Mahi eventually fell asleep.
Not peacefully. Just… exhausted enough that her body gave up before her mind did.
Her fingers were still curled into his shirt when it happened. Nikhil didn't move. He waited until her grip loosened on its own, until her breathing found some uneven rhythm that counted as rest.
The hospital monitor kept blinking in slow green lines, like it was marking time neither of them wanted to feel.
He carefully slid his shirt free from her hand. For a second, her brows twitched, and he froze, every muscle locking, terrified she'd wake up again screaming. But she didn't. She just turned slightly toward the pillow, face half-hidden, like she was trying to disappear inside it.
Nikhil stood up slowly.
His back cracked from sitting too stiff for too long. He ignored it. Pain felt deserved tonight.
He walked to the window. The glass reflected him faintly — tired eyes, dried blood he hadn't noticed near his cuff, hair messed up like he'd run his hands through it too many times. He looked like someone who had survived something he wasn't part of, and somehow that felt worse.
He pressed his palm against the cold glass.
"She almost died," he whispered, but the words barely made sound. They felt heavier inside his chest than outside.
The memory came back anyway. It kept coming back.
The ropes around her wrists.
The way her voice cracked when she said his name — not confident, not sarcastic, not stubborn… just scared. Pure fear. He had never heard her like that. He never wanted to again.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
"You were late," a voice inside him said.
He shook his head, like he could physically throw the thought away. It didn't leave.
"You trained her to be fearless," the voice continued. "You made her believe she could handle anything."
His jaw tightened.
"No," he muttered under his breath. "She was fearless before me."
But even as he said it, guilt crawled under his skin. Because he had encouraged it. He had admired how she walked into danger like it was a puzzle waiting to be solved. He never once asked if she was scared. Maybe he didn't want to know.
Behind him, Mahi shifted in her sleep.
He turned instantly.
She made a small sound — something caught between a breath and a whimper. Her fingers twitched against the blanket like she was trying to grab onto something that wasn't there.
Nikhil moved back to the chair beside her bed without thinking. He sat down quietly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, watching her face like he was memorizing every expression she made.
"You don't have to be strong all the time," he whispered, knowing she couldn't hear him. "I wish I had told you that sooner."
Her breathing hitched again. A tear slipped from the corner of her closed eye, sliding slowly into her hairline.
His chest tightened so hard it almost hurt to inhale.
He reached out, hesitated mid-air, then gently brushed the tear away with his thumb. His touch was feather-light, like he was afraid she'd shatter.
"You're allowed to break," he said quietly. "I just… don't know how to watch it happen."
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling for a moment, blinking rapidly like he could push his own emotions back into control. It didn't work. His throat burned.
He laughed softly — bitter, tired.
"You know what the worst part is, Mahi?" he murmured. "I would still let you run into danger tomorrow if it meant you stayed you."
The confession sat heavy in the room. Ugly. Honest.
He rubbed his face with both hands, dragging them down slowly.
"I don't know how to protect you without changing you," he admitted to the empty space.
The monitor beeped steadily, indifferent to his crisis.
He looked at her again. The bruises on her wrist peeked out from the hospital bandage. He stared at them longer than he should have, like they were evidence in a case he had personally lost.
His hand hovered near her arm again, not touching this time. Just close enough to feel warmth.
"I hate that you trust me," he whispered. "Because I don't trust myself with you anymore."
Another silence followed. Softer this time. Less sharp. Just heavy.
Outside, a distant ambulance siren passed, fading slowly into the night. He listened to it until it disappeared completely. The world kept moving. Cases would come. Work would resume. People would expect them to be the same.
He knew they wouldn't be.
Mahi stirred again, turning slightly toward him unconsciously, like she had memorized where he usually sat.
That small movement cracked something inside him.
Without thinking, he rested his head against the edge of her mattress, right beside her hand. Not touching. Just close. Close enough that if she reached out, she'd find him there.
"I'm still here," he whispered, voice barely audible.
It wasn't a promise.
It sounded more like a plea.
He stayed like that for a long time — listening to her breathe, counting every rise and fall like it was proof she was alive, like if he stopped counting, something terrible might happen again.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged at his eyelids too. He didn't fall asleep fully. Just drifted in that half-awake state where every small movement from her snapped him back instantly.
The night stretched.
And for the first time since the rescue, Nikhil allowed himself to feel the truth he hadn't said out loud yet:
He wasn't scared of losing Mahi because she was his partner.
He was scared because losing her would leave a silence inside him he didn't know how to survive.