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Like always Vedant returned home late at night, he slowly twisted the knob of the door and firstly peeped inside the room before entering. When he found the lights were off, he entered and locked the door behind .
The only way of light in the room was moonlight which was falling directly on Shivya who was curled up on the couch, covered in duvet. His feet automatically moved towards her, each step a silent prayer for her peaceful slumber.
The faint scent of lavender, always a balm to his soul, filled the air, a comforting reminder of her presence. It always calmed him, this scent of her, of home. He reached the couch, his hand lingering on the worn velvet, its texture familiar and reassuring.
He lifted her legs, gently tucking them onto the cushions, and pulled the blanket higher, making sure her toes were covered. Picking up two pillows from the bed he put near the couch on the floor as in case if she falls down then she doesn't get hurt
He shrugged off the fleeting unease and, headed to the washroom. The first thing he did was open the cabinet, only to find all her shampoo, conditioner, hair mask, and shower gel mixed up with his. She couldn't keep things in order, and due to this, he'd used her shampoo countless times.
Now, he knowingly uses her shampoo because his hair feels soft and silky after using it. He chuckled to himself, remembering the time he'd accidentally washed his hair with her hair mask, leaving it feeling like a thick, gooey mess. He shook his head, a fond smile playing on his lips.
The scent of damp cotton and the faintest hint of lavender shampoo. He shuffled out of the bathroom, pajama pants clinging to his damp legs, a single white towel around his head, absorbing the last of the water from his shower.
On the other hand, he clutched the pink towel, his wife's, always damp, always forgotten. He sighed, a familiar exasperation settling in his chest. He hung both towels on the rack, then moved towards his closet to take the kurta,his eyes falling on the jumble of clothes within.
His wife's clothes, to be precise. It was a stark contrast to the meticulous order he kept his own things in. He'd always been a clean freak, a creature of habit, while she was a whirlwind of color and chaos, a bohemian spirit. It kind of became his ritual to organise the closet on an interval of 2 days.
He began folding her clothes, a quiet act of domesticity that felt strangely intimate. He was carefully smoothing her clothes and placing it in her wardrobe when unknowingly he picked her black bra which was lying with the clothes
Suddenly he felt a jolt of electricity through him. It wasn't the kind that comes from a faulty wire, but a raw, unexpected surge of awareness.
He stared at the bra, a simple garment, yet imbued with a potent intimacy that made his breath catch. He hadn't meant to touch it, hadn't planned on this unexpected encounter with his wife's most personal belongings.
