Chapter 42

The shop is small, warm, crowded with rolls of fabric stacked too high, too precarious-like one wrong move could send them all crashing down. The scent of old cotton and fresh dye lingers in the air, mixing with something faintly metallic from the shelves.

Raj walks straight in, hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff.

Wait— is he embarrassed? About returning the fabric?

I drop the bag on the counter.

“We need to exchange this.”

The shopkeeper finally looks up from his ledger. He glances at the fabric. Then at Raj.

His eyebrows lift.

“Back again?”

Raj sighs quietly beside me.

My head turns slowly.

“Back again?”

Raj rubs a hand over his face. “Don’t start.”

The shopkeeper unfolds the fabric, giving it a small shake.

“Tussar silk,” he says. Then he looks at Raj like a disappointed uncle. “Didn’t I tell you this wouldn’t work?”

I turn to Raj.

Slowly.

“Oh my god,” I whisper. “You ignored the fabric man.”

Raj mutters, “Dev—”

The shopkeeper keeps going, happy to have an audience.

“I told him. I said, ‘Son, you need chiffon. Something softer.’ But he said—”

The shopkeeper raises a finger, imitating Raj’s voice.

“‘No, no, this is fine.'”

I clap a hand over my mouth.

“No, no, this is fine,” I repeat, staring at Raj. “You said that? With confidence?”

Raj presses his fingers to his temple. “Please stop talking.”

I lean on the counter.

“So just to confirm,” I say to the shopkeeper, “he ignored professional advice and bought the wrong fabric anyway?”

The shopkeeper nods enthusiastically.

“Yes.”

I look back at Raj.

“Bold strategy.”

“Shut up.”

The shopkeeper sighs dramatically but swaps the fabric anyway, handing us a lighter bundle.

“This is what you needed.”

I hold it up.

“See? This one looks like it would actually move.”

Raj grabs the bag before I can keep talking.

“Let’s go.”

The bell above the door jingles as we step out.

Evening has crept in while we were inside. The street is louder now. Scooters, vendors, someone yelling about mango prices.

Raj is already a few steps ahead, scrolling through his phone.

I walk backwards in front of him.

“So,” I say. “Big day for you.”

Raj doesn’t look up.

“What.”

“You got publicly fact-checked by a fabric uncle.”

Raj sighs.

“You done?”

“Not even close.”

I squint at him.

“‘No, no, this is fine,'” I repeat in a terrible imitation.

Raj finally looks up.

“If you fall under a bus, I’m not helping.”

“Relax,” I say, still walking backward. “I have excellent spatial awareness.”

“You’re literally walking into traffic.”

“I am managing.”

“You’re about to trip.”

“I am not—”

A screech. A blur of motion. And then impact.

One second, I’m smirking at Raj like a dumbass. The next, something slams into me.

The world spins. My body collides with the pavement, fabric flying from my grip. My hands scrape against the rough asphalt, the sting barely registering because my heart has stopped.

For a breathless moment, everything is just shock and white noise.

Then-yelling.

“What the fuck, man?”

I blink up. There’s a guy-a teenager, maybe a little older than us, still straddling his bike, eyes burning with anger. He’s pulling off his helmet, shoving it under one arm like he’s preparing for a full-fledged fight.

“You blind, or just stupid?” The biker steps forward, aggressive, shoulders squared. “You just walked into the goddamn road like some fucking zombie!”

My breath stutters. I try to push myself up, but my knees feel weirdly useless.

The guy keeps coming, his voice sharp, cutting, louder than the ringing in my ears. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed, asshole! I should-“

He doesn’t get to finish.

Because Raj is already between us.

And he is pissed.

Raj moves so fast I barely see it happen. One second, he’s behind me, and the next, he’s right in front of me-his back to me, his body a barrier, his entire stance screaming don’t fucking touch him.

“If you’re done screaming in his face, you can fuck off now,” Raj says, voice dangerously calm.

The biker scoffs. “Dude, are you serious? He-“

“-wasn’t the one going too fast in a crowded market street,” Raj cuts in, stepping forward. His voice isn’t raised, but it doesn’t have to be. The air is thick with it-warning, rage, the kind of anger that doesn’t explode but simmers. “So if you’re really about to hit a guy who just fell, go ahead. Let’s see how that works out for you.”

The biker hesitates.

Because Raj isn’t just angry-he’s daring him.

I can see it in the tightness of his shoulders, the flex of his fingers, the pure reckless tension radiating off him. Raj isn’t just standing up for me. He’s daring this guy to make a move.

For a long, tense moment, nobody breathes.

Then the biker mutters something under his breath, steps back, and gets on his bike.

Raj doesn’t turn. Doesn’t move. He watches the guy ride off like he’s making sure.

Then-he turns on me.

And now I am about to die.

“You’re fucking impossible, Sharma!” His voice is sharp, furious, breaking at the edges. He crouches down beside me, his hands already grabbing my arm, checking for injuries, pushing my sleeves up to see the damage. His movements are too fast, too rough, too careful.

