CHAPTER 3: MORNING LIGHT AND QUIET HEARTS
CHAPTER 3: MORNING LIGHT AND QUIET HEARTS
Pia's POV
I woke to warmth.
Not the warmth of sunlight, or blankets—but the kind that comes from another person's body, skin to skin, breath to breath. Arjun's arm was still wrapped securely around me, his hand resting against my waist, fingers splayed as if holding me even in sleep. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm behind me, grounding and gentle.
I didn't open my eyes at first. I just stayed still, letting the calm of the morning seep into my bones. I could hear the soft hum of the ceiling fan, the distant sound of a scooter outside, the occasional creak of the building settling with age. But mostly, I could hear him—his soft breathing, the occasional shift of his body as he dreamt.
I smiled to myself.
We were still tangled under the blanket from last night, legs intertwined, skin warm against skin. My body felt pleasantly sore in a way that made me blush even though no one could see me. I turned slightly in his hold, just enough to look at him.
His face was so peaceful when he slept. No tension in his jaw, no crease between his brows like when he was deep in thought. His lips were parted slightly, and his hair was tousled in the most endearing way. I reached out and gently brushed a strand off his forehead.
He stirred a little and blinked at me, still half asleep. "Hi," he murmured, voice husky and rough from sleep.
"Hi," I whispered back.
For a moment, we just looked at each other, smiling like two idiots drunk on love. Then he pulled me in again, burying his face in my neck.
"You smell like rain," he mumbled.
"That's oddly poetic for a man who just woke up."
"I'm a man in love," he said, pressing a kiss to my collarbone. "I get poetic privileges."
I laughed softly and carded my fingers through his hair. "I can't believe we've been together for a month now."
He raised his head, eyes still heavy with sleep. "One month of you stealing my blanket, forcing me to drink elaichi chai, and cuddling into me like a cat."
"Exactly. And you love all of it."
He pulled me into a tighter hug, our legs still tangled. His skin was warm and familiar, and I felt like I could melt into him forever. No words, no plans—just this soft, sacred moment.
Eventually, I sighed. "You should get up."
"No," he groaned dramatically. "Let's stay like this all day."
"Someone has to earn money in this house," I teased. "And that someone is you."
He groaned louder and rolled onto his back. I leaned over him and kissed his cheek. "Your coffee is waiting. And your wife might make you parathas if you hurry."
"That's cruel. Using food to bribe me."
"Whatever works," I said, laughing.
He eventually dragged himself out of bed while I slipped on one of his shirts—long, soft, and smelling like him. He stared at me for a long second, eyes smoldering.
"Don't look at me like that or you're going to be late," I warned.
"I'm already late in my heart," he said, dramatically placing a hand over his chest.
I threw a pillow at him.
He got ready while I made breakfast—aloo parathas, just like he liked them, with a little bowl of curd and achar on the side. He sat at the dining table, hair still wet, tie slightly crooked, and looked at me like I was the most beautiful thing in the world.
"Are we really doing this?" he asked quietly between bites. "Being married. Being… us."
"We are," I said, sitting across from him. "And I like it."
"Me too."
---
When he finally left for work, I stood at the door with my arms wrapped around myself. He kissed my forehead before walking out, then came back again just to steal one more kiss. I laughed and shooed him away.
"I'll miss you," he said.
"You better."
---
After he left, the apartment fell into a gentle silence. I cleaned up the dishes, humming under my breath, and then wandered out to the balcony with a cup of chai. The sky was pale and blue, the kind of morning that makes you feel like anything is possible.
I sat down and pulled my knees to my chest, thinking about him.
One month ago, we were strangers in wedding clothes, smiling for cameras, surrounded by family and rituals and chaos. I had looked at him then with polite curiosity, unsure of what kind of life we were stepping into.
Now, I knew.
I knew he liked his coffee strong, but not too bitter. I knew he pressed his lips together when he was concentrating. I knew he loved old Hindi songs, and that he secretly read poetry even though he pretended otherwise.
I knew how his fingers felt brushing over my skin. I knew how his voice changed when he whispered my name in the dark.
And somehow, all of that made my heart feel… full.
---
I spent the rest of the morning writing. My desk by the window was my favorite corner. I pulled out the journal he'd gifted me and began scribbling whatever came to mind.
> "You came into my life like a quiet song,
Not loud, not demanding,
Just… right.
Like something I'd been waiting to hear all along."
I sighed, smiling. He made me feel like writing again. Like dreaming.
Later, I did the laundry, played some music, and danced around the living room in my oversized shirt. I made his favorite sabzi for dinner, set the table just right, and lit a candle for no reason at all.
Around 6:30, the door opened.
"Smells like heaven," he said as he walked in, loosening his tie.
"Welcome home," I said, wiping my hands on a towel.
He came straight to me and kissed my forehead. "God, I missed you."
I laughed. "You just saw me this morning."
"Too long," he said, resting his forehead against mine.
We stood like that for a moment, in the middle of our living room, the candle flickering behind us. And I thought: this is it. This is what love feels like—not grand gestures or loud declarations.
Just this.
Coming home. Soft words. Familiar hands.
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