Karan did not say anything, but his eyes had already gone to her hand.
The first aid kit.
He knew exactly why she was there.
His gaze followed her as she walked in and closed the door behind her, moving toward the table. Rajat noticed the kit then and raised a brow.
“What’s that for?” he asked lightly.
Mishti did not answer. She placed the kit on the table instead, opening it calmly and soaked the cotton with the antiseptic. The moment she reached for Karan’s hand, he pushed his chair back sharply.
“Did I ask you to do this?” he snapped.
She caught his hand anyway.
“You do not say a lot of things to me,” she replied evenly, “but that does not mean I do not feel them.”
Karan froze.
For a moment, he seemed genuinely stunned, and his usual sharp retorts failed him. Rajat leaned back in his chair, openly observing their exchange.
Mishti lowered her gaze from Karan’s eyes and focused on his knuckles instead. She dabbed the antiseptic gently over the bruises.
“You should not leave wounds like this open for too long,” she said quietly, continuing her careful movements. “They tend to leave marks.”
He looked at her then, anger flickering briefly across his face, but it was not directed at the sting of the antiseptic. She could bandage these bruises, and these fresh wounds would heal with time. But the older damage, the kind that had already carveditself into his life, she could never touch. Not even if she knew the truth behind it.
Mishti applied the cream next, blowing softly over his skin, her expression tightening instinctively, feeling his pain.
Karan watched every flicker of emotion on her face.
She was tending to his wounds as though they mattered to her. As thoughhemattered to her. And that disturbed him.
He had never been kind to her. He had spoken harshly, wounded her with cruel words, and kept her at arm’s length. And yet, here she was, unable to ignore something as small as bruised knuckles, absorbing his pain as if it were her own.
What was this woman?
What was this growing connection between them? That she cared for him without asking for anything in return?
Rajat’s soft whistle broke Karan’s stance.
His head snapped up instantly, glaring at Rajat, who was leaning back in his chair, grinning.
“Wow,” Rajat said, shaking his head lightly. “This feels so much like an office romance of an intense romantic series on OTT.”
Karan rolled his eyes, but Rajat was already enjoying himself too much to stop.
“Broody husband,” he continued, gesturing casually toward Karan. “Caring wife. Husband hiding his emotions as usual. Wife unable to stop showing her feelings openly.” He grinned. “Already a superhit show.”
Mishti did not respond. She gently released Karan’s hand and closed the antiseptic bottle, placing the cotton back inside. Only after she was done shutting the first aid box neatly, she looked up at Rajat.
“I just hope that at least in your story, the hero and heroine get a happy ending,” she said calmly before looking at Karanand continuing. “Because in real life, that looks practically impossible right now.”
Karan raised his eyebrow, caught off guard.
The remark was not loud. It was not dramatic. And yet it carried a sting. He wondered where this growing boldness in her had come from. Every day, she seemed to reveal a new side of herself, one that no longer shrank under his moods or his authority.
Rajat burst into laughter.
