His Wife, Not Just His Friend

The morning rays spilled into the room, casting a golden glow over the chaos of the previous night. Poornima stirred, slowly sitting up. The events of her unexpected wedding still clung to her like a heavy fog.

Without saying a word, she freshened up and stepped out, tying her wet hair up in a bun, wearing a simple kurti and pants.

Veeresh, already showered and dressed in a towel, stood by the wardrobe, smirking.

“Wear the white saree.”

He held it up — soft chiffon, elegant, subtle embroidery — the color of peace, but between them, the air was anything but peaceful.

Poornima frowned. “No. I’ll wear what I want.”

Veeresh didn’t respond with words. Instead, he began walking toward her — slow, deliberate steps that made her back up until her spine touched the wall.

“Why are you this close?” she hissed, trying not to show the way her heartbeat quickened.

He leaned in, his breath warm against her skin. “Because I’m your husband, Poornima. And that gives me the right to do a lot of things… that I’ve been dreaming of for years.”

Her eyes flared with shock, but before she could react, he smirked and stepped back.

“But relax, Begum. I’m not going to do anything you’re not ready for. Not yet.”

She scoffed. “We were friends. Just friends.”

He smiled, unbothered. “Yes. Best friends. But now, best friends and husband-wife. Isn’t that the perfect combo, Begum?”

Before she could argue, he came closer again, took the white saree, and without waiting for her permission — began to drape it around her. His fingers brushed her waist, her back, his movements slow, steady, intimate.

Her breath hitched when he reached behind her to tie the knot of her blouse, his fingers lingering a little longer than necessary.

“Wait for me. We’ll go downstairs together. You’re the bride.”

She turned away, furious, and muttered under her breath. But even in her anger, she walked to the wardrobe, pulled out his clothes, and kept his dress neatly on the bed — a habit from their childhood, maybe, or just instinct.

Veeresh came out moments later and called her, holding his shirt.

“Poornima, put it on me.” His tone was soft, teasing — almost like a challenge.

She glared at him. “Put it yourself. You’re not a kid.”

“But I’m your kid now, Begum. Legally bound and all.” He winked.

She rolled her eyes and snatched the shirt from him. With a frustrated sigh, she slipped it onto his shoulders and began buttoning it up. The silence between them was sharp and hot — not quite hatred, not quite peace.

As she tucked the shirt in for him, Veeresh leaned down and placed a soft kiss on her cheek.

“Let’s go downstairs, Begum. You’ve got traditions to complete. And my favorite kheer from your magical hands — you always made it better than anyone.”

She crossed her arms. “Make it yourself. I’m not your personal chef.”

He smirked, already walking to the door. “You will. Even if you’re angry, I know you’ll do it. You always do.”

And deep down… she knew he was right.