Nirvaan Singh Rathod

I am no longer the eligible bachelor everyone once discussed; I am now a married man. A husband. With a wife whose very existence feels like a responsibility and yet... something more.

Right now, that "responsibility" is clinging to me like a koala, her delicate arms wrapped tightly around my waist, one leg draped possessively over mine. Her face is burrowed into the crook of my arm, and the faint rhythm of her breath tickles my skin.

The irony isn't lost on me. Just hours ago, she had adamantly declared she wouldn't cross the invisible barrier between us. And here she is, peacefully asleep, having smashed through that supposed boundary.

And me? I'm wide awake. Helplessly, excruciatingly awake.

I should push her away. I really should. But the thought of disturbing her sleep feels almost cruel. She looks so peaceful, so trusting, her soft features glowing faintly in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Yet her unconscious movements are wreaking havoc on me.

Her lips—those soft, plump lips—brush against my bicep. It's barely a graze, just the ghost of a touch, but it ignites every nerve in my body. Goosebumps rise unbidden, and my heartbeat thunders in my chest.

"Stop doing that," I murmur under my breath, a futile plea to someone deep in slumber.

She shifts again, her slender fingers brushing against the exposed skin at my waist where my t-shirt has ridden up. My muscles tense as if her touch were molten fire. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to think about anything but the soft warmth of her body pressed so intimately against mine.

Think about mundane things, I tell myself. Why the sun rises from the east. Why Earth takes 24 hours to rotate. Why water boils at 100 degrees Celsius...

None of it works. Especially when her leg shifts between mine, brushing against me in a way that sends heat coursing through my veins.

I grit my teeth, biting back a groan. I shouldn't be reacting like this. I shouldn't feel like I'm on the verge of losing control over something so innocent.

It doesn't help that I've never been this close to someone before. Never shared my space like this. Never allowed anyone to get this near to my walls, let alone break them down entirely.

Finally, she stirs. Turning over in her sleep, she faces away from me, leaving a blessed gap of space between us. I let out a shaky breath, my body slowly cooling, my thoughts returning to order.

This isn't her fault. It's me. I'm undeniably, irrevocably attracted to her. Physically, emotionally—it's a pull I can't deny. She's gorgeous, of course, but it's more than that.

I know men look at her. Admire her. I'm no exception. But unlike them, I now have the moral and legal right to admire her. To want her.

The thought unsettles me. Not because I don't desire her—I do—but because it's deeper than that. She's no ordinary woman. Nivya is fierce, independent, and yet, there's a softness to her, an innocence that makes you want to shield her from the world.

I don't blame her for her guarded nature. Her fierce spirit. She's like a wounded lioness—majestic yet wary, and that makes her all the more captivating.

I hadn't expected her to surprise me at every turn. To approach this marriage with a strength I hadn't anticipated. I thought she'd come to me, demand we postpone or even cancel this union. But instead, she stood tall. She didn't shy away, didn't retreat into bitterness.

Instead, she walked into my life with quiet grace and defiance, challenging everything I thought I knew.

And now, here we are. Two strangers bound by vows, yet something about her feels... familiar. Like she belongs here, in my arms, no matter how hard I try to resist the pull.

The weight of her earlier actions today comes rushing back. The way she openly dismissed her grandfather in front of everyone, her voice sharp and unwavering. It caught me off guard. Nivya, the woman who always valued societal norms, had thrown caution to the wind in that moment.

Her independence, her unapologetic spirit—it draws me in even as it terrifies me.

I turn away, trying to shake off the lingering heat and turmoil within me. For now, the memory of her fierceness is enough to anchor me, to remind me that this is no ordinary woman I've married.

I hadn't even realized when sleep overtook me, but the next thing I knew, I was waking up to the sight of Nivya sprawled across the bed in the most unconventional position. Her knees were drawn up to her stomach, the blanket lay discarded at the edge of the bed, her face buried beneath a pillow, and one arm was lazily draped around it.

She sleeps weirdly.

Throughout the night, it seemed she'd danced her way across the bed, finally settling into this peculiar posture. I sighed, carefully pulling the pillow away from her face to make sure she didn't suffocate. Her expression was so serene, so utterly relaxed, that it tugged at something inside me.

