My first instinct is to say no. Automatically. Reflexively. But I am hungry. And I’m tired. And today has already been too much. So I don’t argue.
We spot a dhaba a little ahead, not too crowded, clean enough to not make me question my life choices, not that I care enough considering the amount of junk I consume. He parks the car carefully, and before stepping out, I glance back at the chandelier.
It’s fine. Still intact.
“Relax,” he says softly.
I nod once. Inside, we take a corner table. I order paneer tikka without thinking, and he orders the same without even checking the menu. Of course he does.
The waiter leaves, and I lean back slightly, trying to settle the strange restlessness in my chest. “So,” he says, resting his arms on the table. “Favorite childhood memory?”
My heart stutters. Of all the questions. Of course he picks that.
“Muffins,” I say before I can stop myself. The word slips out too easily. Too naturally.
A small smile forms on my lips despite myself. “I used to bake muffins with my father,” I continue, my voice softer now. “Whenever I was upset he always said desserts gives you happiness.”
The memory unfolds before I can stop it. “I loved horror movies,” I add, a small laugh escaping me. “Not because of the movies—but because my parents were terrified of them.”
He chuckles quietly. “They would scream at the smallest things,” I say, shaking my head slightly. “And I used to sit there like this was my revenge for all the scoldings.”
The laugh comes easier now. “My father traveled a lot,” My gaze drifts somewhere past him. “Salesman. Always on the move.”
My fingers trace the edge of the table absently. “So whenever he came back…he brought things,” I sigh. “Snickers. Toys. Comics.”
I smile faintly. “And my mother and I…” I pause, shrugging lightly. “We didn’t get along much.”
The words feel distant. Like they belong to someone else. I blink. And that’s when I realize my vision is blurred. There’s a warmth on my cheek.
Oh.
I inhale sharply. Aryan leans forward slightly, his expression softer than I’ve ever seen it. His fingers brush against my cheek gently. “Your father really loved you,” he says quietly.
I nod, wiping my face quickly with the back of my hand. “I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I haven’t thought about them in a while.”
That’s the truth. I don’t let myself. Because this happens. Every single time. “Hey,” he says softly. “You can skip this.” I know what he means. I know the question before he even asks,What happened to them?
I let out a small, humorless chuckle. “My parents never left me alone,” I say slowly. “But my mother had…alcohol issues.” I swallow. “It got worse when I was around fifteen.”
The words feel heavier now. “So my father took her with him on a trip.”
I blink rapidly, trying to keep it together. “And they never came back.”
He frowns. “You mean they—”
“I don’t know,” I cut in, shaking my head. “No one knows.”
My voice trembles despite my effort to keep it steady. “I went to the police. Offices. Everywhere,” I say. “There’s no record. No trace.”
I let out a shaky breath. “They were declared dead.”
Silence. Heavy. Thick. His hand finds mine on the table. Warm and steady.
He squeezes it gently. “I’m sorry, Ishika,” he says.
I smile faintly. He looks at me, his gaze unwavering. “You will always have me,” he says. I shake my head immediately. He smiles, softer this time. “I know you don’t believe that.”
“Don’t say all this,” I interrupt quickly. “I don’t want to hear it.”
