CHAPTER 66
ARYAN
It’s New Year’s Eve. The house is quieter than usual tonight.
Ma and Vedant went to some family gathering they’d been guilt-tripped into attending.
Radhika is with her friends. Which leaves just me and Ishika sprawled across the living room floor with Chinese takeout containers, two mugs of coffee, and one very aggressive scented candle she insists smells “calming.”
It smells like someone set vanilla on fire. I haven’t told her that though because she looks weirdly proud of it.
She’s sitting cross-legged opposite me in an oversized sweatshirt of mine that nearly swallows her whole, her hair tied up messily with strands falling around her face.
I don’t think she understands what she does to me.
Actually, no. That’s a lie. She definitely understands now. She just enjoys pretending she doesn’t.
“You’re staring again,” she says without looking up from her notebook.
I grin lazily from where I’m leaning against the couch. “I’m in love with you. It’s legally allowed.”
“That’s not how laws work.”
“Depends on how hot the judge thinks I am.”
Her nose scrunches immediately. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” I say dramatically, placing a hand on my chest, “you continue choosing me every single day.”
That finally gets her to look up. And there it is. That smile.
Still small sometimes. Still careful around the edges. But real.
God.
I would destroy entire cities for that smile.
“Why do you look so pleased with yourself all the time?” she mutters.
“Because my girlfriend loves me.”
“You got shot and somehow became more annoying.”
“Near death experiences unlock confidence.”
She throws a tissue at my face. I catch it with a grin. The movement pulls slightly near my healing wound and she notices immediately because of course she does.
Her expression sharpens instantly. “See? This is why you should sit properly.”
“I am sitting properly.”
“You’re slouching.”
“Sunshine, I survived a bullet. Let me slouch.”
“No.”
I stare at her for a second before laughing softly under my breath.
There’s something terrifyingly domestic about this. About being scolded over posture by the woman I love while takeout containers sit between us.
And the thing is—I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more.
She reaches for her coffee again, flipping through pages in the notebook resting on her lap. I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It’s not.”
“You physically cannot say ‘nothing’ in that tone and expect me to believe you.”
She sighs dramatically before holding up the notebook slightly.
“A list.”
My brows rise. “A murder list?”
She looks thoughtful for a second. “Potentially.”
“I support my woman’s rights and wrongs.”
That earns me an eye roll. “It’s just…” She shrugs one shoulder slightly. “Things.”
“Very descriptive.”
She presses her lips together like she’s debating whether she wants to tell me or not. “Things I never did.”
Something in my chest shifts immediately. I sit up a little straighter. “What kind of things?” She looks down at the page again, suddenly looking strangely shy about it. And that alone makes me unbearably soft for her.
Because Ishika Vyas can survive kidnappings, emotional trauma, armed men and my family’s chaos—But vulnerability still makes her nervous. “I don’t know,” she murmurs. “Normal things.” I don’t interrupt. She traces the edge of the notebook with her finger before continuing quietly.
“I spent so much time just trying to survive that I…” She exhales softly. “I think I forgot people actually live too.”
Fuck.
I don’t think she realizes how much sentences like that wreck me. Because she says them so casually sometimes. Like loneliness became so normal for her she stopped noticing its weight. I move closer without thinking about it. Not enough to interrupt her space. Just enough.
“What’s on the list?” I ask gently. She hesitates. Then finally turns the notebook toward me. My eyes skim the page.
Learn how to swim properly.
Go on a road trip without planning every second.
Dance at a concert.
Take a random train somewhere.
Watch the sunrise from the beach.
Celebrate Holi without being scared of crowds.
Get drunk once without overthinking.
Kiss someone at midnight on New Year’s.
My heart actually stutters a little at that one. There are more underneath. Messier handwriting near the bottom like she kept adding things reluctantly.
Bake again.
Wear a red dress without feeling conscious.
Trust someone enough to fall asleep during a flight.
