We walk.
The palace at night is quieter, softer. Corridors stretch long and elegant, lit by warm lamps instead of harsh chandeliers. My footsteps echo faintly, and I become acutely aware of how close he is to me. Every now and then, our hands brush—an accidental graze of fingers, a shift in grip.
The first time it happens, I freeze.
The second time, I pull my hand away instinctively, my fingers curling into themselves like I’ve been burned.
Dhruv stops immediately.
“Hey,” he says gently. “Did I—?”
“No,” I blurt out, too fast. “No, you didn’t. I just—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
I trail off, embarrassed by my own inability to finish a sentence.
He studies me for a moment, something thoughtful passing over his face, and then he nods. “Okay.”
That’s it.
No questions. No pressure.
We keep walking, a careful distance between us now, and somehow that feels worse. I don’t understand my own body—how it reacts before my mind can catch up, how a simple brush of skin can leave me rattled.
He shows me the library first.
“This is my favorite place,” he admits, his voice quieter here, as if the books are listening. “When things get too loud.”
I glance at him, surprised. He catches my look and shrugs. “Kings need escape routes, too.”
I smile despite myself. “You don’t read though, do you?” I narrow my eyes at him, remembering how he mentioned once that he’s not into reading, and I told him he just hadn’t found the right books.
“I am already very knowledgeable.” He shrugs, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
We move through galleries lined with paintings and photographs, family history etched into walls I’m now somehow a part of. He doesn’t linger too long anywhere, sensing my overwhelm without me having to say it.
And then—eventually—we stop in front of a door. “Our room,” he says.
My stomach flips.
He pushes the door open.
The scent hits me first—roses, jasmine, something sweet and soft that wraps around me like a hush. The room is bathed in warm light, lamps casting gentle shadows against the walls. Flowers are everywhere—on the bed, on the side tables, scattered like someone tried to turn the room into a dream.
I stop just inside the doorway, my cheeks heating instantly.
“Oh,” I manage.
Dhruv clears his throat, suddenly looking far less composed. “I—this is…I don’t know—”
Before he can finish, the door swings shut behind us with a decisive click.
We both turn.
Locked.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, from the other side of the door, a familiar voice rings out far too cheerfully. “You can thank me later, guys!”
