Page 77 of Scars and Crowns

"Yes." The word comes out before I've thought about it. No hesitation. Just the truth.

"I do." Another silence. Comfortable. Unhurried.

"I'm glad." The simplicity of it catches me off guard. "I've known you for Ten years," Samrat continues. "I don't think I've heard you admit you wanted something more than a handful of times."

I lean back slowly. He's right. Most of my life has been built around obligations. Duty. Expectation. Need. Want rarely entered the conversation.

And yet . . . I want this.

Her. Both of them. Without apology. Without qualification.

"I think something happened to her." The words leave before I can stop them. Samrat grows quiet again.

"Tell me."

I stare at the bookshelf opposite my desk. "She gets frightened."

"How?"

"The kind of fear your body remembers before your mind does."

"I've seen people panic before. This wasn't panic. It was memory." I rub a hand over my jaw. "I don't know who hurt her."

"I don't know when."

"I don't know how much."

"I only know someone did."

"And I don't know how to ask without making her feel cornered."

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. When Samrat finally answers, his voice is steady. "Then don't ask."

I frown slightly. "What?"

"Not yet." He says it so matter-of-factly that I stop arguing before I begin. "You've never needed explanations before deciding someone deserved protection." I blink. "You did the same thing for me." His words pull me back years.

College.

Late-night drives.

Him refusing to go home for reasons he never explained until much later. I never asked then either. I simply stayed. "You waited until I was ready." He continues quietly. "You never forced the truth out of me." I hadn't realised I'd done that. "You just kept showing up." A small pause. "Do that." I sit with those words. "They tell you eventually," he says. "When they stop worrying you'll leave after hearing it." My chest feels strangely tight. "And don't let her catch you worrying."

"Why?"

"Because people who carry shame mistake concern for pressure." I close my eyes briefly.

He isn't wrong. "If she thinks you're waiting for a confession, she'll retreat."

"I know women like that."

"So . . . "

He exhales softly. "You love her. Just do what your heart says, Yuv. For once, let yourself be happy.” The advice is painfully ordinary.

No dramatic speeches. No impossible wisdom. Just patience.

It's exactly why I've trusted him for ten years. "When are you coming back to Devgarh?" I ask, steering us away from a conversation that's become dangerously close to feelings.