TELL ME YOU ARE MINE

She stood in front of the dressing table, lightly spraying perfume on her pulse points, stealing one last glance at her reflection. The white and pink floral chiffon saree clung to her perfectly, making her look effortlessly beautiful.
Behind her, her husband appeared, wrapped in a towel around his waist, trying to catch his reflection in the mirror. But she blocked his view.
"How long are you going to stand there staring at yourself? Move," he said, a mix of irritation and amusement in his voice, grabbing her shoulder to nudge her aside.
She didn't budge, deliberately lingering, pretending to fuss with her neckpiece, enjoying the slight flare of his temper.
His eyes flicked to her bare neck. No mangalsutra. He let out a long sigh and, without a word, picked it up from the dressing table and draped it around her neck from behind.
She frowned. "No, this will ruin my outfit," she protested, her voice tinged with mock annoyance.
"You're too beautiful to go out without it," he said, brushing a stray lock of hair back from her shoulder. "The world needs to know that you're owned." He reached for the comb, fingers brushing hers as he did.
"No one owns me," she snapped, spinning to face him.
He smirked, running the comb through his hair with lazy confidence.
"I'm your wife, and you're my husband," she said, pointing a finger at him, her eyes blazing. "We're equals. No one owns anyone, understood?"
He leaned closer, his voice low and steady. "No. I own you, and you own me." With that, he tossed the cold comb onto the table.
Her eyes followed the comb, and she shot him a sharp glare before storming out of the room. He rolled his eyes, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and went back to getting ready.
He yearns for love that feels like home - a bond to claim, a heart to protect.
She dreams of freedom - to live on her own terms, to be her own strength.
When his need for belonging meets her need for freedom, will love give them wings or chains?