All Strings Attached

Chapter Eighteen

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Sita

Dhushyanth looks at me, his eyebrows furrowed together as he waits for me to respond.

I'm in half mind to tell him to stay on the couch and go to the comfy bed to fall asleep, but he's already annoyed with me for telling him to get out in the first place, it hardly seems like the right thing to do.

"Start talking, now," he demands, looking at me unblinkingly.

"I don't want you to put up with me," I try to make him understand, but the evident confusion on his face only makes me more and more frustrated.

"What do you not understand?" I encourage him, "Ask."

"You were trying to get me mad at you because you don't want me to put up with you?" He asks.

"I feel like you just entertain my presence while you're here because you can always get away from it anyway," I make another attempt to explain it to him, but his eyes narrow at me, his eyebrows furrowing together as his tired self tries to make sense of what I'm trying to say to him.

"Why is it a bad thing that I won't get mad at you?" He asks. "Which is stupid anyway, because you just spent the last few hours crying—"

"I wasn't crying."

"What was that then?" He questions.

I frown, trying to intimidate him. "You upset me. You slammed the door shut."

"Because you kicked me out of the bedroom—"

"I offered to take the sofa!"

"You know how I feel about you offering to sleep anywhere that's not the bed!"

"Oh, what a sweetheart," I mock. "So what?"

Dhushyanth releases a heavy breath. "Why are you trying to get on my nerves, again?"

I sigh, closing my eyes with my hands. "I can't explain this to you right now," I repeat to him. "Let's just sleep, please."

He looks at me, his hawk eyes scanning my face, searchingly. "Let's go," he says, slowly, accepting my appeal, finally.

I take his outstretched hand, and walk back into the room, praying that he would forget by morning, tomorrow. As if.

Dhushyanth slips into his side of the bed so quickly, it's almost like he wasn't making me beg him to come back to the room. Even though he makes himself comfortable under the sheets and switches on the AC to suit his temperature requirements, he continues to watch me, as though anticipating my next reaction.

"Come to bed," he says, when I match his gaze, while my feet remain rooted to the floor.

"I need to use the washroom," I excuse myself, running away to the attached bathroom. I stand in front of my sink, and take in my reflection. There are no traces of tears on my face, but my hair is so messy from all the kicking and screaming.

He is caring.

Why is he so caring, though?

Maybe cause he married me.

He was never less respectful, kind or considerate towards me. Rude, yes. And he constantly tried to get under my skin, even more so than he tried to get into my pants, but he would've never left me crying by myself.

Baby.

My breath hitches at the memory.

What was that?