I let out a slow breath.
The room behind me is quiet except for the faint rustle of sheets. Aryan is sitting on the bed, watching me with the kind of focus that makes me feel seen even when I don’t want to be.
“You’re overthinking,” he says gently.
I glance at him through the mirror. “I’m meeting my father after believing he was dead for years. I think I’ve earned the right.”
His mouth twitches slightly, but there’s no amusement in it. Just softness. Concern. Always concern when it comes to me. “I still don’t like this,” he mutters, adjusting carefully against the headboard.
“You don’t like anything involving danger anymore.”
“I didn’t exactly enjoy it before either, Sunshine.”
Despite everything, my lips almost smile.
Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since the shooting. Two weeks since I watched him bleed in front of me. The wound is healing, according to the doctors. He’s moving around more now, pretending he’s perfectly fine until someone catches him wincing.
Mostly me.
And somehow, getting shot has only made him more protective. Which feels unfair considering I’m already barely functioning around him. “You don’t have to do this today,” he says quietly after a moment. I turn around fully then, leaning back against the dresser.
“Yes, I do.” Because if I don’t…this thing between me and my father will keep growing claws inside me. Questions already live there. Anger too.
And underneath all of that—Something worse.
Hope.
I hate that part the most. Aryan studies me for a second before nodding slowly. “Okay.”
That’s another thing about him. He doesn’t push when he realizes something matters to me. Even when it scares him. The bell rings downstairs. My stomach drops instantly.
He’s here.
I don’t move.
Neither does Aryan. For a second the room feels strangely smaller, the air heavier somehow. Then Aryan pushes himself up carefully from the bed.
Immediately, I glare at him. “Why are you standing?”
“Because your father is here and I’d rather not greet him lying down.”
“You literally got shot.”
“And I’m still hot, thank you for noticing.”
I stare at him flatly. He grins. Idiot. He walks toward me slowly, one hand brushing against my waist when he reaches me.
“You want me to stay?” he asks softly.
There’s no pressure in it. No expectation. Just a question. And suddenly the answer feels terrifyingly easy.
“Yes.” His expression changes instantly.
“I’ll stay,” he says quietly. Downstairs, the house feels unnaturally silent.
Ma had taken Radhika out hours ago after practically threatening Aryan not to “stress his stitches trying to act macho.” Which means it’s just us now. Me. Aryan. And the man sitting in the living room. My father.
The second I see him properly again, my chest tightens so hard it physically hurts. Because he still looks like him.
