•𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐔𝐧𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐰!•

51. Small guesters? or Highest standards?

A U T H O R' S   P O V

[SIX MONTHS LATER...]

Still Morning, Somewhere Between Headaches & Healing

The scent hit her first—
Turmeric. Cumin. A whisper of garlic sizzling in ghee.

Nakshatra blinked the grogginess away, still wrapped in a blanket and disbelief, as she slowly padded out of the bedroom. Her feet found the cool marble tiles, her heart found him.

There he was.

Adhwit Oberoi.
Self-made billionaire.
Ruthless mafia-adjacent CEO.
Currently wearing grey joggers and a black vest.
Making daal-chawal in her kitchen.

She leaned against the doorway, watching in quiet awe as he stirred the pot, rolled his eyes at the steam fogging his glasses, then carefully placed the lid like he was diffusing a bomb.

He looked up and caught her staring.

“I made your favorite,” he said like it was no big deal. “Thin Arhar daal, extra fried jeera on top. No onions, the way you like.”

Her voice was hoarse. “How do you know I don’t like onions in my daal?”

He shrugged, walking over with a bowl. “You talk in your sleep. I take notes.”

She blinked at him, heart going full Bollywood violin mode.

He handed her the bowl with a spoon already in it, like he’d done this before. For someone. Maybe no one. Maybe her.

One bite.

And her soul just… sat down.
Because it tasted like home. The kind she never really had.

Adhwit watched her eat like it was the most important thing in the world. And when she was done, he wordlessly took the bowl, rinsed it himself, and turned to her with a look that made her knees almost give out.

“Come here,” he said softly, nodding toward the balcony.

She followed. Quiet. Curious. Still a little disoriented from the hangover and the domestic fever dream.

There, under the late morning sun, was a small mat, a bottle of coconut oil, and a towel.

Her brows rose. “You’re not serious.”

He sat down on the mat, legs wide open, and patted the space between them. “You always say your head feels heavy when you’re stressed. Let me fix that.”

“Adhwit…”

“I’m not asking,” he smirked. “Sit.”

So she did. Carefully. Cross-legged between his legs, as he poured a little oil into his palms and rubbed them together.

And then—his fingers found her scalp.

Slow. Intentional. Holy.

She exhaled. Loud. Unfiltered. Her shoulders dropped for the first time in what felt like months.

He didn’t say much. Just gently ran his fingers in slow, rhythmic circles, working through the tangles, massaging the tension out of her temples, behind her ears, down her neck.

“You always touch people like this?” she murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

“No,” he said simply. “Only you. Because you’re mine.”

A pause. His fingers kept moving.

“I know you’re not used to this,” he added quietly. “A man who worships instead of wounds. Who shows up. Who doesn’t make you beg for the bare minimum.”