ARSHILA — POV
I'm sitting on the kitchen counter like I belong there.
Bare feet hooked around the edge.
Cold marble under my palms.
Four dangerously powerful men in my house like this is normal.
It's not.
But I'm not complaining.
Zayan is at the counter, shirtless, chopping vegetables like he's not built like a sin I shouldn't be thinking about before noon. Muscles moving. Veins doing that thing. Jaw tight in concentration like carrots personally offended him.
I hate that my eyes keep drifting.
I love that I have an excuse not to stare because the other three menaces are here today.
Bless them.
Eshan is leaning against the island, already loud, already annoying, already smiling like he woke up choosing violence.
Rafaen is calm in that royal, controlled way that screams I've never had to raise my voice to be obeyed.
Razmir is half-leaning, half-sitting, phone in hand, eyes flicking between stock charts like numbers are his love language.
Domestic chaos.
Elite edition.
Eshan snorts suddenly. Loud. Wheezy.
"Do you really think Nazrani built this country, fr?"
Rafaen doesn't even look at him at first. Just sips his drink.
Then, calm as hell, "Careful. Don't let your tongue land you in bars."
Eshan scoffs. Big dramatic sound.
"Oh?? Flexing as prince now? Really??"
I bite my lip.
Fail.
My grin is already there, stupid and wide. I'm watching them like it's premium entertainment.
Razmir finally looks up from his phone, deadpan.
"Mr Highness, cooking something besides Zayan today?"
Rafaen turns slowly.
"Shut up."
Zayan doesn't even glance back. Knife thuds against the board, steady, controlled.
"Don't distract him," Zayan says. "He's fragile."
Eshan wheezes harder.
"I am NOT fragile. I'm emotionally rich."
"Emotionally loud," Razmir mutters.
I laugh. Actual sound. I can't stop it.
It slips out before I think.
"Is it true," I say, swinging my legs slightly, "that without Tavarian, Nazranis are nothing?"
Silence.
Immediate.
Sharp.
All three heads turn toward me like I just threw a grenade into the room.
I freeze.
Then wince.
"Oops. I just asked the rumor, okay?"
Zayan doesn't look at them. He reaches behind him and holds something out.
A carrot.
Just… there.
Casual.
Like he's feeding a feral animal.
I stare at it.
He tilts his head slightly.
"Eat."
I take it automatically because my body is stupid around him.
Crunch.
Eshan bursts out laughing.
"She just started a political war and he fed her a carrot."
"Power move," Razmir says.
Rafaen finally speaks, eyes still on me, calm but amused.
"Rumors exist because people like simple stories."
Zayan adds without missing a chop,
"Truth is louder. People just don't like listening."
That line lands.
Hard.
My brain goes quiet for a second.
Eshan claps once.
"See? That's why we don't let him talk in public. Menace behavior."
Rafaen's phone buzzes. He checks it, expression shifting.
"Excuse me."
He walks out, voice low as he answers the call.
Razmir glances after him, then looks at Eshan.
"Why do you keep poking him, dude?"
Eshan shrugs.
"It's fun."
Zayan finally looks up. Slow blink.
"Careful. He'll knock you out."
Eshan grins.
"I know. Still worth it."
I snort again. I can't help it. They're ridiculous. Dangerous. Soft in the weirdest ways.
Rafaen comes back a minute later.
Razmir looks up.
"Who was it?"
"My nana."
Eshan perks up.
"This Saturday is your grandmother's birthday, right?"
Rafaen nods.
"Yeah."
Razmir smiles, already scheming.
"You planning to buy something?"
"Of course," Rafaen says. "She likes antiques."
Zayan adds, quiet but firm,
"She likes time. Don't be late."
That does something to me.
The way they talk about family.
Casual.
Certain.
Protective without saying it out loud.
I always thought rich brats didn't care about shit like this.
Turns out they care the most.
I watch them.
Laughing.
Bickering.
Existing like this is the safest place in the world.
____________________________
ZAYAN — POV
Dinner happens the way it always does when the house is full.
Noise first.
Cutlery.
Low laughter.
The clink of glasses.
Rafaen's grandmother's birthday comes up again, like it's orbiting the table. Dates. Venues. Who's flying in. Who's pretending they're not competing over gifts.
Eshan talks with his hands.
Razmir checks something on his phone, then pretends he isn't checking anything.
Rafaen listens more than he speaks.
And Arshila goes quiet.
Not sulky.
