OH OVERWHELMING LOVE!

✨CHAPTER 39✨

"Thank you for reminding me what butterflies feel like..................."

The room glowed with a soft golden hue as the morning sun slipped through the sheer curtains, casting intricate patterns on the walls. Outside, the faint smell of damp earth lingered from the previous night’s rain, and the occasional chirp of a bird broke the stillness. Inside, the world seemed caught in a moment of suspended calm.

Shubhita lay curled on her side, the shared blanket drawn snugly over her, its warmth a comforting cocoon against the chilly remnants of the night. Her breaths were slow, her eyelids heavy, still caught in the haze of slumber. On the other side of the mattress, Vatsal sprawled in a careless sprawl that was so quintessentially him. One arm dangled off the edge, his fingers grazing the floor, while his other hand was tucked beneath his pillow. His hair was a chaotic mop of waves, and his face, pressed into the pillow, bore the faintest hint of stubble.

At some point during the night, the blanket had become the silent battlefield of their unconscious selves. As the dawn crept closer, Vatsal, in his sleep-induced selfishness, claimed it entirely, tugging it away from her with one decisive pull.

Shubhita stirred, her brow furrowing as the sudden cold air kissed her skin. Her half-asleep mind only vaguely registered the absence of warmth, but instinct took over. She reached blindly for the blanket, her hand brushing empty air where it should have been. Frowning, she tried again, this time leaning forward, her balance precarious in her sleep-dulled state.

It all happened in a blur. Her hand missed its mark, her weight shifted, and gravity betrayed her. Before she could stop herself, she toppled forward, her lips colliding with something warm and soft.

The world stood still.

Her eyes flew open, and she found herself inches away from Vatsal’s forehead, her lips tingling from the unexpected contact. His skin smelled faintly of the citrusy soap he always used, mingled with the natural musk of sleep. Her breath hitched, her heart hammering in her chest as her gaze darted to his face.

And then his eyes snapped open.

His brows furrowed in confusion, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. For a heartbeat, he looked utterly vulnerable—caught between the remnants of sleep and the startling realization of what had just happened. “What the…?” he murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper, raw from the night’s rest.

Shubhita froze, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. Her mind screamed at her to move, to put distance between them, but her body refused to cooperate. She was hyper-aware of everything—the warmth radiating from his skin, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair fell haphazardly over his forehead.

And then, his lips curved into a slow, lazy smirk, one that made her stomach somersault. “Well,” he drawled, his voice laced with sleep and amusement, “this is... new.”

Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and she jerked back as if burned. “It was an accident!” she blurted, her voice higher than she intended, her words tumbling over each other in her haste to explain.

Vatsal propped himself up on one elbow, the blanket pooling around his waist. His smirk widened as he studied her, his gaze flickering to her flushed cheeks and the way she clutched the blanket to her chest like a shield. “Was it, though?” he asked, his tone teasing, his eyes dark with something unreadable.

“Yes!” she snapped, her fingers clutching the fabric so tightly her knuckles turned white. “You stole the blanket, and I—”

“—fell for me. Quite literally.” He completed her sentence with a mock-serious nod, his smirk turning devilish.