The next morning after the tattoo.

Avani :

I wake before him.

Sunlight slips through the blackout curtains in thin golden lines, painting stripes across his bare chest.

His name—my name—still looks angry and red over his heart.

The skin around the fresh ink is hot, swollen, slightly raised.

I can feel the feverish heat radiating from him even from across the bed.

I hate him.

I tell myself that every day.

But my feet move anyway.

I slip out of bed quietly, pad barefoot to the kitchen.

The penthouse is silent except for the soft hum of the fridge.

I fill a bowl with ice and cold water, soak a clean washcloth, wring it just enough.

Back in the bedroom, I kneel beside him.

Gently press the cold cloth over the tattoo.

He flinches in sleep but doesn’t wake.

His breathing is shallow, feverish.

I take my phone, call the private doctor Aryan keeps on speed dial.

“Fever from fresh tattoo,” I whisper. “Come quickly. Please.”

“Thirty minutes,” the doctor promises.

I go back to the kitchen.

I crack eggs.

Slice bread.

Squeeze oranges into juice.

Then I think: it’s not enough.

He’s burning up.

He needs something sweet.

So I make pancakes.

My favourite.

Fluffy, golden, drizzled with honey and chocolate syrup.

I’m flipping the last one when I hear it.

Footsteps.

Fast.

Panicked.

“Avani!”

His voice—loud, raw, desperate.

“Avani!”

He’s running.

I drop the spatula, sprint back to the bedroom.

He’s sitting up in bed, sheets tangled around his waist.

Face flushed red with fever.

Eyes wild, glassy, searching.

And tears.

Real tears.

The first I’ve ever seen in his life.

He’s looking for me like a child lost in the dark.

I run to him.

“Aryan—”

He reaches for me blindly.

I catch his hands, guide him back against the pillows.

“Are you okay? What happened?” I ask, voice shaking. “Sit down—you’re not well. You need to rest.”

He obeys.

Instantly.

No argument.

No smirk.

No control.

Just… surrender.

He lets me tuck the blanket around him, lets me press the cold cloth to his forehead, lets me feed him small sips of water.

“Wait,” I whisper.

“I’m coming… with your breakfast.”

I leave the room on trembling legs.

I hate him.

I tell myself that every day.

But right now,

the monster is small.

Feverish.

Crying my name.

And I am the one who comes back.

With pancakes.

With honey.

With chocolate syrup.

Because even monsters need to be fed when they’re burning.

And I am the only one who knows how.

He’s propped up against the pillows now, eyes half-lidded from fever and painkillers, still flushed, still weak.

The pancakes are half-eaten on the tray between us.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, feeding him the last bite.

He swallows slowly, then looks at me—really looks.

“Why?” he asks, voice hoarse and cracked.

“Why are you doing this?

You hate me.

You’ve always hated me.”

I freeze with the fork in mid-air.

The question hangs between us like smoke.

I set the fork down.

Meet his eyes—those black, endless eyes that used to terrify me.

“I’m doing it because I’m human,” I say quietly.

“That’s all. You’re sick You’re hurting.

And I’m… here. That’s it.”

He stares at me for a long time.

Something flickers in his gaze—pain, confusion, something softer I can’t name.

Then the doorbell rings.

I stand quickly.

“The doctor.”

He nods, but his fingers catch my wrist before I can leave.

“Password,” he says. “O333.

Tell them that.”

I nod, slip out, go to the door.

The doctor is a middle-aged man in a crisp white coat, carrying a black bag.

I give the password.

The door clicks open.

He checks Aryan—temperature, pulse, the tattoo site.

“High-grade fever from infection,” he says. “Common with fresh ink if not cared for.

Antibiotics, paracetamol, keep the area clean and cool.

Rest. No stress. No… activity.”

He looks at me briefly, then at Aryan.

Aryan just nods.

The doctor leaves medicine on the nightstand, gives instructions, and goes.

I lock the door behind him.

Back in the bedroom, Aryan is watching me again.

I pick up the tray, sit beside him, start feeding him the last few bites.

He lets me.

Every time my fingers brush his lips, he closes his eyes like he’s memorizing it.

When the plate is empty, I take a napkin, wipe the corner of his mouth gently.

He catches my hand.

Holds it against his cheek.

“I’m scared,” he whispers.

I blink.

“Of what?”

“Losing you.”

The words are so quiet I almost miss them.

“I know what I did to you,” he says, voice breaking. “I know I don’t deserve this.

But I’m in love with you, Avani.

Completely.

Stupidly.

And it terrifies me because…

I’ve never had anything I couldn’t control.

And you…

you’re the only thing I can’t force to stay.”

His eyes are wet again.

“I see only you now.

Every day.

Every night.

I want you for lifetime.

But deep down…

I’m terrified you’ll leave the second you can.”

I don’t know what to say.

So I don’t say anything.

I just lean forward and press my forehead to his.

He closes his eyes, exhales shakily.

I stay like that until his breathing evens out again.

Narrator (soft, brief):

To be continue....

(⁠｡⁠♡⁠‿⁠♡⁠｡⁠)___________(⁠｡⁠♡⁠‿⁠♡⁠｡⁠)

She hates him.

She still tells herself that every day.

But right now,

she is the only thing keeping his heart from breaking.

And he knows it.

Leave comment 💌 below