27. MIDNIGHT RIDES
VEERAJ
The cool midnight air drifts through the palace courtyard, but it does nothing to clear the mess in my head.
I don't stop to question why I'm doing this.
I don't ask myself why, instead of riding out alone like I have for years whenever I need to clear my mind, I'm standing beside my motorcycle waiting for the one person who has managed to disturb every bit of peace in my life.
Diya stands a few feet away, arms folded tightly over her denim jacket, her lower lip pressed into that familiar stubborn line.
But something is different tonight.
The spark that's usually dancing in her eyes is missing.
She looks tired.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
And when she gave me that ridiculous explanation about the palace ventilation a few minutes ago, her voice was too quiet. Too rough.
It bothers me more than it should.
Without saying anything, I open the side compartment of my bike and pull out a matte-black helmet.
It isn't the old spare one.
It's new.
Smaller.
Lighter.
I ordered it two days ago. I don't know why. I spent twenty minutes comparing safety ratings just to find one that would fit her properly, even though I had every intention of never letting her sit on this bike again.
None of it makes sense.
I step toward her and hold it out.
She reaches for it, but her fingers fumble with the strap, her mind clearly somewhere else.
With a quiet sigh, I gently move her hands away. She looks up at me, surprise flashing across her face.
I don't say a word. I simply take the straps between my fingers and lean closer.
The buckle clicks beneath her chin. My knuckles accidentally brush the pale patch of skin along her neck.
She shivers. So do I. For a second, I freeze. My eyes drift down to her lips before I force myself to step back.
Enough.
I throw my leg over the bike and start the engine. The familiar roar fills the quiet night, but for the first time in years, it isn't the thing I'm paying the most attention to.
She climbs onto the bike behind me.
"Hold on," I say over the sound of the engine as I adjust the mirrors.
She doesn't argue. No sarcastic comment. No complaints. No joke.
She simply moves closer. Her front presses against my back as she wraps both arms around my waist. Her hands lock together over my stomach, bunching the fabric of my shirt beneath her fingers.
The contact sends a sharp wave of heat down my spine.
The night air is cold. It should cool me down.
Instead, I feel warmer than I have in a long time. We ride out of the palace gates and onto the empty highway. Streetlights blur into long golden lines as the speed slowly builds.
She doesn't complain.
She doesn't tense.
She simply rests her helmet lightly against my shoulder.
Her grip tightens around me.
Her whole body relaxes against mine as though, for this moment, I'm the only thing keeping her steady.
It's a dangerous feeling. For as long as I can remember, I've believed I don't need anyone. I've always preferred being alone. Silence has never bothered me. Distance has always been easier.
I've spent years convincing myself that emotions only complicate life.
You need logic to survive.
Not feelings.
But somehow . . . Having this girl quietly holding onto me makes that certainty feel less . . . certain.
She's dangerous. Not because she's reckless. Not because she argues with me every chance she gets.
She's dangerous because she makes me care. She frustrates me more than anyone I've ever met.
She questions everything I say. Challenges every decision I make. Refuses to let me have the last word.
And yet . . . I find myself thinking about her far more than I should.
I wonder what she's doing when she's not around. I notice when she's unusually quiet. I catch myself waiting for that tiny dimple that appears whenever she thinks she's won an argument. Without realizing it, she walked straight into my carefully organized life and made herself comfortable there.
The truly irritating part?
I'm no longer sure I want her to leave.
We've been riding for almost half an hour when I feel her shift slightly behind me.
Her grip loosens just enough for her to lean closer.
"Veeraj . . . " Her voice is muffled by the helmet, carried away by the wind, but I still hear the roughness in it. "Can we get ice cream . . . if you don't mind?"
I slow the bike a little. In the mirror, all I can see is the dark visor covering her face. But I don't need to see her expression. The way she asks tells me enough. There isn't even a hint of her usual teasing.
Something happened tonight. Something's hurt her.
I don't know what it is. I don't know who caused it. But I don't like it. I don't like hearing sadness in her voice. I don't like the thought of her carrying whatever this is by herself.
Without saying anything, I switch on the indicator and take the next turn. Instead of continuing down the highway, I head toward the market area where a few roadside ice cream stalls stay open late into the night.
I don't tell her that a Shekhawat prince probably isn't expected to be standing at a roadside stall at one in the morning.
I don't tell her this wasn't part of my plan.
I simply keep riding.
Then, almost without thinking, my gloved left hand slips over hers where it's resting against my chest.
I give her fingers a small, reassuring squeeze, hoping it tells her more than I can ever say. That, in my own grumpy way, I am with her.