Roommates

The masking tape down the middle of the wardrobe lasted exactly three hours.

"That's my side," I said, pointing at the left half, where my three suitcases were now unpacked in neat, angry rows.

Veer, fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, a towel slung around his neck, stared at the tape like it had personally offended him. "You taped my wardrobe?"

"I divided our wardrobe," I corrected. "There's a difference. Left side, me. Right side, you. Do not cross the line."

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, that infuriating half-smile tugging at his mouth. "Mrs. Rathore, this is literally my wardrobe. In my room. In my house."

"And I'm literally your wife," I shot back. "For the next one hundred and seventy-nine days. So we need rules."

He held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Ground rules. Shoot."

I pulled a crumpled page from my sketchbook — the back of a lehenga design I'd abandoned in Jaipur. "Rule one. Bathroom schedule. I get it first in the morning. I have hair. A lot of it. It takes time."

"Deal. I shower at night anyway. Next."

"Rule two. No guests. No girlfriends sneaking in while I'm pretending to be the perfect daughter-in-law downstairs."

Veer blinked. "Girlfriends? Plural? Wow, high opinion of me. For the record, zero girlfriends. Current, ex, imaginary. You?"

"That's none of your business."

"It is if a boyfriend shows up at my house looking for his accidentally married girlfriend."

"I don't have a boyfriend," I said, too quickly. "I was supposed to marry your brother, remember? Not a lot of time for dating between saving my father's boutique and fitting bridal blouses."

Something softened in his face. "Right. Sorry."

"Rule three," I pushed on, before the quiet got awkward. "In public, we fake it. Just enough. Hand-holding at family dinners if Dadi is watching. That's it."

"Hand-holding. Noted. What about —" he waggled his eyebrows, completely deadpan, "— passionate forehead kisses in the rain?"

"Veer."

"Sorry. Couldn't resist. No touching. Ever. Unless you ask. I remember. It was literally rule number two yesterday."

"It bears repeating."

"Noted, boss." He saluted with his coffee mug. "Rule four?"

I hesitated. This one felt stupid out loud. "Knock. Before you come in. Even though it's your room."

His smile faded. He was quiet for a second. "Yeah. Of course. Always."

The air went soft in a way I didn't like. To break it, I pointed at the couch under the window — his new bed, with its too-thin pillow and the blanket folded in a neat square. "Rule five. That couch is yours. Forever. No midnight 'accidentally rolled into bed' nonsense. I've read that trope."

He choked on his coffee. "Excuse me, I have never accidentally rolled into anyone's bed in my life. My spatial awareness is excellent. I'm an architect."

"Good. Keep being excellent. Over there."

He laughed, a real laugh this time, surprised out of him. It changed his whole face. Less guilty younger brother, more — Veer.

"Anything else, Mrs. Rathore?" he asked, still grinning.

"Stop calling me that."

"What should I call you then? Wife has a nice ring to it."

" Aaradhya. Just Aaradhya."

"Aaradhya," he repeated, testing it. Like he liked the shape of it. "Okay. Aaradhya. Anything else, Aaradhya?"

I looked down at my list. It was empty. I'd run out of rules to hide behind.

"No," I said. "Your turn."

He thought for a second, suddenly serious. "One rule. Just one. If this — all this — gets too much. The house, Dadi, my brother staring at you like a sad lost puppy in the office — if you want out early, tell me. Don't just pack a suitcase at midnight and disappear. Tell me, and I'll fix it. Even if it costs me everything."

My throat went tight, unexpectedly. "That's… surprisingly decent for a man I married by accident."

"I'm full of surprises," he said lightly, and the moment broke.

---

Living with Veer Singh Rathore was like living with a very tidy, very annoying golden retriever.

He was up at six for a run, back by seven, showered and out of the bathroom before I even woke up — keeping rule one like it was a sacred vow. He made coffee exactly how I liked it by day two, without asking, just watching. He left sticky notes on my sketchbook: Don't forget to eat lunch, wife. with a terrible doodle of a sandwich.

I crossed out wife every time. He kept writing it.

The wardrobe tape war lasted four days. It started when his shirts migrated two inches over the line. Then my dupattas staged a counter-invasion. By Friday, the tape was peeling, ignored, and we were both just shoving clothes in wherever they fit, bickering the whole time.

"That's my shelf," I said, yanking a stack of his rolled t-shirts off what was very clearly my side now.

"Those were there first," he argued, reaching over my head to grab them back. "Squatters rights."

"There are no squatters rights in a wardrobe, Veer."

"Says who? I literally design buildings for a living. I know about space allocation."

We both grabbed for the same sketchbook at the same time — mine, shoved between his architecture magazines on the middle shelf where neither of us was supposed to put anything.

His fingers brushed mine.

It was nothing. A second. Warm skin, calloused fingertips — architect's hands, always drawing.

We both froze.

I pulled back first. Fast. Too fast. The sketchbook tumbled to the floor, pages splaying open.

It fell open to a design I'd been working on at 2 a.m. when I couldn't sleep — a bridal lehenga, deep red, but modern. Clean lines. No heavy embroidery. A veil so sheer you could actually see the bride's face through it.

Veer crouched to pick it up. He stared at the page longer than necessary.

"This is beautiful," he said quietly.

"It's nothing. Just doodling."

"It's not nothing." He traced the neckline with one fingertip, careful not to smudge the pencil. "You should make this. For real."

"With what money? My father's boutique is being kept alive by your family's merger. I can't afford thread right now, let alone a full collection."

He was quiet for a beat. Then: "Rathore Textiles has a junior designer opening. In-house. Aditya mentioned it at breakfast."

I snorted. "Right. Work for the man I was supposed to marry, while being married to his brother. That won't be awkward at all."

"It pays," he said simply. "Well. And you'd be good at it. Really good."

He handed me back the sketchbook, our fingers brushing again — deliberately this time? No. Accident. Had to be.

"Think about it," he said, standing up. "No pressure. Just — don't hide these. They're too good to stay in a sketchbook on a shelf I keep stealing."

He left for his run, early, leaving his coffee half-finished on the dresser. The cup still warm.

I stared at the wardrobe — our clothes hopelessly mixed now, tape curling uselessly at the edges — at the sketchbook in my hands, at the couch pillow with a very Veer-shaped dent in it.

One hundred and seventy-five days left.

I opened my sketchbook to a fresh page and, before I could talk myself out of it, wrote at the top in shaky Hindi: Job application — Rathore Textiles, Design Department.

Downstairs, the front door slammed as Veer left for his run. A second later, my phone buzzed.

A text from an unsaved number: Don't forget lunch, wife. – V

I stared at it for a full minute, heart thudding stupidly against my ribs.

Then, scowling at absolutely no one, I typed back: Stop calling me that, Devar ji.

Three dots appeared instantly. Then: Make me, Bhabhi ji.

I threw my phone face-down on the bed, cheeks burning.

One room. Two people. Zero rules left that either of us was actually following.

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