[AMAL POV]
He froze, his back still to me, shoulders tensing beneath the elaborate gold embroidery of his ceremonial jacket. His hand, which had been reaching for the door handle, stilled completely. "What?"
"Don't go," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper. I watched as his fingers slowly curled away from the brass handle, forming a loose fist at his side. "Please. I... I don't want to be alone tonight."
He turned slowly, his expression unreadable. "Amal..."
"I know this is just about the baby," I said quickly, wrapping my arms around myself, fingers digging into the silk of my sleeves. His gaze tracked the defensive gesture, and I saw his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. "I know you're just... managing the situation. But I can't..." My voice cracked, "I can't be alone in this room tonight. The silence is too loud."
For a moment, he didn't move. His chest rose and fell in measured breaths, and I noticed how his fingers flexed at his sides—a tell I'd learned to recognize when he was weighing his words carefully. Then, without speaking, he closed the door with a soft click and leaned against it.
"What do you need?" The question came out rougher than his usual controlled tone, and he cleared his throat softly, a flush creeping up his neck above his collar.
The question was simple, practical. No judgment, no analysis of whether my request was reasonable. Just... compliance with whatever my pregnancy-addled mind required. But there was something else there too—in the way his fingers drummed once against the door before falling still, in how his eyes wouldn't quite meet mine.
"I don't know," I admitted, sinking into the chair by the window. The movement was ungraceful, my body heavy and unwieldy, and I caught him watching with what might have been concern before he looked away. "I just... everything feels too much and not enough at the same time."
He nodded as if this made perfect sense, though I was certain it didn't. His thumb traced absent patterns against the door frame—nervous habit I'd noticed during long council meetings. "Should I call for tea? Or Master Kaira?"
"No." I shook my head, probably too sharply, because his eyebrows drew together in that subtle frown he got when he was trying to puzzle something out. "No more physicians. No more people telling me what's best for the baby. Just... stay. Please."
Something shifted in his expression at my plea—a softening around his eyes that he tried to hide by looking down. He pushed off from the door and began unfastening his ceremonial jacket with precise, deliberate movements. I watched his fingers work the intricate clasps, noticed how they trembled almost imperceptibly with what I suspected was exhaustion rather than nerves.
He draped the heavy garment over a chair with more care than necessary, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles, and I realized he was stalling. When he straightened, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension there, he looked somehow smaller without all the regalia.
"Where would you like me to sit?" The formality of the question would have been funny if it wasn't so heartbreaking. Even this—even staying in his own chambers—required instructions. He stood there, hands clasped behind his back in that parade rest position that was pure habit, looking like a soldier awaiting orders.
"Anywhere," I said, then added more gently, "Just... somewhere I can see you."
He surveyed the room with the strategic eye of someone accustomed to calculating angles and distances, then chose the chair across from me. But instead of sitting immediately, he adjusted its position twice—first closer, then farther back—before finally settling. The moonlight streaming through the window caught the silver threads in his white shirt, and with his dark hair slightly mussed from removing the ceremonial circlet, he looked younger. Less like a prince and more like a man who didn't quite know what to do with his pregnant wife.
His hands rested on the arms of the chair, fingers tapping a silent rhythm against the velvet upholstery. "Better?" he asked, and there was something almost vulnerable in the way he searched my face for approval.
I nodded, though I wasn't sure better was the right word. Different, maybe. The crushing weight of solitude had lifted slightly, replaced by something more complex. Something that made me hyperaware of the way he kept glancing at my hands, at the way they moved restlessly over my rounded belly.
"Do you want to talk about the ceremony?" he offered, then immediately seemed to regret the suggestion. His mouth tightened, and he ran a hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled.
"Allah! No!" The words came out sharper than I intended, and I watched him flinch—actually flinch—at my tone. "Sorry. I just... I've performed enough for one day."
"Of course." He accepted the rebuke without defensiveness, but I caught the way his fingers curled briefly into fists before relaxing. "What would you prefer?"
What would I prefer? The question felt foreign, and I must have looked as lost as I felt because his expression gentled. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and for a moment looked like he wanted to reach out before thinking better of it.
"I don't know," I said honestly, watching as he processed this admission with that thoughtful tilt of his head I'd grown to recognize. "I feel like I've forgotten how to want things that aren't politically necessary." I let out a small dry laugh.
