And I feel it. Every piece of it.
The fear.
The guilt.
The relief.
All of it crashing out of her at once.
I hold her as best as I can, ignoring the way my body protests, focusing only on the way she’s shaking against me. “I hate you,” she chokes out between breaths.
I huff a quiet laugh against her hair. “No, you don’t.” She doesn’t argue. She just cries harder. And I let her.
Because this—This is her not running. Not hiding. Not pretending she’s fine when she’s not. After a while, her breathing slows. Her grip loosens slightly. But she doesn’t pull away. “I’m okay,” she murmurs after a moment, voice small, like she’s trying to convince both of us.
I don’t call her out on it. I know better. She’s not ready. Not for that conversation. Not for everything that comes with what she just told me. So I don’t push. I just rest my chin lightly against her head, my hand still holding onto hers. And I stay quiet.
Because sometimes—That’s the only way to keep her from running again.
CHAPTER 63
ARYAN
Coming home feels stranger than I expected. Not because anything has changed. Everything is exactly where it should be—same furniture, same faint smell of incense Ma insists on lighting every evening, same quiet hum of a house that has always been full of people even when it pretends to be calm.
ButI’mdifferent.
Slower. Aware of every step, every movement, every slight pull in my side that reminds me I’m not supposed to forget what happened.
I barely make it past the living room before she’s there. “Careful.”
Her hand is on my arm before I can even shift my weight properly, her brows drawn together like I’m about to collapse at any second.
“I am being careful,” I mutter, but I don’t pull away.
Because the truth is—I like this. Too much. She doesn’t believe me anyway. “Sit,” she says, already guiding me toward the couch like I don’t have a say in this.
I glance at her. “You’ve gotten bossier.”
“You’ve gotten reckless,” she shoots back instantly, helping me lower myself down despite the fact that I’m very capable of doing it myself.
I let her. Because arguing would take more effort than I’m willing to put in right now. And because watching her like this—focused, annoyed, worried—it does something to me that I don’t feel like analyzing too closely.
She grabs a pillow, adjusts it behind my back, then pauses, frowning like it’s not good enough. “Does that hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Ishika.”
She narrows her eyes at me. I raise both hands slightly in surrender, wincing a little at the movement. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” she mutters, but her voice drops a notch. Her fingers brush against the edge of the bandage near my stomach, careful, almost hesitant, like she’s afraid of hurting me just by touching.
“You should’ve just let me die,” I say casually, because apparently I have no self-preservation when it comes to annoying her.
Her head snaps up. “Don’t,” she says immediately, her voice firm in a way that shuts down any follow-up before I can even think of one. I hold her gaze for a second.