“I-“

“-Do you ever look where you’re going?!” he cuts me off. His hands are on my shoulders now, shaking me once, like he’s trying to jolt some sense into me. “You could’ve-! Fuck. You could’ve actually gotten hurt.”

I stare at him.

Raj’s hands are trembling.

His face is so close, his breath uneven, his eyes—God, his eyes.

He’s angry. Furious, even. But beneath it? I can see it.

The fear. The moment of actual panic that I might’ve-

I swallow hard. My heartbeat is pounding now, but for a completely different reason.

Raj exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, then gestures toward the car. “Get in.”

I do.

Not because I’m scared. Not because I’m in pain.

But because for the first time in weeks, Raj is looking at me like he actually sees me.

And I can’t fucking breathe.

The second the car door slams shut, the world shrinks.

The noise from outside-the rush of traffic, the distant voices-it all disappears. It’s just me, Raj, and the thick, suffocating silence sitting between us.

Raj is digging through the glove compartment, muttering curses under his breath. His movements are too sharp, too frustrated-like he’s trying to keep himself from throwing something.

My hands sting, my knees ache, but none of that is what’s making my chest feel too tight to breathe. It’s Raj. The way he’s here, hovering, touching, scolding-after days of pretending like I don’t exist.

He finally finds the first aid kit, pops it open with way more force than necessary, and grabs my wrist without warning.

“Ow,” I mumble, more out of reflex than actual pain.

Raj ignores me. His grip is firm, but his hands are careful. He tilts my arm toward the dim car light, inspecting the scrape across my skin.

“Do you even have basic survival instincts?” he mutters, voice sharp with frustration.

I huff out a weak laugh. “I have some. Just… not the useful ones.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even acknowledge the joke.

Instead, he grabs an antiseptic wipe, rips the packet open with his teeth, and presses it against the wound without warning.

I hiss, jerking slightly. “Could you at least pretend to be gentle?”

Raj looks up-and I regret saying anything.

Because his eyes are burning.

“You want me to be gentle?” His voice is dangerously low. “After you almost got hit by a fucking bike because you were too busy being an idiot to watch where you were going?”

I swallow. “It wasn’t—”

His fingers tighten around my wrist, not enough to hurt, but enough to make me shut up. “Do you even realize—” He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “Fuck. I thought—for a second, I thought—”

He stops himself.

I can see it-the hesitation, the crack in his voice, the thing he doesn’t want to say.

I thought you were actually hurt.

I thought—

I swallow hard, my throat tight.

Raj doesn’t let go. He tilts my arm again, starts dabbing at the scrape with more force than necessary. His anger is in every movement, in every sharp exhale, in the way his hands shake just slightly.

I can’t stop looking at him.

At the crease between his brows. The way his lips press together too hard. The way his jaw is locked, muscles tight, like he’s trying to hold something in.

Like he’s holding everything in.

And I—

God, I’ve missed this.

I’ve missed his voice, his hands on me, his unfiltered anger when it comes to me fucking up. Even now, when he’s pissed as hell, I can feel it-the way he cares. The way he’s always cared.

The antiseptic stings, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest.

I bite my lip. “You’re still mad at me.”

Raj lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, no shit.”

“No, I mean you’ve been mad.” I hesitate. “For a while now.”

Raj pauses. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to notice.

His fingers twitch against my skin. His grip loosens.

And then he shakes his head. Tries to go back to cleaning the wound like nothing happened.

I feel it breaking inside me.

Because this isn’t just about the accident. This isn’t just about today.

This is about all of it.

About the way Raj has been avoiding me, looking at me like I don’t matter, like he doesn’t care, like I haven’t spent every second since he stopped talking to me wanting to scream.

He grabs the bandage and starts wrapping my wrist. “You’ll live,” he mutters.

I swallow, my throat burning.

“Raj,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.

His hands still.

Just for a second. Just enough.

I don’t even think before I move.

Before I shift forward, before I grab his wrist-before the weight of everything that’s been piling up inside me finally fucking breaks.

And suddenly, I’m pressing my face against his shoulder.

Raj goes completely still.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know that I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t take it anymore.

“Hey,” Raj says, voice uncertain now, not sharp, not scolding. His hand hesitates in the air, like he’s not sure if he should touch me or not.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I missed you.”

The words fall out of me before I can stop them, before I can think.

And once they’re out, I can’t stop.

I break.

“I-I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice shaking, cracking. “Raj, I-fuck, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to—” My breath stutters, and suddenly, I can’t stop talking, like the floodgates have opened and everything is spilling out too fast, too messy. “I shouldn’t have said it. I shouldn’t have-shouldn’t have pushed you away. I don’t—I didn’t—”

Raj’s hand moves before his words do.

A palm against the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, pulling me in-firm, warm, steady.

“Shh,” he murmurs, soft, softer than I’ve heard him in weeks. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

I shake my head against his shoulder, because I’m not. I’m not okay. I feel like I’m drowning in all the words I never said, in all the silence between us, in all the ways I ruined this without even realizing it.

