8:00 AM

The golden sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting soft, dappled patterns across the floor. The large bedroom, cocooned in silence, bore the aftermath of a long, passionate night. Every inch of the space whispered secrets—of moans lost in darkness and fingers that knew where to touch.

Thick, heavy curtains covered the glass windows, not allowing even a curious glance from outside. It was a couple’s room—and the mess in it screamed of intimacy. A red lace panty lay crumpled near the edge of the bed like a fallen petal. A half-unbuttoned shirt clung to the leg of a chair, as if testifying to the frenzy of the previous night. A few decorative pillows had fallen to the ground, tossed away with impatience and desire. The air still carried a faint trace of perfume, sweat, and sin.

On the large king-sized bed, she lay—Priya, 22, her soft, youthful figure bathed in sunlight. Her saree was tangled around her legs, the silk fabric risen up to her thighs. The fact that her panties were discarded on the floor allowed the morning breeze to brush cruelly against her bare core, sending a slight shiver through her even in sleep.

Her upper body was no less exposed—her blouse hung open, the buttons undone, revealing love-bitten skin and curves that had been claimed thoroughly. Her pallu, once neatly draped, was now spread like a forgotten veil across the bed, one end still clutched loosely in her hand.

She slept with a soft smile, unaware of the ticking clock or the man pacing outside the room.

Until—
"PRIYA! Wake up now! I’m getting late!"

The voice cut through the quiet like a blade—sharp, annoyed, and commanding.

Sudheer.
Her husband.
Always impatient, always shouting in the morning, and currently, making tea for himself in the kitchen because his wife was still asleep.

He stood in the doorway now, adjusting his tie with clenched jaws. His dark hair was neatly combed back, but his mood was anything but neat. He looked at the mess inside and muttered under his breath, “Typical…”

He stormed into the room, eyes falling on his wife still lost in slumber, her saree raised, blouse open, lips parted in peaceful ignorance.

“PRIYA! Are you even going to wake up today?” he snapped, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, frustration radiating from every movement. “Bas sote rehna hai tumhe? I have to get ready for office, no tea, no lunch, no sense of time!”

Priya stirred slightly, her lashes fluttering open, but instead of getting up, she buried her face into the pillow, smiling faintly. Her voice was drowsy, sweet—like honey melting on warm skin.

“Baby, you kept me awake all night… how can I wake up now?”

That one line—lazy and teasing—snapped the last thread of his patience.

With a sharp curse, Sudheer grabbed the photo frame from the bedside table and flung it across the room. It crashed onto the floor, glass shattering like his temper.

“Are you still dreaming? Stay in your dreams then! I’m leaving!”
His voice echoed as he snatched his coat, trying to shove his arms into the sleeves.

The sound jolted Priya fully awake. Her eyes flew open, landing first on the shattered photo frame, then on the man cursing under his breath as he struggled with his coat. Panic replaced her drowsiness.

8:10 AM.

Shit.

She bolted upright, not even caring about her disheveled state—the blouse hanging open, the saree raised indecently high. She rushed toward him, barefoot and flushed, and began helping him put on the coat with trembling fingers.

His breath hitched slightly at her sudden nearness—but he masked it with irritation, shaking off her touch once the coat was on.

He looked her up and down, gaze hardening.

“At least get yourself properly dressed,” he muttered coldly.

Priya lowered her gaze, cheeks flushed in shame, and nodded. She fumbled with her blouse, quickly covering herself, adjusting her breasts back inside and buttoning up. She pulled the pallu across her chest like a shield and stepped back, the scent of last night still lingering in the air.

Sudheer didn’t speak another word. He picked up his bag and stormed out of the room, his shoes clicking angrily against the marble floor. The door slammed behind him with a loud thud.

Silence returned.

Priya stared at the door for a moment, then exhaled slowly.

“Gaya…” she whispered, half in relief, half in guilt.

Her gaze dropped to the second cup of tea sitting untouched on the bedside table. Steam still curled gently from the rim, a silent confession that he had made it… for her.

She smiled faintly.

“Zubaan kadvi hai… dil ka bura nahi hai,” she murmured, holding the warm cup between her palms.

Her heart softened—but it clenched a second later when her eyes landed on something else.

His file.

The one he had worked on until late last night. The one he had left open on the table while she had leaned down and kissed his cheek goodnight. A simple gesture that turned sinful within seconds. One kiss, and his restraint snapped. His hands had pulled her into his lap, his lips devouring hers, her moans swallowed between pages and passion. They didn’t stop. Not until bodies collapsed in exhaustion.

And now—this morning.

She grabbed the file in a rush, her eyes widening.

“Sudheer! Your file!” she yelled, already dashing toward the door, the silk of her saree brushing against her legs as she ran barefoot.

Because no matter the fights, the mood swings, the broken frames, or unspoken love—

He was still her husband.
And she still loved him, even when he didn’t say a word.