The room glowed in warm golden light, scented with roses and filled with soft music playing in the background. Maan stepped inside, his breath catching in his throat.
There she stood—his rooh, his Ruhanika—draped in a black satin dress that melted into her skin like moonlight on midnight water. Her eyes sparkled, not with boldness, but with a silent promise, a devotion only his soul could recognize.
She walked toward him slowly, each step echoing love, each movement a silent poem. Without words, she placed her finger gently on his lips, silencing the chaos of the world.
"Tonight," she whispered, "let me love you... not just in the way a wife does, but the way a soul embraces its other half."
Maan couldn't speak. His throat choked with emotion. His Rooh—the girl who once blushed at the brush of his hand—was now opening her heart completely, not out of obligation, but trust. A sacred offering of her love, her care, her self.
She guided him to a chair, sat in his lap, and fed him small bites of dinner—every bite a silent thank-you for every time he stood by her side. He fed her too, their laughter filling the space like the soft hum of a lullaby.
Her fingers slowly unbuttoned his shirt—not with urgency, but reverence. Her touch was light, but it shook him to his core.
"Maan," she said, brushing her lips against his collarbone, "you've held me when I shattered. Tonight, let me hold you... completely."
He lifted her in his arms and walked her to the bed—no rush, no hunger. Just love.
As he laid her down gently, his forehead pressed against hers.
"You're not just my wife, Rooh," he whispered, voice thick with emotion, "you're my shelter, my light, my quiet."
Their kisses were slow. Intimate. Every touch was a memory—every sigh, a story. He whispered her name again and again as if it were a prayer.
Later, when they lay tangled in each other, the world was silent. Only the rise and fall of their breath, the soft thudding of their hearts in rhythm.
"I don't know what I did to deserve you," he said, placing a kiss on her temple.
She smiled, eyes heavy with sleep. "Just love me, Maan... the way you always have. That's enough for lifetimes."
And in that moment, under the soft glow of candlelight and the weight of shared hearts, they weren't just husband and wife.
They were home.
YOU ARE READING
Talab
RomanceSome stories are not meant to last forever, but they do live in moments. Talab is not just a collection of stories. It's a collection of cravings. Craving for love. For closure. For one last conversation. For peace. For madness. For something that a...