“I just—” I suck in a sharp breath, a hiccup, a sob, something ugly and desperate. “I thought you- I thought you hated me.”

Raj’s arms tighten just slightly. “Oh Dev. How can I? I don’t. You hear me?*

My whole body shudders at the certainty in his voice.

I clutch at his shirt, my fingers curling into the fabric like I need to hold onto something, anything. “I don’t know how to do this without you, Raj.”

Yhe words barely make it out, slurred with exhaustion, with everything I’ve been holding in.

Raj sighs against my hair, his breath warm, his thumb rubbing small, absentminded circles against my shoulder. It’s so instinctive, so familiar, that it just makes my chest hurt more.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I know.”

I don’t move for a long time.

Neither does he.

We stay like this, pressed too close, breathing too slow, tangled up in something we don’t know how to name.

His hands don’t leave me.

And when I finally lift my head—a mess of tears and exhaustion and want.

I don’t think.

I don’t have to.

Because Raj is already looking at me.

His eyes trace over my face, taking in every inch of wreckage I’ve become. His fingers linger too long against my jaw, his thumb dragging slowly against my cheek, wiping away a tear.

I swallow hard.

I should pull back. I should say something.

But Raj’s thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, just slightly.

My pulse slams against my ribs.

His gaze flickers to my lips, to my eyes, back down again.

And I feel it.

I just move.

Pressing my lips against his.

At first, he freezes.

For a second, a heartbeat, an inhale too sharp to be disguised, Raj doesn’t move.

His fingers stiffen against my skin, his breath catches, his whole body going tense, unmoving, shocked.

Like he never thought this would happen.

Like he never let himself believe it could.

But then? He moves.

Suddenly.

Like something inside him snaps. Like he’s been holding this back for too long, shoving it down, pretending it wasn’t there, and now it’s breaking free all at once.

His grip tightens, fingers curling against my jaw, tilting my face up like he wants more, like he needs to feel this, to make sure it’s real.

And then-he’s kissing me back.

Hard. Like he’s making up for lost time.

Like he’s wanted this for longer than he’s willing to admit.

I suck in a sharp breath, but Raj doesn’t pull back.

If anything, he presses closer.

I let my hands curl into his shirt, pulling him closer, chasing his breath like I have any right to it. I let the heat swallow me whole, let my body move before my mind can stop it.

And then something in my chest snaps.

Too much. Too fast.

My ribs are caving in.

My pulse is slamming against my skin.

Raj’s hands are on me. On my face, my jaw, my waist. Holding me in place.

But it’s not his hands anymore. It’s someone else’s.

Pinned.

Amit.

My stomach flips.

God. No. No. No.

The video.

The fight.

The truck.

My fault.

I can’t—

God how can I?

I ruined everything.

I ruined him. I destroyed his life.

And now I’m doing this?

With another boy?

The thought crashes into me like a train, like a hand around my throat, squeezing, suffocating.

I break away so fast I hit the car door.

Raj freezes. His eyes are dark, unfocused, still lost in the moment I just shattered. His breath is heavy, his fingers still curled where my body just was.

“Dev?” His voice is hoarse. Not understanding yet.

I can’t breathe. I can’t be here.

“I— I can’t…” My voice is barely a whisper.

Raj blinks. I can see the exact second confusion turns to hurt.

“Wait,” he exhales, shifting forward. “What’s wrong?”

Everything.

I press back against the door. “I- I shouldn’t have done that.”

The words land like a slap.

Raj goes still.

Too still.

I shouldn’t have dragged you into my mess. I shouldn’t have done that.

His lips part-like he wants to argue, like he wants to ask why. But then something in his expression hardens.

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, laughing once. Short. Hollow.

“Right.” His voice is quieter now. Tighter.

I shake my head. “Raj, I—”

“You don’t have to explain.” His knuckles flex against the steering wheel, like he’s physically holding himself back from saying something worse. “I got it.”

Fuck. No. This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.

I don’t want this. I don’t want him to misunderstand, to shut down, to think I don’t—

But I can’t say it.

I can’t say anything.

Raj lets out a breath-sharp, frustrated. And then he moves.

Not away. Closer.

Leans in. Presses one hand against the seat beside my head, the other still gripping the wheel.

I go completely still.

And then—

He tilts his head, looking at me like he’s trying to figure something out.

Like I’m a puzzle he’s one second away from solving.

Like he knows I’m lying.

“You kissed me. Sharma,” His voice isn’t soft anymore. It isn’t careful. It’s sharp, measured, waiting.

I don’t answer.

Raj hums. “So tell me.” His fingers drum against the wheel. “If it was such a mistake, why did you kiss me?”

I stop breathing.

Because I did.

Raj lets the silence stretch, lets it hang between us like a slow suffocation. His gaze never leaves mine.

And then-

He leans back, exhaling sharply.

The car roars to life. And Raj doesn’t say another word.