The first thing Vanya felt when she stirred awake was warmth — not just the quilt cocooned around her, but the lingering heat of Veeraj’s arms from the night before. Her body ached in the sweetest way, and under the faint scent of marigold and sandalwood from the wedding there was the unmistakable trace of him on her skin.

Morning sunlight streamed through the curtains in ribbons of gold. She lay still for a moment, fingers drifting to the mangalsutra at her throat, to the vermillion in her hairline, to the gentle tangle of her hair. It all felt both surreal and inevitable. Their room. Their bed. Husband and wife.