Agni is in the kitchen when you find him, the air thick with the sweet perfume of cardamom, sugar, and pistachio. The soft clatter of utensils and the gentle warmth from the stove draw you in, and when you poke your head around the door, he looks up at once. A gentle smile touches his lips, warm and familiar. His hands keep working, rolling the paneer into neat little balls, flattening them carefully and then setting them upon a pretty plate.

“Ah,” Agni hums, his voice fond, “you’ve come at just the right time, প্রিয়.” Beloved, he always calls you that.

He used to protest whenever you tried to help, insisting that he could not in good conscience allow you to take on servant’s work, no matter how many times you offered. But over time he has softened, enjoying your presence too much to keep sending you away. Now he rarely minds when you linger at his side, shoulder brushing his as he works, your attention a steady comfort in the rhythm of the kitchen.

Agni glances at the plate, then back to you, his expression brightening with the sort of quiet delight that always seems to find him when he is making something for others. “The Sandesh are almost ready. One of Prince Soma’s favourites, and so they must be perfect. Come here, if you would like to help me finish them.”