True love cannot be built on desire alone—it must begin with honesty, with two souls revealed to each other beneath the quiet light of truth.
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Anchana froze as she saw the change in Suraj's face; his hand pressed to his temple and eyes clouded with pain. Panic seized her chest. She ran from the bedroom to the small pantry, flung open the freezer, and pulled out a gel pack wrapped in a soft towel.
"Come here," she said gently, breath trembling. "Let me help you."
She pressed the cold cloth to his forehead, her touch moving slowly through his dark hair, tracing down to the nape of his neck. He exhaled a faint, broken sound with a half sigh and surrender.
"Lie down," she whispered in a tender voice. "Face down. Trust me."
He obeyed without question, eyes closed, surrendering his weight into her care. Her hand guided him, her voice brushing his ear like a promise.
For nearly an hour she stayed beside him, easing his pain with soft hands and wordless comfort. The rhythm of his breathing deepened until sleep claimed him.
"You should rest," she whispered, rising quietly from the bed. "I'll make you green tea when you wake."
But before she could step away, his fingers found her wrist—warm, pleading, unwilling to let go.
"Don't worry," she murmured, bending close enough for her hair to brush his cheek. "I'm not leaving you."
Later, she sent a message to her mother.
"Mom, I'm staying here tonight. He's in a lot of pain. If it gets worse, I'll take him to the hospital.
Take care, my dear. Aunt Bell already told me—she thinks you should stay together before deciding anything."
"Don't worry, Mom. I'll do my best."
"I'm trying to understand you both."
Her mother, Anya, had learned to open her mind—thanks to her friend Kangsadan. Times had changed. Intimacy now came before vows, not as sin, but as a truth of connection. A lesson, perhaps, for mothers—to listen, not to judge.
"Mom… if I sleep with him, you won't hate me, right?"
"No, dear. Just promise me you'll be safe."
"I'd feel guilty hiding it from you."
"You've always been honest, Anchana. That's what I love about you."
When the conversation ended, Anchana peeked into the bedroom. He lay still, chest rising softly beneath the dim light. Relief warmed her chest.
She turned to the pantry, searching for tea. The quiet hum of the refrigerator filled the space.
"You've got quite the collection," she murmured to herself. "Teas, herbs, even bael fruit…"
But her thoughts darkened. The sweetness between them… it frightened her. There was something too consuming about him—his hunger, his touch, the way his gaze stripped her bare without words.
'Is he… addicted to this?' she wondered.
"Suraj," she sighed, half under her breath, "am I just a doll to you?"
A voice answered softly behind her, "No, you're my babe."
She jumped, heart pounding. He stood close, his presence filling the quiet room. His eyes, though weary, gleamed with warmth.
"Don't think that way," he whispered. "You'd break my heart."
"You switch moods too fast," she muttered. "One moment you're angry, the next you're throwing me on the bed."
"And you didn't like it?" he teased.
"That's not the point!"
"When I'm calm," he said, lips curving faintly, "I'll make you feel so good you'll forget why you were mad."
"Well," she sighed, "I made tea for you. Bael tea too. Want some?"
"Bring it here. We'll drink in bed."
When she returned, he was half sitting up, the soft lamplight tracing the lines of his shoulders. He took the cup from her hands, their fingers brushing.
"Better now," he said quietly, "though it still aches a little."
"You should see a doctor," she replied, watching his face soften.
"Worried already?"
"I mean it." Her voice was soft and calming.
"I know," he said. "That's why I like you."
A pause. Then, softly— "How many women have there been?"
He chuckled. "You make it sound like I keep a list."
"I'm just protecting myself."
He looked away, something shadowed crossing his face. "If we ever get married… my habits will drive you mad."
She nodded slowly. "Then we both have to be honest from the start."
"I plan to be," he murmured. "Tomorrow, I'll show you something. The truth."
Their words fell into the hush of the room. Outside, the night stretched long and quiet.
"You think you're being open," she said, "but I still know so little about you."
He smiled faintly. "Except in bed."
Her breath caught. "You—"
He laughed softly. "That's honesty too."
"I'll tell you something," she said, crossing her arms. "I'm moody, sharp-tongued, and I might slap you one day if you cross the line."
He grinned. "Noted. I like that."
He reached for her hand, eyes searching hers. "Stay tonight. Please. I need you."
"I already told my mom." She replied quietly.
"She knows!" He repeated her words and continued...
"Then there's nothing to hide anymore."
"Maybe not," she said, "but too much honesty can hurt. Sometimes lies are just… gentler."
He shook his head. "I'd rather be wounded by your truth than comforted by your lies."
Her gaze softened. "You've been with so many women… are you sick?"
He hesitated. "Maybe. In a way."
"Tell me. If I'm staying, I deserve to know."
He pulled her closer, her body melting against his. His breath brushed her ear, voice dropping to a confession.
"I'm… hypersexual."
The word lingered between them—heavy, fragile, intimate.
In that quiet moment, Anchana understood; beneath his passion lay something broken, something that sought love through touch and found only longing.
She pressed her forehead to his chest, hearing his heart beat unsteadily beneath her cheek.
And for the first time that night, she realized—the secret he carried was not just desire. It was loneliness, aching to be seen.