I went straight upstairs to our bedroom.
Viya was lying on the bed, propped up against pillows, one hand resting on her very swollen belly. She was seven months pregnant now, and she looked it. Her face had filled out slightly, giving her a soft, glowing beauty. Her belly was round and prominent, stretching the fabric of her comfortable cotton dress.
But her feet were swollen, I noticed with concern. More than usual.
She looked up when I entered, giving me a tired smile.
"You are home early."
"I had something important to take care of. How are you feeling?"
"Tired. Uncomfortable. This baby is using my ribs as a punching bag."
I set the file down on the dresser and went to change out of my suit. When I emerged from the closet in comfortable clothes, I grabbed the bottle of massage oil we kept on the nightstand.
"Let me help."
I sat at the foot of the bed and gently lifted her feet into my lap. They were indeed swollen, the skin tight and shiny. I poured oil into my palms and began massaging carefully, working my thumbs into the arches of her feet.
Viya let out a soft moan of relief and closed her eyes.
"That feels wonderful."
"You have been on your feet too much today."
"I had that presentation to finish. And then Akshita needed help with the client proposal. And—"
"And you should have called me. I would have handled it."
"You cannot handle everything for me, Armaan. I am pregnant, not helpless."
But she said it without heat, her voice already relaxing as I continued the massage. I moved from her feet to her calves, working out the tension in her muscles.
The room was quiet except for the soft sounds of my hands on her skin and her occasional contented sighs. The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting everything in a warm, golden glow.
After a while, I noticed her watching me with an expression I could not quite read. There was softness there, and something else. Something that made heat pool in my stomach.
"Do you need anything?" I asked, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
"Yes."
"What do you need, baby? Water? Food? I can ask Mamta ji to—"
"You. I need you."
The words hung in the air between us. My hands stilled on her calf.
"Viya—"
She sat up, reaching for me. Her hand cupped my face, her thumb brushing over my lips.
"I need you, Armaan."
And then she was pulling me toward her, her mouth finding mine in a kiss that was hungry and desperate and full of six months of pent up longing.
I responded immediately, my hands coming up to frame her face, kissing her back with all the love and need and devotion I had been holding inside.
We had slept beside each other every night for six months. Had touched and held each other. But we had not been intimate. Hadnot crossed that line because I was terrified of pushing too hard, of asking for more than she was ready to give.