“Near death experiences unlock confidence.”
She throws a tissue at my face. I catch it with a grin. The movement pulls slightly near my healing wound and she notices immediately because of course she does.
Her expression sharpens instantly. “See? This is why you should sit properly.”
“I am sitting properly.”
“You’re slouching.”
“Sunshine, I survived a bullet. Let me slouch.”
“No.”
I stare at her for a second before laughing softly under my breath.
There’s something terrifyingly domestic about this. About being scolded over posture by the woman I love while takeout containers sit between us.
And the thing is—I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more.
She reaches for her coffee again, flipping through pages in the notebook resting on her lap. I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It’s not.”
“You physically cannot say ‘nothing’ in that tone and expect me to believe you.”
She sighs dramatically before holding up the notebook slightly.
“A list.”
My brows rise. “A murder list?”
She looks thoughtful for a second. “Potentially.”
“I support my woman’s rights and wrongs.”
That earns me an eye roll. “It’s just…” She shrugs one shoulder slightly. “Things.”
“Very descriptive.”
She presses her lips together like she’s debating whether she wants to tell me or not. “Things I never did.”
Something in my chest shifts immediately. I sit up a little straighter. “What kind of things?” She looks down at the page again, suddenly looking strangely shy about it. And that alone makes me unbearably soft for her.
Because Ishika Vyas can survive kidnappings, emotional trauma, armed men and my family’s chaos—But vulnerability still makes her nervous. “I don’t know,” she murmurs. “Normal things.” I don’t interrupt. She traces the edge of the notebook with her finger before continuing quietly.
“I spent so much time just trying to survive that I…” She exhales softly. “I think I forgot people actually live too.”
Fuck.
I don’t think she realizes how much sentences like that wreck me. Because she says them so casually sometimes. Like loneliness became so normal for her she stopped noticing its weight. I move closer without thinking about it. Not enough to interrupt her space. Just enough.
“What’s on the list?” I ask gently. She hesitates. Then finally turns the notebook toward me. My eyes skim the page.
Learn how to swim properly.
