong person. Just… the wrong time.”

They sat in silence for a moment — two brothers, one past, one future, and no bitterness.

.

.

.

It been 3 month till their marriage they are learning together but with time arik knew it how much high Airas walls are she never wore her heart on her sleeves.

They’re in the living room. Arik’s sketching something in his notebook — a sleek gold chain design with a jagged lightning motif. Aira’s scrolling her phone, legs on the couch, side-eyeing him every few minutes.

> “You know,” she smirks, “you design jewelry like you’re designing weapons.”

Arik doesn’t look up.

> “Art is war.”

> “Poetic,” she mocks. “Next you’ll say ‘Love is a battlefield.’”

He finally lifts his gaze.

Smiles — but it's small.

> “It is. Especially when you’re loving someone who’s always in armor.”

She raises an eyebrow.

> “Are we talking about your imaginary muse or me?”

> “Do I have to clarify?”

The air tightens.

She laughs — too sharp.

> “Wow. Someone’s in his dramatic poet era today.”

> “I’m just saying… sometimes I wish you’d drop the sarcasm. Maybe show me something real.”

Her tone turns cool.

> “So my ‘real’ isn’t enough now?”

> “I didn’t say that.”

> “No, you just implied I’m cold, closed off, maybe even unloving—”

> “Aira,” he warns, “don’t twist it.”

> “You think I don’t care, when I was the one who stayed after that stupid wedding drama—”

> “And I married you without a second thought,” he snaps, “but somehow I’m the one always chasing scraps of affection.”

Silence.

He shuts his notebook quietly.

> “Forget it.”

He stands.

> “Where are you going?”

> “Out. Need air.”

> “Oh, so now you’re the one walking out?”

> “I’m not walking out. I’m walking away. Before I say something worse.”

He grabs his keys and leaves, leaving behind a stunned Aira.

Earlier that evening, Aira got a call from her brother-in-law — “Arik drank… a lot. He’s not like this. Please come.”

She didn’t ask questions. Just wrapped a shawl around herself and reached the guest house next to their family villa — where Arik had stormed off post-fight.

The door creaks open.

She finds him sitting on the cold floor near the bed — head leaning against the wall, hair wet, shirt clinging to him like guilt.

He looks up.

> “You came,” he whispers. “I was scared you wouldn’t.”

Aira walks over, crouching beside him.

> “You smell like cheap wine and broken pride.”

> “You smell like... forever.”

She blinks. This idiot.

> “Get up. You’ll catch a cold.”

He grabs her hand, clumsily — but firmly.

> “You don’t get it, Aira. I never planned to fall for you. You were just someone my brother was supposed to marry. Just... a stranger.”

He’s crying now, quietly.

> “But you became home. And I hate that I can’t stop waiting for you — in every room, in every silence. I’m not jealous of Vash... I’m scared. Scared that you’ll wake up and realize you settled for someone boring. A man who makes necklaces and avoids parties.”

Her heart breaks a little. But she keeps it together.

> “Okay, drama queen. Let’s put your sorry self in a cold shower before you start monologuing in iambic pentameter.”

She pulls him up. He stumbles. She helps him to the bathroom. Turns the cold water on.

> “No—nooo,” he mumbles. “You’re punishing me.”

> “Yup.”

She steps under the water too. Fully clothed. His eyes widen.

> “You’re crazy.”

> “Nope. I’m just tired of you being wet and poetic.”

The water rushes. Their breath catches.

They're close.

He looks at her — really looks at her. Rain-soaked hair. Fire in her eyes. And something softer too.

> “You still mad at me?”

> “No. But I’m mad you didn’t trust what we had.”

clothes soaked, breaths uneven, tension simmering.

Aira shoved Arik back lightly against the tiled wall, water sliding down his jaw, his shirt translucent now, outlining every lean line of his body. He looked up at her — dark eyes, glassy from both wine and want — and whispered like a confession:

> “Tell me you’re mine.”

She didn’t answer with words.

She stepped in, grabbed his collar, and kissed him.

Hard.

His mouth parted in surprise, but she was already there — tongue brushing against his, tasting the salt of his skin, the wine still lingering faintly on his lips. He groaned — low, needy, like he’d been starving for her.

His hands found her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress sliding dangerously close to her skin underneath. She pressed closer, her leg brushing between his, her hands slipping to the back of his neck, tugging slightly, forcing him to meet her deeper, fiercer.

Their breaths mixed — ragged, messy, real. Water cascading over them like some reckless baptism.

