Chapter 23
UNDER PRESSURE
NAVYA
Every Desi knows this: you can only ignore a pressure cooker for so long before it screams and detonates.
Evan and I end up walking down a quiet corridor near radiology at the same time. It’s late enough that the lights are dimmed, the hospital exhaling into its overnight rhythm. The floors shine with a sterile, reflective gloss.
He says something.
I stop.
I shouldn’t.
I turn.
He’s too close. Close enough that I can smell him—clean soap, faint coffee, unmistakably Evan. My pulse kicks hard against my throat, loud and traitorous.
“Navya,” he breathes.
That’s all.
No speech. No apology. No promise.
Just my name.
Time does that stupid Bollywood thing where it slows down and betrays you. The hallway disappears.
The rules disappear.
All I can see is his mouth, the one I know too well, the one that once whispered reverence and later taught me what humiliation feels like.
His hand lifts—stops short of my waist. Hovering. Waiting.
He’s giving me a choice.
That’s what makes me lean in before my brain can intervene.
The kiss is hot.
Familiar in a way that is super dangerous.
His mouth is warm and sure, like he never forgot how to fit himself to me.
My body remembers him instantly, responds without permission, like it’s been holding its breath for months, and finally lets go.
For half a second, I let myself have him.
Then reality strikes.
I step away so fast I nearly trip, my heart pounding, skin buzzing, lips aching.
“This is a mistake,” I say, breathless.
“No,” he says, just as quietly. Just as sure.
“Evan—”
“No,” he repeats firmly.
I lift my chin, summon arrogance like armor. Like Poo in Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham, walking into a room full of people she’s going to own.
“I’m not discussing this with you,” I say coolly, even though my hands are shaking. “Don’t mistake a moment of…whatever for permission.”
His jaw tightens.
I walk away before my resolve cracks. Before I remember how good it felt to be wanted by him. Before I forget how much it hurt to not be chosen by him.