Something flickered across his face—understanding, recognition, maybe pain. His laugh was soft and humorless. "I know that feeling." The words came out quiet, almost to himself, and I caught him looking at his hands.
We sat in silence for a while, but it wasn't empty silence anymore. I found myself studying him in the moonlight—the way he breathed, deep and measured as if consciously slowing his heart rate; the way his fingers had stilled their restless movement; the way he kept stealing glances at me when he thought I wasn't looking.
"My back hurts," I said eventually, shifting in the chair with a soft grunt of discomfort. "And my feet. And everything, really."
His attention sharpened immediately, and he was halfway out of his chair before catching himself. "Would you like me to call for someone to—"
"No." I cut him off, and watched his face fall slightly before he could hide it. "No more servants. I'm tired of being handled by professionals."
He settled back slowly, but I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. His gaze moved from my face to my hands pressed against my lower back, and I watched him come to some internal decision. When he stood this time, it was with purpose.
"May I?" The offer was accompanied by the slightest gesture toward me, his hands half-raised as if he was afraid I might bolt.
I looked up at him, confused by the careful way he was holding himself. "May you what?"
"Help. Without calling anyone else." His throat worked as he swallowed, and a flush crept up his neck again. "If... if you'll let me."
The offer was so unexpected that I almost laughed. Here was this man who commanded armies and ruled a kingdom, asking permission to help his wife with something as simple as an aching back. "You want to help with my pregnancy discomfort?"
"I want to do whatever makes you more comfortable." He said it matter-of-factly, but I caught the way his hands flexed nervously at his sides, the way he couldn't quite maintain eye contact. "If that's what you need."
The hormones hit me again, sudden and overwhelming. My eyes filled with tears, which only made me more frustrated because now he was looking at me with such gentle concern that it made everything worse. "I hate this," I whispered, pressing my palms against my eyes. "I hate crying all the time. I hate that I can't control my own emotions."
"It's normal," he said quietly, and I could hear him moving closer. "Pregnancy affects—"
"Don't." I held up a hand, and saw him freeze mid-step. "Please don't quote medical texts at me. I know it's normal. That doesn't make it less horrible."
He closed his mouth immediately and simply waited, hands hanging loose at his sides. But I caught the way he leaned forward slightly, as if every instinct was telling him to do something, anything, to fix this.
"I used to be composed," I continued, wiping my eyes and hating how my voice wavered. "I used to be able to handle things. Now I'm crying because my husband offered to help with my back pain." I let out a shaky laugh. "How pathetic is that?"
I watched him weigh his response, saw the exact moment he discarded whatever diplomatic phrase he'd been about to offer. Instead, he knelt beside my chair—actually knelt, this man who knelt for no one—and looked up at me with eyes that held no judgment, only patience.
"Would you like me to help?" he asked again, voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and watched relief flicker across his features.
He stood slowly and moved behind my chair, his movements careful and deliberate. When his hands hovered over my shoulders, I could feel the warmth of them without contact, could sense his hesitation in the way his breathing had changed.
"Tell me where," he said, voice rough with something I couldn't name.
"Lower," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. I guided his hands to the knots of tension at the base of my neck, and felt him startle slightly at the contact before settling. "And here." I moved his fingers to the spot between my shoulder blades that had been aching all day, and heard his sharp intake of breath.
His touch was careful, almost clinical at first—the touch of someone who was afraid of causing harm. But as he worked, I felt his confidence grow. His hands found the rhythm of it, learned the geography of my pain with patient exploration. When he found a particularly tight knot, I couldn't help the soft sound that escaped me, and his hands stilled immediately.
"Did I hurt you?"
"No," I breathed. "Don't stop."
I felt rather than saw him nod, felt him relax behind me. His hands grew more confident, more intuitive, finding places I hadn't even realized were tense. At some point, he began humming softly—so quietly I almost missed it—some melody I didn't recognize that seemed to come from memory rather than conscious thought.
"Better?" he asked after what felt like both minutes and hours, his voice closer to my ear than I'd expected.
"Much." I let my head fall forward, finally relaxing for the first time in hours, and felt his fingers trail gently up to work at the base of my skull. The intimacy of it made my breath catch. "Thank you."
"You don't need to thank me." But I could hear the smile in his voice, could picture the way his eyes probably crinkled at the corners when he was pleased.
"I do. You didn't have to stay. You didn't have to..." I gestured vaguely at his hands, which had stilled but hadn't moved away. "Any of this."
