Meera looked away after saying those words — "Don't try, Abhimanyu… do."
And then she went quiet.
He didn't speak either.
There was too much between them — silence wasn't empty here, it was heavy.
She tried to sit up but winced.
Immediately, he reached out to help her, but she flinched.
"I can do it," she said softly, not meeting his eyes.
He drew his hands back slowly, respecting the space. "Okay."
She adjusted herself against the couch cushion, wrapping her arms around her knees. The oversized sweatshirt she wore hung loose on her frame — she'd lost so much weight it physically hurt him to see it. She looked like a ghost of herself.
He sat down a few feet away, on the floor — close, but not too close.
"You don't have to talk," he said. "You don't have to do anything. I just want to be here. If you let me."
She didn't respond.
But she didn't ask him to leave either.
For a long time, nothing was said. She just stared ahead, eyes red, and he watched her — guarding her like a soldier on duty. No more lies. No more distance. Just presence.
After a while, her voice broke the stillness.
"I haven't eaten in two days," she murmured.
He stood instantly. "I'll make something."
"No," she whispered. Her eyes, hollow and glassy, flicked to his. "Just… sleep with me tonight."
He froze.
Not out of lust. Not out of confusion. But because her voice wasn't seductive — it was broken. Tired. Yearning.
"Okay," he said, softly. "Of course."
She leaned back against the bed and shifted to make space. He walked over slowly, like every step toward her was sacred now. He didn't touch her. Didn't rush.
She pulled the blanket over her legs and stared at the ceiling.
He lay down beside her, keeping distance.
And then, after a minute, her voice came again — so quiet it was barely a breath.
"You're warm."
That's when she moved closer. Rested her head against his chest. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, like muscle memory — like she didn't even realise she was holding him until her tears came again, soundless and heavy.
He wrapped his arm around her. One arm. No movement. No kisses. Just stillness and protection.
"I'm here," he said. "And I'm not leaving."
The next few days were unlike anything the world had ever seen from Abhimanyu Rajput.
The king of the underground. The ruthless businessman. The cold strategist.
Gone.
Here was a man waking up early to warm soup for his wife who refused to eat. Here was a man brushing her hair gently while she stared at the wall in silence. Here was a man changing her sheets, airing her room, bringing her fresh clothes — without speaking too much, without demanding anything in return.
He let her cry. Let her scream. Let her sleep for 20 hours and held her hand during the remaining 4.
He stayed through the mess, the silence, the heartbreak. Not as a man trying to win her back — but as a man who realised that he'd never been there in the first place.
————————————————————
The room was dimly lit, the golden haze of Finland's late evening sun spilling gently across the windowpane. Meera sat on the couch, legs tucked under her, a blanket draped over her shoulders. Her eyes were still tired, cheeks a little hollow, but there was life in her gaze tonight — barely, but it was there.
Abhimanyu sat across from her on the floor, slicing apples with the same intensity he once used to handle weapons. There was a plate of dry toast between them, untouched.
"I swear," he muttered under his breath as he inspected one of the slices, "this bread is so dry, even our palace walls are softer."
A small, strange sound escaped Meera — unexpected, like something slipping out before she could catch it.
A laugh.
Soft. Cracked. But real.
Abhimanyu looked up sharply.
Meera had a hand over her mouth, eyes wide — as if she couldn't believe herself either. The laugh echoed again, a little louder this time. She shook her head, biting her lip, looking down at the toast like it had personally betrayed her.
"That was such a bad joke," she said, voice still hoarse from all the silence.
But she was smiling.
Not the forced one she used when people pitied her. Not the polite one she wore in the palace.
This one… was hers.
And Abhimanyu didn't say a word. He just sat there, watching her, a slow smile spreading across his own face like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds.
For the first time in what felt like lifetimes, he saw her come back to him.
Not fully. Not completely.
But enough to breathe.
Enough to hope.
————————————————————
The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the occasional rustle of blankets as Abhimanyu slipped under the covers beside her. The bed dipped slightly with his weight, and Meera instinctively turned toward him, her fingers brushing his bare arm.
She didn't speak at first.
But then, her voice broke the silence — low, cracked, with a hint of heat beneath the exhaustion.
"I miss you," she whispered, her lips ghosting near his jaw. "I miss everything about you… especially the way you feel inside me."
He froze.
Her hand slid across his abdomen, tracing the lines she once knew so well. "I miss how you'd grab my hips, the way you'd whisper filth in my ear while—"
"Meera," he said firmly, voice strained, like it took everything in him not to give in.
But her eyes met his, still clouded with pain, still begging to feel something — anything — that wasn't this constant hollow ache.
"I need you," she breathed. "I want you."
Abhimanyu cupped her cheek gently, brushing his thumb over the tear that slid down.
"And I want you too," he admitted, jaw tight. "God, you don't know how much. But not like this. Not when your body's barely holding on."
He kissed her forehead — tender, reverent — and pulled her into his chest.
"I'm not touching you until you can meet me without breaking," he said. "You're not just some craving to me, Meera. You never were."
And just like that, with her pressed against his heartbeat and his arms locked tightly around her, her body finally gave in to sleep.
Safe. Wanted. But not used.
The sunlight filtered in gently through the sheer curtains, painting pale gold patterns across the floor. Meera stirred for the first time without panic tightening her chest. Her body ached, yes — but it was the kind of ache that reminded her she was alive.
And she wasn't alone.
Her hand stretched out, instinctively searching — and found him.
Abhimanyu was already awake, leaning against the headboard, scrolling through his phone silently with one arm still around her. But when he felt her shift, he looked down instantly.
"Hey," he murmured, setting the phone aside. "How do you feel?"
She blinked at him. "Better," she whispered. "Not fixed… but better."
He smiled — that rare, tender one that only she ever saw — and brushed her messy hair off her face.
"You slept through the night," he said. "First time in weeks."
She nodded slowly, eyes still on him. "Because you didn't leave."
"I won't," he promised, quietly. "Even when you push me away, scream at me, cry until your throat gives out — I'm not leaving."
Tears threatened again, but they didn't come from despair this time.
"Abhimanyu?"
"Hmm?"
"I meant it last night," she said softly. "I miss every part of you. But I think I needed this more."
His hand found hers under the blanket and squeezed. "So did I."
She tucked herself closer to him, cheek resting against his chest. There were no walls this morning. No revenge. No thrones. No wounds that demanded words. Just warmth, and two people learning how to breathe beside each other again.