His pov
She glided to the floor, sitting beside me. I was already there, cross-legged, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
Moments ago, she had admitted, in her own infuriatingly roundabout manner, that she did not know what she felt, and now she looked offended that I dared to believe otherwise.
"I am not pretending. I genuinely don't know what I feel," she said softly.
I watched her for a moment, allowing the silence to stretch between us.
She truly believed it. And now she expected me to believe that she had absolutely no idea what she felt.
I almost laughed.
Instead, I reached for her waist and drew her a little closer because I wanted her to stop putting an entire kingdom's worth of distance between us every time she became aware that I was looking at her.
She stiffened immediately.
She was trying so hard to understand herself that she had forgotten feelings rarely arrived politely, introducing themselves and explaining their intentions. They simply settled into you little by little until one day you realized someone's presence had become woven into the rhythm of your ordinary moments.
She was not there yet, but she was close.
The last letter alone had told enough—more than any confession could.
I leaned forward.
Her breathing hitched. Her eyes widened, every coherent thought abandoning her at once. Adorable.
I had no intention of kissing her. Not tonight. Not when she was already fighting herself.
So I merely passed by her cheek until my lips hovered near her ear, close enough for her to hear the smile in my voice.
"Liar," I murmured.
She went perfectly still. And almost immediately she shook her head in protest, almost bumping into me in the process.
"I am not lying."
I merely hummed in response because I knew she did not mean to.
My hold on her waist loosened, not because I intended to let go, but because my hand settled more comfortably against her side. My thumb moved absentmindedly in slow circles, as though I had forgotten it belonged to me.
I noticed the moment she became aware of it.
Her shoulders drew tighter, her breathing shallower, and a faint flush climbed up her neck.
She was discovering, little by little, that proximity no longer frightened her. It unsettled her far more than fear ever had.
I rested my chin on her shoulder and said quietly, "Alright. If that's what you want to believe."
I could feel her reacting to that.
"You can take your time," I continued. "As much as you need."
I felt her shift beside me, awkward and uncertain, trying to decide what to do with this.
A smile threatened at the corner of my mouth.
She was impossible.
And entirely transparent.
"But," I said slowly, "when you do confess—"
She turned toward me slightly, her cheek pressing against me.
"—You will have to do it properly."
Now she turned toward me fully.
"And who exactly are you?" she asked, narrowing her eyes, as though demanding a confession of her own.
I met her gaze.
Gods, if only she knew what I was to her.
But she was still learning about herself, so I answered with what I knew.
"A man who waited."
Something in her expression changed.
The indignation softened.
She became very still.
Then, almost timidly, she asked, "Did you truly?"
For a moment, I did not answer.
I remembered the moments when I waited for her letters. I reread the old ones because she had not sent any new ones. I had waited in a hundred foolish ways, teaching myself patience whenever she restrained herself. I had waited through every moment she chose not to write what she was not yet sure about.
And when sleep finally claimed me, she followed me there too.
I smiled faintly.
"Even in dreams."
She lowered her eyes, and silence stretched between us.
She remained quiet for a while.
We stayed there in the silence of the night—my chin resting on her shoulder, one hand around her waist, the other braced against the floor beside hers for support. We sat cross-legged, and for a while the only sound between us was our shared silence.
Then, unexpectedly, she spoke.
"Suppose I stop writing."
I looked at her.
There was no challenge in her voice, only curiosity—the kind she resorted to whenever she wanted reassurance but refused to admit it.
I shrugged lightly.
"I will wait."
She shifted slightly against me, tilting her head back just enough to look up at my face.
"For how long?"
My fingers drummed lazily against her waist.
"As long as the accused remains imprisoned."
A small crease formed between her brows.
"Imprisoned where?"
I lifted my hand slowly and pointed toward her chest.
For a heartbeat, she stared at me as though her mind had stopped functioning.
Then colour rushed into her cheeks. Her eyes widened.
Slowly, deliberately, I started moving the pointed hand nearer her chest.
She caught it in hers immediately.
"Do you have no dignity? No shame?"
The question came flatly, without hesitation, without mercy.
My smile deepened.
"No."
