"Teri yeh ada, jaaniye
Tujhe na pata, jaaniye
Hai aisa nasha, jaaniye
Mere dil ko paar kare"
~Janiye: - Vishal Mishra, Rashmeet Kaur

I discovered the full extent of the damage in the mirror.

I had not, in the pleasant chaos of the previous evening, been particularly paying attention to the specifics. I had been otherwise occupied.

But standing in the large palace bathroom in the morning light, getting ready to go downstairs and face the entire Rathore family and all my friends, I looked at my reflection properly for the first time.

There was a mark on my neck.

There was a mark on my collarbone.

There was a mark below my collarbone.

There were, upon further inspection and with growing disbelief, marks in several additional locations that I was absolutely not going to catalogue aloud.

I stood very still for a long moment.

Then I turned around.

Aadyant was leaning against the bathroom doorframe with his arms crossed and the expression of a man who had woken up in an excellent mood and intended to stay there.

"Hi," he said.

"Explain yourself," I said.

"Good morning to you too—"

"Aadyant Rathore." I pointed at the mirror. "EXPLAIN."

He looked at the mirror. Then back at me.

He had the audacity to smile.

"Those are—"

"I know what they are. Why are there so many of them?"

"I was—" he paused, clearly enjoying himself enormously, "—enthusiastic."

"ENTHUSIASTIC."

"It was our wedding night—"

"It was, yes, which means in approximately forty-five minutes I have to walk downstairs and face your entire family and all our friends and your GRANDMOTHER—"

"Dadi doesn't look—"

"AADYANT."

He was genuinely laughing now. The undignified, helpless kind.

"I'm sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all.

"You are absolutely not sorry."

"I'm somewhat sorry."

"You're delighted with yourself."

"I'm—" he tilted his head, "a little delighted, yes."

I pointed at him. "You are going to help me cover these. Every single one."

"That's fair."

"And you are going to stop smiling like that."

"That I cannot promise."

I turned back to the mirror with the expression of a woman facing a significant logistical challenge. The neck one I could cover with the saree drape. The collarbone one—also manageable. The others were, mercifully, entirely concealed by fabric.

Aadyant appeared behind me in the mirror. Still smiling.

"For what it's worth," he said, in a voice that was considerably less amused and considerably more genuine, "you were—"

"Don't," I said, because I could see from his expression that whatever he was about to say was going to make it impossible to be properly annoyed at him.

"I'm just—"

"I know. I know what you're going to say. Don't say it. I'm still annoyed."

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "Okay."

"The neck one needs to be completely covered."

"Okay."

"And if Ivaan notices anything—"

"I will remove Ivaan from the premises."

"You can't remove—"

"I'm the Crown Prince of Jodhpur. I can remove whoever I want from my own palace."

I looked at him in the mirror.

He was absolutely still smiling.

Insufferable.

Entirely, completely, absolutely insufferable.

I was also, despite my best efforts, fighting a smile of my own.

~

She had laid the red saree out on the bed.

I recognized it—she'd packed it specifically, told me three weeks ago that a married woman in Rajasthan wore red the morning after the wedding and she had spent two weeks finding exactly the right one. Deep crimson silk with a fine gold border, the particular shade of red that looked like it had always been meant for her.

I sat on the edge of the bed and watched her get ready.

This was something I had never done before—not like this, not in this context. I had seen Kashvi in various states of getting dressed and undressed in the months we'd lived together, but that had been incidental, ordinary. This was different.

This was the first time I watched my wife get ready.

The saree went on in the methodical, practiced way she did everything. The pallu draped over her shoulder. The gold border catching the morning light coming through the palace window.

Then the mangalsutra: she lifted it carefully from the nightstand and fastened it herself, the bird pendant settling at her collarbone.

Then the chooda: already on her wrists from the previous day, red and white, chiming softly as she moved.

The sindoor she did herself too, in the mirror, with the same focus she gave to everything that mattered.

And then the anklets.

She sat on the edge of the bed and fastened them one by one, and when she stood and took a step, the sound of them—silver bells against the stone floor of the palace—made something happen in my chest that I couldn't have described if someone had asked me to.

She turned to face me.

Red saree. Sindoor. Mangalsutra. Chooda. The anklets singing with every step.

The first morning of our marriage, and she looked like—

She looked like herself. That was what she looked like. Completely, fully, undeniably herself. The symbols of the marriage sitting on her the way things sit when they fit.

