I sit on the bed carefully, easing myself beside her. She shifts instinctively toward me, curling into my side like she’s done this before—even though she hasn’t. Not like this. Not with need written so plainly into the lines of her body.
I pull her gently against my chest, one arm wrapping around her shoulders, the other settling at her back. She fits there perfectly, like my body knew where hers belonged before my mind ever caught up.
She sighs again, deeper this time.
The tension in her frame eases by degrees, and I realize she’s been bracing herself against the pain for hours. Alone.
That thought makes my jaw clench.
I rest my chin lightly against the top of her head, careful not to crowd her. My thumb traces slow, absent-minded circles on her arm. Her breathing evens out gradually, the shallow gasps turning into steadier inhales.
“Better?” I murmur.
“A little,” she admits. “Don’t move.”
“I won’t.”
And I mean it.
We sit like that, time stretching into something unmeasured. Outside, the palace goes on—footsteps, distant voices, the muted clink of crockery—but in this room, everything narrows down to her weight against me, the warmth of her body seeping into mine.
I think about how easily she tries to disappear when she’s hurting. How she turns pain into something private, contained.It angers me—not at her, never at her—but at the world that taught her this was necessary.
My hand tightens just a fraction, a silent promise.
She shifts slightly, her forehead pressing into my chest. “You don’t have to stay,” she murmurs, even as she leans closer.
I huff out a breath. “I know.”
“But you’re busy,” she insists weakly.
“I canceled everything,” I say.
She stills. “What?”
“I’m right here,” I repeat. “That’s all that matters.”
She doesn’t argue after that.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. Her breathing grows heavier, her body slackening as exhaustion pulls her under. I stay still, afraid even the smallest movement might wake her or worsen the pain.
I watch her face as she sleeps.
The furrow between her brows slowly smooths out. Her lips part slightly, no longer clenched. She looks younger like this. Softer. Vulnerable in a way she rarely allows herself to be.
And something fierce and protective coils in my chest.
I don’t know when loving her stopped being a choice and became instinct. I just know that right now, holding her feels like the most important thing I will do all day.
I press a kiss to her hair, barely there.
“You’re safe,” I whisper, even though she can’t hear me. “I’ve got you.”
And for as long as she needs it, I stay exactly where I am.
Thank you, old man
SITARA
