tuesday. 9:45 pm.
the apartment smelled of trapped heat and stale air, that specific delhi winter smell where cold clings to concrete but the rooms inside stay suffocatingly close.
shubham walked in, and the atmosphere shifted. heavier. thick with exhaustion.
the plastic rustle of grocery bags. the heavy thud of his laptop bag hitting the floor—a sound that was becoming the soundtrack of their lives. he looked wrecked. not just tired, but drained, like someone had siphoned the marrow out of his bones. heat radiated off him in waves, visible almost, distorting the air around him.
the door creaked shut behind him, sealing them in.
"hello," he called out, voice scratchy, like sandpaper on dry wood. "i'm coming in—"
he stepped into the bedroom, and the world paused.
reshma was standing by the mirror, arrested in motion. the yellow bulb above the dressing table cast long, intimate shadows across her skin. she was half-changed—her kurti thrown on the bed, just a thin cotton camisole clinging to her frame, jeans unbuttoned at the waist. the air in the room felt suddenly charged, smelling faintly of the moisturizer she used—almond and shea butter.
"hey! i'm changing!" she yelped, startled. instincts kicked in. she grabbed the nearest towel and threw it at him.
it sailed through the air, a white flag of mock surrender, and missed him by a foot.
"oh. okay," he said. blinking. his brain was clearly lagging, processing the visual input on a delay.
he didn't leave. didn't turn around. just stood there, swaying slightly, his eyes tracing the line of her shoulder, the collarbone that was a little too prominent these days.
"you pervert!" she accused, covering herself with exaggerated outrage, crossing her arms over her chest. but her eyes were dancing. they weren't angry. they were playful, bored, looking for a spark in the dull routine of illness and work.
"no i'm not!" he shot back, looking genuinely scandalized. the red flushed up his neck—was it embarrassment, or fever? "if that's true then whole world's husbands are perverts. i live here!"
he walked PAST her, ignoring the towel on the floor. he dumped the shopping bags in the corner with less care than usual. the clatter of toiletries, the crinkle of snack packets.
she stared at his back. the way his shirt clung to his shoulder blades—damp with sweat. the smell of travel clinging to him—metro metallic tang, dust, and something sharply medicinal.
what a mosshead.
she lowered her arms slowly. he doesn't even react. does he not like my body?
she glanced at the mirror. the scar on her neck where the port had been. her head, smooth and bald, gleaming softly in the low light. her ribs showing a bit more than before. but still her. still a woman.
i'm confident in my looks. chemo baldness aside. i'm hot. everyone says so. even without hair, i have eyes. i have lips.
he's so—dense. density of a black hole.
he hurried out of the room, muttering to himself. "sorry. didn't see. bags heavy. tired. brain not working."
the door closed with a soft click.
she stood there, alone in the sudden silence. she dropped the towel completely. ran her hands down her sides. skin warm, alive.
am i invisible just because i'm sick?
she smiled then. wicked. a challenge forming in the almond-scented air. challenge accepted, husband.
10:15 pm. living room.
the living room was cooler, but only slightly. the ceiling fan cut through the air with a rhythmic whir-click-whir-click.
shubham was slumped on the slightly sagging grey sofa, head thrown back against the cushion. his legs were sprawled out, taking up space he usually tried to minimize.
"check my forehead," he mumbled when she walked in. he didn't open his eyes.
she paused, adjusting the hem of her oversized t-shirt. "excuse me?"
"think i caught cold. burning up. ac local train was freezing. then station was hot. thermal shock."
she walked over, the cold floor tiles biting into her bare feet. she pressed her palm lightly against his skin.
hot. definitely hot.
it wasn't just warmth; it was a dry, prickly heat that burned against her cool palm. his skin felt papery, fragile.
but also... she noticed the way his breathing hitched when she touched him. shallow. rapid. up close, she could see the flush on his cheeks wasn't just fever.
is he messing with me? or is this real? she wondered, biting back a smile. let's play.
"yes," she said, making her voice grave, like a doctor delivering a terminal diagnosis. "you've got fever. i know this kind. very dangerous. lethal, actually."
"you do?" his eyes flew open. clouded with worry and exhaustion. "what medicine? paracetamol? crocin? do we have dolo 650?"
"no medicine works for this." she shook her head slowly, solemn. "ancient remedy required. come to bed. close eyes."
he obeyed like a schoolboy. no arguments. no logic. just stood up, swaying, and stumbled to the bedroom.
the bedroom was dimmer now. cozy. intimate. the smell of almonds still lingered, mixed now with the sharper scent of the balm he must have applied earlier on the train.
he sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. he closed his eyes tight, hands gripping his knees.
"now open," she whispered.
he opened them.
and froze.
she stood before him, bathed in the soft, yellow light. she was wearing one of his old t-shirts—it hung off one shoulder, exposing the strap of her camisole. and shorts. shorts that were definitely shorter than her usual respectable pyjamas. legs bare. skin glowing.
the air tightened. snapped.
"why are you—" he swallowed. she watched his adam's apple bob, a nervous, jerky movement. "why are you wearing so little? winter is coming. nights are cold. you'll catch cold too. immune system... weak..."
he shifted uncomfortably on the bed, pulling the blanket slightly towards himself as a shield. "now i feel like fever's rising. temperature spiking."
she frowned, feigning annoyance. she stepped closer. right between his knees. she could feel the heat radiating from his legs, distinct even through his trousers.
"stop pretending."
"pretending what." his voice went squeaky. high-pitched. panic mode.
"that you don't notice. i'm practically half naked here, trying to seduce my husband, and you're discussing weather patterns and immune systems."
he looked up then. caught in the trap.
he met her eyes. and for the first time, the composure—the "careful caretaker" mask—cracked.
exhaustion + fever + her = dangerous mix. walls were down. filters were dissolved.
"what do you think?" he said, voice sharper, rawer than she expected. "you think i don't notice? every time you're near."
he lifted a hand, fingers twitching in the air, wanting to reach out, wanting to touch the bare skin of her thigh, but stopping inches away. "i can't think straight. code breaks. brain breaks. i look at you and i forget my own name."
her lips parted. caught off guard by the intensity. knowing he found her attractive was one thing; hearing this raw, feverish confession was another.
oh.
a small, almost relieved smile curved her lips.
"so you do notice," she teased, voice softer now. husky. "finally. some honesty from the ghost."
his face burned deeper, turning a shade of crimson that had nothing to do with the flu. he turned away, unable to hold her gaze. "dinner's late. i've got freelance work. deadline. client will scream. eat the snacks i bought. cream bun. mixture."
he pushed past her, fleeing the scene of the crime. stumbling a little.
"are you serious?" she threw her hands up, the movement making the t-shirt slip further. "we're talking about US—about desire—and you bring up dinner? do you even like me? or are you married to your laptop?"
he froze at the door. hand on the frame, knuckles white. he didn't turn.
"you have no idea," he mumbled, voice low, vibrating in the quiet room. "how much. it's terrifying."
the door clicked shut.
she stood there. alone in the bedroom. heart racing. thumping against her ribs like a trapped bird.
fevers and fires. sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. tonight, she suspected, they were both burning.
she walked to the bed where he had sat, finding the indentation of his weight still warm. she ran her hand over the sheet.
terrifying, he had said.
good, she thought, smiling at her reflection in the dark window. love should be a little terrifying.
(Speaker: mosshead status: confirmed. but also... protective mosshead. running away to protect her from his own fever-brain. cute. stupid. but cute. let him cook. literally. he's going to burn dinner. i can smell the toast charring from here.)