Curled up against the tiled wall. Fully clothed. The shower pelts her mercilessly, water splashing, spreading across the floor. Her knees are pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to disappear. Her hair is plastered against her face, strands sticking to her wet cheeks.
She is trembling. Every part of her trembling.
For a second, I can’t breathe.
I’ve seen destruction. I’ve seen men bloodied on battlefields of power and politics. But this—this sight of her trying to scrub herself clean of something vile—this is worse than death.
I step inside, boots splashing in the growing puddle. I crouch beside her slowly, as if she might shatter further if I move too fast. My hand reaches out, fingers brushing her arm. I need to feel her. I need to know she’s still here with me.
She flinches. Pulls back like my touch burns.
“I’m dirty,” she whispers, her voice hoarse, broken. “Please… don’t touch me.”
The words cut me deeper than any blade ever has.
For a moment, I can’t even speak. My throat is tight, my jaw rigid, my chest collapsing inward. I want to scream that she’s wrong, that she’s blameless, that if anyone is filth, it’s Ranbir. But she believes it—right now, in this moment, she believes she’s tainted.
“No,” I say, my voice rough but steady. I grip her arm gently, refusing to let her slip away. “You are not dirty, Poorvi. Not to me. Never to me.”
Her head shakes violently, droplets scattering. Her voice breaks into sobs. “I’ve been trying—” her breath catches, “—trying to wash his touch away. But I can’t stop feeling disgusted. I can’t stop—”
Her specs are still on, fogged, dripping, the lenses heavy with water and tears. I slide them carefully off her face and set them aside on the counter. When I look back, I see her. All of her. Raw, shattered, drowning.
I want to take it from her—the memory, the touch, the weight. I want to reach inside her chest and pull it free so she never has to carry it again.
But I can’t. All I can do is show her. Remind her. Anchor her.
I brush wet strands of hair from her face, my thumb lingering on her cheek. “Listen to me,” I whisper. “Nothing he did can change who you are. He doesn’t get to leave marks on you. He doesn’t get to decide what you feel. You are still you. And I...” I graze her chin, "I like you, Poorvi. For who you are."
Her lips tremble. Her gaze flickers up to mine, searching, desperate. And then, barely audible, she whispers, “Will you… kiss me, Vihaan?”
The question slams into me, stealing my breath.
I freeze. Not because I don’t want to—God knows I want to. But because I fear she asks from pain, from desperation, from a need to override something ugly with something else. And I can’t—won’t—take advantage of her brokenness.
My hesitation is enough. Her face crumbles. She slumps back against the cold tiles, water running over her in endless streams. Her voice is hollow, shattering. “I don’t deserve it… after all—”
“Don’t you dare,” I cut her off, my hands cupping her face firmly, pulling her gaze to mine. My voice is shaking, thick with rage and grief. “Don’t you ever finish that sentence.”
Her eyes widen, glistening with tears.
Before she can say another word, I lean in and claim her lips.
It isn’t gentle. It isn’t sweet. It’s raw. Desperate. Consuming. My mouth crashes against hers with every ounce of anger I feel—not at her, never at her—but at the world, at fate, at the bastard who thought he could stain her.
She gasps, the sound sharp, broken, and I take it in, deepening the kiss. My thumb strokes her wet cheek, my other hand tangles in her soaked hair, anchoring her to me. Her lips taste of salt, of sorrow, but beneath it—beneath it, I taste her. Her.
When I finally pull back, my forehead rests against hers, our breaths mingling, ragged and uneven.
“Don’t you ever think you’re unworthy of anything,” I whisper, hoarse, raw. “I’ll kiss you a thousand times if that’s what it takes to make you believe—you are not tainted, Poorvi. You are the bravest, purest soul I’ve ever known.”
Her fingers clutch my shirt desperately, trembling. She doesn’t let go.
“I can’t erase what happened,” I say, the words dragging out of me like confession. “But I swear—on my name, on everything I am—I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt who you are to me. You are my wife. And I will burn the world before I let you feel dirty again.”
Her sob tears free then—loud, raw, but not the same as before. It’s softer. It carries relief. She buries her face in my chest, her body shaking against mine.
I wrap her in my arms, pulling her tight, tighter, like maybe if I hold her close enough I can seal the cracks inside her. The shower rains over us both, soaking my clothes, chilling my skin, but I don’t care.
