I set down the samosa, my hands trembling slightly. The question has been sitting in my chest since I arrived, growing heavier with each passing hour.
"Why do you think my father refuses to speak to you to this day?"
Dar's hands still over the samosa she's forming. For a long moment, she doesn't speak, just stares down at the dough. Then, softly, she says, "Fear."
Fear.Such a simple word, yet a devastating truth. I stand there, my own hands frozen mid-fold, and suddenly, I can see it so clearly. My father and I are not opposites. We're mirrors. Reflections of the same crippling ailment, the same poison running through our veins. We're more alike than we are different.
First, he lost his family, then he lost my mother. The love of his life, gone, and he was left holding a daughter who had her eyes, her smile, her spirit. Every day was a reminder of what he'd lost. So, he did what he knew how to do. He built walls. He poured himself into work, and he taught me to do the same, to be strong, independent, to need no one. To feel nothing. And I learned the lesson all too well.
My throat tightens. I can feel Dar watching me, but I can't look at her. I'm too busy seeing my father differently, not as thedistant, cold man who kept secrets, but as someone drowning in the same fear that's been strangling me. The fear of losing someone. The fear of being left. The fear that if you let someone in, if you love them, if you need them, they'll be taken away, and you'll be left with nothing but the unbearable weight of their absence.
The kitchen door swings open behind me, and I hear his footsteps before I hear his voice. I know the sound of his walk, confident, purposeful, the slight scrape of his boot heel against tile.
"Hey, need any help in here?" Trigger asks. "Something smells incredible."
I freeze, my back still to him, desperately trying to compose myself.
"We're just finishing up the samosas," Dar says warmly, but I can hear the careful note in her voice. The way she's giving me a moment.
I force myself to turn around. The moment my eyes meet his, I watch his entire expression shift. His smile falters then disappears completely. He takes a step forward, instinctively, like his body has a will of its own when it comes to me.
"Asha, what's wrong?" I can hear the genuine concern in his ask.
Everything. Nothing. Everything.Because I can see it now. Everything Dar said…it's right there in his eyes. The way he's looking at me isn't polite concern or the practiced care of someone playing a role. It's raw. It's real. He's looking at me like seeing me upset physically hurts him.
His gaze sharpens, and I watch him glance at Dar, then back to me, clearly trying to assess the situation, and I pull him by the wrist over to the pantry, unable to hear him ask me,what's wrongone more time with that gentle voice that twists me up inside.
"Did something?—"
I cut off his question, rising on my toes and sealing my lips over his. For a heartbeat, he's still, shocked, and then he's kissing me back with an intensity that steals the breath from my lungs. His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones, and I melt into him. My hands slide up, tangling in the hair just above his collar, and God, it feels good. So good.
Just like the kiss we shared days ago, when his mouth is on mine, everything floats away. All the noise, all the fear, all the questions. It's just me and him, and I feel safe. I feel happy. I feel at home. His tongue sweeps against mine, and I make a sound I don't recognize, pressing closer. His hands slide from my face to my waist, gripping, pulling me flush against him. I can feel his heart hammering against my chest and the way his breathing has gone ragged. The pantry smells like him, leather, soap, and something uniquely Trigger that makes me dizzy.
Then reality crashes back in. The clinking of pots and Dar's soft humming fill the air. We're not at home. We're not alone. I pull back, gasping, my forehead resting against his. His eyes are still closed, his lips parted, his hands still gripping my waist like he's afraid I'll disappear.
"I'm sorry," I breathe, blinking away the haze of yet another insanely intimate kiss with my fake husband.
His eyes snap open. His brow furrows, and I watch his face morph from confusion into something harder, colder. He drops his hands from my waist and takes a step back, the loss of his warmth immediately devastating.
"You're sorry," he repeats flatly, his jaw tight. "For what, exactly? Kissing me?"
His hands move to his hips, and his whole body goes rigid. He shuts down, and reality smacks me in the face. This is the same way he reacted after our last kiss. He pulled away, and Ithought he was the one closing the door, but now I can see that wasn't it at all.
"That's it," I say. "That's why you've been mad at me."
"Who said I was mad at you?" he asks, truly confused.
"Tell me you're not hurt." I step closer, closing the distance he just created. "Tell me I didn't hurt you."
"Asha, I don't think this is the place to get into this?—"
"I wanted to kiss you then." The words tumble out. "I wanted to kiss you now. And not for any other reason than I wanted to."
He stares at me, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. "You wanted to kiss me?" His voice is careful.
"Yeah." My heart is in my throat. "It's one of the perks of being married. I get to kiss you anytime I want."
His eyes search mine, looking for the lie, an angle, and expecting a catch, but I hold his gaze, letting him see me. Really see me.