His hands moved now — more daring. One trailing up her back, memorizing every curve. The other sliding down, gripping her thigh as she hitched it slightly, bringing their bodies flush.

> “Aira,” he murmured into her mouth, brokenly. “God, I love you.”

She pulled back just slightly — lips swollen, eyes wild.

> “Then prove it. Not with words. With you.”

And he did. He kissed her again — slower this time, but no less desperate. His lips explored hers like prayer. His tongue slid against hers in a rhythm that felt like a promise. A reverent kind of hunger.

The world disappeared.

They break the kiss — breathless, flushed, shivering slightly.

> “Arik... you’re the only one I want. Even when you're drunk, dumb, and dripping.”

> “I think I’m gonna marry you again.”

> “Not until you sober up, Romeo.”

Aira stepped out of the bathroom first, toweling her hair — face flushed from more than just the heat. Arik followed, eyes softer now, the wine haze lifting slightly, but the kiss still burning on his lips like an aftershock.

She sat cross-legged on the bed, pretending to scroll on her phone, but side-eying him hard.

He looked at her, still shirtless, water droplets sliding down his chest.

"Don’t look at me like that," he said, voice hoarse.

She blinked innocently. “Like what?”

He narrowed his eyes, smirk threatening. “Like you didn’t kiss the soul out of me five minutes ago.”

> “You kissed me back,” she shrugged. “So now we’re even.”

He chuckled, grabbing the hair dryer from the vanity.

> “Come here, you’re gonna catch a cold.”

She pouted but scooted closer. He knelt behind her, turning on the dryer. As he ran his fingers through her damp strands, she closed her eyes.

Soft hum. Gentle tugs. His fingers brushing her neck now and then, making her shiver more than the water ever did.

> “I wasn’t trying to make you jealous earlier,” she murmured, barely audible over the dryer.

He didn’t answer immediately — just kept drying her hair.

> “I know,” he finally said, voice tight. “I just… I don’t want to lose you to anyone. Not even a joke.”

Aira turned slightly, enough to see his face.

> “You won’t,” she said. “You’re safe, Arik. With me, you always will be.”

Once her hair was dry, she flopped onto the bed. Arik followed suit, laying beside her, not touching, but close. The silence was comforting, shared.

She peeked at him.

> “So… you drunk confessed. Cried in the shower. Kissed me like a man with nothing left to lose. Do you regret it yet?”

He turned his head slowly.

> “Only regret is not doing it sooner.”

Aira smacked his arm. “Cheesy. You sound like a hero from a cringe melo drama.”

He grinned. “Good. I was going for overdramatic.”

She rolled over, burying her face into his chest.

> “Just sleep, idiot. Tomorrow, we pretend you didn’t cry.”

> “Deal,” he whispered, wrapping an arm around her. “But I’ll remember.”

Their legs tangled under the blanket. His heartbeat thudded against her ear.

The morning sun crept through the half-closed curtains, lighting up the room in soft gold. The AC whirred quietly. Aira stirred, stretching lazily. Her hand reached out.

Touch: warm. Skin. Chest.

Oh right.

She opened one eye.

There he was — Arik — half-curled beside her, shirtless, hair messily sexy, one arm slung around her waist like it belonged there. His expression? Peaceful. Innocent.

> Too bad peace never lasts.

Suddenly, his eyes fluttered open. Confused. Then wide. Alarmed.

“Wait… what—” he croaked, sitting up halfway, scanning the bed.

> “Did I—sleep here? With you??”

Aira blinked up at him, calm as the Buddha.

> “No. It’s a hallucination. You’re in the Himalayas. I’m your Sherpa.”

He looked down at himself, then at her in his shirt, then at the blanket.

“…Did we… you know?”

She burst out laughing. “Calm down, Romeo. We kissed, yes. Cried, yes. Got emotional in the shower—also yes. But no, your virtue is safe.”

He covered his face with both hands.

> “I cried?”

She grinned. “Like a baby. You also said — and I quote — ‘I hate your teasing but I’ll die if someone else gets to be teased by you.’”

Arik groaned into his hands. “Stop. No more. I revoke my dignity.”

> “What dignity? You clung to me like a soaking cat and asked if I’d marry you again.”

He froze. “I didn’t.”

> “You did.”

A beat of silence.

“…And you said yes?”

She shrugged casually. “Hmm, I said ‘We’re already married, dumbass.’”

He paused, staring at her, then laughed softly — the most genuine one yet.

