Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Greesha
It’s been a week in Advik’s guest bedroom.
Relocating from the shitty studio apartment Vir and I were holed up in wasn’t hard. I don’t own much. A duffle bag and a sense of dread.
I still remember shoving wrinkled clothes into that bag while Vir watched me from the corner—arms crossed, face carved from stone. I’d dropped Advik off that day of his discharge—right outside his apartment.
“Is this it?” Vir had asked, voice rough.
“Yeah. Just grabbing my laptop,” I’d mumbled.
He pushed off the wall, eyes dropping to the duffle like it was the end of something permanent. The tormented finality on his face nearly made me say fuck it and stay.
But stay for what?
Advik needed protection. GenVault needed the mission intact. And I was already skating on thin ice with Mehul.
Staying with Vir would’ve only delayed what needed doing. This was a tactical decision. No room for emotions.
But then why did it feel like I was ripping apart the professional bond between me and Vir?
Why were the lines between personal and professional so blurry with him that he was seeing this as my departure from the assignment?
I tried to explain. Told him we’d stay in touch. That I’d check in periodically.
But when I blurted out, “I need to be with Advik,”—I saw it.
His jaw tightened. He didn’t get it. Or didn’t want to.
And then I drove myself back.
Back to the same goddamn apartment I fled from three years ago.
The second I stepped through the door, it hit me like a freight train. The weight of a memory I hadn’t asked for. I thought I might accidentally summon that look on his face that last time. That final conversation. His eyes pleading, and me... breaking us.
Or maybe this time he would actually take up on my offer and chase Rohi to Canada. He hadn’t. But the irrational fear of that morning came rushing back tenfold.
The nightmares I had experienced after breaking up were taking a vivid shape.
The ones where I tell him to go after Rohi. And instead of arguing, instead of begging me to stay—he thanks me. Smiles like I’ve just handed him permission to love someone else.
And maybe the nightmares were clawing back because the place was exactly the same.
Same gray couch. Same chipped coffee table we bought together off a second-hand app. Hell, even the coffee machine was the same model—upgraded, sure, but still stationed in the exact same spot on the counter.
It was like walking into a damn time capsule.
And there he was.
Seated on the couch, casual, familiar. Like I’d never left. Like everything in his body was saying you’re home.
Two coffee mugs sat on the table.
He looked up slowly, that slow-burn smile spreading across his face.
“You’re back.”
I almost collapsed to the floor right then. I’m back.
That statement held too much of my current predicament. It clawed at the door I’d been trying to keep shut.
I forced myself forward. Square shoulders. Neutral expression.
Dropped the duffle beside the couch and sat down like I didn’t feel like a stranger in my own past.
Grabbed the coffee closest to me. Took a sip. And nearly spat it out.
Exactly how I used to take it. Dark roast. Cream. No sugar.
The bastard remembered.
“I take sugar now,” I lied.
He blinked. Surprise, maybe even disappointment, flitting through his face. But if it stung, he buried it deep.
We didn’t talk much after that.
I slipped into the guest bedroom. Stayed invisible except when I had to check his dressings, help him in and out of T-shirts—which, by the way, is its own form of hell.
Not because he was shirtless.
No. Because he looked... weaker.
Still fit. Still muscular. But the kind of muscle that comes secondhand now. Less maintained, more endured. The body of a man who used to fight for himself. Who maybe stopped.
And then there’s the tattoo.
First time I saw it, I pretended I didn’t.
Second time, I couldn’t help it.
‘Greesha’
Etched in elegant script across the left side of his chest.
Not massive. But impossible to miss. Right over the heart I thought I walked away from.
I’ve never asked about it. When he got it. He’s never offered.
And now, a week later... he still looks at me with that quiet, unapologetic love that makes me want to scream and cry and curl into the carpet all at once.
Every time I’m in the kitchen heating up what we’ve ordered, he finds a reason to hover.
Leaning on counters like I might pass him something warm. As if I was the one who cooked.
Like I used to.
Like I never left.
Fucking hell.
We sit across from each other in silence.
He’s eating with his good hand, focused, quiet. That’s our usual.
The kind of silence that balances on a thread. Sometimes it’s blissful—comforting even. Other times, like tonight, it’s claustrophobic. Like I’m being suffocated from the inside out.
Then he breaks it. Casual. Like we’re lovers sharing a quiet dinner and not a mark and his bodyguard.
“I’m resuming work next Monday,” he says mid-chew, as if it’s dinner table talk and not a bomb.
I hum in response, noncommittal.
