For a second, something in him breaks.
His eyes widen as if the words hit somewhere they weren’t meant to reach, and then his face twists, sharp and raw, like I’ve pressed my fingers into an old wound without meaning to. He leans closer, close enough that I can feel his breath against my skin, uneven and unsteady.
“Sitara…” he whispers, and there’s a plea in it he doesn’t finish.
“I mean it,” I say quickly, the words tumbling over each other because panic curls in my chest at the thought of him pulling away again. “I’m not saying it to fix you. Or to make this disappear. I’m saying it because it’s true.”
He shakes his head, slow and deliberate, like if he moves carefully enough the truth won’t stick. His eyes glisten now, dark with something heavy and old. “I’m a monster,” he says under his breath, the word barely audible but devastating. “Don’t make me your home, princess.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
It’s not amused. It’s not light. It cracks somewhere between my ribs and my throat, soft and incredulous and aching in a way that surprises even me. I shake my head at him, blinking hard.
“You don’t even have themof what it takes to be a monster,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Don’t call yourself that.”
His jaw tightens. His voice comes out rough, scraped raw by memory. “You don’t understand.”
That does it.
“I am a perfectly grown woman,” I snap, the firmness in my tone catching even me off guard. “Don’t tell me I don’t understand.”
The words hang between us, heavy but necessary.
Silence settles in—not sharp, not choking. It doesn’t press down on my lungs or claw at my chest. It just… stays. Wide. Breathing. Waiting.
And for the first time since I walked into this room, I don’t feel like I’m about to lose him.
I move closer without thinking, my body drawn to his like it knows exactly where it belongs. I sit beside him. Our thighs brush, the contact small but grounding, and I reach for his hand. He doesn’t pull away. His fingers are warm against mine, solid and real, not shaking but tense, like he’s holding himself together by force.
“You are not him, Dhruv,” I whisper, the words steady even though my chest feels anything but.
His breath stutters, a sharp inhale that sounds like it hurts. His eyes shine immediately, glassy and stubborn, like he’s fighting something he’s been fighting his whole life. Then his face changes—not dramatically, not all at once—but something eases. Something that’s been clenched too tight for too long finally loosens, like he’s been waiting for permission to breathe.
Relief washes over him so suddenly it almost knocks him over, and seeing it makes my own eyes burn. My throat tightens painfully.
“I am his son,” he says, and his voice cracks right down the middle. “What if I become him, Sitara? What if I hurt you?”
The question lands between us, heavy and trembling. A single tear slips free from his lashes before he can stop it, tracking down his cheek like it’s been waiting for this moment.
I don’t pause. I don’t think.
I lean into him and wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling him against me until his forehead presses into my neck. He fits there so naturally it steals my breath, like he’s always known this space was his. His weight settles into me, not crushing, just… trusting. Like for once, he’s letting someone else hold the fear.
I hold him tighter, my chin resting against his hair, my hand coming up to cradle the back of his head.
“It’s impossible,” I murmur into his hair, my lips brushing warm skin as my arms tighten around him. His body is rigid for a second, like he’s bracing for something, and I can feel how hard he’s trying not to fall apart.
“People change,” he whispers back, the words barely there, like admitting it costs him something. His breath is uneven against my collarbone, shallow and unsteady, and it breaks my heart how much weight he’s carrying alone.
“I know,” I say softly, nodding even though he can’t see it. My hand moves in slow, grounding strokes along his back. “We all do. We change with what happens to us. With what we survive. With what we love and what scares us.” I pull back just enoughto look at him, to make sure he hears this part. “But you know why you’ll never become him?”
He stiffens at that, his jaw tightening, his eyes flickering with something close to panic.
I lift my hand to his face, my thumb catching the tear that’s been clinging stubbornly to his lashes. I wipe it away gently, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like I’ve always been meant to do this.
“Because you care,” I say, my voice steady even though my chest aches. “You’re terrified of hurting me. You’re terrified of becoming something you hate.” My thumb lingers against his cheek, warm and sure. “That fear? That awareness? It’s proof. Even if you wanted to be like him—which you don’t—you couldn’t. It’s simply not who you are.”
His eyes close, lashes trembling as he exhales, the breath breaking on its way out, like he’s been holding it in for years and is only now letting himself breathe.
