“Please. For me, Anya,” I plead softly. Her expression shifts as she processes my words. Finally, she nods slowly, her resistance fading.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, a small smile tugging at my lips as I squeeze her hand a little tighter. “You’re stuck with me then.” She smiles faintly, her eyes meeting mine. Relief washes over me, knowing she’s letting me in, even if it’s just a little. I have sensed how hard it is for her to be vulnerable with anyone, but I’m determined to make her feel safe and comfortable with me. Still holding her hand, I gently pull her to her feet.
“Come on,” I say, keeping my voice calm yet steady. “You need to rest. You look exhausted.” She looks at me, her expression blank and unreadable, as if she can’t comprehend what I’m saying. Without waiting for her to respond, I bend down and lift her into my arms.
Unlike that day at the beach, she doesn’t protest. Instead, she stays quiet and nuzzles into my neck. Her body feels so small and fragile in my arms. She leans into me, herweight a reminder of how much she’s been holding together on her own. My heart beats faster, but I focus on getting her to rest.
“You can relax now,” I whisper, my voice soft. “I’ve got you.”
I carry her to my bedroom and gently lay her down on the bed. “I’ll grab you something to wear,” I murmur before walking to my closet. I rummage through my clothes until I find a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants. She’s so much smaller than me that I know they’ll drown her, but at least they’ll be comfortable.
Giving her some privacy, I wait outside the door while she changes. When she opens it, my breath hitches. She looks tiny and absolutely adorable in my oversized clothes, the sleeves dangling past her hands, the fabric swallowing her frame.
Something primal stirs in me, a wave of possessiveness surging through my chest. I bite back the urge to pull her into my arms again. She’s still shaken, and now isn’t the time for my thoughts to wander.
Her eyes are half-closed, exhaustion written all over her face. She stands there like a lost child, and my heart aches at the sight. “Come on,” I say gently. “You should sleep for a while.” She nods without a word and climbs into my bed.
Anya Mehra is in my bed. The girl who’s occupied my every thought is lying here, wrapped in my blanket.Jesus, she looks so cute.If I stay any longer, I might want to get into the bed to comfort her, so I stand up and head toward the door.
“Captain,” she calls out softly, and I freeze. Turning around, I meet her gaze.
“Yes, Firecracker?” I reply, my heart skipping a beat at her fragile tone.
She hesitates, her eyes pleading. “Can you lie down next to me?” she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I freeze for a moment, my heart clenching in my chest at her request. I want to protest, to say that it’s not a good idea, but I can’t bring myself to say the words out loud. She stillnesslooks so frail, so tiny and vulnerable, and a part of me wants nothing more than to wrap her in my arms and keep her safe forever.
“Of course,” I say aloud, my voice hoarse as I close the door behind me and walk over to the bed. As I settle down, I can feel the heat of her body next to me, her soft, weary sighs filling the room.
“How did you develop this fear?” I ask slowly as I hold her hand, hating the distance between us but not wanting to invade her space, not without her approval.
Her delicate fingers intertwine with mine, seeking comfort. She keeps her gaze fixed on the ceiling as she explains, her voice shaky but surprisingly calm. “I was seven when some of my cousins locked me up in the storeroom at my house.”
I suck in a breath, squeezing her fingers, silently urging her to continue. She chuckles painfully. “In their defense, I was wrong, so I probably deserved it.”
I clench my jaw. Her words and the way she tries to laugh it off infuriate me. I have a strong urge to find those cousins and slap some sense into them. But I keep my thoughts to myself.
“Like always, I had ratted them out,” she continues. “I never fit in with them. I felt like an outsider at my own family gatherings, you know.” She smiles, but I can see the tears forming in her eyes. I squeeze her hand slowly, trying to reassure her. “I still can’t. My brother is perfect in everything—he’s responsible, smart, and just so wonderful. At one point in my life, I wanted to hate him for being so perfect. He was always in the spotlight.”
She turns toward me, her gaze locking onto mine. “Don’t get me wrong. I love him very much in my own way, but I have this constant urge to compete with him in everything, even if I know I’ll lose.” She laughs softly, her eyes sad. “My parents definitely love both of us, but I feel bad that they have literally no expectations from me.” She snickers bitterly. “It’s a good thing, but I don’t know why I’m making it soundlike it’s something bad.” She shakes her head and chuckles.
I listen to her in silence, my hand still holding hers. I can feel the vulnerability in her words, the pain and insecurity hidden behind her laughter. It makes me want to pull her into my arms and shield her from the world.
“Firecracker,” I say softly, my thumb gently tracing circles on her hand. It makes my heart swell, knowing she’s sharing all this with me, that she feels comfortable enough to tell me these things.
It’s funny how our issues are the exact opposite: Her parents don’t expect anything from her, while mine expect me to give up my passion and run their business.
The thing I don’t understand is how they can’t see her worth. She’s so hardworking and determined, always so focused on what she has to do. How can her parents ever think she’s not capable of doing wonders? It makes me sad that she wants to prove her presence when I can’t even take her out of my head.
“My father wants me to run his business,” I say quietly. “He wants me to give up on my dreams of playing basketball professionally and take over because that would give me a stable income,” I add the words carefully, not because I’m trying to compare our struggles, but because I don’t want her to feel like she overshared. I don’t want her to regret opening up to me.
“I want to run a business.” She laughs weakly, the sound tinged with self-doubt. “But I’m afraid to start one.” She closes her eyes briefly. “I told my father once, you know, that I wanted to be like him—an entrepreneur.” She inhales deeply. “He laughed, patted my head, and said, ‘Plenty of time.’ That I could do anything I wanted to.” Her eyebrows furrow, her voice softening as she continues. “I don’t even know what that means. I don’t want to do anything else. I want him to teach me—the practicalities, the strategies. I want to learn by observing. Of course, I understand he can’tjust hand me his business to gain experience.” She chuckles softly, almost bitterly.
We lie there in silence, her words hanging in the air. My thumb traces random patterns on her hand, offering a silent comfort I hope she feels. I don’t think she needs my advice right now. Sometimes, all I crave is someone who will listen—no suggestions, no opinions, unless I ask for them.
The only sound in the room is our breathing, steady and calming. Having her beside me like this…I’ve imagined it many times, maybe in wilder ways, but this—this is so much better.
“What kind of business do you want to start?” I ask, breaking the silence, genuinely interested.
