I nod, committing every word to memory.
When he leaves, the room feels quieter.
I sit beside her on the bed, my hand hovering uncertainly before resting lightly on her knee, careful not to touch the injured area.
She opens her eyes and murmurs, “you didn’t have to pick me up like that.” murmurs.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I did.”
She studies my face, something unreadable passing through her expression.
“I scared you,” she says softly.
“Yes,” I admit. “You did.”
Her lips curve into the faintest smile, apologetic and tired. “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be.”
I brush a strand of hair away from her face, my thumb lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.
And in that moment, as she leans into my touch with a quiet sigh, I understand something with terrifying clarity:
Whatever has been weighing on her—whatever doubt, whatever poison someone has been feeding her—it ends now.
Because no one gets to make my wife feel small.
Not on my watch.
The truth beneath the ice
SITARA
The doctor left an hour ago.
I know because I’ve been counting. Not minutes—breaths. The slow inhale and exhale of a room that feels too quiet, too full at the same time. The clock on the wall ticks softly, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the sound of my own thoughts.
Dhruv hasn’t said much since then.
He sits at the edge of the bed, focused on my ankle, a bowl of ice water resting near his knee. His sleeves are rolled up, his movements careful, precise—like he’s handling something fragile. LikeI’mfragile. Every few seconds, he adjusts the cloth, checks my face without looking obvious, then goes back to icing, stopping just before it becomes unbearable.
He knows.
That’s the worst part.
The cold seeps deep into my skin, numbing the ache until it becomes a dull pressure. I hiss once, barely audible, and immediately his hands still.
“Tell me,” he says quietly. “Is it too much?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s okay.”
He watches me for a second longer, as if making sure I’m not lying again, then nods and resumes. Always attentive. Always careful. It makes my chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with pain.
His jaw is clenched.
Not in the way it gets when he’s stressed or tired—but in that restrained, dangerous way. The way it does when he’s angry but choosing not to show it. I’ve seen that expression on him before, usually directed at people who deserve it.
Right now, it’s directed at the situation.