For a fleeting moment, I found myself smiling.

But the warmth in my chest quickly cooled when I caught myself. What am I doing? Shaking off the thought, I slipped on my slippers and headed to the bathroom.

After finishing my routine, I settled on the sofa with my laptop. Despite everything, I couldn't bring myself to leave the room. This place wasn't entirely familiar to her yet, and I knew she might feel overwhelmed by the sea of unfamiliar faces downstairs. She's here as my wife, and that means it's my responsibility to ensure she feels safe and comfortable, especially now.

An hour passed before I finally stood up and approached her.

"Nivya," I called softly.

She didn't stir, not even a little. Instead, she burrowed deeper into the comforter. I sighed, poking her gently on the hand.

"Nivya, wake up," I said again, this time with a little more persistence.

She merely scrunched her face and shook her head, burrowing in like a stubborn child. Frustrated but unable to suppress a chuckle, I gave her a firmer poke. That finally did the trick.

Her eyes fluttered open, and for a brief moment, she just stared at me, her blue-green orbs wide with confusion before she let out a long stretch.

"Get ready," I instructed calmly, stepping back.

As expected, a knock interrupted us, and she darted to the closet before I could even move. Sighing, I opened the door to find Bua sa standing there with a set of clothes. I thanked her, took the outfit, and placed it on the vanity for Nivya.

A little while later, she emerged from the closet, dressed in a simple red saree. And in that moment, I forgot how to breathe.

This was the first time I'd seen her in a saree, and she looked absolutely ethereal. The vibrant red complemented her delicate complexion, and her slightly damp hair fell in soft waves around her face. She looked like she'd stepped straight out of a dream.

For a moment, I just stood there, besotted.

But my admiration faltered when I noticed the absence of the vermilion and mangalsutra, even after getting completely ready. A flicker of irritation bubbled up inside me. Those symbols weren't just ornaments—they were a sign of our bond, our marriage.

Yet, almost as quickly as the anger rose, I pushed it aside. This was all new to her, I reminded myself. She wasn't accustomed to the customs and expectations that came with being a married woman in our family.

So, I said nothing, keeping my thoughts to myself.

A few games later, Bua sa announced that Nivya would cook for everyone. The words barely left her lips before I noticed the discomfort flicker across Nivya's face. Her shoulders stiffened, but she hesitated only for a moment before nodding reluctantly.

I stood up immediately, my jaw tightening. There were almost fifty people gathered. What did they take my wife for? How was she supposed to cook for so many on her own?

"She won't cook for anyone," I said firmly, my voice steady but leaving no room for argument.

Bua sa's expression turned defensive. "It's a ritual. The newly wedded woman must cook something, which is then offered to God before everyone tastes it."

"She won't cook now," I repeated, my eyes fixed on hers.

Before Bua sa could argue further, Dada sa intervened, his voice heavy with authority. "What's this? Will you cradle your wife on a bed of roses? This is tradition. She has to do it."

"She won't," I said again, unwavering. "If the ritual is all that matters, she will prepare a single sweet dish for the offering, and that will be enough. I won't hear anything more on this. Come, Nivya."

Without waiting for their response, I bent down slightly, taking her hand in mine. She looked up at me, wide-eyed and startled, but didn't resist as I led her to the kitchen.

Once there, I released her hand and took a deep breath.

"You don't need to do anything you're uncomfortable with," I said softly. "Your comfort is my priority—always. Do you know how to cook?"

She nodded hesitantly. "Basic things. Maa taught me how to make halwa, knowing this ritual would come up," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her gaze remained fixed on where our hands had been moments ago.

I stepped back, giving her some space. "How were you planning to cook for so many people?" I asked, incredulous.

She shrugged slightly, avoiding my eyes.

With a sigh, I called the head chef and asked him to prepare the ingredients for halwa on the counter. Once everything was ready, I turned to Nivya.

"Just make the halwa as you planned," I said, my tone reassuring.

Standing by the kitchen door, I crossed my arms, debating whether to step inside and help her. Watching her navigate the task on her own stirred an odd sense of protectiveness.

I knew I'd upset Dada sa and likely offended Bua sa, but I couldn't bring myself to care. Nivya's comfort mattered more. She was new to this family, this house, and this role. Overwhelming her with impossible expectations wasn't something I would tolerate.

