Page 56 of Protect my Heart
His eyes travel to mine, and he smirks, rubbing another towel through his hair, the muscles in his arms flexing like they know I’m looking. “It’s my room too, isn’t it, wifey?”
My eyes narrow, and my cheeks heat up instantly. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? You are my wife.” His tone is teasing and light, but there’s a flicker in his expression that doesn’t quite match the smugness in his voice.
He takes a slow step toward the bed.
Then another.
I scoot back like a coward, even though there’s nowhere to go.
“I—I’m just a contract wife,” I blurt, my voice sharp, defensive. Like that’ll somehow keep my feelings in check. His smirk fades for a split second—blink and I’d miss it—but I catch it. There's something else there, a crack in the wall he keeps up. But it’s gone just as fast.
He leans over, placing both hands on the mattress, caging me in like some kind of romance-novel fever dream. I don’t breathe. I’m too busy trying to figure out what’s happening to my heart rate.
“Aarav,” I whisper, barely audible.
“Hm?” he hums, tilting his head like he’s genuinely curious, but his eyes are gleaming with mischief. “You look flustered,” he says softly.
“I am—” My voice catches. My brain short-circuits. “I am not flustered,” I finish, though it sounds embarrassingly unconvincing.
His gaze drops to my mouth for the briefest second before he lets out a low chuckle. "Are you sure, Biwi Ji?”
I shove at his chest, meaning to push him back, but it’s a mistake. He’s warm, damp, and solid—and my hand just stays there for a second longer than it should. I jerk it back like he’s burned me.
“Go put on some clothes!” I snap, trying to sound mad, but it comes out more like a squeak.
He straightens, but not before throwing me a look over his shoulder that screams, I know exactly what I’m doing. “Why? Does it bother you?” His voice is maddeningly casual.
“Yes! No! I mean—ugh!” I grab the nearest pillow and throw it at him. He catches it midair, smirking as he heads to the closet like he’s just won something.
“I love how easy you are to tease.”
“I hate you.”
He pauses, just for a second, turning to glance at me. Something flickers in his eyes—soft, serious—and suddenly the air shifts.
“No, you don’t,” he says quietly.
And just like that, the room feels too still.
When he finally disappears into the closet, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath this whole time. My heart’s pounding, my palms are sweaty, and I’m dangerously close to losing my grip on reality. All because of a towel. Okay—no, not just the towel. The towel and the muscles. And the steam. And the damp hair. And the way he looked at me, like I was the only thing worth noticing.
I groan and flop backward onto the bed, tossing the book aside. “Get a grip, Anika,” I mutter. “You’ve seen shirtless guys before. You’ve seen Aarav shirtless before.”
But not like this. Not in this weird, domestic limbo we’ve found ourselves in lately. Not after everything. Not with the way he’s been... different. Softer, somehow. Still broody and stubborn and impossible, but... there are cracks now. Little glimpses of the man underneath all that armor.
And worse? There are cracks in me too.
I used to be good at keeping him at a distance. Used to remind myself that this whole marriage was temporary. Just a deal. A way out. A way to keep Maa happy and my life from completely derailing.
But now I lie down here in the same bed as him and look at him while he sleeps every night. Wondering if he dreams. I’m in trouble. That much is obvious. The closet door creaks open, and I sit up so fast I almost knock my head against the wall. He’s dressed now, thank God—but somehow it’s worse? A black t-shirt stretched over his chest and those damn grey sweatpants that should honestly be illegal.
His hair’s still damp. There’s a towel slung over his shoulder like he just walked out of a shampoo ad. Seriously, this isn’t fair.
“I didn’t take that long,” he says, smirking again like he knows.
“Five minutes too long,” I grumble, grabbing the book again and pretending to read.
