“You should have woken me up,” I say, closing the distance between us. God, I wanted to say so much more—that I hated waking up alone, that not having her in my arms made me feel incomplete, that I missed her the second I opened my eyes.
Before she can argue that she didn’t want to wake me and could manage on her own, I scoop her up, lifting her into my arms and placing her on the counter. She gasps, her hands gripping my shoulders.
“You shouldn’t be on your feet,” I murmur, my hands instinctively holding her hips, unwilling—unable—to let go.
She lets out a soft sigh. “I didn’t want to wake you… You looked so peaceful,” she murmurs. “And it was no hardship to get the ice from the kitchen on my own.”
Stubborn. Always so damn stubborn.
I shake my head, my grip on her tightening just a little. “I don’t care how peaceful I looked—I’d rather wake up to you than an empty bed,” I say, my voice low. “Next time, wake me up.”
She blinks at me before nodding silently. I exhale, my fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “Let me get you the ice.”
Turning away, I open the fridge and grab the ice pack. Shutting the door, I make my way back to her. Pulling out a chair, I sit down in front of her, my movements steady, controlled—though I can feel the weight of her gaze on me the entire time. Without a word, I gently lift her leg. My hands are careful as I press the ice pack against her ankle, my thumb tracing slow, reassuring circles on her skin.
“Is it hurting?” I ask, glancing up at her.
“Not as much now,” she mutters, nibbling her full bottom lip.
I press the ice pack a little more firmly against the slight swelling, watching her closely, searching for any sign of discomfort.
She exhales softly, but there’s no wince, no flinch.
“Good,” I murmur, relieved. “But you still shouldn’t be walking around on it.”
Her lips press together, that familiar stubbornness flickering in her eyes.
I raise a brow. “Don’t even think about arguing, sweetheart.”
Her lips twitch, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners. “You worry too much.”
“And you don’t worry enough,” I huff, then add, “That’s why I’m taking charge and will make sure nothing ever happens to you.”
She doesn’t reply. Instead, she looks away, scanning the kitchen as if suddenly fascinated by the white cabinets. A soft pink flush creeps up her cheeks, and damn, it’s adorable.
I let the silence stretch for a beat, my fingers still cupping her ankle, but we have matters to discuss. And as much as I could sit here and just admire how utterly flustered she looks, we can’t ignore it forever.
Clearing my throat, I draw her attention back to me. “Sana,” I say, my voice softer now. “We should talk about last night.”
She swallows hard, still avoiding my gaze as she speaks. “Aditya, last night was—”
“Don’t,” I cut her off immediately, my voice sharper than I intended, making her head jerk toward me. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence by saying it was a mistake, because that will piss me off.”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “I wanted it... I wanted you. But at the same time, it’s just... it made everything more complicated.”
I let out a sigh. “Why does it have to be complicated, Sana? We’re not doing anything wrong.”
She lets out a bitter laugh. “You know why, Aditya. Your parents…”
“My parents will come around,” I interject, my tone firm. “But this—us—this is our life. Our happiness is what matters, and they’ll see that in time.”
She bites her lip, uncertainty written over her face. “What if they don’t?”
I shake my head, unwilling to let doubt seep in. “Then it will be on them for having made the mistake of their lives—something they’ll have to live with. But no matter what, the way I love you won’t budge an inch.”
Her expression softens and something flickers in her eyes—fear, hope,? I can’t tell, not until she suddenly blurts out, “I love you too, Aditya. And I hate to see…”
But I don’t hear the rest. My brain short-circuits at the first part.
