•·•·•·•·•·•·••●❍•❅•°•❈•°•❅•❍●••·•·•·•·•·•·•·•
A gentle touch, a soothing care,
Abhishek's hands, Malini's pain to share.
He massages slow, with oil's warm delight,
Easing her cramps, in the morning's quiet light.
Her body's tense, her muscles ache,
He coaxes calm, with a loving, gentle make.
The pain subsides, like morning's mist,
As he tends to her, with a love that's kissed.
Her breath slows down, her eyes close tight,
In sleep's sweet arms, she finds a peaceful night.
He watches her, with a loving gaze,
A husband's care, in the morning's hazy daze.
With every touch, with every care,
He shows her love, beyond compare.
Her pain fades away, like stars in the dawn,
As Abhishek's love, wraps her in a loving yawn.
•·•·•·•·•·•·••●❍•❅•°•❈•°•❅•❍●••·•·•·•·•·•·•·•
28th April, 1846
Calcutta, Bengal
ABHISHEK'S POV~
Rubbing the bowl in my palms for a moment, I pour a generous amount of oil into my hand.
The warmth seeps into my skin, and I rub my palms together slowly, creating a quiet rustling sound between my fingers.
Then, carefully, I slide the edge of her saree upward, revealing her tender belly beneath.
Her breath hitches.
"W-Wait! What are you doing?!" she gasps, suddenly alarmed, reaching out to clutch my wrist with her trembling hand, trying to rise.
"Shh… Phoenix," I whisper, gently urging her back down, cradling her spine with one hand. "Let me take care of you."
"B-but… how can you… see—" She stammers, her cheeks now flushed, eyes darting away in embarrassment.
I offer her a faint smile, slow and soft, and press my warm, oiled palm against her belly.
Her skin is smooth beneath my touch, still cool to the temperature, and I move gently…. tenderly.
"I'm your husband, Malini," I whisper against the silence between us, my gaze resting on her. "I can see you."
Her fingers still cling weakly to my wrist, her grip loosening as if caught between hesitation and trust.
"B-but—" she tries again, voice barely above a whisper.
"Shh… Just rest now," I murmur, taking her palm and guiding it over her own upper belly. "Let your husband take care of everything."
Her lashes flutter closed as she exhales shakily, her body finally surrendering to comfort.
She lets out a faint whimper, curling slightly onto her side, her forehead creased as she turns to face me.
Her fingers clench the edge of the pillow.
"Shhh… it's alright," I murmur softly, brushing her hair from her face as I gently begin massaging her lower abdomen with warm, steady strokes.
"I-it hurts," she whispers brokenly, her voice muffled as she presses her face deeper into the pillow, her body subtly tensing with each pulse of pain.
I watch her chest rise and fall unevenly, her breath shaky— laboured.
Her lashes flutter, heavy with fatigue, her expression clouded with exhaustion.
My hand glides to her back, warm with oil, and I trace a firm line from her lower back to her waist in a slow, rhythmic motion.
Her skin feels fever-warm beneath my fingers.
I can feel how her muscles try to resist the tension, then surrender under the gentle pressure.
My eyes drift down to the fabric of her saree, still tightly wrapped around her waist, partially hindering my touch.
The area where she needs relief most remains covered, making my motions clumsy.
I lift my eyes to her face— dimmed, tired, yet watching me with trust mingled with hesitation.
Her cheeks are flushed, not with embarrassment this time, but with pain and warmth.
"Can I lower your saree a little?" I ask quietly, leaning closer to her, my voice low and reverent, fingertips hovering near the knot of her pallu.
"...W-why?" she murmurs, glancing down at her belly, then back at me.
"To apply the oil properly," I explain, keeping my tone gentle and clinical. "Especially the lower abdomen and back…. those are the main areas for cramps."
She gazes at me for a moment, as if weighing something silently in her heart, then nods slowly, clutching a fold of my dhoti like a lifeline.
"...O-kay," she breathes, her voice tiny.
"I promise to respect your consent, Malini," I assure her with soft gravity, holding her gaze as I carefully begin lowering her saree a few inches, just enough to reveal the soft curve of her lower abdomen.
The oil glistens faintly in my palm under the dim lamplight.
I reach forward, placing my hand gently against her skin— warm and tender…. and begin massaging with the care of someone handling a sacred relic.
I pour more warm oil into my palm, letting it coat my fingers before I press my hand gently against her lower abdomen.
I begin massaging slowly, spreading the pressure evenly across her belly and around her hips, then sliding lower to soothe the curve of her spine and pelvic bone.
She lets out a soft breath, her lashes fluttering as her body surrenders to the relief.
With utmost care, I guide her onto her stomach, her limbs pliant with exhaustion.
The weight of her pain lingers in my memory… the way she had hunched forward earlier, unable to stand upright without wincing.
My fingers trace her spine with reverence, pausing at each notch of her vertebrae, feeling the knots and tension along the muscles that ripple under my rough fingertips.
As I continue the slow, rhythmic motions down her back, I notice the lines of tension softening in her body.
Her shoulders sag into the mattress.
Her breath, once shaky, begins to slow and even out, like the gentle rhythm of a lullaby.
Her eyelids flutter once… then still.
She drifts.
I pause for a moment, watching the serene stillness of her face…. no longer pinched in pain, only dulled with peaceful slumber.
A faint smile tugs at my lips.
She's asleep.
I shift down quietly, careful not to wake her, until I sit near her feet.
Pouring more oil into my palm, I warm it between my hands, then press my fingers gently to her delicate soles.
Her skin is cool here…. her feet always get cold at night.
I trace my thumb in small, deliberate circles over her ankle bone, then drag my fingers slowly from her heel to each toe.
The pressure is light but intentional, coaxing relief from her weary feet.
I watch her toes twitch slightly, even in her sleep, at the sensation.
Breathing softly, I slip my hand beneath the folds of her saree without lifting the fabric, letting my fingers trace the gentle curve of her calf, moving up to her knee.
Her skin is smooth, and the muscles feel slack under my touch…. her body finally at rest.
I look up from where I sit, my gaze trailing to her face.
Even in the dim golden glow of the oil lamp, her face is pale, worn from pain… but now softened in sleep.
There's peace where there was anguish just moments ago.
Leaning forward, I bow my head toward her feet, letting my lips press softly against her ankle.
Her silver anklet is cool against my mouth, and it chimes faintly with the motion…. like the whisper of wind through temple bells.
"Sleep well, phoenix," I breathe against her skin, a promise, a prayer, a benediction.
My lips graze along the curve of her foot, from her ankle up to her toes, light as a petal's brush…an unspoken vow only the night and her dreams will witness.
His touch is my lullaby.
჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻.✾.჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻
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