His Bleeding Rose

ANYTHING?

It had been an hour since we sat together. The silence between us wasn't heavy; it was comforting, like the quiet that follows a storm. I watched him from the corner of my eye, my gaze tracing the face I'd known so well, yet sometimes felt like I didn't understand at all.

Adhiraj—this man who wore strength like armor, who carried the weight of his name, his family, and his grief—seemed so vulnerable in this moment. He wasn't the monster people made him out to be, and I hated that he believed their whispers. He was human, aching and broken in ways even he didn't fully understand.

As his head rested in my lap, I didn't dare move. My hand hovered for a moment before finally settling lightly on his hair. I didn't try to fix him or erase his pain; not today. Today, he needed to feel. And I needed to witness it.

His confession had shaken me to my core. I had cried silently as he spoke, breaking for the boy who had lost a sister he adored and the man who had spent years carrying that guilt like a noose around his neck. His past explained so much—the walls he built, the doubts, the way he lashed out. And now, I could see the cracks.

"Are you okay now?" I whispered, my voice soft as if afraid to disturb the fragile quiet.
"Ji," he replied, his breath warm against my waist. His voice was low and worn, a reflection of the storm that had passed.
"Are you sure?" I asked again, unable to shake the worry from my chest.
"Of course," he said, sitting up slowly.

I looked at him then, truly looked at him—the man I had loved for so long, through every moment of pain and joy. And yet, even the depth of my love wouldn't change what I had decided. It wouldn't stop me this time.

But still, I wanted to hold on to these days. I wanted to savor what little time we had left. I had made my peace with the fact that happiness wasn't meant for me. How foolish I had been to dream of a life with him—a life filled with children, laughter, and the promise of forever. Happiness had always been a fleeting visitor, and I wasn't naïve enough to chase it anymore.

"I wasted your night," he said suddenly getting up, breaking the silence. His voice carried a tinge of guilt. "I was going to cook for you, but instead... I ended up crying like a baby."

"You didn't waste my night," I replied, standing and offering him my hand. "And you can still cook now. Let's go."

He hesitated for a moment before taking my hand. His touch was warm and steady, grounding me as we walked to the kitchen.

"How do you even know how to cook? Especially Indian food?" I asked, curious.
"My grandmother taught me," he replied, a soft smile playing on his lips.
"Maharani Gayatri Devi taught you how to cook?" I asked, my eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

He laughed, the sound low and genuine. "She wasn't as tough or as intimidating as people think she was. She had a way of making even the simplest moments feel grand."

I sat at the kitchen table, watching him as he moved with ease and precision. There was something deeply intimate about this—seeing him in such an unguarded moment, away from the weight of his title and responsibilities.