In His Arms

In His Arms

Ekansh had never been one to lose control.

Not when people schemed against him. Not when his enemies tried to corner him. Not even when he bled.

But tonight, control felt like a fragile thread slipping through his fingers.

Because she was here.

Lying in his bed.

Wearing his shirt.

Breathing evenly under his protection.

And she had no idea what she was doing to him.

Ekansh sat at the very edge of the bed, keeping a careful, respectable distance. The bed was large enough to accommodate the space between them, and yet... it still felt too small.

His fingers twitched against the sheets, resisting the reckless urge to close the gap.

She looked so soft in sleep, so unlike the firestorm of a woman who never backed down from a fight. If she were awake right now, she wouldn’t even let him sit this close.

She would glare.

She would throw sharp words at him like knives.

She would probably shove him off the bed.

And yet...

She sighed in her sleep, her body shifting ever so slightly—and then, before he could even process it—she turned towards him.

Ekansh froze.

Her delicate fingers brushed against his shirt, an innocent, unconscious movement that sent a sharp, heated jolt through his system.

No.

She wouldn’t—

She did.

Without a second thought, without even waking up, she moved again, seeking warmth.

And then, just like that—she curled into him.

Ekansh sucked in a breath, his entire body going rigid as her forehead grazed his chest.

What the—

Did she even realize what she was doing?

No.

Of course not.

If she were awake, she would never allow herself to be this close to him. She would have pushed him away. She would have thrown a pillow at his face and made it very clear that she didn’t need his presence.

But right now, in her sleep, she was... soft.

Defenseless.

His.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, raw and unfiltered.

Ekansh let out a slow, measured exhale, willing himself to stay still.

But then—she moved again.

This time, deeper.

Her fingers curled against his shirt, gripping it lightly. Holding onto him.

His pulse slammed in his ears.

God.

This was torture.

Pure, exquisite torture.

And yet, it was the most beautiful kind of pain.

Ekansh swallowed, fighting the battle within himself.

She was warm. So warm.

And she smelled too damn good.

Like something soft and familiar, something uniquely her—a scent that had already started to weave itself into his bones.

His restraint cracked, just slightly.

With slow, deliberate movements, he lifted his arm—his fingers grazing the fabric of the sheets—and pulled her in.

Carefully.

So carefully.

He was mindful of her injury, of the bandages wrapped around her delicate arm, ensuring that he didn’t jostle her even the slightest bit.

And yet... he held her.

Not too tight.

Not too loose.

Just enough.

Just enough to let himself believe, for this moment, that she was safe.

His heart was pounding against his ribs now, but she didn’t stir. If anything—she melted.

Her breath hitched—so softly he barely noticed—before she nuzzled closer, her face burying into his chest.

Ekansh stilled.

...Hell.

This was bad.

Really, really bad.

She was so close.

Too close.

Close enough that he could feel her every breath against him, close enough that she fit against him like she belonged there.

And the worst part?

He liked it.

More than he should.

More than what was sane.

Ekansh clenched his jaw, inhaling deeply through his nose.

His mind screamed at him to move.

To create distance.

To remember that she wasn’t his to hold like this.

But his body?

His body refused to listen.

Because the truth was—he didn’t want to let go.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

He had spent the entire night watching over her, making sure she was breathing, making sure her body wasn’t reacting to the poison.

And now, after everything, she was the one holding onto him.

Did she even realize?

Ekansh swallowed hard.

No.

She didn’t.

If she were awake, she would shove him away without hesitation.

But this? This unconscious closeness?

It was destroying him.

He closed his eyes briefly, grounding himself, before looking down at her again.

Her lashes rested against her cheeks, her lips parted slightly as she breathed evenly. She looked so peaceful, so completely unaware of what she was doing to him.

He let out a slow, shaky exhale.

If she kept this up, he was going to lose his mind.

His fingers twitched against her waist, aching to hold her tighter. To memorize the feel of her against him.

But he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Because this moment—this single moment of stolen warmth—was all he would ever get.

She would wake up soon.

And when she did?

She would hate him.

Even more than she already did.

His lips curled slightly—a bitter, almost self-deprecating smirk playing at the edges.

Tomorrow, she would be back to fighting him.

Back to glaring at him with those sharp, defiant eyes.

Back to pretending like tonight never happened.

Ekansh sighed, his grip on her loosening just slightly—just enough to let himself breathe again.

But before he could pull back completely, she whimpered.

A soft, barely-there sound.

And then—her grip on his shirt tightened.

Ekansh’s chest clenched.

His eyes softened, his fingers reaching up—hesitant at first—before he carefully threaded them through her hair.

Slowly.

Soothingly.

His touch was light, barely there, but the effect was immediate.

Her uneasiness faded.

The tiny crease between her brows smoothed out.

Her breathing evened again.

Ekansh exhaled, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“You really can wreck me up without doing anything” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly.

She didn’t stir.

She didn’t hear him.

But it didn’t matter.

Because tonight—just this once—he could pretend.

Pretend that she didn’t hate him.

Pretend that she was his to hold.

Pretend that this wasn’t going to end the moment morning came.

His chest felt too tight.

His heart felt too full.

But instead of fighting it, instead of forcing himself to look a

way—he leaned down.

Pressed the lightest of kisses against her forehead.

His voice was soft.

Almost affectionate.

And then, in a whisper only the night could hear—

“Rest, my little storm. Because tomorrow, you’re going to hate me more than ever.”