“And my belief is also free, but binding.” She commanded, making him chuckle even through the pain.
She patted his cheek, and made him believe. At least for tonight.
————————————————————
He was getting better at movement.
With the passage of time, physiotherapy and regular massages, he was getting better at using his joints the right way again.
What was impossible on the day when he had been discharged, moving his left wrist in a circle, was now halfway possible. The grafts on his chest had begun screaming in agony as his painkillers had been reduced. His back was as numb as ever and every night he fought with the idea of that sensation never returning. Of Amaal never feeling the pleasure of touching him and having him feel it. He would regret the months wasted between them, spent between cities and work and his own inability to completely physically surrender to her. He would now never feel that touch completely. Ever.
But come morning, Samar would recover from those despairing thoughts, remembering Begumjaan’s words.
He knew he had to one day accept Amaal and his scars in the same room together. But before that, he had a road ahead to recover his bodily strength. And make more nights feel possible.
“Where is the knife?” She came rumbling into the kitchen, hassled as usual on a work morning. She woke up early, did her thing, was never late for work, and yet hopped around like a fire had been lit somewhere and she was the only one with the hose. And today she had anyway taken a half day and was going in late.
“Here.” He picked it out of the glass she had set there to collect all the kitchen utensils, and passed it to her. She froze.
“What?” He held the knife up.
“You turned your hand.”
He looked down and found that his wrist had turned more than just ninety degrees. “Yes,” Samar smiled down at it, rotating it again. “I used to be good at knife combat once.”
“Hmm?” She stepped closer to him, reaching for the knife.
“Atharva taught me and I became better than him.” He tightened his hand on the hilt, not letting her take it.
“Leave it!” She fought.
“No.” He smirked.
“You want to do combat, huh?” She left the hilt and grabbed another knife, a bigger one. “Come on.”
“Amaal…”
“Just because we are living together doesn't mean I’ll go easy on you.” She held the knife up.
“You still don’t know what living together means,” he circled her wrist with his free hand. “So put it down.”
Her eyes widened, but she slammed her knife blade on his. “In your dreams.”
“This is not a pain relief spray.” He warned.
“You are asking for it.” She pushed on, advancing on him. He stepped back, smiling, letting her dominate his blade. As long as she didn’t start any mad movements that could hurt her, he would play along.
“Do you know what I can do with this?” He asked, letting her advance enough to back him into a corner.
“You are losing,” she pushed the blade and he let his knife tip back. “Surrender and give me your knife.”
“You’ll cut your fruit with two knives?”
“I’ll cut my fruits with the winning knife.”
“That is if you’ll win,” he grabbed her wrist and turned her in time to snatch the knife from her hand and throw both their blades to the platform, locking her in the crook of his arm. “Samar!” He laughed, holding her hands locked in front of her throat and dipping his head to kiss her neck. She fought him but he had gotten strong enough to hold his own. And he had a corner behind his back to support him.
“I am going easy on you because of your recovery…” She tried breaking from his chokehold with all her might.
