🖤 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕿𝖜𝖔 🖤

Hriday's POV

"Hriday," I said.

Her body stilled. Eyes locked on mine.

For a moment, she didn't breathe.

Then, barely audible-"Impossible."

There it was.

One word, brittle and sharp, like a crack running through glass. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just final. As if the universe had just played its cruelest joke.

And maybe it had.

I almost laughed. Not because it was funny. But because it wasn't. Because if fate had a sense of humor, it was dark and vicious and eerily precise.

You ran from the fire, I thought. And landed in the hearth.

She didn't know yet. Not fully. The pieces hadn't clicked into place.

But I could see the storm gathering behind her eyes.

Uncertainty rising like a tide. Her gaze flicked to the door-quick, instinctive.

There it is. The look of someone still measuring distance. Still calculating the exits.

I leaned back in my chair, arms draped over the armrests, voice deliberately easy. "Relax. Mr. Fossil doesn't have a copyright on the name."

She blinked. "What?"

"If I were that Hriday-the one you're thinking of-you'd probably be in chains by now. Isn't that what his reputation says?"

Her stare sharpened, as if squinting could peel layers off me. I let her look.

"I heard he eats betrayal for breakfast and downs revenge with his evening whiskey," I added, mouth curling into a dry smirk. "You think someone like that would be offering you tea and clean clothes?"

She hesitated.

Just a flicker. But it was there.

A pause. A tiny tilt in the axis of her fear.

"I..." She faltered. "I just never expected to hear that name here."

"You and half the country," I muttered. "Though I'll admit, the guy's PR team could market a broken blender as a Bond villain."

Her lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

Then she shook her head. "Worse."

"Worse than a broken blender?" I gave a soft, humorless chuckle. "Clearly, I'm out of my league."

I didn't push her. Didn't try to win her over.

Just let the quiet stretch.

Let her breathe.

Let her keep glancing at the door if she needed to.

Her shoulders stayed rigid, but her feet hadn't moved. That was something.

"Look," I said finally. "You don't have to believe me. Not now. Maybe not ever. But I meant what I said-you're safe here."

Still, I didn't tell her the truth.

Because the truth would break the fragile stillness between us like a gunshot.

Because I could see it written all over her-she was holding herself together by a thread. One more lie. One more name. One more reveal, and she'd vanish again.

And next time, who knows what she'd run into? Who she'd trust. What it would cost.

I shouldn't care.

She was a stranger in my house. A fugitive in bridal silk. A name I only knew because of documents, not because of who she was.

But I cared anyway.

Not for her eyes.

Not for the bruised strength in her silence.

Just... out of humanity.

At least, that's the lie I told myself.

I rose, slow and unthreatening, walking to the door.

I paused with my hand on the frame. "Anyway. The staff made breakfast. It's downstairs."

She said nothing.

"No pressure," I added. "You don't have to sit with me. You don't even have to talk. But you look like you haven't eaten in hours."

There was a beat.

Then, quietly: "I haven't."

I nodded, not turning around. "Didn't think so. Plus your body needs energy too for coping up from the drug effects. So your choice"

I took a step out, then hesitated.

"And Yakshita..."

She looked up sharply at the sound of her name.

"If you're going to run again," I said, meeting her eyes, "maybe wear shoes this time."

Silence.

Then-something flickered. A breath caught halfway to a laugh. Or a scoff. Or something else entirely.

I didn't wait to find out.

I stepped out and shut the door behind me.

The hall was quiet. Morning light slanted in from the courtyard.

I stood still, for no reason at all.

Listening.

One breath. Two.

Then the soft, careful shuffle of bare feet on cool marble.

She was following.

Not because she trusted me.

Not because she believed me.

But because hunger won-for now-over fear.

And for now, that was enough.