When I ask about his day, he shrugs. “Usual.” That’s always his answer, and I always roll my eyes in response, to which he laughs.
After breakfast, I retreat to my workspace—my little corner of the palace that already smells faintly of ink and coffee. My tablet lies waiting, sketches scattered around it like evidence of my inability to settle on one idea.
I’ve been thinking about writing my own webtoon.
The idea has lived in my head for years, half-formed and stubborn. I’ve written small ones before, short stories with rushed endings and characters I didn’t quite understand yet. None of them felt right. None of them felt like me.
Now, I find myself doodling more than writing. Faces. Hands. Expressions.
Without realizing it, my stylus moves on its own.
Broad shoulders. Sharp jaw. A familiar tilt of the head.
I freeze.
Slowly, I pull my hand back and stare at the screen.
It’sDhruv.
Not the king. Not the polished public version. Just… him. Relaxed. Soft-eyed. The way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I mutter, my face heating up.
I quickly minimize the canvas, as if he might walk in and catch me in the act, and lean back in my chair, heart racing for no reason that makes sense.
Afternoons blur into evenings.
I spend time with Yagini when she gets back from college—she talks nonstop, complains about professors, and steals snacks from my plate like she’s known me forever. Maa joins us sometimes, her presence warm and steady, asking about my work, offering advice I didn’t know I needed. I love how supportive they are. I never got this appreciation from my mother, she always looked down on me, and even Bhai-sa, for having artistic skills. She wanted us to be more royal, and all I wanted to remind her was that there’s no actual royalty in India, but I kept my mouth shut.
Dinner is always together. Dhruv joins us when he can, looking tired but lighter than he did two weeks ago. He eats more whenI’m there, as I’ve been told by Yagini. Laughs more too, which makes me so happy.
At night, we retreat to our room.
He always asks me how my day was, and I always tell him everything.
The good parts. The boring parts. The thoughts that don’t make sense yet. I talk with my hands, my voice, my whole self, and he listens like it matters.
When I ask about his day, he smiles faintly and says, “You know the answer.”
I shake my head, feeling dejected.
Two weeks.
And somewhere between flowers and shared meals and stolen glances at a drawing I didn’t mean to make, something has shifted.
I don’t know what it is yet.
But I know this—I’m no longer counting days until I feel at home.
Because I think, quietly, terrifyingly, I already do.
Don’t walk away
DHRUV
Meetings drain me in a way nothing else does. Not because they’re difficult—I’ve been doing this long enough that numbers, proposals, and polite threats roll off me like rain—but because they require a version of me that is constantly guarded. King. Diplomat. Decision-maker. The man who never hesitates, never softens, never lets anyone see where it hurts.
By the time I step out of the conference room, my jaw aches from being clenched for too long.
