Vihaan's POV:
The evening air still held the soft warmth of daylight as I slid into the driver's seat, but my mind wasn't on the road. It was on the faint purple marks circling Amara's neck.
She smiled when I asked—too quickly, like someone turning a key in the wrong lock—and said she'd slipped on the stairs. Stairs don't leave fingerprints. I knew it the moment she said it.
And maybe it shouldn't matter this much, not when I've only known her in passing. But the truth is, she's been living in the quiet corners of my memory far longer than she realizes.
The first time I saw her, it was ordinary—her and Jia tucked in their favorite café, two girls laughing over coffee, talking with the kind of comfort that only years of friendship can build. I noticed her, yes, but only as one notices a stranger in a crowded room. Beautiful, but distant.
It was the second time that changed everything. She was hurrying down the street, clearly late for something, but still stopped when she saw a bird tangled by its feet in thread. Most people would've kept walking. She crouched down, patient and gentle, her hands trembling just enough to show her fear of hurting it, but determined enough not to give up. And when she set it free, she smiled—soft, relieved, almost tearful.
That smile undid me. I didn't even realize it then, but I was falling. Not for her beauty, though it's undeniable, but for that kindness she carried so naturally, as if it was stitched into her soul.
And now here we are. She's close enough that I can ask about her wounds, but far enough that she hides the truth. It shouldn't hurt, but it does. She doesn't know yet that she doesn't need walls with me.
I tapped the steering wheel, torn between turning back and letting her be. In the end, I promised myself something quieter: I'll wait. I'll show her I can be the kind of place where her truth can rest without fear.
The city lights blurred past, but the picture of her—gentle hands freeing a bird, strong voice delivering a presentation, eyes that carry both storms and sunshine—stayed sharp. Amara Salvatore. The name itself feels like a beginning I don't want to end.
Amara's POV:
As soon as I reached home, I flopped onto my bed, letting the day spill out of me. The room hummed with its usual evening silence until my phone lit up—a message from an unknown number.
Reached home?
I blinked. No name. No emoji. Just those two words, warm enough to feel like a hand on my shoulder. Curiosity prickled. I typed back before I could overthink: Who is this?
The little dots appeared—someone was typing—and my pulse tripped. Then the name filled the screen. Mr. Mickelson.
How… did he even get my number? Jia's teasing about his interest came rushing back, and suddenly the quiet room felt too small for all the questions swirling in my head. First, he notices the bruises, his eyes sharper than my excuses. Then he looks almost…hurt when I dodge his concern. And now this, a single line of care that somehow feels louder than a hundred words.
What are you doing, Mr. Mickelson? What are you doing to me?
I stared at the screen for a heartbeat longer than I should have, then typed, careful not to sound either rude or too eager: Yes, just got in. What about you?
A moment later, his reply appeared—simple, spare, and somehow disarming. Me too.
Nothing more.
Then my curiosity took over me as I asked, "How did you get my number?" Suddenly, a message again came, "You will be working on my company's project, and it's quite good to have a contact number of people, what if you need my help or I need yours?"
I was clueless about what to answer, so I just replied with "OK".
I waited—pretending I wasn't—but the next bubble never came. And yet that single, quiet message lingered like a soft echo, enough to make me wonder if Jia might be right, enough to keep a small, restless warmth glowing beneath my ribs.