“I don’t like feeling… dependent,” she admits. What she means is that she doesn’t want to be a burden, which is a funny word because she can never be that for me.
I nod, because I understand that more than she realizes.
“You’re not,” I say gently. “You’re choosing to let me take care of you. There’s a difference.”
She studies my face, like she’s testing the truth of that statement, turning it over in her mind. Then she exhales, slow and measured, and finally rests her head against my shoulder.
The weight of that small gesture hits me harder than anything else today.
“You’re doing too much,” she murmurs, though her voice lacks conviction.
“Maybe,” I concede. “But I want to.”
Her fingers curl into the fabric of my kurta, not gripping, just… there. I start walking again.
She shifts slightly in my arms, adjusting, and I feel it immediately—the awareness, the closeness, the echo of earlier still humming under my skin. I keep my focus steady, my hold respectful, but there’s no denying the intimacy of this. The way her body fits against mine. The way my steps automatically adjust to her comfort.
“You’re enjoying this,” she accuses quietly.
I glance down at her, catching the glint in her eyes. “What gave it away?”
“The smug look,” she says. “And the fact that you haven’t put me down even once.”
“Correction,” I reply. “I asked you if you wanted to walk.”
“And?”
“And you said you were fine.”
She tilts her head back to look at me properly now. “Which I am.”
“Sitara.” The way I say her name—low, even—makes her pause.
“Yes?”
“If you were fine,” I say, “you wouldn’t be trying so hard to prove it.”
For a moment, she looks like she might argue. Then she sighs, the sound more tired than frustrated.
“Maybe I just wanted to feel… normal,” she admits.
My chest tightens at that.
I don’t stop walking, but my hold shifts again, subtle, protective. “You are normal,” I say quietly. “Needing rest doesn’t change that. Wanting to go out doesn’t change that either.”
She nods, thoughtful.
After a beat, she adds, “Your ‘aftercare’ is still excessive.” Her cheeks redden a bit.
I huff a laugh before I can stop myself. “That’s rich, coming from someone who refused to tell me she was sore until I noticed.”
Her lips twitch. “I didn’t refuse.”
“You redirected.”
“Strategically. I am a king’s wife, after all.”
I shake my head, unable to help the smile spreading across my face. “You’re exhausting.”
