Destined for him

The door clicked open softly. Mahir stepped into the room, shoulders heavy from another long day at work. The scent of lavender floated faintly in the air, calming, familiar, hers.

There she was.

Muskan sat on the bed, legs folded beneath her, her attention lost in the very book he had once warned her never to touch, his book. The moment she saw him, she froze. Her fingers trembled slightly as she placed the book down on the bed, guilt flickering in her eyes. She remembered his words, cold and sharp: "Don't touch my things."

But tonight... he didn't care.

Because all he could see was her.

Draped in simplicity yet glowing like a goddess, she looked so beautiful he could've sworn time stopped. Her feet, adorned with delicate henna, glowed like art under the soft lights, and the silver payal resting on her ankles sang the softest melody every time she moved. To him, it was the sound of home.

He sank into the sofa, eyes still lingering on her.

She stood up slowly and walked to the mirror, adjusting the intricate kamarbandh (waist chain) around her waist. It was digging into her skin, leaving angry red rashes behind. She winced. He noticed.

"Muskan," his voice was low, unreadable.

She turned, startled. Her steps toward him were hesitant, unsure.

Without a word, he leaned forward, eyes locked on hers. Then, with a sudden, intimate boldness, he gripped the waistband gently... and unclasped it with his teeth. The metal fell with a soft clink.

His lips brushed her waist, light as a whisper.

And just like that, the moment shattered.

A memory flashed before her eyes. His hand. The slap. The sting of last night.

She stepped back, breath caught in her throat, a storm of confusion, fear, and longing dancing in her eyes.

And in that pause - that heartbeat of silence - the space between them screamed louder than any words could.