Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Advik
I’ve known I wronged the woman I love.
For years now, I’ve lived with the knowledge of how I let someone else blur the edges of my misplaced affection. How I mistook protectiveness for something more. How I let it fester—until it mutated into betraying her.
But I never realized—not truly—what I stole from her.
Not just the love we had. Not just her trust. But the life she dreamed of. The peace she’d started building. And I ripped it away without even knowing.
She’d chosen me. Not just to love, but to become. To be someone she never thought she could be. A version of herself that was soft, and safe, and real.
And I ruined it.
A part of me wants to feel honored. That I was once her happy place. That I held that kind of weight in her life. But that same part is darkened now. Curled in on itself with shame.
Because I didn’t just lose her. I cost her.
‘I came back from Afghanistan broken. Dying. Incapable.’
She went back to a life she had walked away from. A life she never wanted to return to. Because I wasn’t enough. Because I failed her so completely that she gave up on peace. On us. On herself.
I made that happen.
She could’ve actually died and my heart renews the ache from that time I saw her ‘date of death’ in a dossier. But this time it’s tenfold.
And she’s still sitting across from me, her hands tucked beneath the table. But I can see it—the slight tremble in her shoulders. The stiffness in her jaw. She’s unraveling in real-time.
She didn’t want to say all that out loud. But I can feel that she needed to. I wasn’t meant to know the full extent of what she sacrificed. And now that I do, it feels like something inside me has been ripped clean out.
“If I could, I’d...” I choke on the words, my voice gravel. “If you let me—if you let me—I’d spend the rest of my life trying to bring Greesha back. I’ll make that dream come true because... it is my dream too.”
She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t move.
“I never stopped loving you. Not even when you left. Not even when you... died. Not even when I—when I made the biggest mistakes of my life. I’ll... baby, I’ll build that boring, quiet, normal, beautiful life for you again—even if I’m... not in it.”
Her breath catches.
I watch her jaw clench, her throat working like she’s swallowing broken glass. Her shoulders curl in ever so slightly. Like she’s bracing for impact.
“I think that’s enough talking for today,” she whispers finally. The pain on her face is worse than anything she’s said. A devastating frown marring her face. “We can... yeah... we can talk later. If—if... if...”
She breathes out harshly, her voice thin. “If...”
I can’t take it anymore. I shoot to my feet, circling the table, panic spiking in my chest. For a second—just one second—I see her. My Greesha. The one who would have let me hold her. Who would’ve leaned in instead of pulling away.
But just as I kneel beside her, she shuts her eyes.
And I see it when it happens, the shutters coming down—the wall climbing up. Her eyes, once glazed, are now looking at me with such cold intensity that if I weren’t already on my knees before her, I would collapse.
And then she’s gone. Her chair scrapes back sharply as she rushes toward the guest room. The door clicks shut behind her.
And I’m left kneeling on the cold floor, staring at the empty chair she left.
An hour later, after I’ve cleaned the kitchen, I find myself standing outside her room.
I could try to manage this myself—but the truth is, I still can’t change the damn bandage on my own. My shoulder won’t let me. The T-shirt I have on is yesterday’s, and I need her help to change. Even if she does it like it’s a chore she can’t wait to be done with.
Sometimes I think about crashing with Vicky and Ishika for a bit. Give her space. But I can’t do that to them. Ishika’s pregnant. I’m a walking target. That would be cruel—and stupid.
Three short knocks. I hear her move inside.
When she opens the door, I brace for it—and there it is. That cold, unreadable stare. I tell myself to get used to it, but it still fucking stings.
“I... can you help with the—”
She cuts me off with a swift nod, steps aside, and silently gestures for me to follow. Same routine. Same silence. But tonight, something feels tighter. More frayed.
She’s reached her limit. I can feel it.
I sit on my bed, and she grabs the medical kit from the shelf like muscle memory. Her hands go to the hem of my shirt. I lift my arms as much as I can, and she helps me out of it like it’s a transaction.
And then she sees the tattoo again.
That tiny wince. God.
She doesn’t say a word—just gets to work. The way her fingers move is precise, methodical. I was alarmed initially. But I know better now.
She’s probably done this a hundred times. Not just for me. For herself. Maybe her teammates. People who bled beside her.
I swallow hard, my chest tightening with a sick twist of guilt and dread.
What did she face in Afghanistan? What the hell happened to her out there?
Her words haunt me—broken, dying, incapable—and now I can’t breathe right. That old panic I thought had finally loosened its grip slams back into me like a fucking freight train.
“Stop moving,” she mutters without looking up. “You’re breathing too hard.”
Shit. I hadn’t even realized. I try to slow it down—deeper, slower breaths, in through the nose. I nod, but she’s not watching.
She finishes up, tape firm against my skin, and turns to put everything away. I reach for a fresh T-shirt from the closet, and the silence stretches between us like a tightrope.
I can’t stop replaying her words from earlier.
‘We can talk later. If—if... if...’
That uncharacteristic terror filling her words. What the hell was the if?
“Earlier... you said we could talk later. If...” I say quietly. Like if I speak too loud, she’ll vanish. “What did you want to say then?”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink. Just closes the medical kit, takes the T-shirt from my hand, and nods at the bed.
As she helps me pull it over my head, the cotton blocks my vision for a few seconds—and that’s when I hear it.
A whisper. Almost as if it’s easier because she doesn’t have to face me as she speaks.
“We can talk later... if I can prepare myself in advance.”
My heart lurches. I blink into the faint white light filtering through the shirt before it settles over me. When it lowers, she’s still there. Watching me with eyes that look like they might have already built the wall back up.
“Are you willing to share what happened after you left?” I ask, softer this time.
Her eyes flutter closed for a moment. And when they reopen, there’s a depth of pain in them that makes my blood run cold. Pain I don’t understand. But I want to.
Because even if her answer breaks me—I need to know the woman I forced her to become after I betrayed her.
She nods. Once. Stiffly.
Then she leaves without a word.
I’m left staring at the door, breathing through the familiar roar of panic. That’s probably why I forget to take my pain meds.
And also why I forget the damn insomnia pills.
Because that night, sleep doesn’t come.
But something else does.