She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Friends? God, you really do have a savior complex. Newsflash, Detective, I’m not your friend or your case to fix.”
“I didn’t come here to fight.” I sigh when I see she isn’t backing down, just doubling down on how she doesn’t need me. “I just came to give you this, hoping it might earn me a break from being glared at like I’m the villain in your story.” I lift the gift-wrapped MacBook.
“What’s that?” she asks flatly, her eyes narrowing at the box in my hand.
“A time machine,” I say with a half-shrug, walking over to place the box on her bedside table. Then I turn back to her, slipping my hands into my jeans pockets. “One that gets you back to where you left off. Your new laptop.”
She stares at the box, then back at me. And for a moment, something soft flickers in her eyes. The tiniest shift in that guarded expression. But just as quickly, the walls go back up. Her defenses kick in, right on cue.
“I don’t want a handout.”
“It’s not a handout,” I shoot back.
She points at the laptop. “It feels like a handout.”
“Nisha, stop being stubborn about this,” I say, trying not to lose my patience.
She crosses her arms tighter across her chest. “Mind telling me what you’re up to?”
I tip my head to the side, not quite sure what she’s implying. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” She hesitates, her eyes darting to the box, then back to me. “You getting me expensive gifts. You showing up here every damn day. I don’t think this is just about keeping a promise to my sister.”
I meet her gaze head-on. “Well, I’d love to tell you, but I don’t think you’re quite ready for that kind of honesty yet. Solet’s save that conversation for another day. For now, just accept this as a peace offering.”
She blinks, her eyes searching mine like she’s trying to decode the meaning behind my words. For a moment, I brace myself, half-expecting her to demand answers, to challenge whatever I’m not saying. But instead, her shoulders drop, just slightly.
“Fine. I’ll accept the damn gift,” she says tightly.
“That easy?”
“Not easy. There’s a condition,” she says, and I lift a brow, prompting her to continue.
“I get to pay you for it,” she adds firmly. “Every single rupee.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Not happening,” I repeat, trying not to lose my patience.
She looks like she might actually combust. “Then I’m not accepting this charity.”
“It’s not charity, Nisha!” I say, closing the distance between us, frustration rising in my voice.
“I hate people swooping in and acting like I can’t handle my own life.”
“I know you can handle everything, Nisha. Hell, you’ve been doing it on your own longer than most could,” I say, softer this time, my eyes locked on hers. “And I’m not doing this out of pity. And not because you need saving. But because somewhere along the way, you have started to matter to me.”
She blinks at me, her breath hitching just slightly, her chest rising and falling at my words.
I exhale slowly, choosing my words with care. I don’t want her to overthink it, but I need to be honest with her. “You can push me away, glare at me, slam every door you want, but itwon’t change the fact that I care about you. And I’m not going anywhere, whether you like it or not.”
She looks at me for a long beat. The walls are still up, but I can see them shaking.
“You don’t understand,” she says finally. “I hate being this version of me. I hate needing help. I hate that every time I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself.”
My chest tightens, and before I can stop myself, my hands gently cup her cheeks. “Then let the people who care about you help you find that version again, Nisha,” I say softly, my thumbs brushing her skin. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
