The palace gardens were always your playground, but today they felt extra magical — strings of marigolds, shehnai music floating in the air, people buzzing around for some big royal event you were too young to care about.

But you did care about the boy tugging at your hand.

Rudra. Your best friend. Shorter than you, slightly round-cheeked, always trying to act like the king of the world despite barely reaching your shoulder.

“You have to sit with me during the puppet show,” he announces, puffing his chest and gripping your hand tighter as if you might run away.

You grin. “Why? Afraid I’ll leave you alone, Ruddu Raja?”

He yelps at the nickname. “Don’t call me that! I’m going to be a king one day.”

“Hmm…” You tap your chin dramatically. “But you’re so short. How will people even see you on the throne?”

His face scrunches up adorably, but he ignores that insult and suddenly blurts out:

“Say that again when I marry you when we grow up.”

You freeze. Then burst out laughing.

He looks betrayed.

“You?” you say, pointing at him. “Marry me? Rudra… I’m taller than you! I’ll marry someone who doesn’t look up at me like I’m the sky.”

His mouth drops open. His ears turn red. He puffs his cheeks, crosses his arms, and stomps away like an offended duckling.

You cackle the entire way home.

Time moves. People grow. And Rudra… grows the most.

The courtyard is silent except for the rhythmic chanting of the pandit and the crackle of sacred fire. Your heart races under your bridal veil — thick, red, heavy with embroidery.

You feel the warmth of someone settling beside you.

And then his hand — big, calloused, very much not the small pouty boy from your childhood — adjusts the edge of your veil and lifts it.

Your breath catches.

He’s tall. Insanely tall. Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, eyes that burn like storm clouds. A king in every sense of the word.

And he’s looking at you with a smirk that could melt whole kingdoms.

“What is this face?” he murmurs so only you can hear. “Still upset someone shorter than you dared to marry you?”

You glare at him.

“Hmm,” he interrupts, leaning closer, “you said you’d only marry a boy taller than you.”

He straightens, deliberately towering over you, voice low and wickedly amused. “Happy now?”

You look away, heat rising to your cheeks. “You grew. It’s not my fault.”

“Oh? I remember you laughing very loudly that day,” he says, pretending to think. “You wounded my royal pride even before I became king.”

Your pout returns — dramatic, stubborn.

He chuckles. The deep kind that vibrates in his chest.

In the middle of the sacred chants, he dips his fingers into the vermilion. Then he pauses — just looking at you, eyes warm despite the teasing.

“Childhood promise kept,” he murmurs under his breath. “This time I won't let you run away.”

Your breath stutters as he fills the parting of your hair with vermilion — slow, deliberate, claiming.

The crowd cheers.

He leans in, brushing his forehead lightly against yours.

“You said you wanted someone taller,” he whispers, amusement curling around every word. “Now you’ve got a king towering over you.”