Kabir returned late.
Blood on his collar.
Gunmetal in his eyes.
Silence in his footsteps.
Meher sat on the bed, arms crossed, heart thundering. “What happened?”
He peeled off his coat without a word, revealing a deep gash across his ribs.
Meher flinched. “You’re hurt.”
“I’ve had worse.”
Still, she moved to him—against instinct, against reason—and knelt, tearing open the first aid box. Her fingers brushed his skin as she cleaned the wound. His body tensed.
“I should let you bleed,” she muttered. “Maybe that would shut you up.”
“You care,” he replied, voice hoarse.
She froze.
“No,” she said softly. “I don’t.”
But her hands trembled as they dressed the wound. He watched her, silent. Then he caught her wrist—gently this time.
“You touch me like you hate me,” he said. “But your hands say otherwise.”
Meher’s eyes flicked to his. “You’re poison, Kabir. And I’m just too numb to feel it.”
He leaned closer, their breaths colliding.
“Or maybe,” he whispered, “you’ve grown addicted to the taste.”
For a heartbeat, they were still. Too close. Too exposed.
She should have pulled away.
But she didn’t.
Because in that moment, hatred wasn’t enough to stop her.
And when she finally did pull back—
She realized she could still feel his heat…
Long after his touch was gone.
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