As she moved around the kitchen, stirring the halwa, I stayed close, ready to step in if she needed me. Even if tradition demanded something else, I would not leave her to struggle alone.

A while later, Akshat called, and I stepped outside to take the call. It didn't last long, but by the time I returned, I found Bua sa standing beside Nivya in the kitchen. My first instinct was to frown, but the sight of the small smile on Nivya's face eased my worries.

I lingered at the doorway for a moment before following them as Nivya carefully placed the bowl of halwa on a tray and carried it toward the pooja ghar. The end of her saree was draped lightly over her head in respect, and her movements were graceful, deliberate.

She reached the small altar, placing the offering before God, then folded her hands, her eyes closing in a quiet prayer. The soft glow of the diya reflected off her serene face, and I found myself unable to look away.

She seemed so at peace, utterly different from the woman I'd grown accustomed to. I had imagined her to be rigid or indifferent about these rituals, but here she was, immersed in the moment with a tranquility that caught me off guard.

"Bhagwaan pe dhyaan do, biwi pe zindagi bhar dena hain" Bua sa's voice broke through my thoughts, her teasing whisper pulling me back to reality. {Keep your focus on god. You can focus on your wife for lifetime.}

I cleared my throat embarrassingly, quickly closing my eyes and folding my hands. But even as I tried to focus on the prayer, the image of Nivya's serene face lingered in my mind, making it impossible to concentrate on anything else.

I retreated to my office room, immersing myself in work for the rest of the day. It was late by the time I looked at the clock again. I had occasionally caught glimpses of Nivya with Ivaan throughout the evening. He would keep her comfortable—that much, I was certain of.

Leaning back in my chair, I ran a hand over my face, cupping it briefly before letting out a deep sigh. Emotional exhaustion weighed heavily on me, and for a moment, I let myself sink into the silence.

Nivya affects me—I've always been aware of that. She stirs something within me that I don't want stirred, something I've worked hard to suppress. I don't want her to affect me, not like this. The closer I get, the more I risk losing control over the walls I've built, walls that protect both of us from unnecessary pain.

I need to ensure she doesn't nurture any hopes beyond what this marriage is: a bond of respect, loyalty, and responsibility. She's my wife, and I will fulfill every obligation that comes with that role. Her comfort, safety, and dignity are my priority. But love?

Love is not part of this equation. It can't be.

Because if she dares to hope for more—if she expects me to love her the way she might dream of being loved—I'll end up breaking her heart. And I can't afford to carry the weight of that guilt.

I stood up, exhaling softly, and headed downstairs for dinner. Most of the guests had left by the evening, leaving only a few close family members behind. As I settled into my seat at the dining table, my eyes scanned the room, instinctively searching for Nivya. Moments later, she entered with Pankhuri.

Gently, I pulled out the chair beside me. Nivya offered a small smile as she sat down, whispering a soft "thank you."

Dinner passed in relative silence, the kitchen staff diligently serving us. My mind, however, was far from the table, occupied instead with the inevitable moment I had been dreading: the first night. I had no idea what to expect, and the thought alone unsettled me.

As dinner concluded, I was met with an unwelcome sight: my siblings, along with Pankhuri, standing nearby with mischievous grins plastered on their faces.

"You people will get whatever you desire. Now, give me way. I need to sleep," I said firmly, standing before them.

"Aaj ki raat bhi koi sota hai?" Yash teased, only to earn a glare from me. {Does anyone sleep in even tonight.}

"Bhai sa, you can't scare us," Pankhuri retorted, trying to act unaffected, though her smirk betrayed her amusement.

Rolling my eyes, I called out, "Akshat, help me here."

But Pankhuri seized the opportunity. "The recently launched laptop by Techtronics," she declared, grinning triumphantly.

"That sports bike you denied me earlier," Yash chimed in, his grin rivaling hers.

Yug, not wanting to be left out, added, "I don't have any specific wishes, but how about gifting me that new car you recently purchased?"

"You're crossing the line, Yug," I said sharply, glaring at him. "None of you are getting anything. Now, Ivaan, what about you? What do you want?"

