Something About Us- MG || (Part 67|Page 65) - Page 65

Part 66

It started with a pulse.
Somewhere deep inside the plaster, behind the rigid white shell that had become part of her body, her leg had started to throb. Not the dull ache she’d grown used to. This was sharper, more insistent — like her bones were remembering what it meant to be broken.

Geet tried to ignore it.
She shifted slightly in bed, adjusted the pillow beneath her cast, clenched her jaw. She’d read somewhere that pain comes in waves — if you ride out the first crest, the rest will pass softer.

But this wasn’t a wave.
It was a tide. Relentless. Swelling higher.

The room was dark except for the sliver of city light slipping through the blackout blinds. Maan’s soft, rhythmic breathing filled the silence, steady and close beside her. He was sleeping on the right side of the bed — always the side facing the door, like a man instinctively placing himself between her and the world.

She didn’t want to wake him.

She didn’t want him to see her like this — curled up and shivering, clawing at a pain she couldn’t soothe.

Geet pressed the heel of her good foot against the mattress and tried to push herself higher onto the pillow, but even that movement sent a jolt up her spine. Her fractured wrist twinged under the weight of the attempt, and a sob caught in her throat before she could swallow it.

She buried her face into the pillow.

But the pain didn’t stop. It bloomed. It seared. It mocked every optimistic thought she’d had about recovery.

She couldn’t breathe through it anymore.

She sobbed. Quietly, desperately.

A single sharp intake broke beside her.

Then: “Geet?”

She didn’t respond.

She couldn’t. Her throat had closed. Her teeth were chattering from the sheer effort of not screaming.

Maan was up in an instant. No groggy confusion. No sluggishness. Just instinct.

He turned on the soft bedside lamp, the dim amber light pooling across her face.

His breath caught.

She was folded in on herself like a wounded animal, her lips trembling, sweat beading along her forehead despite the cool room. Her uninjured hand was clawing the sheets near her thigh, eyes squeezed shut as if willing the world away.

“Hey—hey, hey,” he murmured, crouching by her side so he was eye-level, one hand hovering helplessly before landing lightly on her hair. “Tell me where it hurts. Is it the ribs? The arm? Geet—what is it?”

She couldn’t answer.

A tear slipped down the side of her cheek. Then another. Her breath came in hitches now.

Maan’s face changed. From concern to helplessness to something far more dangerous — rage, but not at her. Rage at the fact that he couldn’t touch the pain and take it.

He brushed the damp hair off her face with reverent gentleness.

“I’m right here. Just breathe, okay? You’re not alone.”
His voice was low, firm, sacred.

Still, she didn’t speak.

He stayed with her like that for hours.

Pacing, fetching warm compresses, adjusting pillows, checking the position of the cast. At one point, he slid into bed beside her again, curling his body protectively around her, one hand bracing her shoulder and the other gently massaging the skin just above the cast line — as if trying to transfer his calm into her bloodstream.

Eventually, the pain dulled.

Not from medicine. Not from sleep.

Just from the unbearable exhaustion of hurting.

She fell asleep just before dawn, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

He didn’t sleep.

Not a minute.

+++

When Geet woke up, the bed felt like an empty continent.

The sheets on the right side were still rumpled, holding onto the ghost of his heat, but the heavy, grounding presence of Maan was gone. For a heartbeat, the "Priyanka poison" from the day before surged back into her throat. He’s seen the breakdown. He’s seen the wincing, weeping version of me that doesn't fit into a boardroom, and he’s finally realized I am a liability.

She lay there, staring at her heavy plaster leg, feeling like a glitch in his perfect, high-speed life.

Then, the private elevator chimed.

Ten minutes later, Maan walked into the bedroom. He looked like a man who had just fought a war and hadn't bothered to sign the peace treaty. He was windblown, unshaven, and still wearing yesterday’s black shirt—now rumpled at the sleeves and smelling of jet fuel and cold morning air. His jaw was locked tight, his eyes burning with a focus that was terrifyingly absolute.

In his hands was a matte black case. It wasn't a box; it was a reinforced protective case, the kind used for high-end prototypes or surgical lasers. He didn't say good morning. He didn't ask how she felt. He walked past her and knelt at the ottoman, his fingers flying over the heavy-duty latches.

“Maan?” Geet’s voice was small, scratchy from a night of crying. “Where were you?”

He didn’t answer until the locks clicked open with a metallic snap.

Inside, resting on a bed of custom-cut foam, was something that looked like it belonged in a museum of modern engineering. It was a custom orthopedic cast—ergonomic, sleek, and molded in a cool, dove-grey composite with subtle lavender undertones. It didn't look like medical equipment; it looked like a piece of high-performance armor.

“What is that?” she whispered.

Maan’s voice was quiet, a low, gravelly rasp. “You’re not wearing that concrete sarcophagus another day.”

“You ordered this?”

“I called in a favor,” he said, his fingers tracing the reinforced heel suspension. “A specialized lab in Munich. I sent them your latest 3D-scans at four this morning. They fabricated the composite and routed the delivery through Zurich to catch the sunrise charter.”

Geet gawked. The sheer scale of the effort—the international coordination, the private flights, the millions he must have spent to shave hours off a delivery time just because she had whimpered in her sleep—was staggering.

“Maan... this must have cost a fortune.”

He didn't look up. “I mortgaged your kidney,” he said flatly. “Don’t worry, you’ve got two. You’re fine.”