Her expression immediately suggested she regretted asking.
"Why?"
I considered the question with a seriousness it absolutely did not deserve and answered,
"I am waiting for someone."
The answer made her pause.
Then she asked, carrying the same confidence she always did,
"Who?"
Her gaze remained fixed on me. Her grip tightened slightly around my hand.
"A troublesome attendant."
Her eyes narrowed.
And I caught the relief that softened her expression because the attendant in question was sitting directly opposite me, and we both knew it.
She pretended otherwise.
"Then don't."
I nodded thoughtfully, as though she had offered a perfectly reasonable solution.
"I tried."
Something about the answer made her expression change, as if she had not expected that.
More carefully this time, she asked,
"And?"
I answered,
"You sent another letter."
The words landed between us softly, yet with surprising force.
She looked away first.
I could see a smile forming on her face, one she was still not entirely sure about letting me witness.
Then she slowly moved her hand into her lap, mine still held loosely within it.
And finally, she lowered her gaze to the place where our hands remained intertwined.
She asked, "Hypothetically."
I merely hummed in response before sliding down completely onto the floor and placing my head in her lap. She allowed it without protest, shifting her position slightly so that I could settle comfortably, though the faint frown lingering on her face never quite disappeared.
Gods, I loved her antics.
After a brief silence, she continued, "If someone liked someone..."
Again, I hummed, feeling the quiet warmth of her presence surrounding me as I stared absently at some indistinct corner of the room, waiting for her to finish whatever careful inquiry she was constructing.
"How would they know?"
At that, I finally turned my head slightly, studying her profile. She was deliberately looking elsewhere, pretending to be interested in the room around us, though I could already see the hint of a smile threatening to betray her composure.
"They would ask?" she suggested.
"No."
She glanced down at me, seemingly dissatisfied.
"They would tell?"
"Absolutely not."
She considered my answer for a moment, her brows drawing together.
"Then?"
I held her gaze for a moment before answering, "They would become jealous."
She stilled almost immediately.
It was subtle—a slight tightening of her shoulders, a pause in her breathing, an expression hovering somewhere between indignation and disbelief—but I noticed it all, and my smile widened accordingly.
"And," I continued, unable to resist enjoying myself, "they would forbid you from offering robes to other men."
Before I could fully savour my triumph, her fingers curled into my hair, and she tugged. It was not hard enough to hurt, yet certainly not gentle enough to be mistaken for affection.
"Shut up."
A laugh escaped me despite myself.
"There she is."
She smiled despite the glare she was directing at me, her cheeks faintly flushed in a manner she would undoubtedly deny if anyone dared mention it.
After a moment, her fingers loosened, and the mock punishment gradually gave way to something far gentler as she began absentmindedly threading her fingers through my hair, lightly scratching against my scalp. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to simply feel it, while she continued the motion without speaking, as though she had forgotten she was doing it at all.
My eyes were closed, but I could still feel her fingers moving absentmindedly through my hair, pausing now and then as if she were thinking of something she refused to say aloud.
"Do you know what your problem is?" I asked quietly.
"What?" she replied.
"You keep speaking when you're frightened."
I didn't need to look at her to know the expression she must have worn.
"I am not frightened."
"You're frightened," I said.
"No."
"You are," I insisted, opening my eyes just enough to look at her. "Because if you stop talking..."
Her fingers stilled against my scalp.
"Then what?" she asked.
I lifted my head slightly and found her already watching me, her gaze steady and annoyingly patient.
"You might say what you actually feel."
One eyebrow rose.
"And what do you think I feel?"
I held her gaze longer than I should have. It was absurd, really. This was the same girl who had argued with me through letters for months, contradicted me with alarming consistency, challenged nearly every opinion I held, and still sat here asking me what she felt as though she were genuinely unaware of it.
I answered softly.
"You feel enough to stay."
For a moment, I expected embarrassment, perhaps annoyance disguised as sarcasm, or even one of her ridiculous retorts.
Instead, something in her expression shifted in a way I couldn't understand. She seemed to dislike my answer.
Without a word, she let go of my hand. The fingers that had been loosely threaded with mine withdrew, and almost at the same time her other hand slipped away from my hair.
