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It’s strange, how quiet the world can get after so much noise. The nadaswarams, camera flashes, and endless chorus of voices seemed to disappear in the blink of an eye, leaving behind only the faint sweetness of wilted jasmine and smoke. Samira sits on the edge of the bed, the white silk of her saree shimmering under the hotel lamplight, gold border pooling at her feet. She watches it move with her in the reflection of the mirror, rustling as she exhales deeply.
Her brand new mangalsutra adorns her neck, two black-beaded strands of gold glinting at her throat, a singular diamond resting in the dip between her collarbones instead of at her left hand. They’d both agreed it made more sense that way. Between the constant donning and removing of gloves and gowns, rings were impractical, sometimes even unsafe. Jack had done his research because he knew what it meant to her. He’d even found the exact design himself, a perfect blend of tradition and modernity that truly encompassed who she was and what she preferred. When he’d fastened it around her neck earlier in the morning, the weight of it felt right; an eternal promise she'd been waiting her whole life to make.
All day, someone had been attached to her: cousins straightening pleats and necklaces, her mother fixing stray curls, Victoria rushing in between outfit changes to sneak her spoonfuls of biryani. Every touch was affectionate but exhausting; she hadn’t had a single moment that belonged entirely to herself. Even Robby, during his best-man speech, had placed a gentle hand on her shoulder the entire time as he grinned into the mic, calling Jack the new Mr. Mohan to a wave of laughter and applause. Another reminder that she was being folded into something larger.
Despite the fact that she’d laughed along with everyone else, her chest burned hot with pride. She’d never quite gotten rid of her only-child possessive streak. Jack was officially hers now, for the rest of forever.
And then there was her mother, whose eyes stayed glassy all day, pressing sweet kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, nearly effervescent with joy. Appa would have been so proud, ammu. All he ever wanted was for you to be happy. Samira had blinked fast against her own tears, smiling through the familiar ache of grief before looking over her shoulder to find Jack shaking hands with a half-dozen uncles, already winning them over with that easy, weathered grin. She doesn’t know when exactly it happened, but she really, truly is happy.
Though she’s not sure she can say the same in this exact moment, struggling to free the pins from her elaborate hairstyle, secured earlier that morning with a veritable wall of hairspray. “God, I can’t feel my scalp.”
“Hang on, I got this, ” Jack says as he enters the room. The door closes behind him with a soft snick. “Anything for my wife.”
She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning; he’s been insufferably pleased with that word all day, testing it in different tones. She’s 90% sure he’s said it to the espresso machine before, but somehow it sounds different now.
He steps closer until his reflection fills the mirror beside hers. Unsurprisingly, his tie is gone and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, those gorgeous muscled forearms she loves so much on display. He smells faintly of sandalwood, the single Marlboro he’d snuck outside with Robby hours ago, and something heavier, something that she can’t explain but would recognize as Jack in any room, in any space.
“You’ve been saying that all day, husband,” she responds.
“Yeah,” he says, fingers brushing her nape. “But this time I actually mean it.”
He works deft hands through her hair, extracting each pin with a dogged sort of patience. Romance, apparently, sounds like the clink of jhumkas and a man muttering under his breath about hair architecture.
“How many of these things did they use?”
“Rough estimate? Two hundred.”
He whistles through his teeth. “Feels like three hundred.”
Jack finds one last garland wound into her hair and teases it free. The pin finally gives way, shooting across the room like a bullet. So much for grace. Tiny white petals fall over his hands, ghosting over her skin. “You smell like a damn garden.”
“That would be the jasmine,” she says, running her fingers through her stinging scalp, stiff curls cascading over her shoulders.
He bends close, lips brushing the corner of her jaw. “I like it.”
Then he’s moving on to the jewelry, gently prying off her bangles, anklets, even the heavy gold chain at the back of her blouse, setting each piece neatly on the dresser. Goosebumps bloom over her skin in his wake, starting at the back of her neck and traveling down her spine. With every clasp undone, she feels a little more herself.
When he’s done, he meets her eyes through the mirror. “So where’s my name?”
“Nice try,” she says. “You have to find it in the mehendi yourself.”
He smirks. “One of your aunts told me this is supposed to determine the power dynamic of the marriage.”
“Please. You already think you’re in charge.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m more than happy to follow your lead, baby.”
He lifts her hand, thumb tracing the dark henna curling over her palm. The design is intricate, full of birds and paisleys and tiny little vines and flowers. He studies it the same way he does particularly compelling crossword puzzles on lazy Sunday mornings, lips pursed and brow furrowed in concentration. All he’s missing are his ridiculously thick reading glasses. Samira resists the urge to tell him he could just ask for a hint like a normal person.
She’s struck, not for the first time, by how he looks at her. He’s always observed her with intent, from across a trauma bay to across a cozy diner booth, from their first real argument to the morning they signed the courthouse papers. Here, in the soft quiet of this room, it’s newer somehow. She feels microscopic under his stare—something precious being rediscovered. The air between them seems to tighten with every second he doesn’t blink, until his lips are brushing her skin, following the patterns, tracing each curve again until the warmth of his breath makes her eyes flutter shut.
“You’re only supposed to look,” she says.
“I am,” he murmurs, raising his head to meet her stare.
“This is cheating,” she pouts.
“Nah,” he hums against her skin. The vibration sinks straight through her as he kisses over every visible inch of the stains until she almost forgets words entirely. “I’d call it tactile investigation.”
It’s not long before he finds the JA hidden near her wrist, tucked into a little swirl of vines. He presses his lips to it and stays there for a moment, breathing in her scent. He’s being very gentle, which would be touching if it didn’t make her want to grab him and pull him in by the collar.
“All day,” she says softly, “someone’s had their hands on me.”
He looks up, eyes dark. “And now?”
“Now it’s just you.”
He straightens, still close enough that the border of her saree brushes his thigh. He rubs gentle circles into her wrist, and she flashes back to the priest’s steady chanting of the rituals, the flicker of flame when they circled it together, her mother’s voice cracking on her childhood nickname. A day built on vows and noise and so many watching eyes, distilled now into the comfortable silence between breaths, his mouth tender over her skin.
“Jack,” she says, blinking down at him, lashes heavy with mascara and desire.
“Yeah?”
Her thumb drags over his bottom lip, burgundy against pink. “Take off your shirt.”
He smiles wolfishly. “Yes, ma’am.”