The dim light of the apartment softened Sevika’s sharp features. She lay against you, her head resting on your chest, eyes half-closed as your fingers gently stroked through her dark hair. The tension in her shoulders eased under your touch. She hadn't spoken much since returning from the accident, and you weren’t pushing her.

Her breath hitched suddenly, and you paused. “It’s okay,” you whispered. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

A shuddering exhale escaped her. “I hate feeling useless.”

“You’re not,” you assured her. “You’re still Sevika. Strong, fierce, and stubborn.”

She huffed a weak laugh at that. You tilted her head slightly to press a kiss to her temple. “I’m here. Whatever you need—helping with meals, getting dressed, anything—I’m not going anywhere.”

The next morning, you gently helped her lace up her boots, something she wouldn’t ask for but didn’t refuse. At breakfast, you cut her food into manageable pieces. The shower was the hardest—she hated how vulnerable she felt as you washed her hair and gently cleaned around her bandages. But you did it without hesitation, your every movement filled with quiet care and respect.

By the end of the week, she sat back down on the bed next to you, expression softer than you’d seen in days. “Thank you,” she murmured, reaching out with her remaining hand to take yours.

You squeezed her fingers gently. “Always.”