Demon's Physco obsession

The Weight of His Concern

The opulent bedroom of the estate felt worlds apart from the sterile white of the hospital. Ankita sat propped up against a fortress of silk pillows, her pale face framed by the ornate tapestry of the headboard.

On the bedside table rested a silver tray — a bowl of thin, yellow lentil broth, a few dry toasts, and a glass of warm milk. "Medically approved recovery food," as the doctor had called it. Ankita, however, glared at it as though it were an insult to her very existence.

"I can't eat this, Adhiraaj Ji," she said, pushing the tray away with a feeble flick of her hand.

From the armchair beside her, Adhiraaj lowered the file he had been pretending to read. He hadn't left her side for a week. "It's for your strength, dove. The doctor said you need the protein."

"It tastes like sadness," she muttered. "Like someone just thought about dal near a bowl of water. I want something spicy. Rajma."

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. "You know you can't have heavy food yet. Your stomach needs time."

"Then I'll just stay weak," she declared dramatically, turning her head toward the window. "I refuse to eat until I get something that tastes like life again."

He sighed, rising from his chair. It was a tantrum born of exhaustion, but even so, his patience thinned only where she was concerned. Picking up the bowl, he held a spoonful toward her.

"Dove," his voice softened, though the command within it remained. "Stop this. You terrified me. You need to get better. Just one spoon."

She eyed the spoon suspiciously, then met his gaze — that familiar spark of mischief flickering to life.
"If it's so good for me," she whispered conspiratorially, "then you eat it."

He froze. Adhiraaj, whose palate worshipped spice, smoke, and richness, was being challenged by a bowl of flavourless broth.

"Dove, I—" he began.

"Promise me," she interrupted, leaning forward. "You eat one spoon, and I'll eat two."

He looked from the bowl to her pale, stubborn face. The thought of swallowing the tepid liquid made his throat tighten — but disappointing her was unthinkable.

With quiet resolve, he lifted the spoon to his lips. The broth was as dreadful as she had claimed — the faintest ghost of lentils, warm water, and despair. He swallowed and composed himself.

"There," he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "I kept my promise. Now your turn."

Her lips twitched into a small, genuine smile. "Okay." She opened her mouth.

He fed her two spoons. She obeyed, albeit grudgingly.

"Now you," she said promptly.

He hesitated — then surrendered. Another spoon. Another test of devotion.

And so it continued: one spoon for him, two for her. A strange, wordless truce. For her, it was nutrition. For him, it was love — a quiet, stubborn ritual of care.

When the bowl was finally empty, Ankita sank back against the pillows, her eyelids heavy.
"Thank you, Adhiraaj Ji," she murmured, drifting into sleep. "You're silly."

He looked at the empty bowl and then at her sleeping face. Gently, he brushed his thumb over her knuckles.
Silly, perhaps. But if swallowing bland broth was what it took to ease her fears, he would gladly endure a lifetime of tasteless meals.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Rest, dove."

The room fell silent, save for her steady breathing. Then, his gaze shifted to the small silver intercom.