The heavy wooden doors opened slowly.
Maholi stepped inside.
The house looked the same—elegant, expensive, quiet. The floors still gleamed, the chandeliers still whispered of wealth. But something was different now.
Every room breathed differently.Every corner seemed to whisper her name.
She paused in the entrance, suitcase still in hand, unsure of her place… until Abir appeared beside her. Wordless. Steady. He took the bags from her gently and set them aside, then turned back, his gaze sweeping over her like a prayer.
"This," he said, voice low and certain, "isn't just my house anymore."
He reached for her hand.
"It's ours."
Her throat tightened. Emotion curled in her chest like a warm wind.
"You sure?" she asked, her voice a little playful, a little hesitant. "I'm not exactly low-maintenance. I'll fight with your Alexa and fill your fridge with weird pickles."
A grin tugged at his mouth. "Good. She needs competition."
She laughed, the sound dancing through the hall like light catching crystal. The echo didn't feel empty anymore. It felt lived in. It felt… like home.
He laced his fingers with hers and led her up the stairs—slowly, deliberately. As if each step was a vow. As if he wasn't just guiding her to a bedroom but into a future they were finally brave enough to claim.
When he opened the door…Her breath hitched.
It was still his room—clean, minimal, masculine.But now, soft touches had crept in.
A cream throw blanket draped over the armchair. Books she adored stacked beside the window seat. Her favorite vanilla-and-clove candles flickered quietly. And on the bed—
A framed photo.
Her. Him. That spontaneous beach day. The one she thought he'd forgotten.
Her fingers trembled as she picked it up.
"You kept this?" she asked softly.
"I printed it the next morning," he said, stepping behind her. "Because that was the day I knew. I didn't want a life that didn't have you in it."
She turned slowly.
His hand found her waist, pulling her close, until their hearts aligned.
The air between them shifted—turned warmer, denser, electric.
"No interruptions?" she whispered.
"Not tonight," he murmured against her ear. "Tonight, you're mine."
And the moment cracked open.
They kissed like they'd forgotten how to breathe without each other. Her fingers tore at his buttons, his hands lifted the hem of her kurti, trailing up her thighs, across her spine. Every touch was reverent. Every breath was a confession.
She laughed into his mouth when he fumbled."Nervous, Mr. Superstar?"
"Terrified," he whispered, hoisting her into his arms. "Of how much I need you."
"Then prove it," she challenged, voice like velvet and thunder.
He did.
He kissed her like her skin held stories. Worshipped her curves like each inch mattered. His lips moved like poetry down her body—devouring, savoring, remembering. She arched into him, gasping when his tongue flicked, when his teeth grazed, when his name left her lips as a moan she couldn't swallow.
"Such a tease," she panted, tugging at his hair.
"You love it."
"I hate how much I love it," she murmured, tracing the ridges of his abs. "Do you ever stop being this hot?"
He smirked against her collarbone. "Only when I'm not touching you."
They laughed. Groaned. Whispered things they hadn't dared say in daylight. They explored each other like rediscovered lands. His mouth wrote promises. Her nails wrote surrender.
Later, she straddled him, body glowing, hair cascading like a curtain around his face. She looked down at him, wild and soft all at once.
"You still haven't proposed," she teased, moving her hips in slow, wicked circles.
"I will," he groaned, clutching her waist. "As soon as I can walk again."
She giggled, breathless. "Don't faint before getting the ring."
"I'll die happily," he whispered, eyes locked on her. "As long as I die between your thighs."
"Abir!"
He growled and flipped her beneath him, biting her earlobe. "Say it again."
"Abir—!"
"Louder."
She cried out when he moved again, his rhythm unapologetic, his body claiming her with the kind of love that ruins a man for anyone else. The world melted. The sheets tangled. And time forgot itself.
When it ended, they lay tangled—skin to skin, breath to breath. Her head rested on his chest, his fingers drawing idle circles on her shoulder.
They talked about everything.
The house.Her writing career.His new film.A hill home, someday.A child, maybe.A dog, definitely.
"I want a balcony," she murmured sleepily. "So we can fight and make up and make love under the stars."
"You dream dirty," he teased, kissing her forehead.
"You love it."
"I love you."
She tilted her face up.
This time, she believed it. With no fear. No doubt. No shadows creeping behind his words.
"I love you too, Abir."
He wrapped the blanket tighter around her, pressing her closer like he never wanted to let go again.
And in that room—lit by candlelight and slow, sacred breaths—Maholi finally knew the truth.
She wasn't just inside his house.
She was exactly where she belonged.