"Happy Married Life, Shivya Pathak" I weakly smiled seeing my condition, mangalsutra dangling in my neck, vermilion in hair and both hands filled with gold bangles.
"Come out quickly or do you want me to break the gate," my husband knocked again...
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“Anything you want.”Shivya bit the inside of her cheek the moment the words left her mouth. Vedant set the bottle down on the table.
“After you, madam.”
She scooted closer. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it into the air. It spun and landed squarely on the table with a satisfying thud. Vedant clapped once, his eyebrows lifting in a wordless command to continue.
Her lips curved into a smirk. She flipped it again—and again, the bottle obeyed her, standing tall as if loyal to her touch.
“Best of three,” she said confidently. “That decides the winner.”
Vedant nodded, then reached for the buttons on his shirt sleeves. He undid them one by one and began folding the fabric up toward his elbows. Shivya’s breath hitched before she could stop it.
She shook her head slightly, forcing herself to focus, but her eyes betrayed her almost immediately, drifting away from the game and toward his arms.
As the sleeves rose, his forearms were revealed inch by inch, and something in her chest tightened. Veins traced his skin like quiet rivers beneath the surface, appearing and disappearing as his muscles moved.
Those arms looked capable in a way that stirred something restless inside her—strong enough to restrain, steady enough to protect. The thought made her fingers curl unconsciously.
They were beautiful in a way that unsettled her, expressive without trying to be. She remembered vividly how she had seen them the night before, locked behind his back as he stood among other men—posture straight, expression unreadable.
The memory sent heat rising to her cheeks. Her eyes followed the path of the veins along his forearm, down to his wrist, where an analog watch sat snug against his skin. Its presence only emphasized the strength of his hand, the contrast between steel and flesh making the sight unfairly attractive.
It wasn’t the first pair of hands she had ever seen, but it was the first pair she had ever noticed.
Hands that looked like they knew when to lace fingers gently with someone else’s—and when to tighten. When to dominate. When to destroy. The duality made her pulse stutter.
She exhaled slowly, suddenly aware of the warmth pooling beneath her skin.
Calm the fuck down, Shivya Pathak. These are just hands.
But her mind refused to listen. Those veined hands—she could imagine tracing them so easily with her fingertips, memorizing the rise and fall of skin, the subtle strength beneath.
And then her gaze fell to his fingers.
They were longer than hers, broader, and the comparison sparked an unbidden awareness she didn’t want to examine too closely.
He seemed entirely unaware of her attention, focused instead on folding his sleeves neatly, his hands moving across his chest.
She flipped the bottle again, barely registering the motion, her eyes still caught on him.
