THE IInd DECISION

54. Ayan , I love you more

Ashi Pov :

The soft rustle of my saree followed me across the room as I stood before the mirror, towel in hand, drying my damp, open hair. A light breeze fluttered the curtains as if the morning itself was blushing for me. I leaned in to fix a small bindi in the center of my forehead and gently hooked the jhumkas into place. A soft smile crept to my lips — the kind of smile that hides butterflies behind it.

Just then, I felt familiar arms snake around my waist, warm and steady. Ayan. He turned me gently to face him, a wide grin spread across his face, "Bilkul meri lag rahi ho," he whispered, placing a kiss on my forehead. My heart skipped a beat. My lashes lowered, and I swear I could hear my heartbeat dancing a little faster.

He turned me back towards the mirror, now with him standing behind me — tall, charming, and mine. He looked at our reflection as if we were a painting. "Ruko," he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Kuch missing hai."

He picked up a small box of powder sindoor — just part of my vanity decor, not the liquid one I usually used. Before I could say a word, he carefully applied a small streak in my hair parting. I closed my eyes, a strange peace washing over me. A little speck fell on the bridge of my nose, and I heard him chuckle.

"Ab na, meri lag rahi ho," he said, and pulled me into a hug that felt like all the warmth of the world had been poured into two arms.

I melted into it.

As I pulled away, I noticed the powder had fallen onto his shirt. "Wait," I said quickly, brushing it off gently.

And he — being the hopeless romantic he is — immediately broke into a dramatic sing-song voice:

"Tere maathe ke kumkum ko... main tilak laga ke ghoomunga..."

Before I could even process what was happening, he told Alexa to play "Aaj Se Teri" and twirled me like we were in a Bollywood dream.

"Tere baali ki chhun chhun ko...
Main dil se laga ke jhoomunga..."

He grabbed my hand, twirling me again as the music swelled. He sang terribly off-key, I was laughing helplessly, and he still held me like I was the only person that mattered in the entire world.

"Meri chhoti si bhoolon ko tu nadiya mein baha dena..." he sang, holding my pinky and spinning me gently into his arms.

I wasn't just in love.
I was home.

We flopped on the bed like two tired kids after a wedding. My saree pallu was slightly messy, his shirt had sindoor on it, and our cheeks hurt from smiling too much. My jhumkas dangled against his neck as I rested my head on his shoulder.

He kissed the top of my head. "Let's freeze this morning forever, Ashi."

"Let's live it again tomorrow," I whispered.

And then we sat in that perfect silence, the kind that doesn't need words — only hearts that beat in sync, smiles that say "I choose you" without even speaking.

I stood in the kitchen, the scent of buttery aalo parathas curling into the air as I arranged them neatly on large ceramic plates. A bowl of chilled dahi, some green chutney, and that tangy achaar Riya loved — everything felt homey, unhurried. My fingers moved with familiarity, and somewhere in the quiet clinks of cutlery and the soft thump of footsteps from the workers assisting me, I found a strange sense of contentment.

In the dining room, Riya and Ayan sat close, chatting animatedly about the upcoming project — their voices overlapping in excitement and sibling sarcasm. Their laughter rang freely, like wind chimes swaying in a gentle breeze.