Ivaan, as always, stood out from the others. His expression was soft, sincere, devoid of any mischief.

"Keep my best friend happy," he said quietly. "Love her and cherish her. She deserves it."

His words silenced the group instantly, and I felt a lump rise in my throat as I met his gaze.

"I will take care of her and fulfill all my responsibilities," I replied, my voice low but resolute. Patting his shoulder, I watched as his smile faltered ever so slightly before he nodded and guided the others away.

As he lingered, Ivaan turned back to me with a knowing look. "It's your first night. I know Nivya well. She's not nervous. If she doesn't want you near her, she won't let you come close. But if she does..." He trailed off, his tone teasing by the end.

"And I'm just saying—don't say anything that might hurt her. Not today. Anyway, you barely speak much, so keep that silencer on tonight too," he finished, his glare protective, as always.

He's always been this way with her. Watching him walk away, I realized again just how deeply he cared for her. And with that, the weight of tonight pressed even heavier on my shoulders.

I sighed, biting my lip as I opened the door, only to freeze at the sight before me. There she was, my wife, completely unbothered, her earphones plugged in, humming a tune as she dismantled the romantic décor of the room. The roses that had been meticulously arranged were scattered around her, the scented candles extinguished, and even the delicate water candles floating in the pot had been blown out.

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, happily singing to herself while crafting something with the roses. Here I was, drowning in nerves about this night, and there she was, blissfully oblivious, making jewelry out of petals.

After a few moments of meticulous work, she placed a tiara made of roses delicately on her head picked up her phone, and began snapping selfies with it. That's when she noticed me standing at the door, staring at her.

"You came?" she asked casually, pouting a little as she set her phone aside and stood up.

I nodded, stepping into the room and heading for the closet, fighting back a smile at her antics.

When I returned, having changed into something more comfortable, I found her once again absorbed in her phone.

"I need to talk to you," I said softly, sitting down at the opposite end of the bed.

She immediately put her phone aside, sitting upright and giving me her full attention.

"We both know why we got married. It was to honor a promise, to meet family expectations, and—" I paused, choosing my words carefully, "—for our own reasons."

Her eyes narrowed sharply at the last part.

"Correction," she interrupted, her tone biting. "The selfish reasons might include you but not me. I was blackmailed into this marriage. But now that it's done, I'll do my best to make this relationship work."

Her glare made me falter momentarily. She was right. Unlike me, who had time to prepare for this, she'd been blindsided just two months ago. Yet, here she sat, no bitterness, no resentment, just willing to adapt.

"I know it wasn't easy for you," I said quietly. "And I promise you this: I will always be loyal to you, respect you, and fulfill every responsibility. I'll make sure you're comfortable."

She nodded, her gaze softening slightly.

"But," I continued, meeting her eyes, "don't expect love or affection from me, Nivya. I'm not capable of those emotions. We can build a life together based on trust, loyalty, and respect, but love will have no place between us."

She tilted her head, her lips twitching into a smirk.

"Bawre ho gaye ho? Kya behki behki baatein kar rahe ho? Pee rakhi hai kya?" she asked, her brows furrowing in mock concern. {Have you gone mad? What nonsense are you talking? Are you drunk?}

I clenched my jaw, irritation bubbling up. "Nahi, kyunki woh department toh aapka hain na," I replied tightly. {No, because that's your department.}

"That was a one-time thing!" she defended. "I don't usually drink. I was just... really sad then."

Shaking my head in disbelief, I pushed forward. "I'm serious. Don't expect love from me. You'll only get hurt."

Her expression shifted to one of boredom, and she rolled her eyes. "Relax, Mr. Rathod. I have standards, and you don't check any of my boxes. Falling for you? Not happening. But," she added with a shrug, "I can't say the same about you."

Her self-assuredness would have been annoying if it weren't so absurdly amusing.

"By the way," she said, scooting closer and folding her legs under her, "I wanted to ask you something."

I nodded hesitantly, not sure if I wanted to know what was coming.

"How many women have you slept with?"

My eyes widened in shock. "Excuse me?"

"You're excused," she said breezily. "Now answer the question."

"Why do you want to know that?" I asked, frowning.

"Just curious. And while we're at it, did you use protection?"

