I turn. He’s already there, dressed casually but with the kind of ease that makes him look like he belongs everywhere—here, in these stables, in the villa, in any world he decides is his. His gaze lands on me, unreadable, and then he walks toward a tall brown stallion tied near the fence.
“You’ve never ridden a horse, have you?”
It isn’t really a question. I shake my head, clutching the fabric of my kurti with restless fingers. “No. I’ve only ever seen them in processions or at fairs.”
His lips tug slightly, not quite a smile. “Then today you will learn.”
“Vihaan—” I start, but stop when his eyes flicker to mine, steady and unyielding.
There’s an edge to him today. Not anger exactly, but something restrained. I can feel it in the way he moves, the way his jaw ticks when he tightens the saddle straps. He’s upset. With me? With himself? I don’t know. But it coils between us like a rope drawn too tight.
“I don’t think I can—”
“You can,” he cuts in, voice quiet but final.
I bite my lip, annoyed by his certainty and yet… somewhat grateful, too. That’s how it always is with him. I want to resist, but part of me wants to give in.
He gestures for me to come closer. My feet feel heavy, but I walk anyway, stopping just near enough to smell the faint scent of leather and the sharper note of his cologne.
His hand brushes against mine as he passes me the reins, and a current zips through me. I almost drop them. He notices, I know he does, because that half-smile returns, brief and infuriating.
“Hold tight. He can sense hesitation.”
Like you,I almost say, but swallow the words.
The horse shifts slightly, and my grip tightens instinctively. My heart is beating far too fast, and it has little to do with the animal before me.
He steps closer, so close that his shoulder brushes mine, his hand covering mine over the reins. “Don’t strangle him,” he murmurs near my ear, voice low, steady. “Firm, not fearful.”
My breath catches. “Easy for you to say.”
“Not really. The first time I rode, I fell flat on my face.”
I blink, surprised, turning to look at him. His expression softens just a little, and that small shift does something to me. He doesn’t often share pieces of himself like this.
“And you still got back on?”
“I had to,” he says simply, his thumb brushing lightly against my knuckles before he pulls back. “Sometimes falling is the only way to learn what holds you.”
His words linger longer than they should.
I climb onto the horse with his help, every movement awkward and graceless. He steadies me, one hand at my waist, the other guiding my leg over the saddle. I freeze at his touch, at how firm yet careful it is.
“You’re trembling,” he observes, voice softer now.
“Because this is terrifying,” I mutter, refusing to meet his eyes.
“It’s not the horse you’re afraid of.”
I stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t answer. He just looks at me, his gaze far too piercing, and then he steps back, his hand sliding away. I instantly miss the warmth.
“Keep your back straight,” he instructs. “And look ahead, not down.”
I do as he says, though my eyes flick to him more often than the path. He walks beside the horse, close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted. The thought unsettles me.
Minutes pass like that—his voice guiding me, my breath shallow, the horse’s steady rhythm grounding me. Slowly, the panic eases. I find myself trusting the animal. Trusting him.