"You asked me to." Such a simple statement, but I could hear the weight behind it. When I turned to look at him over my shoulder, I found him watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "That's... that's enough."
"Your Highness," I said softly, testing the formal address that felt strange after everything we'd just shared.
Something flickered in his expression—disappointment, maybe. He straightened slightly, hands falling to his sides, and I realized I'd accidentally rebuilt the wall between us.
"Will you stay until I fall asleep?"
"If you want me to."
"I do."
He helped me to bed with the same careful attention he'd shown all evening, his hand steady at my elbow as I maneuvered awkwardly onto the mattress. He adjusted pillows without being asked, seemed to know instinctively what I needed, and when he moved to dim the lights, I caught him glancing back to make sure the level was right.
When I was settled, he returned to his chair, but I noticed how he pulled it closer to the bed—close enough that I could see the rise and fall of his chest, could make out the thoughtful expression he wore when he thought no one was watching.
"You don't have to sit in the chair all night," I said into the semi-darkness. "The bed is large enough."
He hesitated. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. Just... stay on your side."
He nodded and moved with careful deliberation to the far edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. I found the small movement oddly comforting, like proof that I wasn't alone anymore. In the dim light, I could make out his profile as he settled, could see how he folded his hands over his chest and stared up at the ceiling.
"Idris?" I said into the darkness.
"Yes?"
"Tomorrow, when we go back to performing... will you remember this? That sometimes I'm just a person who needs someone to stay?"
The silence stretched long enough that I wondered if he'd fallen asleep. Then I heard him shift, felt the mattress move as he turned toward me in the darkness.
"I'll remember," he said, and something in his voice made me believe him.
I closed my eyes, listening to his quiet breathing beside me. For the first time in months, I didn't feel alone. Not loved, perhaps, but not alone.
It wasn't the fairy tale I'd once dreamed of, but it was something. A small space where I could be vulnerable and he could be kind, where my needs mattered simply because they were mine.
As sleep finally took me, I felt the baby flutter for the first time—a tiny movement that was just for me, not for the kingdom or the bloodline or the future. Just for me.
And for once, that felt like enough.
I woke to empty sheets and the faint indentation on the pillow beside me—evidence that last night hadn't been a dream. The space where Idris had slept was already cool, suggesting he'd been gone for hours. Part of me felt disappointed, but a larger part felt something else entirely: possibility.
Last night had been a revelation. Not because of any grand romantic gesture, but because I'd discovered something powerful: I could ask for what I wanted, and he would give it to me. Not out of love, perhaps, but out of whatever careful attention he paid to my pregnancy needs. It was a currency I'd never thought to spend.
The morning routine began as usual—servants bringing breakfast, Master Kaira's brief examination, the endless parade of people managing my condition. But today, I found myself studying their faces, listening to their conversations, mapping the rhythms of the palace with new interest.
"His Highness has meetings in the east courtyard this morning," I heard Captain Ali mention to one of the guards. "Council sessions until noon."
Perfect.
I dressed more carefully than usual, choosing a flowing cream dress that caught the light beautifully and made my skin look luminous. The seamstresses had been right about pregnancy glow—there was something about the way my body was changing that made me look more alive, more vital. I might as well use it.
The east courtyard was visible from the morning room where I usually took my tea. I positioned myself by the windows, a delicate porcelain cup in hand, and waited.
He appeared just after ten, striding across the courtyard with that particular way he had of moving—economical, purposeful, but with an underlying grace that suggested he'd been trained in swordplay from childhood. His dark hair caught the morning sun, and he'd forgone his formal robes for simpler clothes.
Allah, he was beautiful. I'd forgotten that in all the political maneuvering and careful distance. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his shoulders moved when he gestured during conversation, the unconscious authority in his posture. Even his hands, elegant and long-fingered, were distractingly attractive as he reviewed documents with his advisors.
I lifted my teacup to my lips, smiled, and waved.
The effect was immediate and gratifying. He stopped mid-sentence, his head turning toward the window with surprise. For a moment, we looked at each other across the courtyard—me with my tea and deliberate smile, him with his stack of state papers and bewildered expression.
I saw the exact moment he registered what I was doing. His brow furrowed slightly, that little line appearing between his eyes that I'd learned meant he was trying to solve a puzzle. He lifted his hand in a cautious wave back, his movements careful and questioning.