Not pissed.
Just… gone.
She eats. Barely.
Moves food around like she's trying to solve a puzzle with a fork.
Her eyes aren't on anyone.
They're not even in the room.
I notice it fast.
I always do.
Eshan notices too. His mouth opens once, then closes when I flick my fingers under the table. Sharp. Final.
Razmir clocks it and drops the subject mid-sentence like it never existed.
Rafaen watches me for half a second longer than necessary, then nods and moves on.
No one asks her anything.
Good.
The rest of dinner slides by.
Normal on the surface.
Cracked underneath.
After they leave, the house exhales. The kind of quiet that doesn't relax you. It just stretches.
She doesn't speak.
Not a word.
She moves like her body is on autopilot and her head is somewhere else entirely. Shoes off. Hands brushing the railing as she climbs the stairs, slow and careful like she's afraid of missing a step she can't see.
I follow a few steps behind.
Not close.
Not looming.
Just there.
She reaches the room and doesn't go where she usually goes.
She turns.
Sits on my bed.
That's new.
She sits for half a second like she's unsure, then gives up and flops back, staring straight at the ceiling like it's about to confess something if she looks hard enough.
She doesn't notice me watching.
That's how far gone she is.
I don't speak.
I don't move toward her.
I lean against the doorframe instead, arms folded, weight settling into my heels. Waiting.
She breathes in.
Breathes out.
Slow.
Heavy.
Not panicked.
Just full.
Like her chest is packed with thoughts she doesn't know how to open.
This isn't anger.
This isn't fear.
This is thinking-too-much silence. The kind that eats people from the inside because it doesn't scream. It just loops.
Her eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.
Unblinking.
She looks like she's not here.
And that scares me more than her yelling ever could.
I replay the day without meaning to.
The kitchen.
The laughter.
Family talk.
The way her smile faded after that one moment. The way her shoulders tightened like something old woke up and refused to go back to sleep.
The flinch a week ago.
The one she pretends didn't happen.
I know it's connected.
I don't know how.
I don't know why.
And that's the part that burns.
I let the silence sit between us like a third body in the room.
She shifts slightly, arm dropping over her stomach. Fingers curl, then uncurl. Like she's grounding herself. Like she's trying to stay here instead of slipping somewhere else.
Her breathing changes. Just a little.
I catch it.
This is the edge of it.
The place where people either pull someone in or pull away entirely.
I don't do either.
I stay where I am.
Because space is the only thing that's ever made her feel safe.
Because pressure would make her disappear completely.
Because if she's going to drag me into her head, it has to be her choice.
I watch the ceiling with her.
I don't blink.
Whatever she's carrying is heavy enough to mute her. That tells me more than words ever could.
And for the first time since she walked into my life like a live wire, I don't feel the urge to fix anything.
I just want to understand.
So I wait.
As long as it takes.
She's on her back.
One arm over her stomach.
Eyes locked on the ceiling like it's running subtitles only she can read.
The room hums.
Not quiet.
Loaded.
The kind of silence that makes your ears ring because your heart is too loud.
Minutes pass.
She doesn't blink.
Then it slips out of her. Soft. Accidental.
"You are so lucky in life. You know that?"
There it is.
The first crack.
I turn my head.
She doesn't.
Her voice isn't bitter. That's what fucks me up.
It's calm. Observational. Like she's stating a fact she's already accepted.
"Why you say that?" I keep my voice level. Slow.
No sudden movements.
No pressure.
"Why you think I'm that lucky?"
She stares at the ceiling harder, like it's safer than looking at me.
"Everyone loves you," she says.
"Your family. Your friends. You got the nicest family ever."
My chest tightens in a weird way.
Not pride.
Something closer to guilt.
I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh.
"Oh?"
Low. Careful.
"You think so."
Silence thickens again.
"Maybe," I add. "But that doesn't make me lucky."
She shakes her head once. Barely there.
"No. You are."
Her voice dips.
"It's… beautiful. Watching your family love you."
Beautiful.
That word is never just a word with her.
It's a warning flare.
It means she's remembering something she never lets surface.
I study her face.
The tight line of her mouth.
Her lashes not fluttering even once.
She's holding herself together with discipline. Not strength. Discipline.
"What about you?" I ask, carefully threading my voice through the quiet.
"Aren't you lucky too? Everyone loves you."
The laugh that comes out of her is wrong.
Sharp.
Dry.
Like glass dragged across concrete.
"Who tells you that joke?"
