Chapter 22 Thank you, old man
Thank you, old man
SITARA
I haven’t been able to look at Dhruv normally for three days. And by normally, I mean without my brain betraying me in the most inconvenient ways possible.
Every time he’s near, all I can think about is how warm he is.
How his hands—huge, steady, ridiculously comforting—had covered my entire stomach like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like my body wasn’t something to flinch away from or apologize for.
Like my softness didn’t need explaining.
The memory makes my heart race in a way that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with something far more dangerous.
He didn’t leave me alone. Not once.
For three whole days, he rearranged his schedule like it was nothing.
Sat with me. Listened to me cry, complain, snap, spiral, contradict myself, and then cry again.
He let me be unreasonable without ever making me feel ridiculous for it.
He took the brunt of emotions he didn’t cause and held them like they belonged to him anyway.
And the worst part?
He did it like it was obvious. Like there was never any question of whether he should.
Thinking about it makes my chest feel too full.
Which is exactly why I’m standing outside his office right now, clutching an envelope to my chest like it’s a shield.
I take a deep breath.
Okay, Sitara.
Say thank you.
Be normal.
Do not spiral.
I knock.
“Come in,” his voice calls from inside.
I open the door carefully, peeking in first like a child checking whether a room is safe. He looks up from his desk instantly, pen pausing mid-motion.
“You don’t have to knock,” are the first words out of his mouth.
I frown. “What if you’re busy?”
He leans back in his chair, studying me with that calm, assessing gaze of his. “I am never too busy for my wife, princess.”
My heart does a full somersault. Traitorous. Absolutely traitorous.
I roll my eyes quickly, because if I don’t pretend I’m unaffected, I might actually combust. “You should still say that you’re busy sometimes. That’s how important people behave.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Good thing I don’t care about behaving like important people.”
He stands, walking around the desk, and gestures toward the sofa. “Sit.”
I do, perching on the edge like I’m afraid the cushions might swallow me whole. He sits too, close enough that I’m acutely aware of his presence without him actually touching me.
The envelope in my hands suddenly feels heavier.
His eyes drop to it immediately.
“What’s that?” he asks.
I swallow. “This is for you.”
He takes it from me slowly, brows knitting together. “For me?”
“Yes.” I nod too fast. “A thank-you gift.”
His head tilts. “For what?”
“For… taking care of me,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can overthink them. “When you didn’t have to.”
Something changes in his expression.
Not dramatically. Not sharply. Just enough that I notice.
“Who told you I didn’t have to?” he asks.
I blink. “I mean—you know—because—we just—”
Words abandon me completely, so I do what I always do when I’m nervous.
I ramble.
“I mean, it’s not like you were obligated and I know we’re married but this whole thing is new and you didn’t sign up for mood swings and pain and me crying over absolutely nothing and—”
“Sitara.”
His voice cuts through my spiraling gently but firmly.
I stop.
He turns toward me fully now, shifting closer. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel the warmth radiating from him. My breathing becomes embarrassingly shallow.
“I will always take care of you,” he says. “No one has to ask that of me. Not even you.”
I stare at him.
“You know why?”
My heart pounds. “Why?”
“Because you are my wife,” he says simply. “And being your husband, that’s my duty.”
I nod quickly, relieved and unsettled all at once.
Then he adds, quieter, “And duty aside—I would still take care of you. Just because I want to.”
That’s when I almost lose it.
I want to ask why. The word presses against the back of my throat like it’s desperate to escape. But I know if I let it out, I won’t survive the answer.
So instead, I point at the envelope.
“Open it,” I say.
He does.
I watch his face like my life depends on it. Every tiny reaction. Every flicker of recognition.
And when he doesn’t say anything immediately, panic takes over.
“It’s from the first event we met at,” I rush out. “You remember—the one where everyone was pretending to enjoy themselves and we snuck out because the music was terrible and—”
“I remember,” he says calmly.
“Oh. Right. Anyway, you look really young there,” I continue, because apparently I can’t stop now. “And now you’re very… old.”
He scoffs. “I am not very old.”
“You are,” I insist. “You have very old-man energy.”
“I’m thirty-two,” he says dryly.
I grin. “Exactly.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. He looks back at the picture, eyes softening.
“I’ll always cherish this,” he says quietly.
My heart goes completely feral.
That’s it. I can’t sit here anymore.
I stand up abruptly. “Okay, I should go.”
He looks up, amused. “You just got here.”
“Yes, but now I’ve said thank you,” I say quickly. “So mission accomplished.”
“Sitara—”
“Thank you again,” I interrupt, already backing toward the door. “Really.”
I don’t give myself time to think. I turn and leave before my heart can convince me to do something reckless—like stay, or ask questions I’m not ready to hear the answers to or…place a kiss on his cheek because the urge is too overwhelming and so damn scary.
As the door closes behind me, I press a hand to my chest.
My heart is still racing.
And for the first time, I realize this isn’t just gratitude anymore.
It’s something far more terrifying.