Her nonchalance made my head spin. "What kind of question is that?" I asked, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"Because," she replied matter-of-factly, "if one of your one-night stands shows up tomorrow with a baby claiming it's yours, I'd like to know beforehand. I'm way too young to be anyone's stepmother."

"I'm a virgin," I said firmly, exasperation evident in my tone.

Her brows shot up in disbelief.

"I don't drink, I don't smoke, and I don't... sleep around. I've never been interested in hook-up culture. I knew I'd be marrying you, and even if I didn't know you well then, the idea of betraying the person I'd be tied to for life felt wrong."

For once, she was quiet, staring at me with a mix of surprise and—dare I say—admiration.

"Well, that's... unexpected," she muttered, leaning back with a thoughtful expression.

And with that, the room settled into an uneasy silence, her questions lingering in the air like a challenge I wasn't sure I'd passed.

"I had a boyfriend once," she said suddenly, breaking the silence. Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, as though she wasn't sure if she should share it. "But we broke up within a month. Just... slight attraction."

I nodded, even though I already knew. It wasn't my place to bring it up, but hearing her say it made me realize she was trying to be honest with me, even in these early, awkward stages of our marriage.

"Good night, Nivya," I said quietly, shifting to my side.

I saw her expression falter for a split second before she composed herself, nodding as she turned her back to me and moved to her side of the bed.

A few minutes of silence passed before she spoke again, her voice just above a whisper.

"Tomorrow, I have to go for pagphera."

I turned my head slightly, watching as she faced me again. Her face was half-lit by the faint glow of the night lamp, her expression a mix of uncertainty and apprehension.

I propped myself up on one elbow, studying her for a moment. "Do you want to go?"

She fully turned towards me this time, her hands fidgeting slightly with the blanket. "I insulted my grandfather in front of everyone," she said softly, her voice laced with regret. "But still... your grandfather got a call from him today. He asked him to send us tomorrow for the ritual."

Her teeth caught her lower lip, nervously chewing at it as she spoke. A small cut had formed in the center of her lip, making it look even redder, though thankfully it wasn't bleeding.

I nodded thoughtfully, not missing the conflict in her eyes.

"We'll go tomorrow morning," I said gently.

Her lips moved as if to respond, but I could only focus on the way the cut deepened with every little bite. Without thinking, I reached over to the nightstand and pulled out a small glass container.

"Apply this," I said, passing her my nourishing lip balm.

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise as she took it, studying the tiny container for a moment before picking up her phone. She opened the front camera, too lazy to head to the mirror, and examined her lips with a frown.

Sighing, she unscrewed the lid and scooped out a generous amount of balm, gently applying it to her lips. The scent of cocoa butter lingered faintly in the air as she worked, her fingers moving with care.

When she was done, she screwed the lid back on and handed it to me.

"Thanks," she murmured, her voice quieter than before.

I took the container and placed it back on the nightstand, turning onto my back. For a moment, neither of us said anything, the silence settling comfortably between us.

An hour later, I was still wide awake, my thoughts tangled in a web of uncertainty. Sleep seemed like a distant dream. My mind refused to quiet down, circling back to the events of the day and the unexpected turns my life had taken.

That's when I felt her stir beside me. Before I could fully process it, Nivya scooted closer, her leg draped over mine and her hand resting lightly on my chest. In her sleep, she had made herself comfortable in my arms, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

I looked down at her serene face, studying the way her baby hairs fell over her forehead, softening her features even more. Her lips had curled into a slight pout, and her expression radiated peace—a stark contrast to the fiery, sharp-tongued woman she is when awake.

Her hair was sprawled across my pillow in wild waves, framing her face as she shifted slightly, nestling her head against my shoulder. Unlike the night before, this closeness didn't feel as foreign or uncomfortable.

She looked so innocent in her sleep, as though the weight of the world had fallen away, leaving behind someone untouched by the complexities of life.

And as I watched her, a memory surfaced, unbidden yet vivid. The first time I noticed her as more than just Ivaan's best friend.

I had been furious that day—at myself, at my destiny, at everything I couldn't control. The revelation had hit me hard: I was promised to marry Nivya. A promise made not by me, but by generations before us.

