CHAPTER 17
ADITI
The ride to his place is quiet.
Not awkwardly quiet. Not even tense. Just... still. Like the world’s pressing pause, and we’re floating in the silence between two places that don’t know what to do with us.
I don’t talk. He doesn’t ask me to.
I’m tucked in the passenger seat, arms folded lightly, my head resting against the window.
The cool glass grounds me more than I expect it to.
I’m still wearing the oversized sweatshirt from the hospital, and there’s a faint chemical smell clinging to the fabric that reminds me where I was this morning.
And how close things could’ve gone differently.
I glance sideways at him.
His hands grip the wheel tight. His jaw is clenched, like he's still fighting something he can’t punch.
Maybe he’s mad because I didn’t tell him where I lived. Or maybe he’s mad because he’s driving around his sick assistant, which was clearly not in his job description, and his time is being wasted.
Either way, the silence stretches until we pull up in front of a building that’s... not what I expected.
It’s quiet. Tucked between two grocery stores. There’s no guard, no glossy black gate, and no imported car under a dedicated porch.
Just a small staircase, a chipped railing, and a nameplate so faded I can’t even read it.
He parks. Gets out. Doesn’t say anything, just opens my door like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
When I try to get down myself, he lifts a hand and says, “Slow.”
I roll my eyes but let him help me anyway.
The stairs creak under our weight as we walk up. When I stumble a little, he instinctively reaches out—fingers wrapping around my wrist, warm and firm, steady. My heart stutters.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
He nods once, like it’s no big deal, like he hasn’t just short-circuited my pulse.
We reach the third floor. He unlocks the door, pushes it open, and gestures for me to step in.
I freeze. The apartment is... simple. Like painfully simple.
Clean. Minimal. Beige walls. A couch that’s definitely more functional than comfortable.
A tiny bookshelf with a couple of books lined up like they’re afraid to get messy.
A single table fan humming softly in the corner.
The kitchen’s visible from the main room—open plan, spotless, no signs of chaos or life.
But what really throws me is the lack of anything personal.
No photos. No magnets on the fridge. No half-finished laundry piles or random socks hiding under cushions.
The space feels like it was designed not to be lived in. Or maybe like someone’s still figuring out how to live.
“This is your place?” I blurt it out before I can filter it.
He shuts the door behind us with a soft thud. “That’s what the nameplate says.”
I turn around slowly, arms crossed. “No offense, but it’s kind of giving... interrogation-room-meets-hotel-lobby.”
He quirks a brow. “Is that a complaint?”
“Just an observation.” I pause, lips twitching. “Are you a serial killer, by any chance?”
That gets a reaction.
He steps closer, tilts his head slightly, and says—very calmly—“I don’t kill people who make decent coffee.
” I see his lip twitching, and my stomach does something very uncool.
And I hate it. Because it’s just a sentence.
Just a stupid, dry joke. But it’s the look in his eyes—steady and unreadable and quietly amused—that makes my heart trip over itself like a clumsy child.
“I am glad my coffee is growing on you,” I whisper, unable to look away from his eyes.
“I am glad too,” he rasps.
I clear my throat. “Right. Noted.”
He walks toward the kitchen. I follow him like a duckling because I don’t know what else to do.
He gestures to the chair by the counter. I sit down without argument, suddenly aware of how loud my presence feels in a place like this. Like I’m disturbing the balance of something he’s spent years protecting.
“You’re cooking?” I ask, watching as he pulls vegetables out of the fridge and starts rinsing them.
“I live alone, Aditi,” he says like I’m an idiot. “I need to eat.”
I lean back, crossing my arms. “You could order in.”
He looks at me over his shoulder. “I don’t like other people touching my food.”
“I’m starting to think you don’t like people, full stop.”
“I don’t,” he replies smoothly. “But unfortunately, they exist.”
I snort.
He starts chopping onions—precise, fast, no hesitation. Every movement is efficient. Every gesture is exact.
It’s... weirdly hypnotic. Especially when his hands are veiny. Did I tell you I have a thing for veiny hands?
I watch him work in silence for a while. There’s something grounding about it. Like this is who he really is—quiet, capable, and used to doing things himself. No boardroom. No shouting. Just a man and a pan.
“So...” I began slowly, “I have always been curious…” I bite my lower lip, wondering if I should actually ask this or not.
“Don’t make me solve riddles,” he says as he looks at me without raising his head from the chopping board, “just ask away.”
“Okay,” I say, rubbing my hands together, “why don’t you use your surname?” I exhale.
His hands are still for a second. Just long enough for me to notice.
He doesn’t look at me when he answers.
“Surnames are about belonging,” he says. “Family. Identity. History. I don’t belong anywhere.”
The words hit harder than I expect.
Something inside my chest tugs—sharp, unexpected. It’s not pity. He wouldn’t want that. It’s something quieter. Deeper. A kind of ache I didn’t see coming.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Because I know what it feels like to have a last name that carries weight.
One that walks into rooms before you do.
One that’s spoken in boardrooms like it’s a currency and whispered behind your back like it’s a scandal.
I know what it’s like to feel owned by it, to be constantly measured against a legacy you had no say in building.
But this… this is different. This isn’t heaviness.
This is emptiness.
This is absence. A blank page where a story should’ve started. A silence in the spaces where most people have Sunday memories and birthday rituals and awkward family photos. This isn’t suffocation. This is erasure.
And somehow, that feels worse.
There’s something about the way he says it—so matter-of-fact, like it’s just a logistical detail. Like not belonging is just a bullet point in a résumé. But I hear the echo behind it. The years that must’ve stacked themselves inside him, one after another, without a single person to claim him.
What does that do to a person? To never hear your name said with love? To never have someone who remembers the version of you before the world hardened your edges?
I don’t know how he turned into the man standing in front of me—sharp-eyed, immaculately controlled, relentless. But I’m starting to understand why.
I don’t say any of this. I don’t say I’m sorry because I get the feeling he’d hate that more than anything. I don’t ask questions. I don’t offer anything back.
I just watch. Just watch as he adds mustard seeds to hot oil, then curry leaves. The smell rises instantly—warm, familiar, and a little nostalgic.
He adds rinsed poha, stirs it with a practiced hand, and sprinkles some salt and turmeric like he’s been doing this forever.
The silence isn’t heavy. It’s... respectful.
Then he sets a plate in front of me.
I blink. “This looks edible.”
“You’re welcome,” he says dryly.
We eat.
And I try not to look at him too much. Try not to notice how he eats in small, quiet bites, like he’s measuring every spoonful. Like he doesn’t let himself enjoy things too often.
It’s kind of heartbreaking.
And I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, but suddenly, I want to protect him.
Which is laughable. Because if anyone here needs protection, it’s me.
But still. This man—this sharp, quiet, unbearably grumpy man who lives in a box with no softness and cooks poha like a monk—deserves better.
Not that he’d ever admit it.
I glance at him again, and my heart does that stupid thing where it twists.
He’s not lonely. Not exactly. But he’s... alone.
And maybe the worst part is that he’s chosen to be.
I look down at my plate, scooping up another bite, pretending my chest isn’t full of weird, protective instincts and slightly misplaced affection.
He doesn’t need saving.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to stand in front of whatever hurt him.
Even if he never lets me close enough to try.