> “You really love me, don’t you?”

She blinked. Her heart stalled.

> “Tch. Don’t get cocky just because you cry pretty.”

He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to her temple.

> “Too late. I’m officially your problem forever now

.

.

✨Evening Begins — Double celebration

The celebration was glittering. Vaara Jewels had finally arrived.

The brand was now officially national-level — high society clients, whispers in the luxury circle, and cameras flashing all evening. The showroom sparkled like a dream Arik had once drawn in his sketchpad — now standing tall and shining bright.

Everyone was raising toasts to the man of the hour.

Except the one person he truly wanted to hear from.

> Aira hadn’t even wished him.

She’d been civil. Smiling. Supportive. But quiet.

Too quiet.

He watched her in the crowd, talking to his parents and brother. Not once did she meet his eyes for long.

And it stung more than he expected.

> “Sir, could we get one more photo with the Minister’s wife?”

“Arik, that girl from the fashion house wants to collaborate.”

“Sir, quick smile for The Verve Magazine—”

He was drained. He wasn’t even sure if he was tired from the flashes or the ache in his chest.

Post-party, as he sat silently in the backseat, Aira slipped into the driver’s seat with an unreadable expression.

> “You drive now?” he asked, surprised.

> “Only when I have missions,” she replied with a sly glance.

The car moved away from the glitz, deeper into quieter roads that led toward the hills.

Twilight faded into cool evening, and soon the city vanished behind them. Arik watched the trees blur past — his heart unsure whether to be hopeful or confused.

After an hour, they stopped at a secluded hotel tucked into a hilly patch, almost secret. A place only locals and lovers would know. Intimate, woody, elegant. With windows that opened up to the stars.

> “Happy Birthday, Arik,” she whispered finally, turning toward him with a smile.

“Did you really think I forgot?”

.

.

The hotel staff had already set up the private dinner — candlelit table under a semi-glass roof. Warm lights danced on silver cutlery. No other souls around. Just them. Just silence and stars.

They ate slow. He stared more than he chewed.

> “This is all you?” he finally asked.

> “Booked the place a week ago. Took Deniel help to cover for me,” she grinned.

“Wanted to be the only one to truly celebrate you.”

As dessert arrived, Aira leaned closer and did something unexpected.

She imitated one of the party girls:

> “Oh Mr. Arik, your craftsmanship is divine, you simply must do a private piece for me sometime.”

Then added with a wicked grin,

“Didn’t know I married the cover boy of every heiress’s fantasy.”

Arik nearly choked on his wine.

> “You’ve been jealous,” he muttered, amused.

She leaned in further, voice low and sultry.

> “I’ve been possessive. That’s worse.”

She slowly pushed her chair back, circled to him like a lioness, and with her hand resting on his shoulder, added in that mock-high-society tone again:

> “But tell me... Mr. Arik... do you treat all your clients like you treat me?”

Then she lowered her voice and kissed the spot just under his ear.

> “Because I know you don’t.”

She leaned in again - slower this time her lips brushing against his jaw... And when he get close to kiss she pulled apart saying let's have a walk.

.

.

Hand in hand, they took a short walk around the garden of the hotel. Above them — the stars, glittering. Around them — silence, breeze, wildflowers, warmth. She kissed his hand. He kissed her forehead. She stopped suddenly when he noticed ring sliping on his finger.

He looked at her.

Then their kiss —

It started soft.

But there was a fire burning beneath it — one that jealousy had stirred, desire had fed, and absence had intensified. Her hands tangled in his hair. His arms around her waist. He pushed her gently against the wooden railing — mouth exploring, tasting, claiming. Their kiss turned deeper, wetter, full of tongue and breathless gasps, as her fingers found the edge of his shirt and pulled him closer.

Their bodies tangled like they were trying to drown in each other.

The room was dim. Lit only by the soft golden glow of wall lamps and the moon filtering through the glass ceiling above.

The bed was untouched. Crisp sheets. Heavy silence.

Until they stepped in.

> Aira’s eyes locked on his as she slowly walked backward, unzipping her dress — not in a rush, but in challenge.

The red fabric slid down her skin like spilled wine.

She wasn’t seductive in the practiced sense — she was raw, instinctive, dangerous.

Arik didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. He just watched her like a man standing before a flame he fully intends to step into.

> “Are you sure?” he whispered, voice low, breathy.

> “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” she said, already stepping closer.

When their mouths met this time, it wasn’t soft.

