His expression shifts.
The amusement melts into something quieter. He looks… unsure. Like he doesn’t know what to do with the softness pressing against his chest.
“No one’s ever done something like this for me.”
I swallow. “You deserve it.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just look away for a moment. Then he walks towards me and cups my cheeks; his lips press on mine, and he kisses me breathless. “When I was ten… I used to wish someone would come get me,” he whispers, “Save me from it all.” His eyes are watery now, and I feel a lump forming in my own throat. “You came late…” His voice breaks, just a little. “But you came,” he says, his arms wrapping around me, his chin resting on my head. “Thank you, Aditi.” He kisses the top of my head, and I feel a lone tear escape my eyes, because everything coming out of his mouth is breaking my heart a bit. “Thank you for coming into my life, thank you for being you, thank you for treating me like a human.” He raises my head, his eyes shining from unshed tears now. “Thank you for today,” he smiles, but I can’t bring myself to smile because my heart feels like it’s tearing apart as I look at this beautiful man who deserves the world, but the world failed him. So I make a silent promise I will never let him break again; I will never let him suffer ever again.
“You will always have me, Abhimaan,” I whisper. “You will never be alone now.”
CHAPTER 45
ABHIMAAN
The email hits my inbox at 8:42 a.m.
"Won’t be coming in today. Just resting. Don’t worry. — A"
No context. No explanation. No unnecessary punctuation. Just that little dash and initial she always signs off with—her weird, stubborn way of being efficient and dramatic at the same time.
My hands are still on the keyboard. Something cold slides down my spine. She could have called me? It’s not like we are strictly professional. Actually we are not at all professional. And that’s the reason why she should not have emailed me but sent me a huge text on WhatsApp like she always does with all the emoji vomit and exclamation marks, or better, she could have sent voice notes with her forgetting most of the stuff and jumping from one topic to another. I love those. But I got none; I got an email. I dial her number. It rings.
And rings. But there is no answer.
I call again. Once. Twice. Three times. Straight to voicemail.
I shut the laptop. The sound is sharper than usual. My chair scrapes across the floor. I hear my team greet me as I step out. I don’t reply. I head straight to the elevator. I tell myself I’m beingridiculous, that she’s probably just curled up in bed watching conspiracy videos about aliens in Rajasthan or some ridiculous reel about love languages.
But logic isn’t loud enough when it comes to her. Especially after all those attacks on her.
By the time I reach her building, I’m halfway to pissed—not at her, but at the spiraling panic inside me. My hand hovers at her door, then knocks. Loud. Then I ring the bell.
No response. Not my fault; I did warn her. I punch the code hastily. The door clicks open, my eyes scan the spacious living room, only to find it empty, and my heart falls. But then I hear soft, shuffling steps. And her bedroom door creaks open.
She stands there, hair in a messier-than-usual bun, eyes half-lidded, wearing an oversized hoodie I recognize as mine, which I never gave her, but she still has it somehow, and no expression. Her face is flushed. And she's blinking at me like I’m a delivery guy with bad timing.
“Abhimaan?”
“You didn’t answer your phone,” I say, closing the door behind me and walking towards her before she can protest. “I called you.”
“I was asleep,” she mutters, voice hoarse. “It’s not illegal to sleep in, is it?”
My eyes sweep the living room—the untouched mug on the coffee table, a heat pad tucked into a blanket, and a bottle of Meftal-Spas half-slid under a cushion.
She doesn’t need to say it. I know. I exhale slowly. My chest still feels tight.
“Why didn’t you just call me?” I ask quietly.
She leans against the doorframe like standing is exhausting. “Because I don’t owe anyone a report on my uterus. Also, I planned to sleep through the pain, not wake up to you barging in like you’re starring in a daily soap.”
I am your boyfriend; I want to whine, but that would be way out of my character, so I let out a low breath that could almost pass for a laugh. “You're dramatic even when you’re dying.”
She glares. “I am dying. My organs are punishing me once more to deny thejoyof motherhood.” She rolls her eyes.
I shake my head, chuckling, and move into the kitchen. She doesn't protest. I heat water, find the ginger tea she likes, and pour it into a mug. I’m oddly proud that I remember where everything is.