In my anger, I had jumped on my bike and sped off, desperate to escape the storm brewing in my mind. I didn't know where I was going, nor did I care. That's when I saw her—a fifteen-year-old Nivya, standing under the rain. She handed her umbrella to a woman holding a child, not hesitating for even a second.

The rain soaked through her plain red Anarkali suit, clinging to her small frame, but she didn't seem to notice. She rummaged through her bag, pulling out a small chocolate and placing it in the child's tiny hands with a gentle smile. Without waiting for a thank you or a second glance, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the rain, lost in her own thoughts.

I had pulled my bike to the side, watching her from a distance. My anger didn't subside, but it shifted into something I couldn't quite name. There was something so natural about her gesture, the way she acted without hesitation or expectation of acknowledgment. She didn't even wait for the woman's gratitude; she simply continued walking, soaked to the skin, her red Anarkali clinging to her petite frame.

It wasn't the act itself that caught me off guard—it was the way she carried herself afterward, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. I found myself staring at the chocolate wrapper that now lay in the child's hand, a strange tug in my chest that I hadn't felt before.

In that moment, Nivya wasn't just the girl tied to my destiny. She was someone who operated on a different wavelength, one where kindness was effortless, and the world didn't owe her for it.

I had revved my bike, determined to shake the thought away, telling myself it didn't matter. Her life, her actions, her presence—it was all incidental. But as I sped through the rain, the image of her drenched figure, with a faint smile playing on her lips as she walked away, refused to leave my mind.

I had thrown myself into my studies, learning the ropes of the business world side by side, working relentlessly until the idea of marriage had quietly faded to the back of my mind. That is, until I saw her again—and, just like before, it was raining.

This time, it was her parents' anniversary. The celebration was grand, filled with prominent businessmen, politicians, and celebrities—a classic high-society gathering designed to strengthen networks. She was there, draped in a stunning pink Anarkali suit with intricate designs adorning the flare and a dupatta elegantly resting on her shoulder.

I don't know why, but my eyes were drawn to her, as though following her movements had become second nature. Perhaps it was her or perhaps it was Ivaan, who seemed to always gravitate toward me during such events, and where Ivaan was, Nivya was often close by.

Through those fleeting moments, I began to notice things about her—little things that stuck with me. I learned the dishes she gravitated toward at the buffet, the way she'd smile softly when someone cracked a joke, even if it wasn't particularly funny. She wasn't the loudest person in the room, yet she somehow commanded attention in the subtlest way.

During the party, I found myself needing a moment of quiet, so I stepped out into the shaded part of garden. I hadn't expected to stop in my tracks, but there she was—happily playing in the rain.

Her younger sister was dancing beside her, their laughter filling the air. Nivya had thrown her dupatta over her head, spinning around like the world around her didn't exist. Her wet hair clung to her cheeks, and her Anarkali suit outlined her petite frame as she twirled effortlessly. She clicked her bangles together, the soft chiming blending with her laughter, and then she jumped, grabbing her little sister's hands, their joy palpable.

For a moment, I simply watched, a small smile tugging at my lips. It wasn't often that I came across someone so genuinely unpretentious, and Nivya was a rare exception. She radiated innocence, untouched by the harshness of the world—a kind of purity that felt almost surreal.

That day, I finally understood why people spoke so highly of the elder princess of Veerkut. They were right about her beauty, but it wasn't just her appearance. What truly captivated me was her heart—a heart that seemed as breathtaking as the rain-soaked garden she danced in.

And that is what terrifies me. She has this uncanny ability to weaken my defenses, to unravel the layers I've built over the years. Around her, my carefully constructed resolve crumbles, leaving me behaving like someone I hardly recognize. It's unsettling, this lack of control—this forced confrontation with emotions I've tried so hard to bury.

Not wanting to feel something yet being thrust into it at every turn is a torment I can't escape. I don't want to hurt her—no, I can't hurt her. It's not in me to cause her pain. Yet, at the same time, I can't allow her to hold power over me. Because power, when misplaced, can lead to destruction. And if I give her that control, if I let her in completely, it won't just break me—it'll obliterate everything I've built to protect myself.

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Writing Nirvaan's POV is tough..

Opinions?

Some scene might seem repetitive, but that is because both of their POVs is needed, or else the other will come out as villain.

Thankyou<3