It was needy. Hungry. Searing.

His hands roamed her like he was blind and she was the only thing he wanted to feel.

Her mouth tasted like courage. Her skin like home and chaos at once.

They fell into bed, limbs tangled, breath broken.

Aira arched under him as his lips found the edge of her neck, her collarbone, lower...

She gasped — not out of surprise, but surrender.

> This wasn’t gentle.

This wasn’t shy.

This was sin that knew it was holy.

> “Say it,” he murmured into her skin.

> “What?”

> “That no one else gets this. No one else gets you like this.”

She pulled him in closer, nails dragging down his back, breath hot against his ear.

> “No one could, even if they tried.”

The heat between them built like thunder behind stained-glass windows — silent but powerful. Their bodies moved together with a rhythm that wasn’t taught, only discovered.

Every moan was a prayer.

Every gasp a confession.

Every grip, every kiss, every bite… a beautiful sin they didn’t care to repent.

They didn’t just make love.

> They consumed each other.

And when they lay there afterward — chest to chest, sweat clinging to skin, hearts still racing —

There was only silence.

And the stars, quietly watching through the glass above.

.

.

The early morning light dripped in like honey through the glass ceiling, dancing on tangled sheets and exhausted smiles. Aira stirred first — bare legs tangled in covers, his oversized white shirt slipping off one shoulder like it was never meant to stay on.

She looked around the cozy hilltop room, cheeks flushed, hair messy — and grinned to herself. Oh she did that.

Then came the laugh. A soft, surprised snort that escaped her lips as she looked at Arik sprawled like a peaceful crime scene — hair wild, lips parted, scratch marks still fresh on his shoulder. She tiptoed toward the bathroom.

But before the water even warmed, strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind.

“Not fair,” he murmured, voice still husky, “you woke up without me?”

“Not my fault you snore like a lumberjack,” she teased.

He buried his face in her neck. “Yeah? You still made out with the lumberjack. In the woods. Loudly.”

.

.

Shower. Slippery skin. Soap trails and laughter. A stolen kiss beneath warm water that turned accidentally serious. Hands. Eyes. Steam-fogged mirrors. Maybe she bit his lip a little. Maybe he whispered something in her ear that made her knees buckle.

Wrapped in towels and love, they ordered breakfast.

Aira attacked the pancakes like a starved wolf. Syrup on her cheek. Cheeks puffed out. Arik watched, completely gone.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, brushing off a crumb from her lip.

“But I’m yours,” she mumbled with food still in her mouth, proudly.

.

.

He carried her into the house — bridal style, despite her protests — as she yelped, “Arik! Put me down, I can walk!”

“Yeah, but you didn’t last night,” he smirked, earning a smack on the shoulder.

Later that night, he insisted on cooking.

Pasta. Wine. Music low. She danced around him in his hoodie.

After dinner, they lay side by side in bed. Her head on his shoulder. Barely a word spoken.

Until Arik’s eyes fell on the ring she gave him.

He lifted his hand, twisting the silver band slightly. Inside, barely visible, were three tiny engraved letters:

“ILY.”

He blinked. Then smiled like a kid.

“You didn’t say it.”

“I didn’t need to,” she whispered sleepily. “You knew.”

He kissed her temple, tucked her closer, and whispered back:

“I did. But now I’m saying it, too. I love you, Aira.”

She didn’t respond — already dozing. But her fingers curled tighter around his shirt.

.

.

Married Life of Arik & Aira

They married in a storm of stolen glances and silently spoken vows. No grand speeches. Just two people whose hearts collided too loudly to stay apart.

In the quiet months after the wedding, their world settled into a rhythm. Not boring. Never boring.

Mornings began with Arik's fingers tracing lazy circles on her back, his shirt drowning her frame as she stirred coffee.

He'd watch her across the kitchen counter — hair messy, eyes fierce — and think, this woman’s a storm and still, she chose to come home to me.

Sometimes she left early — 5 a.m. shifts, emergencies. She’d kiss his forehead while he was half-asleep and mumble,

“Stay alive till I get back.”

He always replied,

“Only if you do too.

She was a paramedic — the first line of contact, the one who ran into screaming houses, flipped bleeding bodies, and held pressure on arteries with her bare hands.

And some days, people fought back.

A drunken patient once shoved her hard during a domestic call.

Her wrist sprained. Her lip split.

She came home late, exhausted, still in uniform, blood on her collar that wasn’t hers—but her own bruises underneath.

