Time became meaningless. Minutes blurred into hours. I was vaguely aware of the room growing darker as the sun set outside, but I did not bother turning on more lights. The glow from the laptop screen was enough.
I was so deep in my work that I did not hear the bedroom door open. I did not hear footsteps crossing the room. I was completely and utterly absorbed in the problem I was trying to solve.
And then, finally, I found it. The solution that had been eluding me for the last hour suddenly clicked into place in my mind with perfect clarity. I could see exactly how to optimize the caching algorithm, exactly which data structures to use, exactly how to implement it efficiently.
"Yes!" I exclaimed, jumping up from the bed in pure excitement.
And collided directly with something hard and solid.
For a split second, I thought I had somehow run into the wall. But walls did not feel like this. Walls were not warm. Walls did not have arms that reached out to steady you when you stumbled.
I looked up slowly, my breath catching in my throat.
Armaan was standing right in front of me. So close I could see the faint stubble on his jaw, could smell the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with something else, something uniquely him. His hands were on my waist, holding me firmly to keep me from falling.
His eyes met mine, and there was a question in them. Something I could not quite read.
Those butterflies in my stomach that I had felt this morning came rushing back with a vengeance, fluttering wildly and making me feel dizzy.
What was this feeling? This strange, unsettling warmth that spread through my chest whenever he looked at me like that?
I became acutely aware of our position. How close we were standing. How his hands felt against my waist, strong and steady. How my own hands had somehow ended up pressed against his chest.
I stepped back quickly, putting distance between us. My face felt hot, and I could not quite meet his eyes anymore.
Armaan cleared his throat, the sound breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the room.
"Mamta told me you did not have dinner. Why not?"
His voice was calm, measured, but there was an edge to it. Not anger, exactly. Something else.
"I was working," I said quietly, gesturing vaguely toward my laptop still open on the bed. "I forgot about the time."
He looked at the laptop, then back at me. His expression was unreadable.
"Come on. Dinner is ready. Let us go eat."
Before I could protest or make an excuse, he reached out and took my hand. Not forcefully, but with a quiet certainty that left no room for argument. His hand was warm around mine, his grip gentle but firm.
He led me out of the bedroom and down the stairs. I followed in a daze, too surprised by the gesture to do anything else.
We entered the dining room, and I could see that the table had already been set. Dishes of food were laid out, still covered to keep them warm. But Mamta ji was nowhere to be seen. She must have already retired to her quarters for the night.
I sat down across from Armaan, suddenly very aware of how informal I looked in my pajamas while he was still in his work clothes. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, but he still looked polished and put together.
And I looked like I had just rolled out of bed.
The thought made me want to sink into the floor.
But Armaan did not seem to notice or care. He just watched me with that same unreadable expression.
I realized with a start that I was supposed to serve the food. That was what a wife did, was it not? I stood up quickly and began uncovering the dishes. Rice, dal, sabzi, roti. Everything smelleddelicious, and my stomach chose that moment to remind me that I had not eaten since breakfast.
I served food onto Armaan's plate first, trying to remember the proper portions, trying not to let my hands shake. Then I served myself and sat back down.
We ate in silence for a few moments. I kept my eyes on my plate, suddenly feeling shy and awkward in a way I had not felt since the wedding.
Then Armaan spoke.