"What?" she said, reading my face.

"Nothing," I said.

"You're staring."

"I'm allowed. You're my wife."

She looked at me for a moment with an expression I was learning was her version of being flustered. "That's going to take some getting used to."

"Which part?"

"All of it." She gestured vaguely at herself. "This. Wearing all of this. The symbols. Looking in the mirror and—it feels like me. Which is not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

She thought about it. "I think I expected it to feel like a costume. Like something I was putting on for an occasion." She looked down at the mangalsutra. "But it doesn't. It just feels like—mine."

"Because it is," I said. "All of it."

She looked at me again.

Then she crossed the room and stood in front of the mirror and picked up the small sindoor container from the dressing table. She had filled her own parting this morning, but she was looking at it with the expression of someone who had just thought of something.

"Come here," she said.

~

I handed him the container.

He looked at it. Then at me. Then at the parting in my hair.

"You want me to—"

"Every morning," I said. "If you want. It's—traditionally, the husband fills the sindoor. I did it myself this morning because we were in a hurry and you were busy being delighted with yourself."

"I was not—"

"Aadyant."

"Fine. I was a little delighted." He looked at the container. "Every morning?"

"Only if you want to."

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he took the container from my hands.

"Yes," he said. Simply. "I want to."

He stood behind me and I watched him in the mirror. He was careful—more careful than I had been when I'd done it myself, actually. His finger tracing the parting with a deliberateness that made it feel less like a routine and more like a choice. Which it was, I supposed. Every day, it would be a choice.

The sindoor against my dark hair. Red on black. Old and new and entirely ours.

He met my eyes in the mirror when he finished.

Neither of us said anything for a moment.

The anklets chimed as I shifted my weight.

"Okay," I said finally, voice slightly unsteady. "Now I actually need to do my hair or we'll be down there at noon and your mother will send a search party."

"Let her send a search party."

"Aadyant—"

"Five more minutes."

"The search party will be led by Aadya—"

"...Fair point," he conceded, and stepped back.

I started pinning my hair, watching him in the mirror as he settled back onto the bed, leaning against the headboard, entirely at home in this room in a way that made something warm settle in my chest.

I kept watching him.

This person who had followed me in a parking lot. Who had learned my language. Who had knelt on the floor last night to put anklets on my feet. Who was going to fill my sindoor every morning, carefully, like a choice.

I needed a name for him.

Not his name. Something smaller. Something just mine.

"Aan," I said.

He looked up from where he'd been scrolling his phone.

"What?"

"Aan." I turned to look at him properly. "Short for Aadyant. It's what I'm going to call you."

He stared at me.

"Aan," he said, trying it out.

"Aan," I confirmed.

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he smiled. Not the polished public smile. Not even the real laughing grin. Something quieter and more specific—the smile of a person who has just been given something they didn't know they wanted.

"Nobody has ever given me a nickname," he said.

"I know. That's why it's mine."

"Aan," he said again, softer this time. Like he was deciding he liked it.

"Don't make it weird."

"I'm not—I'm just—"

"You're delighted again."

"I'm allowed," he said, meeting my eyes. "You're my wife."

I turned back to the mirror before he could see the full extent of my own smile.

"Aan," he said, one more time, very quietly, apparently to himself.

Insufferable.

Absolutely insufferable.

Entirely mine.

~

She came to stand next to me once her hair was done, and looked at herself in the full mirror.

Red saree. Hair pinned, a few soft pieces loose around her face. The sindoor, the mangalsutra, the chooda. The anklets, just visible below the saree hem, their bells still against the floor.

She assessed herself the way she assessed all her designs: critically, fully, looking for the thing that was off.

I watched her find nothing off.

I watched her arrive, slowly, at the realization that it was right.

"Okay," she said.

"Okay," I agreed.

She turned to look at me.

"You still have a mark on your jaw," she said pleasantly. "From where I—"

"YES I'M AWARE—"

She was already walking toward the door, the anklets announcing every step, laughing quietly to herself.

"KASHVI—"

"Coming, Aan?"

She said it over her shoulder without turning, completely casual, like she hadn't just deployed the nickname at maximum strategic effectiveness.

I stared after her for a moment.

She had given me a nickname, and she was using it as a weapon.

I was utterly besotted.

"Coming," I said, and followed my wife downstairs.

~

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