She didn’t expect Arik to notice.

But he opened the door and saw her before she knocked.

And the silence was thick.

He didn’t say a word—he just held her face and checked her wrist like a glass artifact.

“Who did this?”

She looked down. “It was—just a call that went wrong.”

His jaw clenched.

But instead of yelling, he pressed his lips to the side of her head.

“You are not allowed to lie about pain. Not to me.”

He ran a bath for her. Sat outside the tub, fully clothed, reading her a dumb article aloud while she soaked in lavender silence.

Arguments? Of course.

Usually about her hiding her injuries, or taking extra shifts, or missing meals.

He’d raise his voice.

She’d raise her eyebrows.

He’d storm out to the living room.

But ten minutes later — he'd come back, wrap her in a blanket, kiss the spot he raised his voice toward, and whisper,

“I’m sorry. I'm just scared when you're not careful with yourself.”

She never said sorry.

She showed it — by letting him hold her tighter that night.

They watched reruns of old medical shows where she mocked the CPR techniques.

She’d wear his shirt after a shower — damp, soft, oversized — and sit cross-legged on the floor while drying her hair.

He’d stare like it was the first time he’d seen her.

“You’re staring.”

“You’re mine.”

Their intimacy grew wild and safe at once.

Not rushed, not just lust — but raw, emotion-filled, like their bodies were speaking every word they never said aloud.

He learned her scars.

She learned his silences.

They touched like sinners, loved like saints, and fell asleep like they’d known each other in past lives.

.

.

.

One morning, Aira collapsed at work.

Nausea. Dizziness.

She blamed it on heat, stress, skipping breakfast.

But the test said otherwise. Two pink lines.

She didn't tell Arik right away.

She wanted to wait till Ruthy (Arik’s sister) delivered — to not steal the spotlight. To give the family one big dose of happiness on the same day.

So she waited. Held the secret in her heart like a flame.

Baby Keae was born healthy. The family rejoiced.

As they gathered at home — a tired Arik sat with tea, baby in lap, pride in his eyes.

.

.

Ruthy walks in like a soldier home from battle—sleep-deprived but victorious. Baby Keae is wrapped in a pink burrito swaddle, blinking like a half-baked cinnamon roll. Daniel follows, managing bags and the bottle Ruthy forgot twice.

Everyone swarms in, fussing over baby. Aira’s holding Keae, and Arik’s watching her like that’s gonna be her again... soon.

Later that night, the house is dim, calm.

Aira pulls Arik into their room and closes the door softly.

> Aira (nervously tucking her hair):

“So... I went to the hospital today.”

> Arik (instantly alert):

“What? Why? Did you get hurt again?”

> Aira (smiling faintly):

“No, not injured. Just... nauseous. And they ran some tests.”

Beat.

She holds his hand gently, places it just above her stomach.

> Aira:

“You’re going to be a father.”

Silence.

Arik doesn’t shout.

He just freezes.

Eyes locked on hers like the world’s shifted on its axis.

Then slowly — and it’s so him — he pulls her into his arms, rests his forehead to hers. His fingers tighten at her back like he’s grounding himself.

> Arik (voice low, thick):

“You’re serious?”

> Aira (softly):

“Would I joke about something like this?”

> Arik (half-laughs, but a tear betrays him):

“No. No, you wouldn’t.”

He exhales — one long, reverent breath. Then kneels down, places a kiss just over her stomach.

> Arik:

“Thank you. For this. For trusting me with this life.”

Aira’s eyes well up — not from hormones this time, but from him. His calm. His love. His reverence.

He composes himself. Walks out holding her hand, straight into the living room where Ruthy is trying to burp baby Keae and Daniel is stress-snacking.

> Arik (clears throat):

“We, uh... we have an announcement.”

Everyone turns.

> Aira (blushing, quietly):

“I’m pregnant.”

Arik’s mom drops a spoon mid-bite.

Ruthy’s mouth forms a perfect “O”.

Daniel nearly chokes on his biscuit again.

Then—

Arik’s mom: “BETA!”

Cue hugs. Tears. Ruthy squealing with baby in her arms.

> Ruthy:

“Keae’s gonna have a cousin! Oh my god! Double diapers!”

Daniel: “We’re gonna need a baby war room at this rate.”

Arik’s father simply pats Arik’s back and mutters,

Later that night, Arik lies next to Aira in bed, hands tracing invisible patterns on her stomach.

> Arik (quietly):

“You’ve always been brave. But now... you’re home. My home.”

