“I love you too, Dhruv.” I kiss his cheek and smile. “You really are the best. Not just because of the sex.” He laughs and shakes his head.
“Even if I am not, I will do anything to be better for you.” He smiles and my heart swells with love for this man.
What will people think?
DHRUV
“What will people think?” she exclaims, half-breathless, half-indignant, her palm pressing lightly against my chest as if that alone might convince me to put her down.
I frown at her. I don’t say it out loud, but the word barely registers anymore.People. Faces blur together when I try to picture them. Names, opinions, expectations—they all dissolve into background noise when weighed against the woman in my arms. Against the way she’s tucked so securely against me, like this is exactly where she belongs. Against the faint soreness she’s trying to pretend doesn’t exist, because she’s brave like that. Because she hates feeling fragile, even when she’s allowed to be.
I shift my hold slightly, careful, instinctive. Her body responds without thought, relaxing into me despite herself.
“What people?” I ask instead, my voice calm, almost amused.
Her eyes narrow at me, a familiar spark flashing there. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That thing where you act like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”
I can’t help it. A smile tugs at my mouth, slow and honest. “It doesn’t. Not right now.”
She scoffs softly, but there’s no real bite to it. I adjust my grip again, one arm firm beneath her knees, the other steady at her back. The movement is unhurried, deliberate—meant to remind her that she’s safe, that I’ve got her, that she doesn’t need to brace herself for anything.
Her breath catches just a little.
“You know,” she mutters, eyes darting briefly toward the corridor ahead, “this is exactly why I wanted to go out. I’m fine. Completely fine. You’ve been hovering since morning.”
Hovering.
I replay the word in my head, turning it over. If hovering means checking whether she’s eaten, whether the soreness has eased, whether she’s walking too fast, too slow, pushing herself without realizing—then yes. Guilty.
“I’m not hovering,” I say mildly. “I’m accompanying.”
She lets out a quiet laugh, despite herself. “You literally wouldn’t let me take three steps on my own.”
“That’s because you tried to pretend nothing happened,” I reply, unable to keep the edge of fondness out of my voice. “And then nearly tripped over the rug.”
“That rug attacked me.”
I glance down at her, one brow lifting. “It did?”
“Viciously.”
I hum, considering. “I’ll have it dealt with.”
She presses her lips together, fighting a smile. I feel it in the way her shoulders shift, the way she gives up on pretending she’s not enjoying this at least a little.
We move through the palace at an unhurried pace. Servants glance up, then away. No one stares. No one whispers. If they have thoughts, they keep them to themselves—and even if they didn’t, I wouldn’t care.
Because all I can think about is how light she feels in my arms, despite her protests. How natural it is to carry her. How right.
“What will people think,” she repeats more quietly now, not accusing, just… wondering.
I stop. I meet her eyes, steady, certain. “They’ll think my wife needs me,” I say. “And that I am exactly where I should be.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. The fight drains from her expression, replaced by something softer, something more vulnerable.