"Get up."
I frowned.
"What?"
She tapped my shoulder lightly.
"Get up."
I stared at her, confused.
She shook my shoulder again, harder this time, impatience replacing whatever emotion had crossed her face moments ago.
"Get up."
Her grip tightened as she gave me another firm shake.
"Get up."
Instinctively, I glanced around. Hriday stood beside me, waiting. I looked back toward her. There was no lap beneath my head. No fingers tangled in my hair. No annoyed girl pretending she didn't care.
Only my pillow.
I blinked once.
Then twice.
Of course, she wasn't there.
I turned toward Hriday, who was still standing over me with folded arms, looking increasingly unimpressed.
Apparently, he had been trying to wake me up for quite some time.
I rubbed my eyes and squinted against the pale glow of morning spilling through the lattice windows. It took me a moment to adjust, another to understand why my neck hurt, and a third to realize that I had spent the entire night asleep on the floor.
As I was still trying to process that rather humiliating discovery, Hriday's voice came from somewhere above me.
"Why are you sleeping on the floor?"
I looked up.
Hriday stood over me, arms crossed, looking less concerned and more genuinely curious, as though he had walked in expecting a prince and found a drunk bard instead.
Only then did I remember the dream.
The letters.
Her fingers in my hair.
Her lap beneath my head.
Her annoyed expression when I told her she stayed because she felt enough to stay.
Right.
A dream.
Of course.
I cleared my throat and planted a hand on the floor, deciding the wisest course of action was to stand up and pretend I possessed at least a fragment of dignity.
Unfortunately, I stood too quickly.
My foot caught in the blanket lying beside me, and before I could recover my balance, instinct took over.
I reached for the nearest thing. The nearest thing happened to be Hriday's kurta. I grabbed a fistful of fabric.
I fell.
And then I heard it.
Chrrrrrr.
The sound was dreadful.
The kind of sound that instantly convinces a man that his ancestors have turned away in disappointment.
I looked up.
Hriday looked down.
We both froze.
Slowly, almost fearfully, my eyes drifted toward his shoulder.
The kurta had torn cleanly from the collar down the sleeve, exposing a broad shoulder and a considerable portion of his chest.
Hriday lowered his gaze to inspect the damage himself.
His expression changed. The sort of expression commanders wore moments before deciding whether execution was excessive.
I immediately released his kurta and straightened myself.
Hriday stared at me with complete disbelief.
Then, in a voice so dry it could have withered crops, he said, "I should have remained at war. It was safer."
I laughed.
Or rather, I produced something vaguely resembling laughter.
"Ha... ha."
He continued staring.
"Hriday, my friend, it's just—"
I stopped.
Because I had absolutely no idea what came after it's just. There was no explanation.
No justification.
No excuse in existence for waking up from a dream, sleeping on the floor, attacking one's friend with poor balance, and tearing his clothes before sunrise.
So I merely shrugged.
Hriday looked down at the torn fabric and ran his fingers over the rip as though determination alone might stitch it back together.
Then he sighed.
"If this is how you greet friends," he said, glancing at me from the corner of his eye, "I fear for your enemies."
I smiled.
Or attempted to.
Judging by his expression, the attempt had failed.
Hriday shook his head and slowly surveyed the chamber, perhaps searching for witnesses, perhaps searching for his patience, or perhaps wondering at what point exactly his life had become this absurd. His gaze drifted around the chamber before finally settling on the sofa.
Or rather, on the robe draped carelessly over its arm.
He walked toward it, speaking as though the morning had not already descended into complete absurdity.
"Whatever you were dreaming about," he said, picking up the robe, "it is over now. We need to look at the designs for the shared castles. There seems to be an issue with the eastern fortifications."
As he spoke, he unfolded the robe and casually moved to slip it over his shoulders.
For a moment, I paid little attention. I was still trying to recover from tearing his kurta, embarrassing myself before sunrise, and mourning a dream I should not have enjoyed nearly as much as I had.
Then I actually looked at the robe.
And my entire body reacted before my mind could catch up.
It was that robe.
The one I had given her.
The one she had refused to give to anyone.