> Aira (teasing):

“And what if the baby’s just like me? Chaotic and clumsy?”

> Arik (smiling):

“Then I’ll spend the rest of my life bandaging both of you.”

Aira found out she was pregnant before Arik did.

And the irony? He was already acting overprotective.

> “Don’t lift that box!”

“You’ve been skipping meals. You’ll faint one day.”

“Stop working overtime, woman.”

Aira would roll her eyes, secretly smiling.

“If only you knew what I’m really hiding,” she muttered one night, watching him sleep, hand gently resting on her belly.

The secret spilled.

And Arik didn’t react like a clueless husband.

He nodded, took a breath, and immediately downloaded three parenting apps.

> “We’re calling the OB first thing tomorrow. Also, you’re banned from stairs.”

“I work in emergencies, Arik.”

“And I’m your personal ambulance now.”

He read every article.

He became a Prenatal Encyclopedia.

Even corrected the OB once (he was wrong, but confident)

Aira’s bump made its grand entrance — small, round, and adorable.

Arik couldn’t stop touching it.

He’d kiss her tummy before sleeping.

Talk to it.

Sing lullabies like:

> “Twinkle twinkle little star, please don’t make mom barf in the car.”

She teased him:

> “You’re more obsessed with this bump than with me.”

“No, you’re just two people now. I’m equally obsessed with both.”

.

.

Baby shopping

> “Why is everything pastel? Babies deserve bold. Give me a stroller that looks like a Ferrari.”

Aira:

“If it has more buttons than our TV remote, we’re not buying it.”

Meanwhile, Arik built a crib from YouTube tutorials.

It squeaked every time you touched it, but he was SO proud.

.

Cravings

> “I want masala icecream .”

>“... I will not ask questions. Just give me five minutes.”

She laughed like a gremlin at memes.

She cried when the delivery guy forgot chutney.

She got turned on by random things like his wristwatch or the way he sliced mango.

Arik never complained.

> “You’re a goddess. A very... hormonal one. But still divine.”

He massaged her swollen feet.

He tied her hair when she threw up.

He did skin-care with her.

Even let her draw henna hearts on his belly “so baby doesn’t feel alone.”

Doctor visits were now a routine.

The first time they heard the heartbeat?

They sat in the car afterward, silent and teary.

> “That’s our baby,” Aira whispered.

“so beautiful” Arik murmured.

When the baby kicked

Aira gasped.

Arik froze.

Then he ran to get his phone and filmed 100 takes of her belly.

He posted nothing. Just saved it like treasure.

Aira waddled around like a sleepy penguin in oversized shirts and hair in a bun.

But he always made her feel beautiful.

> “Do you still find me sexy?”

> “ sexy .. you are dangerously hot. I have been trying hard not to pounce at you right now."

Aira high on hormone making her emotional even at this flirty comment...

.

.

Aira lay on his chest, breathing slow.

Arik stroked her hair, hand on the bump.

> “I’m not ready.”

“Me neither.”

“But we’ll fake it till we make it, right?”

“Together.”

Aira was tossing in bed. The baby had been acting like a footballer lately.

Then—cramp.

No, wait. Not a cramp.

> “Mmmmh… Arik… I think I’m having contractions.”

Arik blinked. Half-conscious. Dreaming about mangoes.

> “Wait—what? You’re… WHAT!?”

She groaned again, gripping her lower back.

That was no mango dream.

Arik leaped from bed like a ninja, tossed clothes everywhere, grabbed the hospital bag, and tied his shoelaces in reverse order.

> “We’re going. We’re going right now. Do you need me to carry you?”

“Arik, I am pregnant, not paralyzed.”

“Still gonna carry you.”

And he did.

In the car, Aira’s contractions were growing stronger.

> “Breathe. Okay? Like the birthing class. Puff puff whoosh—”

“If you whoosh one more time I’ll throw this water bottle at you.”

Then, just 10 minutes from the hospital,

SPLASH.

Her water broke. Right there, in the passenger seat.

> “Um… Arik?”

“Yes my beautiful darling wife?”

“Your car is now officially baptized.”

“OH. MY. GOD

.

.

The hospital doors flung open.

Arik shouted

> “HELP. LABOR. WIFE. BABY. NOW.”

Nurses rushed in.

Wheelchair came flying.

Aira gripped his hand the whole way.

By the time they reached the hospital, her grip on Arik’s arm was lethal.

Inside, things moved fast.

