The afternoon sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the transformed living room. I flipped through TV channels absently—news, soaps, a cricket rerun— the remote clicking like a metronome to my thoughts. The house felt alive now, thanks to Vel's whirlwind tour: framed wedding photos smiling from the walls, curtains softening the windows' glare, sofa covers plush under me, rugs warming the tiles, lamps perched on tables like silent guardians. It was therapeutic, this wait—anticipating Priya's reaction, feeling like I'd contributed something tangible to our shared space. In my old life, homes were empty shells; now, I was building one, brick by emotional brick.
The door clicked open around 6 PM, and there she was—Priya, saree slightly rumpled, shoulders slumped from the day's weight. Exhaustion etched her features, tension in her eyes. I turned off the TV mid-sentence, rising from the sofa to meet her. "Hey," I said softly, pulling her into a hug. She melted against me, arms wrapping around my waist. "What happened? First day pressure getting to you?"
She sighed into my shoulder, holding on a moment longer. "Something like that. Long, but good. Just... a lot." I let her be, the embrace a quiet anchor—therapeutic for us both, sharing the load without words. After a beat, I pulled back slightly. "Feel anything different about the house?"
Priya blinked, glancing around as if seeing it anew. Her eyes widened: the wedding photos—us laughing during the varmala, framed elegantly on the hall wall; curtains in soft blues draping the windows; new sofa covers with subtle patterns; rugs scattered like islands on the floor; lamps on the study and dining tables, their warm bulbs ready to chase shadows. "Seems like you still have power in this field as well?" she teased, a tired smile breaking through.
I grinned. "Mr. Arjun trying to impress his wife? Don't worry—I'm already happy with you being with me. But if you start doing these things and then suddenly stop, I surely will feel something missing. Are you sure, Mr. Arjun, you want to upgrade to this level?"
"No problems, my wife," I replied, kissing her forehead. "You like it? That's all I care about. Just tell me if I missed anywhere—I'm still new to this house managing thing. Been working in a cubicle most of my time at work."
She nodded, eyes softening. "Okay, you are accepted."
"My pleasure," I said with a mock bow.
Priya stretched, rolling her shoulders. "I'll go get changed now, then make something for us. I think you should be hungry too."
As she headed to the bedroom, I thought—why not help? Therapeutic, sharing the load. I rummaged in the kitchen, pulling out onions, chilies, tomatoes, and a few other veggies. Knife in hand, I started chopping the onions first—eyes watering instantly, the sting building. Sniffles escaped; I wiped at them with my sleeve, muttering, "Damn onions, always the drama queens."
Priya emerged refreshed, in a comfortable salwar kameez, hair loose and damp. She spotted me at the counter and chuckled. "You wittle cry baby." Coming over, she reached up to wipe my tears gently—but wait, she'd just started on the chilies. Her fingers brushed my cheek, then she planted a light kiss there. "Better now?"
"Yes!" I said, beaming through the tears. But moments later, fire erupted—eyes burning like coals. "Oh god!" I yelped, realizing: chilies on her hands, now rubbed into my eyes. Pain exploded; I rushed to the wash basin, splashing water frantically, tears streaming. Blinking through the haze, I looked at her like a hurt puppy. "You hurt me..." I snorted dramatically.
Priya burst into laughter, covering her mouth. "Oh no! I'm sorry—forgot about the chilies." She came closer, hands outstretched.
I jumped back. "No! First wash your hands—thoroughly, yeah? With soap!"
She giggled, complying at the sink. "Okay, okay. Truce?"
After the light mumble—me rubbing my eyes, her teasing gently—we moved to cooking. Tomato rice it was: onions sautéed (by her this time), tomatoes mashed, spices blooming in oil. I handled the rice, stirring with care. Raita on the side—curd whisked with cucumber, a dash of cumin. The kitchen filled with aromas, therapeutic in its simplicity: us side by side, bantering over salt levels. "Too spicy?" "Nah, perfect—like you."
Dinner ready, we carried plates to the sofa— no formal table tonight. I fed her a bite; she reciprocated, fingers lingering. "This hits the spot," she murmured, leaning against me. We watched TV absently—a rom-com rerun, laughs syncing with ours.
Plates cleared (servants would handle the rest), Priya switched to news. Headlines blared: Chennai's water woes deepening, reservoirs dipping, tanker shortages sparking protests. "It's bad," she said softly, tension returning. "First day, and it's already the monster in the room."
I squeezed her hand. "You'll handle it. One pipe at a time."
She nodded, sharing snippets: audits, caps on prices. "It's not just water—elections prep, district expansion glitches. Feels like juggling fire."
"You're built for it," I said. "And I'm here for the cooldowns."
After, I led her to the second bedroom. "Check this out—my new setup."
Her expression shifted—sad? "Does it irritate you when I sleep with you? Separate rooms now?"
I pulled her close. "What? No! I love sleeping with you—the room doesn't matter. Just put this here so it won't disturb or take space in ours. You want, we can go to sleep right now—and I'll cuddle you till you doze off."
She smiled, relieved. "Prove it, then."
With light banter—me tickling her side, her swatting playfully—we headed to bed. Lights off, bodies entwined, her head on my chest. Sleep came swift.
But dreams crashed in: I stood amid chaos, a riot swirling. Flames licked a water tanker, acrid smoke choking the air. Drivers dragged out, beaten by furious residents—shouts of "Water thieves!" echoing. Panic surged; I tried to run, but the crowd closed in...