chapter 72

Author's POV Time skips...Agathiyan woke up from his afternoon nap, noticing the clock read 5 PM. His wife was still not home. Hearing children's voices, he walked toward the balcony, where he saw kids playing below.He chuckled, thinking about how his daughters often forgot about him when they were at Revathi Illam with their cousins. Whenever they visited, they spent most of their time with family, even choosing to sleep with their grandparents. They thrived on attention and loved being surrounded by people, making every visit to Revathi Illam a joyous occasion for them.The women of the family had a busy day, too. Today marked the beginning of wedding shopping, and with two weddings approaching, the workload had doubled. Thulir hadn't even had a moment to think about her husband—she was juggling multiple tasks, assisted by Thalir and Thugil, though she bore the brunt of the responsibilities. Managing relatives and handling potential conflicts meant she had to be extra cautious.Today was special—the day they were selecting the muhurtham saree for the brides. While the family went shopping, Agathiyan had gone to the police headquarters to meet the DGP, missing out on the outing. Thulir assured him she could handle everything. Upon returning home, he found the house empty, so he called his wife. She informed him they'd be delayed, and he simply hit the bed for a nap.Now, with the children's arrival, it meant everyone was back. He descended the stairs, and as if sensing his presence, his mother, Innisai, approached with his coffee. He nodded lightly, took the cup, murmured a soft thank you, and glanced around. His brows furrowed—his wife was nowhere to be seen.His mother caught the subtle shift in his expression and answered before he could ask.“Thulir went to the hospital, Aghuu.”He nodded, the memory returning to him. She had mentioned earlier that she would stop at the hospital on her way back, picking up his father’s medical reports and consulting the doctor. He had known she would be busy, but now, standing here, he felt the absence of her presence keenly.Without a word, he stepped outside to the garden, settling onto a chair as he took a sip of the rich, dark coffee—his mother had made it exactly the way he liked. He let the familiar taste ground him, watching his daughters as they played, their giggles ringing through the evening air. They noticed him and called him over, waving enthusiastically. He smiled but shook his head, and they didn’t insist. This was one of those rare moments when his daughters understood him without words. Sometimes, they could read his emotions just by looking at him, sensing his quiet contemplation, respecting his space. Their restraint never failed to surprise him. Despite their youthful energy, there were times when they showed wisdom beyond their years—just like their mother. A quiet pride swelled in him as he watched them, appreciating not just their innocence, but also the upbringing that had shaped them. In moments like these, he saw pieces of his wife Thulir in them—the patience, the emotional intelligence, the understanding. And though she wasn’t here, her presence lingered in their small gestures, reminding him that family was woven into every moment, even the silent ones.Just as the car rolled through the main gate and settled into the garage, Thulir stepped out, clutching a file tightly in her hands. The exhaustion in her movements was unmistakable—her posture slightly weary, her steps deliberate—but she masked it well. At least, she did for everyone else. Not for him.Agathiyan watched her closely, noticing the quiet exhaustion in her movements—the way she carried herself, the way she tried to mask it. Without a word, he followed her inside, his presence steady, a silent shadow by her side.She placed the file on the table, her fingers moving with quiet precision as she removed her accessories one by one. First, her earrings—delicate, shimmering as they caught the evening light—then the bangles, their soft clinking filling the silent room. One by one, the chains followed, until only her Thali remained against her neck.With practiced ease, she began removing the safety pins from her saree, carefully placing each one aside until the last rested on the table. Her movements slowed as she reached for her hair, fingers gently working through the tangled strands to free the half-dried Jasmine garland nestled in her braid. She slid it out, inhaling the lingering floral scent before letting her hair fall loose around her shoulders, frizzy from the long, weary day. A deep sigh escaped her lips—soft, barely audible, yet carrying the weight of exhaustion.Agathiyan watched in silence, his gaze tracing each movement with quiet attentiveness. Without a word, he locked the door behind him, a subtle act of intent. Thulir stepped into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. A silent acknowledgment. An invitation without words. She knew he would come. And he did. Thulir stood still, her breath steady, as Agathiyan stepped forward, quietly closing the door behind him. There was no urgency in his movements, no rush—just quiet intent, a deliberate gentleness in the way he reached for her. His touch was careful, unhurried, as if he were peeling away the weight of the day along with each layer of fabric. She let him take his time, allowed him to handle her in the way only he knew how—patiently, reverently. When she finally stepped toward the bathtub, sinking into its warmth, she let out a soft breath, leaning back, closing her eyes. Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t empty. It carried warmth, an unspoken understanding, the kind of closeness that didn’t need words.Thulir slowly opened her eyes, taking in the quiet space around her. Then, without a word, she lifted her hand toward him, inviting him to join her. He understood immediately. As he undressed, her gaze never wavered, a soft smile lingering on her lips—not because any of this was new, but because the comfort he gave her was something she always craved. And that, more than anything.There were times he had missed it, moments when his attention wavered, but she never held it against him—just as she knew there had been times she had overlooked his own needs, and he had never complained. Nagging about such things never made sense to her because, in the end, this was the only man who truly understood her, the only one who could handle her, with all her complexities.Many believed that a relationship built on deep understanding lacked excitement—that familiarity led to dullness. But they had learned otherwise. They had tasted the quiet warmth of it, had become addicted to the kind of comfort that only came from knowing and being known. It wasn’t about grand gestures or constant reinvention; it was about refining what they already had, adding layers rather than starting anew. They had reached a place where cherishing their bond mattered more than merely moving through it. Words weren’t always necessary between them. Silence had its own meaning, its own presence in their story. While the phases of their past—the childhood enimity, the secret lovers phase—had been chaotic and exciting. As husband and wife they lived through a different rhythm. Their love existed in quiet moments, in subtle understanding, in the certainty that they had built something worth holding on to. Agathiyan Slipped behind her Thulir leaned back on his shoulder comfortably  and he started massaging her body she moaned in both relief of pain and pleasure..Agathiyan’s fingers intertwined with hers, pulling her into a quiet embrace. Thulir smiled, tilting her head toward him, her gaze soft. He raised his brows, silently asking what was on her mind. She sighed, drawing in a deep breath, as if gathering her thoughts before speaking. "Can I manage all this, Agathiya?" she asked, her voice laced with uncertainty. "We will," he replied, his voice steady, carrying a quiet reassurance. Thulir chuckled, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek—but as soon as she pulled away, a small frown formed on her lips. He noticed immediately, puzzled by the sudden shift in her expression. "What happened?" he asked. "You need to shave, Agathiya." His confusion deepened. "Huh? Why? This morning, Malar said I look beautiful with this subtle beard." "Beautiful?" she echoed, amusement flickering in her eyes. He nodded with a grin. "Well, that’s true," she teased. "I can see you getting more handsome by the day, especially with that grey hair coming in." He raised a brow, caught between skepticism and amusement. "Then what’s the problem, madam?" "This," she said, rubbing her palm against his rough, prickly beard. "Ithu kuthuthu… enaku palakam ila laa," she muttered, wrinkling her nose. (“This is prickly… and I’m not used to it, right?”) "So you don't like it?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. She shook her head, biting her lower lip in hesitation—but her flushed face betrayed her thoughts. She could pretend all she wanted, but the truth was, despite the occasional complaints, she had never truly disliked it. If anything, there had been moments—heated, undeniable moments—when she had proved otherwise. Moments when words had failed her, yet her reactions had told a completely different story. And Agathiyan knew it all too well.