> “She’s dilated six centimeters. Quickly—Labor Room 2!”

Arik’s breath caught as she was wheeled away, her hand slipping from his fingers at the door.

> “Sir, please wait outside.”

He nodded, stunned, shoulders tense like bricks.

But as the doors began to close, a scream stopped everything.

> “AAARIK!!!”

“I—she—uh—what—”

Even the nurse looked back, blinking.

Inside, Aira was losing it. The pain, the pressure, the fear—

She wasn’t just in labor.

She was in war.

> “Where’s my husband?! I NEED him!”

The nurse popped her head out and called toward the hallway:

> “Sir! She’s asking for you"

Without hesitation, Arik stood up.

> “Let me in.”

“You sure? Blood, panic, screaming—”

“I know. That’s my wife.”

The moment he stepped in, she grabbed him like a woman possessed.

> “TWO humans caused this. And ONE of them was YOU.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You said it’ll be beautiful! You LIED!!”

“I lied. I’m sorry. Push, baby.”

Her hair was a mess, her hospital gown halfway off one shoulder, but to him she looked like a goddess made of fire and pain.

> “One more push!” said the nurse.

“NO MORE!”

“Come on, you’ve trained for this!” Arik encouraged.

“I DID NOT TRAIN FOR THIS".

As she pushed and screamed, Arik held her hand like it was his oxygen line.

One push.

Two.

Three.

Then—her body slumped.

For a second too long, her eyes fluttered shut.

> “AIRA?” Arik shouted.

“Sir, she’s fine—keep her head up, just a moment more—”

Then—a baby’s cry.

And suddenly, the whole world went still.

Aayan is Born

Wrapped in a blue cloth, a tiny boy was handed to Arik.

> “It’s a boy.”

“Oh my god...” Arik whispered, barely believing. “Hi, baby…”

He turned back to Aira, who was barely conscious but smiling.

> “He’s… ours?”

“He’s so loud. Just like you,” she whispered.

“And perfect. Just like you.”

She was pale, breathless, but alive.

And their son, Aayan, blinked for the first time under hospital lights.

Meanwhile, the family outside was having a whole drama series of its own.

Deniel had fallen asleep holding Keae upside down.

Ruthy was pacing like a lioness.

Aira’s mother was praying.

Aira's father was pretending not to worry but kept glancing at the clock every 17 seconds.

Then the nurse came out—

> “It’s a boy! Mother’s safe"

.

.

Hugs, cries, laughter.

And Then Came Arik

He stepped out thirty minutes later, Aayan in his arms, wrapped tight like a burrito.

His eyes were red but glowing.

> “Meet your new team member,” he said softly.

Everyone melted. Ruthy took one look and said,

> “My Keae has competition.”

As they all took turns holding the baby, Aira was wheeled out in her post-delivery daze.

Arik leaned close and whispered:

> “You did this. You made life.

And I just... witnessed a miracle.

You’re not just my wife.

You’re a warrior.

And I’m in love with you all over again.”

Aira blinked up and croaked,

> “Still not forgiving you for the cramps.”

“Fair.”

It’s around 4:30 a.m. Aira is barely conscious, exhausted beyond words.

The labor was long. Complicated. Nearly fainted. But she made it.

Nurses bustle around, checking vitals.

Aayan lies swaddled, tiny fists clenched, sleeping peacefully.

Aira finally stirs awake. Her first instinct?

> “Where’s my baby…”

Arik, sitting right beside her, eyes red but smiling.

> “Right here… He looks just like you. But he yells like me.”

She laughs weakly. The nurse places Aayan gently on her chest.

Aira holds him — skin to skin — eyes overflowing.

Then, the nurse whispers:

> “It’s time to try the first feed, mama.”

Arik instinctively looks away, unsure if he should stay.

> “Stay,” Aira whispers.

“You sure?”

“You’re his father. We do this together.”

He nods, walks over, holds her hand as Aayan begins to feed for the first time — the tiniest suckles of colostrum, his first taste of the world.

Arik looks down at them.

> “I swear I’ve never felt this kind of love before. For both of you.

.

.

Arik is doing everything.

Running to the pharmacy. Checking in with the doctor.

Washing bottles (even though Aira’s breastfeeding).

Talking to baby Aayan like he’s got stock market tips.

> “Hey champ, you planning to sleep or gonna scream at 2 AM again?”

Aayan: poops dramatically in response.

Nurse walks in with a smile:

> “Papa Arik is very hands-on, haan?”

