CHAPTER 33
AARAV
She's trying to sneak past me again.
I hear the shuffle before I see it. That stupid tiny sound her injured foot makes when she drags it. And sure enough, when I turn from the sink, there she is—halfway across the living room, clutching the edge of the wall for support, one stubborn brow raised like she’s proud of the escape.
"Seriously, Anika?"
She jumps slightly, caught mid-step. “What?” she says innocently. “I was bored.”
I sigh and set the glass down with more force than necessary. “The doctor said no walking without support. What part of that did you miss? Should I spell it out in neon?”
“I used the wall. That counts as support,” she shoots back, a little breathless but still smug.
I walk over and gently scoop her up before she can argue. Her body stiffens against mine, always caught off guard when I do this. She smells like paint and peppermint oil, her favorite combination these days. Soothing, but alive.
“Aarav!” she protests, palms flat on my chest. “You can’t keep carrying me around like a toddler.”
I look down at her. “Want to bet?”
She glares. It lasts three seconds before her eyes soften. “You’re annoying.”
“You’re reckless.” I set her down on the couch, careful not to touch her injured arm. “Deal with it.”
She huffs and pulls the throw blanket over her legs, then mumbles under her breath, “Dictator.”
I grab her sketchbook from the coffee table and hand it to her, along with her paints. “There. Paint. Distract yourself. But no walking. If you move from this spot, I’m tying your legs together.”
She narrows her eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”
I lean in, grinning close to her lips. “Try me.”
A slow blush rises on her cheeks. She looks away quickly and dips her brush into the yellow paint. I sit next to her, our knees almost touching.
For a while, she paints in silence. I don't say anything either. The room smells like coffee and fresh canvas. The afternoon light slips through the sheer curtains, casting golden streaks across her sketchbook. Her fingers move slowly, but the strokes are sure. Focused. She always looks the most like herself when she’s painting.
"What are you making?" I ask quietly.
She doesn’t look up. “Don’t talk. You’ll ruin the flow.”
I chuckle. “You love my voice.”
She looks at me and smiles gently, knocking the breath out of my lungs. “You’re not wrong,” she mutters, cheeks going red again.
God, Is she trying to kill me?
I reach for her hand, the one not holding the brush, and lace my fingers through hers. She doesn’t pull away.
She doesn't even pause.
“Is this okay?” I ask because even if it’s been weeks and I’ve carried her, fed her soup, and stayed up all night when she has nightmares—I still ask.
She nods, still painting. “It is. You are.”
That does something weird to my chest.
A few minutes pass, then she finally turns the sketchbook toward me. There’s a watercolor portrait—me, sitting on the couch, head tilted back, eyes closed like I’ve finally allowed myself to breathe.
“You drew me?”
She shrugs, suddenly shy. I stare at the portrait for a second too long. It’s not perfect—some lines are uneven, and colors are bleeding at the edges—but somehow, it’s exactly how I feel when I’m with her.
Safe. Wanted. Seen.
I squeeze her hand gently. “For the record, I don’t mind being your muse. As long as I get full credit and royalties.”
She laughs—really laughs—and that’s when I know. She’s still healing. But she’s still her. And I’ll be right here, every stubborn, messy, beautiful step of the way.