Forever His

Chapter 63: A Delicate Touch

Mahnoor's POV:

I sit at the edge of the hospital bed, my arm throbbing dully in its cast. The sterile smell of disinfectant and the cool air of the room cling to me, making me feel more exposed than I already am in this flimsy hospital gown. My fingers toy with the fabric nervously as Shahmeer approaches, holding a small shopping bag.

"What's in there?" I ask, my voice softer than intended.

He doesn't answer right away, setting the bag down beside me on the bed. His jaw tightens slightly before he finally says, "Your clothes. I brought them from home."

My breath catches when he pulls out the familiar black t-shirt and my Hello Kitty pajama bottoms. For a moment, I just stare at them, the simple gesture catching me off guard. He thought about me—thought enough to bring something that might make me comfortable.

But then reality sets in. I look at my broken arm, encased in plaster and slung awkwardly against my chest, and then back at him. "I can't put these on by myself," I mutter.

"That's why I'm here," he says simply, his tone as nonchalant as ever.

"What?" I blink at him. "No, Shahmeer, you can't just—"

"I can," he interrupts, his dark eyes locking onto mine with that infuriating calmness. "You need help, and I'm the only one here."

My cheeks burn, but his gaze doesn't waver, and I know there's no point in arguing. With a deep breath, I let my good hand drop from clutching the gown to my chest. "Fine," I mumble, looking away.

He moves closer, his fingers deftly undoing the ties at the back of the gown. The air hits my skin first, and then the silence follows—so heavy it feels like it could crush me. His hands pause for a fraction of a second, and I glance up just in time to catch his eyes darting over me before he quickly looks away.

"Focus on your arm," he mutters, more to himself than to me.

The flush on my cheeks deepens, and my heart pounds as his hands work, pulling the fabric carefully over my uninjured shoulder first, then delicately slipping it down the arm encased in plaster. He's close—so close I can feel the heat radiating off him, his breath soft and even despite the tension that's settled between us.

When the gown falls away completely, leaving me bare except for the sling, I instinctively fold my arm across my chest. His gaze never dips, his eyes fixed on the cast like it's the only thing in the room worth noticing.

But I notice. I notice everything. The way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, the tight clench of his jaw, the way his hand trembles—just barely—when he reaches for the t-shirt.

"This might hurt a little," he says, his voice lower now, almost gentle.

I nod, unable to form words.

He slides the fabric carefully over my head, his fingers grazing my neck, my collarbone. My skin feels like it's on fire everywhere he touches, and when he moves to guide my injured arm through the sleeve, the pressure against the cast makes me wince.

"Sorry," he says quickly, his eyes snapping to mine, filled with something I can't quite place.

"It's fine," I whisper, though my voice trembles.

His focus shifts back to the shirt, his hands firm but careful as he eases it down. When it's finally in place, he takes a step back, exhaling softly like he's just finished a marathon.

But we're not done. He picks up the pajama bottoms next, and my heart lurches.

"I can do that part," I say hurriedly.