The hospital room smelled like disinfectant and something metallic underneath it. Night had folded itself against the windows, turning the glass into mirrors. Mahi hadn't looked at her reflection even once.
She sat with her knees pulled up, hospital blanket clutched in her fists like it was the only thing keeping her anchored. The monitors beeped steadily, annoyingly calm for how loud her head was.
Nikhil stood near the door.
He hadn't sat down. He hadn't moved much at all since the doctor left. One hand was braced against the wall, the other curled into a fist so tight his knuckles had gone pale. He kept replaying it—the warehouse, the ropes, the way her voice cracked when she finally said his name. Over and over. Like punishment.
Mahi broke the silence first.
"Don't."
Her voice was thin, scraped raw.
He looked up instantly. "Don't what?"
"Don't stand like that," she said. "Like you're guarding a crime scene."
Nikhil swallowed. "I don't know where else to stand."
That made something in her chest give way—not fully, just enough to hurt. She shifted, winced, then let her legs fall back down.
"They're gone," she said quietly. "You don't have to protect me from air."
"I wasn't," he said too fast. Then slower, honest. "I was protecting myself."
She finally looked at him.
His eyes were rimmed red. Not dramatic crying—just exhausted, wrecked, undone in a way he would never admit to anyone else.
"For what?" she asked.
"For not being there sooner."
The words sat between them, heavy and sour.
Mahi let out a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh. Almost. "You saved me."
"I should've never let it get there."
Her fingers tightened again in the blanket. "You didn't kidnap me, Nikhil."
"No," he said. "But I taught you how to walk into danger alone."
That hit harder than she expected.
She looked away. "I'm not a child."
"I know." His voice cracked on the word. "That's the problem."
Silence again. This one worse.
After a while, she whispered, "They kept asking me about you."
His head snapped up.
"What?"
"Why you mattered so much. Why I trusted you. Why your name was the only one that scared them."
Her throat closed. She had to pause before continuing. "I told them you were just… my partner."
Nikhil didn't breathe.
"That's all?" he asked.
"That's all," she said. "Because anything else would've given them power."
He nodded, jaw clenched. "Good."
"But," she added softly, "it didn't stop them from using you anyway."
Her hands started shaking then—small tremors she couldn't control. She tried to hide them by tucking them under the blanket, but he saw.
Nikhil crossed the room in three steps.
He stopped short of touching her.
"Can I?" he asked.
She nodded once.
He sat on the edge of the bed, close but not pressing, and placed his hand over hers—warm, solid, grounding. She inhaled sharply, like she'd been holding her breath for days.
"I keep thinking," she said, staring at their joined hands, "that if I'd been stronger, it wouldn't still feel like this."
His grip tightened just enough to be reassuring. "Trauma isn't weakness."
She scoffed weakly. "Easy to say when it didn't happen to you."
"I've had my own versions," he said. "Different scars. Same noise afterward."
She finally looked at him again. "Do you feel guilty?"
"Yes."
"Good," she said. Then immediately softened. "But not because you failed me."
"Then why?"
"Because you care," she said. "And caring always feels like blame at first."
He stared at her like she'd just named something he'd never had words for.
After a long moment, he whispered, "I was terrified I'd lost you."
Her lips trembled. "I was terrified you'd find me."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because I didn't want you to see me like that," she said. "Small. Broken. Crying for help."
He exhaled, shaky. "Mahi… that's the only version of you I could still recognize in that moment."
She blinked hard, tears finally spilling over. "Don't make this romantic."
"I'm not," he said. "I'm making it honest."
She covered her face, shoulders shaking, and this time he didn't hesitate. He wrapped an arm around her, careful of the bruises, letting her cry into his chest without saying a word.
Minutes passed. Maybe more.
When she finally pulled back, eyes swollen, voice steadier, she said, "This doesn't fix us."
"I know," he replied.
"But it doesn't break us either," she added.
He nodded. "Only if we stop pretending we're invincible."
She gave a tired, crooked smile. "You first."
He smiled back, just as broken. "Deal."
Outside, the night went on—indifferent, ordinary, alive. Inside the room, something fragile but real had begun: not healing yet, not love yet—just two people choosing to stay, even when staying hurt.