The men around him noticed immediately. I watched as Captain Ali's eyebrows rose, as Chancellor Khalid glanced between us with barely concealed curiosity, as the younger guards exchanged looks of surprise. None of it was malicious—they seemed more intrigued than anything else, as if they were witnessing the emergence of a different person entirely.
Which, in a way, they were.
Idris said something to his advisors, his eyes still fixed on me, and I saw him gesture toward the palace. He was ending the meeting.
The realization was heady and dangerous. I had power here. Not the kind that came from bloodlines or political alliances, but something more immediate and personal. He would rearrange his schedule, interrupt his duties, change his plans—all for the possibility that I might need something from him.
I was still contemplating this when he appeared in the doorway of the morning room, slightly out of breath as if he'd hurried.
"Amal," he said, and I loved how my name sounded in his voice when he wasn't being formal. "Is everything all right?"
"Everything's fine," I said, setting down my teacup with deliberate care. "Why wouldn't it be?"
He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "You waved at me."
"I did." I turned to face him fully, noting how the morning light streaming through the windows made his eyes look almost amber. "Is that unusual?"
"Yes," he said simply. "You've never... you don't usually..." He gestured vaguely, clearly struggling to articulate what had changed.
"I don't usually what?" I asked, though I knew exactly what he meant.
"Smile at me," he said finally. "Not like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you were happy to see me."
The confession was so honest it made my chest tighten. When was the last time someone had been happy to see him? Not the king, not the strategic ally, but just him?
"I was," I said, and it wasn't entirely a lie. "Last night was... nice. I slept well."
Something in his expression softened. "Good. I'm glad."
"Are you busy today?" I asked, rising from my chair. "I was thinking of walking in the gardens, but Master Kaira said I shouldn't go alone."
"I have meetings—" he began, then stopped himself. "But they can wait. If you'd like company."
"I would."
The garden path was one of my favorite places in the palace, winding through carefully tended roses and jasmine that filled the air with sweetness. I'd walked it dozens of times, knew every stone and turn by heart. Which made it easy to plan my stumble.
I waited until we reached the spot where the path curved around a fountain, where the stones were slightly uneven but not obviously dangerous. As we walked, I listened to Idris describe some tedious trade negotiation, nodding at appropriate intervals while calculating distance and timing.
"The northern provinces are concerned about tariffs," he was saying, his hands clasped behind his back as he walked. "They think the new rates will—"
I let my foot catch on the raised edge of a stone, pitching forward with a soft gasp of surprise. My performance was flawless—startled but not panicked, stumbling but not falling, just enough to need catching.
His reflexes were better than I'd anticipated. His arm shot out instantly, catching me around the waist and pulling me against his chest before I could even pretend to fall. For a moment, we were pressed together, his heart beating against my ribs, his breath warm against my temple.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice tight with concern.
"No," I said, letting myself lean into his strength for just a moment longer than necessary. "I'm fine. Just clumsy."
But I didn't step away immediately. Instead, I looked up at him, noting the way his pupils had dilated, the slight flush on his cheekbones, the way his grip on my waist had tightened protectively.
"These paths are dangerous," he said, though his voice sounded slightly strained. "I should have them repaired too."
"You don't need to rebuild the entire palace because I'm unsteady," I said, finally stepping back but keeping my hand on his arm for balance. "I just need to be more careful."
"Or you need someone to walk with you," he said, his eyes scanning the path as if looking for other potential hazards. "Always."
"Would you do that?" I asked, letting just a hint of vulnerability creep into my voice. "Walk with me, I mean. When you have time?"
"Of course." The answer came without hesitation. "Whenever you want."
I smiled, genuine this time, and watched as something shifted in his expression. He looked almost dazed, as if my smile had the power to disorient him.
"Thank you," I said, and meant it. "I feel safer with you."
The words seemed to hit him like a physical blow. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought I'd overplayed my hand. But then he nodded, his expression serious and almost tender.
"I'll always keep you safe," he said, and the promise sounded like a vow.
We continued walking, but something had changed between us. He stayed closer now, his hand hovering near my elbow as if ready to catch me again. When we reached a set of garden steps, he offered his arm without being asked. When a loose pebble skittered across the path, he guided me around it with gentle pressure on my back.
I was beginning to understand the intoxicating nature of his attention. When Idris focused on something, he did it completely. His care was methodical, thorough, and utterly devoted. It made me feel precious in a way I'd never experienced before.