I look up slowly. She’s already watching me now. Guarded again suddenly. Like she thinks I might laugh. Like she thinks these things are too small to matter.
“Sunshine,” I say quietly, “these are your dreams?”
She immediately looks defensive. “Okay when you say it like that it sounds pathetic.”
“No.”
I shake my head instantly.
“Not pathetic.”
Something tight forms in my throat unexpectedly. Because none of these are grand things.
She isn’t asking for luxury. Or impossible adventures. She just wants the things fear stole from her. And that thought alone makes me feel strangely violent. I look back down at the notebook. There’s one thing written at the very bottom. In smaller handwriting than the rest.
Be happy without waiting for something bad to happen after.
Jesus Christ.
I stare at the words for a second too long because when I look up again, her expression has shifted.
“I didn’t think you’d read all of it.”
“I’m going to cry on New Year’s Eve,” I inform her solemnly.
“Oh my god.”
“You wrote emotional devastation in notebook form and handed it to me.”
She groans and reaches for it but I pull it away immediately. “No. This is evidence now.”
“Aryan.”
“Nope.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m invested.”
I stand carefully before moving toward the coffee table where random pens are scattered around. “What are you doing?”
I grab another notebook. Then sit back down beside her this time instead of across from her.
“So,” I say, clicking a pen dramatically, “Operation Make Ishika Actually Live begins now.”
Her mouth twitches despite herself.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And deeply committed.”
I write LIST OF THINGS MY GIRLFRIEND DESERVES in giant letters.
She snorts immediately. “That title is horrible.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“You love me.”
“That’s unrelated.”
I grin. Then I start copying everything from her notebook carefully. She watches me quietly for a moment before speaking again. “You don’t have to do all this.”
I pause. Then look at her properly. “I know.” That’s the thing. I know. I’m not doing it because she asked. I’m doing it because somewhere along the way, her happiness became tied so violently to mine that I don’t know how to separate them anymore. And maybe that should scare me.
Instead it just feels right. “I want to,” I say simply.
Her gaze softens instantly.
And God—That look right there could probably heal fatal injuries.
“You know,” I continue lightly, “some of these are very achievable.”
“Not all of them.”
“Yes, all of them.”
“Aryan.”
I point the pen at her dramatically. “You underestimate how obsessed I am with you.”
She laughs softly under her breath, shaking her head.
I keep reading.
Then pause again.
“Kiss someone at midnight on New Year’s?” I repeat casually.
Her ears immediately go pink.
Interesting. “I was brainstorming.”
“Oh, were you?”
“Yes.”
“And this mysterious someone…” I lean closer slightly. “Would he happen to be devastatingly handsome and emotionally attached to you?”
“You’re ruining the moment.”
“I’m creating the moment.”
She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling now. And suddenly I realize. something. This is probably the first New Year’s where she isn’t alone. The first one where she isn’t bracing herself through midnight pretending it’s just another day. My chest tightens quietly at the thought.
I close the notebook slowly. Then reach for her hand. Her fingers slide into mine automatically now. Like they belong there. “I can’t give you back the years fear took from you,” I say softly. Her eyes lift to mine immediately. “But I can stay while you take new ones back.”
The room goes quiet after that. She looks at me in a way that always makes my heartbeat feel uneven. Like she’s trying to memorize me.
Then quietly—“You make everything sound so easy.” I brush my thumb against her knuckles gently.
“No,” I murmur honestly. “You just make me want to try harder.” Something flickers across her face so quickly I almost miss it. Love. Raw and terrified and overwhelming. Then she leans forward suddenly, pressing her forehead against mine.
“So what’s first on the list, Golden Boy?”
I smile slowly. “Kissing you at midnight,” I whisper.
Her breath catches.
Outside somewhere, distant fireworks begin testing the sky early.
And sitting there on the living room floor with her curled against me, surrounded by half-eaten noodles and messy notebooks and the quiet beginning of a future she finally wants—I think this might be the first year of my life that actually feels important.