The one she would not allow anyone else to touch, much less wear.
"Stop."
The word came out so quickly and sharply that even I was surprised.
Hriday froze mid-motion, one arm already halfway through the sleeve.
He slowly turned his head toward me.
"What?"
I crossed the distance between us in two strides and snatched the robe from his hands.
"You can't wear this."
He stared at me.
His expression conveyed a single, unmistakable sentiment.
Really?
He extended his hand, expecting me to return it. I promptly moved the robe behind my back.
"It's mine."
He frowned.
He pointed at the shredded remains of his kurta hanging unevenly from one shoulder.
"And this was mine."
I shrugged.
"Still. You can't wear this."
"I will give it back."
I shook my head.
"No."
"I merely need something to wear until I find another kurta."
"Wear something else."
"There is nothing else here."
"There must be."
"There isn't."
"Then wait."
"For what?"
"I don't know."
Hriday exhaled slowly through his nose, the expression on his face making it abundantly clear that he deeply regretted preserving my life on several occasions.
He folded his arms across his exposed chest. Hriday did not even allow me the dignity of inventing an excuse. He extended his hand toward me.
No words.
No arguments.
Just an outstretched hand and a look that had noticeably darkened since our conversation began. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have handed over the robe without protest. We had shared clothes countless times over the years, stolen each other's shawls during winters, exchanged tunics while travelling, and occasionally worn whatever happened to be within reach.
But not this robe.
For reasons I was unwilling to examine too closely, I could not let him wear this robe.
So, naturally, I resorted to the most mature course of action available.
I pretended not to notice him.
I turned my head and studied the chamber with sudden interest, my gaze lingering on the door, then the windows, then a crack in the stone wall that I was fairly certain had not existed yesterday.
Hriday sighed.
It was not an annoyed sigh.
It was the sigh of a man finally accepting that his closest friend was beyond salvation.
Then, without another word, he hooked his fingers into the torn collar of his kurta, gathering the ripped fabric into his fist.
I frowned.
"What are you doing?"
He looked at me only briefly.
"Since clothes have become a matter of great political importance," he said evenly, "I have decided to avoid the subject entirely."
Before I could respond, he pulled.
The fabric surrendered instantly.
With one smooth motion, he tore the remainder of the kurta off and tossed it aside as though shedding an inconvenience.
I stared.
He stood there utterly unbothered, looking more like a commander returning from battle than a man who had just undressed himself out of sheer irritation.
I blinked.
"Did you just tear your entire kurta?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He shrugged.
"I hope she appreciates the sacrifice."
I could not help smiling.
There were moments when Hriday, the great commander of the royal army, a strategist feared by enemies and revered by soldiers, behaved in ways so absurdly unlike his usual composed demeanour that I wondered if anyone beyond our circle would ever believe me.
I grinned.
"You simply wanted an excuse to display your well-built body."
He did not dignify that accusation with a response.
Instead, he bent down, collected the torn pieces of cloth into one hand, walked back toward me, and unceremoniously deposited them into my free hand.
"Keep both," he said dryly. "You seem to enjoy collecting things."
Then he turned toward the door.
Just before stepping out, he glanced over his shoulder.
"Guard them as diligently as you guard that robe."
I laughed despite myself, clutching the robe against my chest and lifting the ruined kurta theatrically.
"I will!"
Hriday merely shook his head and continued walking away, bare-chested and entirely unimpressed, while I stood in the middle of my chamber holding a treasured robe in one hand and the remains of my commander's dignity in the other.
I smiled to myself.
What an utterly ridiculous collection. One was wrapped in affection. The other had been surrendered in exasperation.
Yet somehow, both carried the unmistakable weight of love. Carefully, I folded the robe. Then, with equal care, I folded every torn strip of the kurta, smoothing the frayed edges as though they were silk instead of ruined cotton.
Anyone else would have seen an old robe and a destroyed garment.
I saw memories.
Promises never spoken aloud. People who had somehow become my home.
No doubt, I loved them both with all my heart.
And as long as I drew breath, these little relics of their affection would remain with me—not because they possessed any value of their own, but because they had once belonged to the two people who meant the world to me.
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