She laid on the bed on her side as soon as we arrived. No words, no glance — just a quiet surrender to the mattress. I’d checked on her earlier, already deciding to make something for her. Almost a day had passed without her eating properly, and that damn bandage was still wrapped around her hand. It needed changing before it started sticking to her skin.

I pushed off the bedroom threshold and walked in, my fingers loosening the buttons of my shirt. The small sound of fabric and movement was enough to stir her — her lashes fluttered open.

Good. She didn’t pretend to sleep this time. I hated it when she did.

My gaze moved over her slowly, dragging across every line of her body like a man reading scripture he’d memorized but still worshipped. That thin strip of bare waist, peeking out from the edge of her saree, was an uninvited temptation. It made my hands clench. It made my mind flash to things I wasn’t allowing myself. Not yet.

Keeping my distance from her was the hardest punishment I’d ever given myself. I wasn’t the kind of man who restrained when I wanted something — especially not her. She’d been the one person I could never be detached around. Just having her in the same room was enough to switch my body into a constant state of readiness.

If she stood beside me too long, I’d have her against a wall. If she looked me in the eye and smiled… it would end in either quiet devotion or relentless ruin. Usually ruin.

Not that she was only a body to me. But in my world, intimacy wasn’t a luxury — it was the truest language of love. More than words. Words could be twisted, misheard, dismissed. But a kiss… a touch… a night with her in my bed — that couldn’t be doubted. I’d told her how I felt before. She didn’t believe me. Fine. I’d make her feel it until belief wasn’t a choice.

She rolled a shoulder back, then away again, as I dropped my shirt aside and slid in behind her. My arm locked around her waist, drawing her into the curve of my body until her back rested flush against my chest. My face found her hair, and the faint scent of hibiscus curled into my lungs.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice low.

“Nothing. Trying to grasp the situation.”

“About your father?”

She gave a small nod. Even that — the smallest of movements — hooked my attention. These moments, when she stayed close without resistance, were rare. And this… this was the first time we’d laid like this with our clothes still on.

“You’re always slow to accept things,” I murmured. “But it’s fine. Your father doesn’t have something incurable. We can work on this.”

Silence. Heavy, thick. I could feel the hesitation in her body, like she was weighing every word she might say. I almost broke it — then she did first.

“You asked me to play the role of your wife. What should I do as your wife?”

The words dug deeper than she knew. When I’d told her that before, I’d meant her natural self — her real self. Not some mechanical performance. But hearing it now… she made it sound like a stranger asking about her duties under a contract. Like this was a job. Like she didn’t know that *she* was already the role.

For a second, my chest tightened with something ugly — frustration, maybe even anger. I swallowed it. This had to be slow. She didn’t need an outburst from me. She needed time to adjust… time to *accept*.

I tightened my grip on her waist, pressing her into me until there was no space left. “Wake up at midnight, kiss me, then go back to sleep. Wake early, kiss me, and sleep again. Wake late, kiss me before your bath. After bathing, kiss me again. Before breakfast, kiss me. After breakfast—”

A faint giggle slipped from her lips.

I went still.

She giggled. Soft, unsteady — but it was there. And it was real. I’d never heard it this close before. The sound slid under my skin like a heat I couldn’t name.

“Is that all a wife is supposed to do? Kissing all day?” she asked, her voice light, teasing in a way I hadn’t felt from her before.

“My wife — *you* — that’s all you have to do,” I answered without hesitation.

“What about cooking?”

“I’ll cook and feed you.”

“And cleaning?”

“We have maids. And machines. They’ll handle it.”

“These are house chores,” I added, my voice dropping to a darker register. “Not wife duties. As I said — your only duty is to kiss me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold this time. But I still felt it, filling the space between us. I hated the quiet, even though it had only been seconds. I already wanted her voice back.

I caught her wrist before she could shift away, the faint wince in her eyes reminding me of the bandage she still hadn’t changed. A day old. Careless.

“For God’s sake,” I muttered, my grip tightening just enough to make her still. “You’d let it rot if I didn’t do something.”

I reached for the drawer beside the bed, pulling out the small first-aid kit I’d placed there days ago. She glanced at it, then at me, hesitant — but didn’t fight when I brought her hand into mine.

“Give it to me,” I said.

Her silence was agreement. Her pulse, beating quick beneath my thumb, betrayed her.

I unraveled the old bandage slowly, layer by layer, exposing the faint line of raw red across her skin. My jaw flexed. It wasn’t deep, not anymore, but seeing it — seeing the mark of her struggle, of her desperation to escape me — was a fresh irritation.

“You’d hurt yourself but never ask me,” I murmured, not lifting my eyes from her hand. “Why?”

She said nothing. Her lips pressed into a tight line, as though silence could shield her.

I dabbed antiseptic against the cut, deliberately slow. She flinched at the sting, her body jerking slightly, but my other hand shot out, holding her wrist firm, anchoring her in place.

“Don’t move.” The warning in my tone was quiet, but unyielding.

Her breath hitched, shallow. I could feel it — the tension humming through her body, the way she fought to keep still beneath my touch.

When I wrapped the fresh bandage around her hand, I smoothed the fabric down carefully, almost reverently. Too careful for a man like me. But my fingers lingered longer than they needed to, tracing the delicate bones of her hand, the lines of her knuckles, committing every inch to memory.

I tied the final knot perhaps a little tighter than necessary, then brought her hand up — pressing it flat against my chest. Right over my heart.

“Don’t ask me again what a wife should do,” I said, my voice dropping, steady but edged with steel. “Your only role is being mine. That’s all.”

Her fingers trembled faintly against me. She tried to look away, but I tilted my head until my eyes caught hers, holding her there, forcing her to hear every word.

“Understand this,” I added, softer, almost like a vow. “Your pain belongs to me. Your care belongs to me. You — belong to me.”

For a long second, neither of us moved. Her hand stayed splayed over my chest, my own covering it, caging it in place as though I could fuse her into me. Only when I felt her pulse slow — reluctantly calming beneath my grip — did I release her.

The new bandage was neat. Secure. Mine.