“Yeah,” Aira smiles, “...like a nervous intern on his first day.”

She’s still sore. Still dazed. Still healing.

But slowly, the pain is giving way to wonder.

It's Day 2. Aira is finally able to sit up properly.

She holds Aayan, feeding him again — this time more confident.

Her hair’s a mess. Her eyes are tired. But her soul? Radiant.

Arik sits on the visitor couch, notebook in hand.

> “What are you writing?”

“Baby expenses. And possible baby names for future twins.”

“WHAT.”

“I’m manifesting.”

“Sir, we haven’t even healed from this one.”

He walks over, kisses her forehead.

> “You healed me by surviving. So now, I'll take care of everything.

The sun hadn’t even properly stretched its arms when the new family of three returned home. Aira, still a little sore and sleep-deprived but glowing with mama-pride, stepped inside, her arms cradling the tiny bundle of blankets that was Aayan — red-faced, squishy, and already suspicious of this noisy world.

Arik, one hand on her back, the other carrying bag, looked like he hadn’t slept in three days — but had never looked more alive. His entire being was humming with new-dad energy.

As soon as they entered --

Ruthy: "Move aside! Lemme see the nephew who kicked my sister-in-law for nine months!"

Deniel holding 1-year-old Keae, who was crawling now like a biscuit-hungry baby ninja, crouched nearby. She stared at her new cousin with big round eyes, blinked… and gently poked him with a biscuit. Aayan just yawned. That was their first bond.

The living room turned into a festival.

Aira’s mom hugged her, whispering blessings and sniffles.

Arik’s dad handed sweets, beaming like he just became king.

Aira’s dad, who rarely said much, awkwardly whispered, “You’ve done well, my girl.”

Meanwhile, Arik hovered like a hawk with a PhD in Worry. Every time someone leaned too close to Aayan, he’d cough like a bouncer clearing his throat.

The first night back was… a beautiful mess.

Aira had her feet up on a pillow, wincing slightly, but chuckling every time Aayan made funny noises.

Arik gently massaged her swollen feet, muttering, “My lioness gave birth to a devil prince.”

When she breastfed for the first time at home, he watched her with this stunned soft smile, whispering,

“I thought I knew love before. I was wrong.”

Ruthy, being the elder mom, peeked in with all kinds of postpartum hacks — “Eat this, don’t eat that, drink warm water, and for the love of God, don’t sit cross-legged yet!”

The clock struck 3 AM. Outside, the world was silent. But inside the bedroom

Waaaahhhhhh!

Baby Aayan had once again launched his tiny lungs into action. Aira, half-asleep, groaned and rolled over.

“Your son is demanding premium milk… with express delivery.”

Arik, already awake, scooped the baby up with practiced hands. “Again? He just finished a whole buffet few hours ago!”

“Tell that to my boobs,” Aira mumbled, eyes shut.

She winced as she sat up and began nursing. Arik watched her in that quiet, reverent way again. Not with lust—just… awe.

“You okay?” he asked softly, pushing her hair back.

“No. They’re sore. They hurt. They might sue me.”

Arik smirked, voice low and teasing, “I told you to let me help… I’m trained in boob massage.”

Aira whacked him with a pillow, chuckling through the pain. “Stop flirting, I'm tired "

He kissed her temple gently. “Even better. You're officially my favorite hot milky mama.”

Aayan finished feeding and looked way too smug for someone who still couldn’t hold his head up.

Burped. Farted. Slept like a prince.

The couple stared at the baby sandwiched between them.

Arik whispered, “Did you ever imagine we’d be here?”

Aira shook her head, her eyes glassy. “No. But I wouldn’t trade this for the world… even if my spine disagrees.”

He held her hand under the blanket, fingers interlacing, thumb brushing hers with the kind of softness only he had.

.

.

.

Six months later, the storm had settled into routine. The house was louder. The couple was sleepier.

Aira had healed, emotionally and physically. Her eyes had their mischief back.

Arik had learned to change diapers with one hand and warm milk with the other.

Their nights were quieter… sometimes.

Their mornings always started with Aayan smacking one of them with a toy and the other yelling, “Get the butt wipes!”

But no matter how tired, no matter how messy — every time Arik looked at Aira holding their baby, hair messy, half-asleep, mumbling lullabies —

he’d fall in love all over again.

And every time Aira saw him carrying Aayan on his chest, whispering silly stories, arms big enough to hold both her and the baby —

she knew she was safe. Home.