“Yes.” I nod too fast. “A thank-you gift.”
His head tilts. “For what?”
“For… taking care of me,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can overthink them. “When you didn’t have to.”
Something changes in his expression.
Not dramatically. Not sharply. Just enough that I notice.
“Who told you I didn’t have to?” he asks.
I blink. “I mean—you know—because—we just—”
Words abandon me completely, so I do what I always do when I’m nervous.
I ramble.
“I mean, it’s not like you were obligated and I know we’re married but this whole thing is new and you didn’t sign up for mood swings and pain and me crying over absolutely nothing and—”
“Sitara.”
His voice cuts through my spiraling gently but firmly.
I stop.
He turns toward me fully now, shifting closer. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel the warmth radiating from him. My breathing becomes embarrassingly shallow.
“I will always take care of you,” he says. “No one has to ask that of me. Not even you.”
I stare at him.
“You know why?”
My heart pounds. “Why?”
“Because you are my wife,” he says simply. “And being your husband, that’s my duty.”
I nod quickly, relieved and unsettled all at once.
Then he adds, quieter, “And duty aside—I would still take care of you. Just because I want to.”
That’s when I almost lose it.
I want to askwhy. The word presses against the back of my throat like it’s desperate to escape. But I know if I let it out, I won’t survive the answer.
So instead, I point at the envelope.
“Open it,” I say.
He does.
I watch his face like my life depends on it. Every tiny reaction. Every flicker of recognition.
And when he doesn’t say anything immediately, panic takes over.
“It’s from the first event we met at,” I rush out. “You remember—the one where everyone was pretending to enjoy themselves and we snuck out because the music was terrible and—”
“I remember,” he says calmly.
