HIS POV
The Return....
When I walked back into the kitchen, she was sitting at the table, wrapped in a blanket, looking exhausted. The "glow" from our kiss was gone, replaced by the pale fatigue of pain.
I set the heavy plastic bag on the table with a soft thud.
"I didn't know which ones you prefer, so I bought the shelf," I said, pulling out the boxes. I walked over to the stove and started the kettle.
She looked at the mountain of supplies, then up at me. A small, watery laugh escaped her. "You bought enough for a year."
"I don't like being unprepared," I replied, keeping my back to her so she could have a moment to breathe. "Take what you need. I'll have tea and the heating pad ready when you come out."
I had spent my life protecting people from bullets and blades. But as I heard her pick up a box and head toward the bathroom, I realized that taking care of her like this—in the quiet, messy, unglamorous moments—felt more important than any gunfight I'd ever won.The minutes she was gone were longer than any stakeout I'd ever pulled. I kept my hands busy—a tactic to keep the "soldier" in me from pacing the floor. I prepped the tea, making sure it was hot but not scalding, and unwrapped the chocolate bar, breaking it into neat, uniform squares.
I heard the bathroom door click open.
She shuffled back into the kitchen, the oversized blanket still draped over her shoulders like a heavy cape. She looked fragile, her skin a shade paler than it had been during our sunrise kiss. The "sentry" in my brain immediately started calculating her pain levels, looking for ways to neutralize the discomfort.
"Sit," I said, pulling out the chair I'd padded with a spare pillow.
She sank into it with a grateful sigh. I knelt beside her—not to check the perimeter, but to plug in the heating pad. I waited for it to warm up before handed it to her.
"Press it where it hurts," I instructed.
She took it, tucking it under the blanket against her stomach. "You're surprisingly good at this for someone who looks like they eat gravel for breakfast."
A ghost of a smile tugged at my mouth. "I'm a quick study."
I placed the tea and the chocolate in front of her. She took a slow sip, the steam curling around her face, and for a moment, the tension in her forehead finally smoothed out. She looked at the array of boxes I'd bought—the "shelf"—and then back at me, her eyes searching mine.
"You didn't look embarrassed," she murmured. "At the store. Most men would have looked like they were buying a bomb."
"It's just supplies, Riya. I've handled much more dangerous things than a box of cotton." I reached out, my thumb grazing the back of her hand where it rested on the table. "Besides, if it's part of you, it's not something I'm going to turn away from."
She leaned her head back, watching me with a soft, tired expression. "I thought you were just my shadow. My guard."
"I was," I admitted, my voice dropping to that rougher, more honest register. "But guards just watch the door. I think I'd rather be the person inside the house with you."
She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she touched my jaw, feeling the stubble there. "The world is still out there, isn't it? The men, the trouble... the 'heavy' stuff."
I caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, a silent vow. "It's still there. But for the next few hours, it doesn't exist. There's just the tea, the heat, and you. I'm holding the line, Riya. You just breathe."
She closed her eyes, leaning into my touch, and for the first time, I didn't feel like a man on duty. I felt like a man who was finally home.
"The story is currently on hold. Thank you for your love and collections 💖"