🖤 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕰𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 🖤

(Hriday’s POV)

The first thing I became aware of was pain—not sharp, but thick and blooming under my skin, like my veins carried fire instead of blood.

The second thing was the scent—hospital air, sterile and too clean, mixed faintly with… something familiar. Jasmine? Chandan?

I blinked open my eyes slowly.

White walls. Soft beeping from a machine beside me. A dull ache along my left arm.

And then—her.

She was curled up on the narrow hospital sofa by the window. Her head was bowed, her fingers knit tightly in her lap, lips moving in a quiet rhythm I couldn’t quite decipher.

Prayers?

I tried to speak. Only a rasp came out.

She didn’t hear me at first.

I cleared my throat again, this time louder. My chest protested, but I managed it.

Her head snapped up.

“Hriday?” she whispered, already on her feet, rushing toward the bed, eyes wide and glistening. “You’re awake—thank God, you’re awake.”

Her voice cracked on my name.

“You’re—thank God, you’re awake. You—are you okay? Does anything hurt? Should I call the nurse?”

She hovered over me like she wanted to hold my face but didn’t dare.

I managed a weak smile. “You look terrible.”

She let out a sound—half laugh, half sob. “You’re one to talk.”

My throat was dry. She picked up a glass from the side table with trembling hands and brought the straw to my lips.

“Small sips,” she murmured.

I drank, then leaned back. “Where…?”

“Hospital. You’ve been unconscious for hours. They had to stabilize you in the ER first. They think it was some kind of paralytic poison.”

She paused. “You were lucky.”

“Lucky,” I echoed, my voice dry.

Her face crumpled. “I shouldn’t have asked to stop at the temple. I shouldn’t have dragged you into my little moment of faith—”

“Stop,” I said softly.

She kept talking, voice cracking like thin ice. “You could’ve died, Hriday. And it would’ve been because of me. I just wanted a blessing, not—” Her voice broke. She looked away, swallowing hard. “I missed the train. I couldn’t leave knowing—”

“You didn’t leave,” I said quietly. “You stayed.”

She didn’t respond, but her fingers dug into the edges of her dupatta.

The door opened.

A middle-aged doctor walked in, flipping through a chart. He glanced at me and smiled. “Finally awake. That’s a good sign.”

He walked to the monitor, checked my vitals.

“You're stable now. Heart rate is normalizing. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck.”

“That’s expected. The compound was strong—designed to paralyze within minutes. If it had fully entered your bloodstream…”

He looked at her, his expression softening.

“But this young lady—she acted fast.”

He turned to me. “She tied her dupatta around your upper arm. Slowed the toxin. Gave us the minutes we needed. In situations like this, a minute can mean everything.”

I glanced at her. She didn’t meet my eyes.

“She hasn’t moved from that couch since we brought you in here,” the doctor added. “Three, maybe four hours. Refused to even get a coffee.”

I blinked slowly. Something clenched in my chest—not pain. Something else.

The nurse nodded approvingly and made some notes on her clipboard. “You’ve got a good one there. Hang on to her.” Then she left with the doctor.

The room went still again.

She stood awkwardly beside the bed, arms crossed, trying hard to keep her composure.

I shifted up carefully in bed, grimacing a little, and patted the chair beside me. “Sit.”

“I’m fine,” she murmured.

“You’re not,” I said gently. “And you’ve been on your feet long enough.”

She finally sat, only halfway into the chair, still tense.

I tilted my head, studying her. “So, you’re blaming yourself?”

She looked down. “If I hadn’t—”

“Shh.” I reached out and lightly touched her wrist.

She stilled.

“I have more enemies than I can count. You think you can take the blame for all of them?”

She hesitated. “But this happened because—”

“Because someone saw an opportunity. That’s not on you.”

A faint breath escaped her lips. “You could have died.”

I smiled gently. “You tied your dupatta like a battlefield medic. Honestly, that’s a pretty dramatic way to make me keep it.”

That got the smallest, most reluctant smile out of her.

“You should frame it,” I added.

“Oh shut up,” she whispered, but her voice wobbled with laughter and tears all at once.

I watched her for a long second, then said, “Why didn’t you go?”

She blinked. “Go?”

“The train.”

She swallowed. “I couldn’t. I tried. But I… I couldn’t leave you like that.”

She looked away. “I missed my train.”

I smiled faintly. “Trains are replaceable.”

“I thought you might die.”

My chest ached, but not from the wound.

I reached out and lightly touched her fingers. “But I didn’t.”

She looked at me then. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because,” I said, “you’re here. And you saved me. And you’re really terrible at leaving.”

That finally made her laugh—a soft, surprised sound that escaped before she could stop it.

“I’m still going,” she said. “Eventually.”

“Sure,” I nodded. “Eventually.”

We fell quiet again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

And for the first t

ime in a long time, I didn’t feel like a man alone in the world.

I felt tethered—to someone who sat beside my broken body and prayed me back to life.