Day 1, after birth.

The room was dim, the early morning light barely slipping through the curtains.

Maya stirred slowly in bed, her body aching in a hundred different ways.

Her breasts were heavy again, one of them already leaking into her loose nighty. The baby stirred in his cradle beside the bed, lip-smacking, already searching.

Maya tried to sit up but winced. Her lower body throbbed, every step post-birth a slow reminder of the miracle and the tearing effort it had taken.

Before she could move, Raj was there. Silent. Awake. Bleary-eyed but alert.

“Don’t move too fast,” he whispered, already helping her adjust the nursing pillows.

“He’s hungry again,” Maya said softly, her voice rasping with sleep.

Raj nodded. “He’s always hungry.”

He helped her settle. Her nighty fell open, exposing one full, swollen breast. She tried to guide the baby’s mouth to her nipple, but he fussed again, mouth slipping off.

“I can’t—he’s not latching again.” Her voice cracked. “It hurts.”

Raj didn’t hesitate. He crouched before her, warm palms cupping her breast gently, massaging it just like Maji had shown. His fingers moved in slow circles, easing the pressure. Milk welled at the tip.

“There,” he murmured, “let’s try again.”

With his help, the baby latched—finally. Relief and pain made Maya exhale sharply, but the moment passed. Her eyes fluttered shut.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.” A pause. “You’re getting really good at that.”

Raj chuckled softly. “I’ve had practice.”

Later, after the baby drifted off again, Maya shifted in bed and noticed Raj had slumped against the wall beside the bed—still in the clothes from yesterday, his face drawn, exhaustion etched into every angle.

He’d been up all night. Again. Changing diapers. Rubbing her back. Cleaning blood-soaked towels. Bringing her warm drinks. Kissing her forehead when she cried.

Quietly, Maya reached for his phone. She only meant to dim the screen so the light wouldn’t wake him—but it was unlocked. A gallery folder sat open. The thumbnail showed her swollen belly.

She clicked it.

Her breath caught.

Photo after photo—of her. Pregnant. Glowing. Sleeping. Smiling. Crying. Talking to their son while alone. Her voice in video clips: “I can’t wait to meet you my child.”

Some photos were sensual—her in nothing but a dupatta, her body full and round, breasts heavy, hair tousled, desire in her eyes.

One showed her lying in the bath, belly submerged, nipples barely above water, eyes closed.

One recent video had her breastfeeding in the early morning when sleeping.

She hadn’t even known he was recording. Her eyes were closed, lips parted, the baby suckling at her breast, she gently patting the baby,even in her sleep.

Also few selfies he took when she was sleeping with the baby, with her breast exposed.

He had saved everything.

Tears welled in her eyes. Not from sadness. But from how loved she suddenly felt. Seen. Worshipped.

She looked at Raj again—head back, sleeping deeply, one hand still curled toward her as if reaching even in dreams.

Maya set the phone down gently. Then she slid closer and pressed her lips to his cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice thick. “For everything.”

He stirred slightly, groaning. “Maya…?”

She kissed his jaw, then lower, her lips brushing the side of his neck.

“Sleep, Raj. You’ve done enough. Just… rest.”

And for the first time in three days, he let her hold him.

And they hugged to sleep as her body was slowly returing to original state.