TWENTY-THREE
Greesha
It’s been a week in Advik’s guest bedroom.
Relocating from the shitty studio apartment Vir and I were holed up in wasn’t hard. I don’t own much. A duffle bag and a sense of dread.
I still remember shoving wrinkled clothes into that bag while Vir watched me from the corner—arms crossed, face carved from stone. I’d dropped Advik off that day of his discharge—right outside his apartment.
“Is this it?” Vir had asked, voice rough.
“Yeah. Just grabbing my laptop,” I’d mumbled.
He pushed off the wall, eyes dropping to the duffle like it was the end of something permanent. The tormented finality on his face nearly made me sayfuck itand stay.
But stay for what?
Advik needed protection. GenVault needed the mission intact. And I was already skating on thin ice with Mehul.
Staying with Vir would’ve only delayed what needed doing. This was a tactical decision. No room for emotions.
But then why did it feel like I was ripping apart the professional bond between me and Vir?
Why were the lines between personal and professional soblurrywith him that he was seeing this as my departure from the assignment?
I tried to explain. Told him we’d stay in touch. That I’d check in periodically.
But when I blurted out,“I need to be with Advik,”—I saw it.
His jaw tightened. He didn’t get it. Or didn’t want to.
And then I drove myself back.
Back to the same goddamn apartment I fled from three years ago.
The second I stepped through the door, it hit me like a freight train. The weight of a memory I hadn’t asked for. I thought I might accidentally summon that look on his face that last time. That final conversation. His eyespleading, and me...breaking us.
Or maybe this time he would actually take up on my offer and chase Rohi to Canada. Hehadn’t. But the irrational fear of that morning came rushing back tenfold.
The nightmares I had experienced after breaking up were taking a vivid shape.
The ones where I tell him to go after Rohi. And instead of arguing, instead ofbeggingme to stay—hethanksme. Smiles like I’ve just handed him permission to love someone else.
And maybe the nightmares were clawing back because the place wasexactly the same.
Same gray couch. Same chipped coffee table we bought together off a second-hand app. Hell, even the coffee machine was the same model—upgraded, sure, but still stationed in the exact same spot on the counter.
It was like walking into a damn time capsule.
And there he was.
Seated on the couch, casual, familiar. Like I’d never left. Like everything in his body was sayingyou’re home.
Two coffee mugs sat on the table.
He looked up slowly, that slow-burn smile spreading across his face.
“You’re back.”
