Pranay's pov:

If you ask me what love looks like, I'll say — it's 2 a.m., my wife's eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, still trying to memorize camera angle theories and light diffusion patterns. It's not about giving her roses or poems. It's about brewing her fourth cup of coffee, rubbing her temples when a headache creeps in, and whispering, "One more page, Aishu. You've can do this."

The exams had begun. And with them, Saisha had turned into a tiny ball of tension, wrapped in oversized hoodies and scattered notes.

Every morning began the same — her sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by printouts, books, sticky notes, and a half-eaten apple. Hair tied up in the messiest bun imaginable. Glasses slipping down her nose. Cute, exhausted chaos.

"I'll never finish this in time," she muttered yesterday, flipping through a youtube video lecture.

"You say that every time," I said, placing a hot bowl of maggi next to her.

"And every time I mean it!" she groaned.

But she ate, and I sat beside her, helping with notes, explaining techniques like photo juxtaposition and ethical retouching , even when she asked the same thing thrice in an hour. No complaints.

At night, I made a study corner in our studio — soft lights, a small whiteboard, and all her notes pinned neatly. I kept an alarm every two hours just to remind her to blink, stretch, breathe.

She'd fall asleep mid-revision sometimes, and I'd carry her to bed, carefully placing her bookmarks where she stopped, so she wouldn't lose track in the morning.

One night, while I was adjusting her blanket, she stirred. "Pranu?"

"Hmm?"

"You... you're not tired?"

I smiled, brushing her hair back. "Not even a bit."

She closed her eyes again. "You're so precious , you know?"

My throat tightened. I kissed her forehead. "Sleep, topper."

_____________________________________________________________

On the day of her final exam, I woke her up early, made her masala chai just the way she liked, ironed her kurti, packed her pencil pouch and camera logbook. I even slipped a tiny note into her file:

"You've already made me proud. Now just go enjoy the win."

She read it in the car and turned to me, teary-eyed. "You're too good to be true."

I grinned. "Nope. Just your home tutor, driver, cheerleader, chef, alarm clock... and husband."

Her laugh echoed as she stepped out. "Wait for me, I'll need ice cream and a foot massage after this exam!"

"Always at your service, Aishu," I said, watching her walk into the exam hall, confidence glowing like sunshine.

And even though I wasn't the one writing the exam... my heart beat just as fast.

Saisha's pov:

My exams are over.

Let me say that again — my exams are over!

It feels surreal. Like I've been holding my breath for weeks and finally... I can breathe. No deadlines. No study plans. No overused highlighters or cold coffee breaks.

Just this golden silence.

As I unlocked the door and stepped inside, I was immediately hit by the familiar scent of home — lemon room spray, a faint trace of coffee, and Pranay's cologne.

"Aishu!" he called out from the living room. "You're home!"

I didn't even respond. I just walked over and collapsed on the couch with a loud sigh, arms spread like I'd conquered a battlefield.

"Tired?" he asked, peeking over the sofa back, his smile already making everything feel lighter.

"Exhausted," I groaned dramatically. "My brain is like a fried potato."

He chuckled and walked over with a towel slung over his shoulder. "Well then, my little fried potato, let me fix you."

Before I could protest, he gently lifted my feet onto his lap and began massaging them — warm, strong hands working magic on my sore toes and aching arches.

"God, I love you so much," I moaned, melting further into the cushions.

"I know," he smirked.

We sat in silence for a few moments, the kind of silence that's full — not empty. Comfortable. Real. His thumbs circled over a tight spot and I let out a soft yelp.

"Sorry," he whispered, pressing a kiss on my ankle.

And then, just when I thought he couldn't be sweeter, he said, "Aishu, I want you to lead the next photoshoot I've got booked."

My eyes flew open. "What?"

He nodded. "It's a concept shoot for a travel magazine. Cultural themes. Textures, rituals, real people. Exactly your zone. I'll assist. You'll direct."

Tears pricked my eyes. "Are you serious?"

"As serious as I was about you acing those exams. I've watched you grow — not just as my partner but as a photographer. You're ready."

I didn't even know what to say. So I leaned forward and kissed his cheek, cupping his jaw. "You believe in me more than I believe in myself."

He smiled. "One of us has to."

We laughed and soon, food was ordered — simple comfort stuff: pav bhaji, extra butter, and kulfi. We sat cross-legged on the floor with plates in hand, watching Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara, quoting lines, stealing bites from each other's plates.

Halfway through the movie, I rested my head on his shoulder, and he played with my hair.

"You know," I whispered, "this... this is my kind of perfect."

"No shoots, no stress, just you and me and too much butter?"

"Exactly," I chuckled.

He tilted my chin up and kissed my forehead. "You deserve this peace, Aishu. You need it."

And in that moment, under the flicker of the TV screen, wrapped in warmth and leftover food smells, I believed him.

Not just about the peace.

But about me.

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