ROYAL HIGHNESS

43. was that you?

The gentle rustle of night wind whispered through the fabric of the balcony tent, carrying with it the scent of distant flowers and the hum of a quiet city. The tiny makeshift haven, tucked away on the high-rise balcony, was lit only by the soft glow of Amyardh’s laptop screen. It flickered faintly with the end credits of a long-forgotten series, one they had binged without much care for the plot. Laughter had come and gone in waves, muffled beneath whispered commentary and inside jokes only they could understand. The tent was warm with shared body heat and old quilts, and the world outside it no longer existed.

Amyardh let the laptop lid fall shut, the screen dimming with a quiet sigh. He turned to Ovie, eyes catching the sparkle in hers—mischief, perhaps, or the remnants of too much comfort. He shifted a little, tucking a pillow behind him, and smiled lazily. “Wanna play something?” he murmured, his voice low and worn with sleepiness.

Ovie grinned and nodded, already crawling over to sit directly in front of him. The lights from the city painted a soft outline around her, a silver halo catching in her hair as she settled onto the plush rug beneath them. She pulled her long braid over her shoulder, revealing the deep-cut back of her soft cotton chudidhar top. The fabric hung delicately around her shoulders, leaving much of her back exposed, smooth and inviting in the pale moonlight.

Amyardh raised a brow. “Okay,” he said, voice playful now, “I’ll doodle something on your back. You guess what it is.”

She laughed. “You’re going to draw badly on purpose.”

“Maybe. That’s part of the challenge.”

He leaned forward, hands brushing gently over the curve of her spine before one finger began to trace slow, careful patterns. A squiggly spiral. A star, perhaps. Then a bunny, or maybe a cloud—it was hard to tell even for him. With each failed guess, Ovie’s giggles grew louder, her head tilting, neck craning back to glare at him playfully.

“Is it…a mango?”

“Wrong.”

“A dolphin?”

“Still wrong.”

“You suck at drawing.”

“Or you suck at guessing.”

The teasing went back and forth, playful tension rising like the steam from their forgotten mugs of tea. Finally, Amyardh drew a rose—one of the few things he could replicate with decent accuracy. The swirl of petals, the stem, a tiny thorn for flair. His finger moved slowly, almost reverently, as if he were painting with something more delicate than touch. Ovie shivered a little beneath the faint pressure.

“Wait,” she said suddenly, brows furrowing in concentration. “Is it a rose?”

He stilled. “Finally.”

A breathy laugh escaped him as he leaned back against the pillows, his head falling against the makeshift tent wall. “You got one right at last.”

“I knew it,” she said, triumphant.

Amyardh smirked, about to rise. “Hall mein reh gaya hai... le aata hu, ruko.” His voice was soft, but the movement of his body suggested he was about to get up and head back inside the apartment.

Before he could even lift himself fully, Ovie’s hand shot out, wrapping around his wrist, warm and firm. “Rehne do,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “Mat jao. Dedena baad mein.”

He froze, his eyes dropping to where her fingers held him—not tightly, but with intent. Her grip was small, delicate, but it held all the weight of something deeper. He nodded silently and let himself sink back into the warm cocoon of blankets and pillows.