Page 99 of Scars and Crowns

She tastes like tears. Like laughter. Like home. I kiss her carefully at first. As though she's something precious that might disappear if I hold her too tightly. She answers the kiss before my fear can return. A quiet, aching sound escapes her. It unravels me.

Seven years.

Seven birthdays.

Seven festivals.

Seven years of silence.

Every mile between Mumbai and Devgarh. Every lonely night. Every letter never written. Every feeling swallowed. Everything collapses into this one kiss. I slide my other hand carefully into her hair. My fingers bury themselves there almost reverently.

Breathing her in. Vanilla. Old paper. The faint scent of sandalwood soap.

Her. Just . . . Her.

She melts closer. Our foreheads brush. Noses bump. We both laugh softly through tears without breaking apart. The laugh turns into another kiss. Longer this time. Slower. No urgency. Only relief. The kind that settles into your bones after carrying something impossibly heavy for far too long.

When she finally pulls back, she's still so close our breaths mingle. Her forehead rests against mine. Neither of us opens our eyes. I don't think I could bear the distance if she moved even an inch away. "I love you too." Her voice shakes. "A tiny, tearful laugh escapes her. " . . . I always have." Her fingers tighten against my shirt. "I was just too frightened . . . " She swallows. " . . . to believe someone like you could ever love someone like me."

My heart shatters. Not painfully. Beautifully.

I lift our joined hands and press a kiss against her knuckles. Then another against her forehead. "I've loved you," I whisper. "Every version of you."

"The little girl."

"The teenager."

"The woman sitting in front of me now." I smile against her skin. "And if I get very lucky . . . " My voice almost disappears. "I'll spend the rest of my life loving every version of you that's still waiting to come."

She cries harder at that. So do I. Neither of us bother pretending otherwise. For the first time in seven years . . . There is nothing left unsaid.

EVERYTHING I AM NOT

ANAMIKA

I stand so quickly the sofa creaks beneath me, almost startling myself. My fingers drift to my lips before I can stop them, as though touching them might somehow prove that what just happened was real—that I really kissed him, that he kissed me back, that seven years of silence had somehow ended in the span of a few breathtaking seconds.

I pace. One end of the study to the other. Then back again. My thoughts are tripping over each other so quickly I can't catch a single one long enough to make sense of it. Behind me, I know he's watching. I don't have to look. I can feel it. Not the heavy kind of stare that demands something from me.

Just . . . patient. Quiet. Waiting.

Every time I accidentally glance at him, my cheeks burn all over again, and I immediately look somewhere else, pressing my palm against my face as though it might hide exactly how flustered I am.

A soft chuckle breaks the silence. "Technically . . . " His voice is warm, teasing just enough to ease the tension without making fun of it. "We're married." I stop pacing. He smiles—a small, gentle smile that reaches his eyes. "So kissing you isn't exactly against the rules." His head tilts slightly. "If . . . " he adds more quietly, " . . . it's something you want too."

I let out one short, breathless laugh that sounds dangerously close to panic. "Don't you understand?" The words leave me before I can soften them. "This changes everything."

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he gets up. Slowly. Never rushing toward me. Never cornering me. He simply closes the distance one careful step at a time until he's standing close enough for me to see every tiny line of concern on his face. His hands find mine. Warm. Steady. He doesn't pull. He only curls his fingers around them gently, silently asking. When I don't resist, he guides me back to the sofa.

We sit. I'm still trembling. Not from fear exactly. From the overwhelming weight of finally having everything I've wanted placed into my hands . . . and suddenly feeling terrified I'll drop it. He waits. That's the thing about Yuvaan. He's never tried to drag words out of me. He simply creates enough silence that I eventually hand them over myself.

"Whatever's going on in here . . . " He lifts one hand, lightly tapping the space above my heart before meeting my eyes again. "We'll figure it out." His thumb brushes across my knuckles. "Together."

The word undoes something in me.

Together.

Not you.