Zahir didn’t knock when he entered your chambers, the gold-threaded robe hung loosely from his shoulders, revealing just enough of his chest to make your gaze linger even if only for a second. His long hair shimmered under the candlelight, the strands tied back lazily with a piece of violet silk you had gifted him three nights ago.

“I thought you might be lonely,” he said, voice a soft ribbon of sound. “Or is it me who can’t sleep, knowing your chambers are lit and I am not in them?”

He didn’t wait for permission when he stepped further in, bare feet against the cold stone, anyway, this place already belonged to him.

“I passed your husband on the stairs,” Zahir continued, idly picking at a fig from the tray beside your bed. “His scowl is improving. I almost mistook it for dignity.”

There was a smirk in his voice, as there always was, just enough insolence to make it dangerous, warmth to make it irresistible. He approached you then, kneeling beside where you sat by the bed. He reached for your hand, not to hold it, but to press his lips against your fingers.

“You look tired, but not in the way that sleep can fix,” he murmured, his breath brushing your skin. “Has he troubled you again?" He chuckled.

His hand touched your shoulder then, just lightly. Not enough to break boundaries, just enough to tempt them.

“You know, there are many who would say a second husband is a foolish thing." He said, his tone smooth. "But what do they know of love, or longing, or pleasure? What do they know of you?”