They Don't Know about Us

Chapter 47 - Mending broken bonds

Armaan lay half-awake, sheets tangled around his legs, the room still dipped in that quiet blue-grey hour before the city truly stirred. For a few seconds, he didn't move. He simply listened to the shower running.

A soft, steady rush of water echoed from the bathroom down the hall, muffled by the closed door but unmistakable. It wrapped around the room like a familiar hum, domestic and grounding, and something warm unfurled in his chest at the sound.

She was here.

Not as a memory. Not as a thought he had to chase away. She was here moving through his space like she belonged in it again.

He smiled into the pillow, eyes drifting shut briefly as the events of the morning replayed in fragments he deliberately didn't linger on. They had fallen back asleep after, limbs tangled, breath syncing, exhaustion finally winning over want.

At some point she'd slipped from his arms with a whispered apology and a promise of breakfast, pressing a kiss into his shoulder that had dragged him halfway back to consciousness. Now the shower ran, and the house felt lived in. He pushed himself upright just as the water shut off.

Moments later, the bathroom door opened. Steam spilled into the hallway first, followed by her. Riddhima stepped out slowly, towel looped loosely around her shoulders, hair damp and dark where it clung to her neck.

She'd already changed into one of her turtlenecks, soft and charcoal-grey, tucked neatly into her black pants. The sleeves fell a little long on her, swallowing her hands when she moved. The fabric hugged her frame in a way that was simultaneously modest and devastating.

His.

How lucky was he that she belonged him and him only?

She caught him staring and paused, one brow lifting slightly. "What?"

Armaan didn't answer immediately. He stood, crossed the room in two strides, and cupped her face with both hands. The towel slipped down her arms, forgotten.

"Good morning babe," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Then her nose. Then her lips, slow, unhurried, affectionate rather than hungry.

She smiled against his mouth. "You're awake." She exclaimed the obvious, savouring the taste of his lips, her hands cupping his face, caressing his stubbled jaw.

"Hard not to be," he said quietly, forehead resting against hers. "You make a lot of noise."

Her eyes widened, offended. "Excuse me?" She pulled back, eyes hooded, annoyed.

He grinned, that familiar, boyish curve that always undid her. "The shower. Relax."

She laughed softly and nudged his chest. "You're impossible."

"You're covering my marks in your skin," he pointed out, glancing pointedly at the turtleneck hiding the purple and red bruises that had been impatiently painted on her skin by him.

Her smile faltered for just a fraction of a second before softening. She looked down at herself, fingers curling into the hem. "I found it in your closet."

He knew exactly which part of the closet she meant. The section she'd once claimed without asking. The clothes she'd left behind during nights that turned into mornings, back when staying over felt easy and unquestioned.

"You still had my things," she added quietly. After she had left him so heartlessly, she had expected him to throw all her belongings out.

"I never moved them," he said just as softly. "Didn't feel right." Her throat tightened. She swallowed and looked back up at him, eyes shining with something unspoken.