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सोचूं मैं थम जाए पल ये पास मेरे जब हो तुम
चलती हैं साँसें पहले से ज़्यादा
पहले से ज़्यादा दिल ठहरने लगा...
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The hallway to their room stretched endlessly ahead, cloaked in a hush that was almost reverent—like even the walls knew not to disturb them tonight. The antique sconces lining the passage glowed in warm, golden tones, casting flickering shadows that moved in tandem—his tall, commanding silhouette beside her softer, smaller one. Every flame that danced seemed to echo their heartbeat, painting them together on walls like lovers inked into time.
Each step was quiet but weighted with the intensity of all that had been unspoken. He walked slightly behind her—not because she needed leading, but because he couldn't help watching her. The way her hair flowed down her back, catching the light. The way his shawl, now hers, hung from her delicate shoulders. Something about the sight hit him in the chest like poetry, too tender to name.
His feet slowed of their own accord. His hand reached forward—not with urgency, but with the reverence of a man touching something holy. His fingers grazed the edge of the shawl where it met her collarbone. The back of his knuckles brushed the slope of her neck.
She paused mid-step, her breath catching, heart stuttering. "Kya hua?" she asked, voice barely a whisper as she glanced back at him.
Adhiraj didn't answer right away. Instead, he took another step forward, closing the sliver of distance between them. Gently, almost like it pained him to let her carry the weight of his warmth alone, he adjusted the shawl—tugging it more snugly around her, as if shielding her from the very wind, the very world.
"Yeh shawl tum hi rakh lo..." he said quietly, voice thick with something that trembled just beneath control. "Tum pe suit karta hai. Humse zyada."
She blinked, stunned by the softness—the deliberate, bone-deep affection in that one sentence. She had not expected that. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
