CHAPTER 62
ARYAN
Waking up feels like dragging myself through something thick and heavy. A steady, rhythmic beeping that presses into my skull like it owns the space. Then the faint hum of something mechanical.
Pain. It hits sharp and deep, blooming from my stomach and radiating outward in a way that makes my breath hitch before I can stop it.
“—” Nothing comes out. My throat feels dry, like I haven’t spoken in days. I try again, slower this time, forcing my eyes open. The world swims into focus in pieces.
White ceiling. Too-bright lights. A blur of wires.
Then I feel something soft curled around my hand. I turn my head slightly, wincing as the movement pulls at something that definitely should not be pulled right now. And there she is.
Ishika.
Slumped in the chair beside my bed, her head resting dangerously at an angle that is absolutely going to give her the worst neck pain of her life.
One hand wrapped around mine like she refused to let go even in her sleep.
Her hair is messy, falling over her face in uneven strands.
There’s a faint crease on her cheek, probably from where she’s been leaning like this for hours.
She looks…exhausted. I shift my fingers slightly against hers. Her grip tightens instantly. And then she jerks awake. Her eyes snap open, unfocused for a second—and then they land on me. Everything changes.
“Aryan—” She’s out of the chair before I can even process it, throwing herself forward—straight onto me. The impact knocks the air out of my lungs. Pain flares, sharp and immediate, and I can’t stop the wince that escapes me. She freezes.
“Oh my god—sorry—sorry—” She pulls back instantly, panic flooding her face, her hands hovering like she doesn’t know where to touch without hurting me more.
“It’s okay,” I manage, my voice rough, weaker than I’d like it to be.
It doesn’t convince her. Not even a little. “I—I’ll call the doctor,” she says quickly, words tumbling over each other. “And your mom—everyone’s outside—I’ll just—”
“Ishika—” But she’s already stepping back.
“I’ll be right back.” And then she’s gone. I stare at the door for a second longer than necessary. Because I know that. That right there? That wasn’t just panic. That was her running. And I don’t have the strength to go after her. Not yet.
The doctor comes in a few minutes later, followed by a nurse, checking vitals, asking questions, shining a light in my eyes like I’m supposed to be thrilled about it.
I answer what I can.
Ignore what I can’t.
My focus drifts to the door, waiting for her to show up again. Eventually, they leave.
And then—Ma walks in. The second she sees me properly awake, something in her face breaks and steadies at the same time. “Aryan,” she breathes.
I give her a small smile. “Hi, Ma.”
Her hand is on my face in seconds, brushing my hair back like she used to when I was a kid, like I’m still something that can be protected just by her being here. “You scared us,” she says, voice thick but controlled.
“Wasn’t my intention,” I murmur. She exhales, shaking her head slightly, like she’s choosing not to scold me right now even though she probably wants to.
“Everyone’s here,” she says after a moment. “Waiting.”
I nod faintly, “Can you send Ishika in?” Something flickers in her eyes. Understanding.
She nods. “Of course.” And just like that, she leaves. I don’t have to wait long. The door opens again, slower this time. And she walks in like she’s not sure she’s allowed to. Her eyes find mine immediately. There’s relief there. But it’s buried under something heavier.
Guilt.
She stops a few steps away from the bed, her hands clasped together tightly in front of her like she’s holding herself back. “I—” she starts, then stops, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry.”
There it is.
Of course.
“Ishika—”
“It’s my fault,” she says quickly, cutting me off before I can say anything. “You’re here because of me. Because of my—”
She hesitates. And I see it. That moment. That fracture. “…my father.” The word lands heavier than anything else in the room. My eyes widen before I can stop them.
“That man…” My voice is still rough, but the question pushes through anyway. “He is your father?” She nods. Her eyes shine instantly, like she’s been holding that in and it only took one question to crack it open.
And something cold settles in my chest.
Because I saw him. The way he moved. The way he fought. The way he looked at her.
And now this?
This piece fits somewhere it shouldn’t.
I don’t even know what to do with that information right now. But one thing hits me immediately. She’s been carrying this alone. I shift slightly, ignoring the pull of pain, focusing on her instead. “Come here,” I say softly.
She hesitates. Then take a step forward. Another. Until she’s close enough that I can reach her. Her hands are still clenched. Her shoulders are tight. Like she’s bracing for something. “I’m fine,” I tell her gently. “You don’t get to take credit for this.”
Her lips part, frustration flashing through her expression. “How dare you,” she snaps suddenly, anger cutting through the guilt like a blade. “How dare you do something like that?”
I blink.
Okay.
That I didn’t expect.
“You think that was heroic?” she continues, voice shaking now, not from fear—but from something deeper. “You think throwing yourself in front of a bullet is something I’ll just—what—be grateful for?”
“Ishika—”
“No,” she cuts in, shaking her head. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to decide that your life is…expendable just because you want to save me.”
Her eyes are wet now. Her breathing is uneven. “You don’t get to scare me like that,” she whispers, softer now, but it hits harder. “Don’t you remember, I have 100% control over your life and I don’t allow this.”
I look at her. At the fear still sitting behind her anger. At the way her hands tremble slightly despite how hard she’s trying to hold herself together. And I smile. Softly. Because I understand.
“I would do it again,” I say quietly. Her expression breaks.
“Aryan—”
“I will always take away any pain that dares to come your way, Sunshine.” The words come out simple. And I mean every single one of them. She stares at me like she doesn’t know whether to scream at me or—Or something else entirely.
“Stop it,” she says, but there’s no real force behind it anymore.
“Can’t,” I murmur.
And then I reach for her. It hurts. More than I let on. But I don’t stop. I pull her closer, carefully, until she’s leaning into me, her body tense for half a second—And then she breaks. Her hands grip my shirt, her face burying into my shoulder as a sob tears through her.
And I feel it. Every piece of it.
The fear.
The guilt.
The relief.
All of it crashing out of her at once.
I hold her as best as I can, ignoring the way my body protests, focusing only on the way she’s shaking against me. “I hate you,” she chokes out between breaths.
I huff a quiet laugh against her hair. “No, you don’t.” She doesn’t argue. She just cries harder. And I let her.
Because this—This is her not running. Not hiding. Not pretending she’s fine when she’s not. After a while, her breathing slows. Her grip loosens slightly. But she doesn’t pull away. “I’m okay,” she murmurs after a moment, voice small, like she’s trying to convince both of us.
I don’t call her out on it. I know better. She’s not ready. Not for that conversation. Not for everything that comes with what she just told me. So I don’t push. I just rest my chin lightly against her head, my hand still holding onto hers. And I stay quiet.
Because sometimes—That’s the only way to keep her from running again.