The Second Bloom • 18+

4. Varun saves her (Malini's POV)

Two weeks passed by.

The soft morning light filtered through the small window of our room, casting a pale glow around the room.

I blinked against it, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I slowly became aware of my surroundings.

It's been two weeks since that night when he asked me to be his friend. It's been two weeks since that night when I started sleeping on bed and him on floor. It's been two weeks and two days of being his wife, and even now, nothing about it felt right.

Yes, I had a accepted that we would be friends. But in reality, it feels awkward. The talking part. The entire day he remains away from the house because of his work, and only returns for lunch and at night.

We chat during lunch. Actually, he does. He asks me questions like ‘Did you eat?’, ‘How was the day?’, ‘What are you cooking for dinner tonight?’, that's it, and I reply simply.

The awkwardness is still there, but it's a little less now.

I sat up and let the chill of the early morning seep through my bones.

The air was cold, the last week of November bringing with it the bite of winter.

Pulling the thin shawl from the bed around my shoulders, I shifted my gaze to the floor. My eyes fell on him—sleeping on the floor over a thin mattress that I arranged lately for him, and covered— no, he has thrown the blanket aside, bare-chested, and sound asleep.

My throat tightened.

He looked peaceful, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, his face relaxed.

But the sight of him sleeping like that—on the cold, hard floor—unnerved me.

The blanket he had pulled over himself during the night was now thrown aside, leaving his body exposed to the chill in the air.

It was a strange, almost unsettling, awkward caring feeling to see him like this.

Vulnerable.

I didn’t want to go near him.

My body felt stiff with the tension from the nights before, and everything inside me wanted to keep the distance between us.

But something— maybe the duty of being his wife, or the basic sense of care that I felt despite my reluctance—compelled me to act.

I stood up slowly, walking softly across the room toward him.

My footsteps felt heavier than they should have been, each one echoing in the silence of the morning.

I reached down, hesitating for just a moment before grabbing the edge of the blanket and pulling it gently over his body.

The fabric draped over him, covering his chest and shoulders, and I straightened up quickly, stepping back.

It was winter, after all.

The last thing I wanted was for him to fall sick. As much as I wanted to keep my distance, there was something unspoken—some sense of responsibility—that made me act.

Once I was done, I moved toward the door, quietly slipping out of the room.

The cold air hit my skin as soon as I stepped outside, but it was almost a relief. I made my way to the bathroom, taking care of the morning rituals, and soon after, I felt the need for the warmth of a bath. The icy water stung against my skin, but it cleared my mind too. It allowed me a momentary escape from the delusion swirling inside me.

Once freshened up and dressed, I moved to the kitchen, where the warmth of the hearth greeted me.

Cooking always offered me some solace, even on the hardest days. It gave me something to focus on, something that wasn’t the ache in my chest or the unfamiliar tension between my husband and me.