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She knelt before the small altar, her delicate fingers cupping the flame as she lit the final diya. The scent of sandalwood and jasmine lingered in the air, mingling with the quiet rhythm of his breath.
He stood behind her, watching in reverent silence. The world had taught him to kneel only before gods, but in this moment, he knew-she was his sacred haven.
As the flame steadied, she turned to him, her eyes reflecting the light she had just kindled. "For your prayers," she whispered, offering him the warmth of the diya.
But his gaze never left her.
"I already worship," he murmured, voice hushed with something deeper than devotion.
She stilled, her heartbeat a quiet tremor between them. And in that sacred hush, in the golden glow of the diya, the moment stretched-soft, infinite, and eternal.
✧ He bows in reverence.
✧ She kindles the flame.
The diya glows softly, but the true light sits before him.