Page 82 of Scars and Crowns

"Goodnight . . . " I hesitate just long enough to see his eyes lift again. " . . . Pretty Boy."

A soft laugh escapes him. The room falls quiet once more. I turn back toward the ceiling, determined not to think about how close he is. Determined not to notice the warmth lingering between us. Determined not to imagine what would happen if either of us reached across the few careful inches separating us.

I don't move.

Neither does he.

But sleep takes much longer than usual to find me, because every time I close my eyes, all I can think about is the oversized white kurta wrapped around me . . . and the man sleeping beside me who somehow made me forget to be ashamed of myself for an entire evening.

DADI

ANAMIKA

My suitcase, it seems, has decided to develop a personality of its own.

It still hasn't arrived.

Apparently, after yesterday's confusion with the cars taking different routes, it is somewhere between here and the estate, stubbornly refusing to reunite with its owner. Which leaves me walking into breakfast wearing yet another one of Yuvaan's white cotton kurtas.

The sleeves are rolled twice over just to free my hands, the hem brushes almost to my ankles, and despite myself, I catch the faint scent of sandalwood every time I move. It should feel awkward. Instead, somewhere between last night and this morning, I've become just comfortable enough in it to stop tugging at the fabric every few seconds.

Almost.

"Mumma," Sara announces the second I pull out my chair, her eyes lighting up as though she's just made an important discovery, "you look so pretty in Mister's clothes."

I freeze halfway through sitting down. Heat rushes to my face so quickly it almost makes me laugh. Children really do have a terrifying talent for saying exactly the thing adults spend all their energy trying not to acknowledge. Across the table, Amma Saheba smiles into her cup of tea. "She really does." There's far too much satisfaction in her voice.

She exchanges a glance with Sara. A very suspicious glance. I narrow my eyes at both of them. "It was either this," I say, reaching for the teapot with exaggerated concentration, "or sleeping in yesterday's clothes."

"Hm."

Amma Saheba nods thoughtfully. "That explains the kurta."

I relax. Then she adds, perfectly innocently—"It doesn't explain why you're glowing."

I nearly spill my tea. "I am not glowing."

"You are a little," Sara says helpfully before taking a bite of toast. I close my eyes for a brief second. Wonderful. Now there are two of them.

"I'm not glowing," I repeat, though the words sound considerably less convincing the second time. Neither of them looks remotely persuaded. Before either can continue, a familiar voice comes from behind me.

"Stop troubling my wife." I turn instinctively. Yuvaan is walking toward the table, fastening the cuff of his shirt as though he hasn't just casually destroyed whatever composure I had left before breakfast.

My wife.

He says it so naturally. No hesitation. No self-consciousness. No emphasis. Just . . . my wife.

Like it's become the simplest truth in his vocabulary. Something inside me stumbles. It's ridiculous how much two ordinary words can undo me. He doesn't seem to notice. Or perhaps he notices and kindly pretends he doesn't. By the time he reaches the table, he's already crouching beside Sara's chair. His hand disappears behind his back.

A second later, he reveals today's flower. A bright red hibiscus. He presents it with all the seriousness of a royal ceremony. "Flower number . . . " He pauses thoughtfully before looking at Sara. " . . . I've honestly lost count, Princess." Sara gasps dramatically before accepting it in both hands.

"Me too." She carefully tucks it behind her ear, patting it into place with enormous concentration. "There." She beams. "Perfect."

He nods solemnly. "Definitely." I watch them without saying anything.

It has become such an ordinary part of our mornings now that no one comments on it anymore. Every single day. Without fail. A different flower. The promise had begun almost accidentally—the sort of thing adults say to make a cautious child smile. Most people would've forgotten by the third morning. Yuvaan never did. Not once. Not even on days he left before sunrise for meetings. Somehow, there was always another flower waiting.

I don't even think he sees it as keeping a promise anymore. It's simply become part of who he is. Like breathing. Like remembering to lock the study before bed. Small things matter to him. Always have. He remembers people's tea exactly the way they like it. Birthdays nobody else remembers. Favourite books. Offhand conversations from years ago. Dreams sketched on the back page of an old notebook.