A golden sliver of sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a soft warmth across the room. Myra sat near the breakfast tray, wearing a pastel pink saree, its light fabric draped delicately around her. Her hair, slightly tousled from sleep, had been loosely tied, a few strands falling over her forehead. A touch of kajal lingered beneath her eyes, and a soft pink stained her cheeks—not from makeup, but from something else entirely.
Ranvijay walked in quietly, having just finished a call with Shiv. His steps slowed the moment he saw her sitting there, her small fingers gently tearing a piece of roti but not really eating it.
She looked up—only for a second—and then quickly looked away.
He smiled.
"Pastel pink suits you," he said, voice lower than usual, his gaze sweeping across her features.
Myra didn't respond. She simply lifted a piece of roti and dipped it into the curry without looking at him.
Ranvijay walked over and sat down beside her, a bit closer than he needed to.
"If you're that quiet, I'll assume you're thinking about hugging me again," he murmured, utterly casual.
Her hand froze mid-air.
"…What?" she whispered, her ears turning a deep crimson.
He reached for his glass of water, taking a sip like he hadn't just thrown her into complete internal chaos.
"You know," he continued calmly, setting the glass down, "last night? Arms around my neck, trembling in my arms, refusing to let go."
Myra clenched her jaw, still not meeting his gaze. "I… I was just scared and shocked aaa...and emotional "
He cut in softly, leaning closer.
"So next time I want to be held by you, I should pray for getting injured ?"
Myra turned to him sharply, her face a mix of shock and indignation.
"That's not—!"
Ranvijay gave a small chuckle, resting his elbow on the table, chin on his hand as he stared at her with infuriating calmness.
"You were warm. Soft. You held me like you needed me." His voice dropped slightly, more serious now. "It was the first time… you didn't pull away."
Myra swallowed hard, her fingers knotting in the edge of her saree pallu.
"I didn't mean to—"
"I didn't say I didn't like it," he interrupted gently.
Silence stretched between them for a moment. Heavy. Telling.
She looked up at him, heart skipping, lips parted as if she wanted to say something—but the words just wouldn't come.
He leaned in just enough for her to feel his breath on her cheek.
"Next time," he said softly, "you don't have to wait for me to be shot. Just come to me."
Myra's cheeks burned. She looked away with a sudden gasp of breath, trying desperately to hide her face with the excuse of taking a sip of water.
Ranvijay leaned back, satisfied.
She didn't say a word. But she didn't scold him either.
And that was victory enough.
----------------------------
The morning sun poured lazily through the sheer curtains, turning the royal bedroom golden. Everything was still except for the soft rustle of silk and breath.
Myra stood frozen near the dresser, the open first-aid box in front of her, filled with fresh gauze, cotton, antiseptic, and a bowl of warm water. But her eyes weren't on it.
They were on him.
Ranvijay sat shirtless on the velvet sofa by the window, the morning light tracing the sculpted lines of his back and shoulders. His wound—though cleaned the previous night—still looked red and angry, a stark contrast to his otherwise unbreakable frame. His hair was slightly damp from a quick shower, and his expression was unreadable.
"Just clean and rebandage it," he had said.
But Myra hadn't moved.
She was gripping the edge of the dresser, her breathing uneven. Her heart was racing—not from fear, not entirely—but from something she couldn't name. A strange mixture of panic and awareness.
"I…" she began, swallowing hard. "I don't think I can do this."
He turned to her slowly, his voice calm but low.
"Myra."
Her eyes flicked up to meet his. He didn't look annoyed. He wasn't mocking her like he usually did. He looked... patient. Waiting.
"You don't have to," he said gently. "I can call someone."
"No," she replied quickly, her voice trembling. "I want to. I just…"
She looked away again.
She had seen him injured before. Bleeding. Hurt. But this… this was the first time she was seeing him—without the shadows of anger or the armor of formality. The black track pants sat low on his hips, his entire upper body bare and bruised. But more than the wound, it was the stillness of his body and the heaviness in his eyes that made her hesitate.
He looked too human.
Too breakable.
Her fingers shook as she dipped the cotton into the antiseptic. She walked toward him slowly, the bowl in her other hand, trying not to look directly at him, but failing.
When she reached him, she knelt beside the sofa, placing the bowl down. "I might hurt you," she whispered.
"You won't," he replied.
She bit her lip and reached forward. Her fingers touched his skin—hot and taut. He didn't flinch. But she did. The heat of his body, the pulse under her fingertips, the closeness—it was overwhelming.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
His voice was barely a breath. "Only when you look at me like that."
She blinked, pulling back slightly.
"I wasn't—" she began to deny, but the tremble in her tone betrayed her.
He said nothing.
So she focused again.
With the soaked cotton, she gently cleaned the edges of the wound, careful not to press too hard. Her hand trembled slightly at first, but gradually, she found her rhythm. The scent of antiseptic mingled with his aftershave. Her lashes lowered as she leaned in closer, brushing away dried blood.
"Do you always have to act strong?" she murmured quietly, not even realizing she had spoken out loud.
He didn't answer.
Instead, his head turned slightly, his gaze falling on her. Her breath caught in her throat.
"You're shaking," he said softly.
"I'm not used to this," she whispered, tying the gauze slowly. "I've never done this before…"
"You're doing fine."
His voice was like warm velvet—deep, steady. The kind of voice that settled in your bones and stayed long after the silence returned.
She finished the bandage, her fingers brushing over his chest briefly to tuck the gauze in. That's when she noticed it—her name, tattooed near his heart. Small. Faint. Old.
But undeniably hers.
She stared at it, stunned.
He noticed. His breath hitched. For a moment, both of them were still.
"Since when…?" she asked, barely able to speak.
He looked away for the first time.
"Since before you ever looked at me like this."
She didn't respond. Couldn't. Her throat tightened.
She stood abruptly, gathering the used cottons with shaking hands, blinking back something she couldn't define.
"Thank you," he said behind her.
She paused. Turned her face only slightly toward him.
"For what?" she asked softly.
"For touching me like I'm still human."
That broke something in her.
She turned fully, eyes meeting his. Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
"I'll go clean this," she said instead, almost running toward the bathroom with the tray in her hands.
And Ranvijay—still shirtless, still bleeding in places she couldn't see—just stared at the door long after it closed.
His fingers brushed the gauze she had wrapped for him.
His voice echoed in the stillness of the room.
"How long do I have to bleed for you to realize… all I want is to be yours?"