Aadhya’s POV I woke to quiet movement. He was already awake, seated at the edge of the bed, back straight, shoulders still. The light from the tall windows fell across him in soft lines, outlining the man who never truly rested—only paused. For a moment, I stayed still. I remembered last night. The refusal. The honesty. And the ache that followed. He sensed me before I moved. He always did. “You are awake,” he said softly, turning just enough to meet my eyes. “Yes.” No tension sat between us. No awkwardness. Just something unfinished, hovering gently in the air. “I will be back in a bit,” he said. “Don’t rush.” He stood, adjusted the blanket around me instead of straightening his own jacket, and left the room quietly. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening. The house came alive in layers—soft footsteps, distant doors, the murmur of voices that stopped the moment they rose. The world still moved around him. But for the first time, it didn’t press against me. When I
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