Fuck.
I Move to the edge of the bed. Elbows on my knees.
Still don't touch her.
Touch right now could either anchor her or send her straight into the void.
I won't gamble that.
"Of course people love you," I say.
"You're bold. You're funny. You're—"
Addictive.
The word slips out before I filter it.
It lands between us like something alive.
She exhales. Long. Tired.
"You are wrong, Zayan."
Not angry.
Not defensive.
Just… correcting me.
"I'm not bold. I'm not fearless. I'm not stubborn."
Her voice is flat. Clinical.
"When you grow up in certain circumstances, you act like it. You become whatever the world needs that day."
Something shifts in my chest.
She's not venting.
She's explaining herself.
Finally.
Finally, she's taking me to her world.
Not the sharp one.
Not the loud one.
The quiet back room where everything actually lives.
"You know I'm the middle child, right?"
"I know," I say, softer.
She doesn't blink.
"The unseen one."
That line punches harder than anything she's said tonight.
Because suddenly everything rewinds.
The way she fills silence.
The way she makes herself useful.
The way she laughs first so no one has to check on her.
"They talk about the eldest," she continues.
"The second parent. The responsible one."
A pause.
"Then the youngest. The baby. The one everyone protects."
Her jaw tightens.
"And the second?"
A breath.
"You're told to understand. To adjust. Because you're strong. Because you're fine."
Fuck.
She keeps going, voice steady like she rehearsed this alone a thousand times.
"You watch them get the love you crave."
"And you convince yourself you don't deserve it. Because no one ever treats you like you do."
My fingers curl once. Then relax.
"Being the middle child is a curse," she says.
"Everything is second-hand. Toys. Clothes. Attention."
A beat.
"Even emotions."
Her breath wobbles.
"You raise yourself," she continues.
"You console yourself. You hug yourself when it hurts."
Her voice dips lower.
"You learn how to disappear so well that when someone actually looks at you…"
She swallows.
"You don't know what to do with it."
My throat burns.
She goes quiet for a second. I don't interrupt.
This is fragile ground.
One wrong word and she'll shut the door forever.
Then she opens another one.
"I don't remember ever saying 'I love you' to my parents."
My stomach drops.
"They never said it to me either," she adds quickly.
"No hugs. No forehead kisses. No 'how are you.'"
A dry laugh.
"We just existed in the same house."
I feel something ugly rise in my chest.
Anger without a target.
"No one noticed when I won something," she says.
"No one noticed when I failed."
A pause.
"Winning felt pointless. Losing felt pointless. Nothing changed."
Her voice thins.
"And that turns you into someone," she continues.
"You flinch when voices rise. You read moods. You learn footsteps."
My jaw locks.
"You know who's walking. You know how angry they are."
"Your body reacts before your brain does."
Her hand twitches on the blanket.
I see it now.
Every damn time.
The flinch.
The way she gauges rooms before relaxing.
The way she's funny before she's honest.
"You become the safe one," she says.
"The comfort zone."
"And when people feel better, they leave."
Her voice cracks just slightly.
"And you don't even feel hurt."
"Because you weren't happy they were there to begin with."
Silence swallows the room.
Then she exhales. Long. Defeated.
"You know what else is worse?"
My chest tightens.
"Not getting love from childhood to now."
"And still hoping."
"Like an idiot."
I don't move.
I don't breathe too loud.
This is it.
The core.
"I wanted my grandmother's love."
Fuck.
There it is.
The source.
The wound she buried under jokes and teeth and sharp comebacks.
"I watched her be warm with everyone else," she whispers.
"Smile at them. Touch them."
Her eyes finally glass over.
"And I kept thinking maybe something was wrong with me."
My heart fucking stops.
"I can't even talk to her without shaking," she says.
"I don't call her what everyone else does."
"I use the formal word."
"Like I'm a guest."
"Like I don't have the right."
A tear slips into her hair.
"I grieve a love that never existed," she murmurs.
"And I don't know how to heal from something that didn't technically happen."
Her voice breaks open completely now.
"I think I wasn't made for that kind of love, Zayan."
"Maybe I was just made to be strong instead."
The room caves in around us.
I don't think.
I don't strategize.
I move.
Slow.
Visible.
I reach for her hand and let her feel it coming.
Wrap my fingers around hers.
She's trembling.
And something inside me shatters.
Not because I finally know.
But because she trusted me enough to let me feel it.
Finally.
She took me to her world.