“Dev’s been keeping me posted. On Mehul. On what he’s doing with our systems.”
I frown at my plate. I know where this is going, and I’m not in the mood for war updates disguised as small talk.
“If this is your attempt at conversation,” I murmur, “try harder. I already know everything. Dev updates me too.”
He goes quiet. But I can feel it—his gaze on me, heavy and searching. Burning into my forehead like it’ll force something out of me I haven’t offered in years.
I exhale. Long. Controlled.
This isn’t me snapping. It isn’t even me losing patience.
This is the slow decay of a wall he hasn’t even touched—because maybe, just maybe, he’s letting me choose whether or not to break it.
But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Doesn’t mean I’m ready.
Still, the words come out anyway.
“When?” I ask suddenly. Flat. “When did you get that tattoo?”
He blinks as if he didn’t see that coming. Maybe he didn’t. He clears his throat and puts his spoon down. The air shifts.
“About... six, maybe seven months after you left.”
I scoff. Too bitter. But I don’t stop.
“Didn’t it feel weird, having Rohi stare at my name while you fucked her?”
There it is. The grenade. Pulled and thrown before I could stop myself. I immediately regret it. My breath stutters in my chest.
He stares down at his plate. And that flicker—guilt—crosses his face.
“She never saw it,” he says, voice low. Almost shameful.
My head jerks back slightly, because I didn’t expect that. I don’t know what the hell to do with it.
“It wasn’t what you think,” he continues, still not meeting my eyes. “We were almost... clothed. The entire time.”
His voice falters. Breaks in places I didn’t expect.
“It wasn’t a grand reunion. It wasn’t closure. It was...” His mouth twists. “A mistake. One I knew I was making even while I was doing it.”
I stay quiet. My hands curl into fists under the table.
“Aarohi was a mistake,” he says again. “I shouldn’t have slept with her. I shouldn’t have touched her, even if I thought you were—” His voice catches. “Dead.”
The word lands with a thud between us.
“Even then,” he adds, quieter, “I knew I was betraying something sacred. Even in death, you didn’t leave me.”
I blink. Once. Twice. And then I scoff again. Bitterer this time. Too raw to be graceful.
“You can’t say that. You don’t get to say that.”
My voice doesn’t shake. But it’s close. “Of course I would’ve been okay with you moving on. I did. So why wouldn’t I expect the same from you? But then I found out it was Rohi...”
I shake my head. Hard. Pressing the mask back on my face like I’ve practiced it a thousand times.
“I felt like a fool,” I admit, barely above a whisper. “Because I hoped—stupidly—that if you hadn’t gone after her for two years, then maybe... maybe there was still something worth salvaging between us.”
I look at him finally. “But then I came back from Afghanistan broken. Dying. Incapable. Only to be welcomed by the news of you finally giving in.”
I have no idea why I’m saying any of this. But I know I need to.
Because even though I’ve thought it a hundred times over, the words never made it out of my mouth.
The person I wanted to say it to was gone. And the person that wanted to say it? She died with him.
His breathing hitches. Then—his voice cracks.
“I’m sorry. So, so fucking sorry, Greesha.”
I blink fast, forcing the tears back before they can betray me.
It’s embarrassing that it still hurts. All of it. Still.
“You thought I was dead. I get it. Fuck! I don’t know what that does to someone’s head,” I murmur. “I’ve never had an ex die on me.”
He looks up, sniffling. Eyes glistening.
“You weren’t an ex. You were the love I lost. And... to answer your question, it was like having panic stuck in my throat—permanently. Like my life wasn’t mine anymore. You took it with you. But worse than that, there was the guilt... of failing you. Of failing us.”
He drags a hand down his face. Exhausted. Regret etched into every line of him.
“I... fuck. I don’t even fully remember what I was thinking during Vicky’s wedding. My decisions... my reasoning... it’s all a blur. But I remember one thing clearly. I remember realizing, deep in my bones, that there was no one else for me but you. And you were gone.”
He swallows hard.
“I remember wanting to go to you. Feeling like a failure. That I hadn’t loved you right. Because if I had... maybe you’d be alive. I remember being scared... hopeless.”
I look away. I don’t want him to see the tears gathering again. They’re coming too easily around him.
“It’s not that you didn’t love me right,” I say softly. “You did, for the most part. Rohi was just... a quiet thing. I didn’t even notice your pull toward her most of the time.”
His voice hardens with shame. Urgency.
“Because it wasn’t there. Not really. Only when she was right there in front of me—those old stupid instincts of needing to save kicked in and—”
I let out a soft, wet laugh. Bitter.