I can't feel it the way she does.
I can't rewrite it.
I can't fix it.
But I see it.
Every ugly corner.
Every quiet ache.
She didn't choose strength.
She survived.
And if the world never saw her—
I fucking do.
I breathe out slow, steady, watching her chest rise and fall like she's fighting something underwater.
Then I speak.
"I don't know what your grandmother's problem is with you."
Her head flinches. Just a fraction. She heard it.
"I'm not going to pretend I understand her," I continue. Calm. Honest. "I wasn't there. I didn't grow up in that house. I don't know what's in her head."
She blinks hard. Wipes her lip like she's trying to stay sharp.
"And I'm not going to call her a villain just to make you feel better," I add. "That's not what you need."
She swallows.
"This isn't about right or wrong," I say. "This kind of pain starts before you even know what to call it. Before you realize you're starving for something you're supposed to get without asking."
I lean forward, elbows on my thighs.
"And yeah," my voice tightens, just a little. "It hurts more when it's not hate. When it's cold. Quiet. When you're ignored while warmth gets handed out like it's nothing."
She turns her face slightly. Not fully. Enough.
Her eyes are red. Tired. Stripped.
"You think wanting that love makes you greedy," I say. Sharper now. "It doesn't. It makes you human."
Her breath stutters.
"You weren't asking for the world," I continue. "You wanted to be seen. A smile. A hug. Something that said you mattered."
I shift closer.
"You are not broken because she couldn't give you that."
She looks at me then. Really looks. Like I'm the last solid thing in the room.
"You learned how to shrink," I say. "How to stay quiet. How to treat silence like kindness. You swallowed hurt because asking felt wrong."
I shake my head once.
"That was never your fault."
I can see it in her bones—the ache, the exhaustion. It makes my chest burn.
"Whatever her reasons were," I say, controlled but firm, "that's on her. Not you. Maybe she couldn't love you properly. Maybe she didn't know how. Maybe she failed."
I reach for her hand. Slow. She lets me.
Cold fingers. Shaking.
"You're not dramatic. You're not weak," I say. "You're someone who didn't get the love she deserved. And that kind of hurt doesn't disappear."
Her lips part. No sound comes out.
"I can't fix the past," I continue. "I can't give little-you what she missed. I can't turn your grandmother into someone she wasn't."
My grip tightens.
"But I can be here now."
She breaks. Quietly. No hiding.
"I see you," I say. Simple. Solid. "I hear you. And you don't have to earn love with me."
Her breathing shudders.
"Maybe your grandmother loved you quietly," I add after a beat. "The same way you love."
Her brow creases.
"You don't announce it," I go on. "You do it. You notice. You stay. You protect. You carry people without asking for anything back."
She doesn't look away this time.
"That's love," I say. "Even when it's silent."
I shift closer, close enough that my presence is unavoidable.
"Maybe she failed at showing it," I admit. "And yeah—that still leaves a scar."
I pause.
"But that doesn't make you unlovable. It makes you too much for people who didn't know how to hold fire."
Her eyes gloss over again.
"You want loud love," I say quietly. "Warmth. Arms that don't make you ask. And you deserve that, Arshila."
I brush my fingers over her knuckles. Slow. Careful.
"I won't rewrite your story," I finish. "And I won't lie to you."
I lean in, voice low. Certain.
"But you are not too much for me. You never will be."
She doesn't answer.
She doesn't need to.
She's still raw. Still unraveling. But she's here. And she let me see it.
And that means one thing—
I don't get to fuck this up.
I drag a hand down my face, exhale rough.
"I know," I start, then stop. Jaw tight. "I know I'm not perfect at saying this shit."
My voice comes out low. Grounded.
"But I'm not going anywhere."
And this time—
I mean it.
______________________
AUTHOR NOTE
This chapter is heavy.
Not loud-heavy. Quiet-heavy. The kind that sits in your chest and doesn't ask permission.
If this felt familiar—if you recognized yourself in the silence, the flinch, the hoping anyway—you are seen. You are not weak for carrying it. You are strong, and you are blessed, even if it didn't feel like it back then.
And if you didn't relate—if this pain is something you've never lived inside—you're seen too. Understanding matters. Empathy matters. Reading someone else's hurt with care matters.
No one is wrong for how they feel here.
Healing won't be fast in this story. Love won't be clean. Truth will hurt before it settles.
Thank you for sitting with this chapter instead of rushing past it.
That means more than you know.
🤍