Geet blinked, a tiny, startled laugh escaping her. The tension in her chest cracked. “That’s not a real answer.”

He looked up then, the corner of his mouth twitching with a shadow of his dark humor. “No. But it’s a better answer than ‘Shut up and let me make you comfortable.’”

The room was suddenly very small, occupied entirely by the weight of his attention.

There was a sharp knock at the door—the private nurse. Maan stood up, his aura shifting back to the impenetrable CEO. He opened the door without preamble.

“Cut it off,” he commanded.

“Sir?” the nurse hesitated.

“The cast. She’s not wearing it another minute.”

The next twenty minutes were a blur of the clinical and the personal. As the saw buzzed, slicing through the heavy, hot plaster that had been her prison, Geet flinched at the vibration. Instantly, Maan’s hand was on her shoulder. He didn't say anything, but the pressure of his palm was a tether, keeping her from drifting into a panic.

When the old cast was finally removed, her leg looked pale, thin, and terrifyingly fragile in the open air. Geet felt a surge of shame, but Maan didn't look away. He knelt back down, taking her heel in his hand with a touch so light it was almost a caress.

He slid the new, German-engineered cast beneath her leg himself. It wasn't a doctor's movement; it was a ritual.

The fit was eerie. It hugged the contours of her healing femur without pressure, bracing the bone while allowing her skin to finally breathe. The throbbing, rhythmic heat that had kept her crying all night simply... stopped.

“You did this,” Geet whispered, her eyes stinging as the relief washed over her like cool water.

“I didn’t make it,” Maan replied gruffly, focusing on the tension dials of the carbon-fiber straps. “I just didn’t sleep until it got here.”

His thumb brushed her ankle. It was an absent, focused gesture—completely reverent. In that touch, Geet saw everything he refused to say. He didn't see a "rag doll." He didn't see a "charitable project." He saw his life, and he was rebuilding it, one millimeter of carbon fiber at a time.

“Maan…”

He finally looked at her. The "locked" expression broke for a split second, showing the raw, unwashed exhaustion underneath.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead.

It wasn’t a soft, romantic peck. It was fierce. A hard, lingering press of his lips against her skin. It was a promise, a claim, and a protection all at once.

Then, without another word, he climbed into the bed beside her. He didn't take off his shoes. He didn't change out of his rumpled shirt. He just slid under the duvet and pulled her against him, his large body molding around her new, high-tech cast as if they were two pieces of a single, complex machine.

“No, wait—what are you—Maan!” she whispered, half-gasping as the corner of his shoe nudged the pristine white duvet. “Shoes. On the bed. Eww. That’s—no—germ central!”

Maan didn’t flinch. Didn’t even open his eyes.

“Don’t care,” he murmured, dragging her gently into the crook of his arm. “You cried. I fixed it. Now I’m sleeping.”

Geet gawked at him, offended on behalf of beds everywhere. “This is how plagues start.”

He exhaled once — a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh — and muttered, “Sue me later.”

But his arm tightened just slightly, anchoring her in. His warmth bled through the sheets, even through the crumpled shirt and scandalous footwear. And despite the germ horror, despite herself—Geet let her head drop to his chest.

Geet curled into the crook of his arm, the cool grey composite of her new cast resting comfortably against the sheets.

She closed her eyes, and as Maan’s breathing finally slowed into sleep, she realized that Priyanka was right about one thing: Maan did have intense needs.

He needed her to be okay. And he would set the world on fire to make sure she was.

Part 66

Surprisingly Amazing Update

Wow Maan could not see Geet struggle with her plaster

the pain and frustration she went through

he immediately got a fitted German engineered cast for Geet

of course the favor he says it was must have costed him a lot

but finally Geet is all good and Maan is satisfied too

Can we all have a Maan in our lives? This man goes the extra mile to make her comfortable. There should be no doubt in her mind what her value is to him.

Part 66

Gosh Geet was in immense pain

sad seeing her like that

of cos she did not wake Maan up

however he heard her cry out in pain

liked that he assured Geet

as expected Maan stayed with Geet like that for hours

finally Geet fell asleep

Gosh Maan arranged a custom orthopedic cast for Geet

it came from Munich

she was naturally overwhelmed

loved how he silenced Geet

enjoyed they banter

update soon

Part 67

The penthouse was silent, save for the hum of the climate control. Geet was sitting on the sofa, her leg propped up, staring at the management interface of a restaurant software she’d been researching. The German-engineered cast—a sleek, dove-grey structure of carbon fiber—felt like a heavy weight, keeping her anchored to a reality she was still trying to navigate.

Then, the phone buzzed. A number from her home district.

She answered, her heart skipping a beat. For months, she had told herself that her parents were likely unaware of her condition—that her brother was probably telling them she was busy or traveling. She still held a sliver of hope that they were simply being lied to.

"So. You’ve finally stopped sending the money."

The voice was cold. It wasn't the voice of a mother who had spent months wondering if her daughter was well; it was the voice of an auditor.

"Maa?" Geet’s voice was a whisper. "What do you mean?"

"Your brother is in a psychiatric ward, Geet. He’s been there for weeks. The house is being seized because the payments stopped. We thought you were just being arrogant, enjoying your city life, but now that the 'head' of this house is broken, I had to find you. Are you happy now? Seeing us in the street?"

Geet felt a wave of nausea. "He assaulted me, Maa! I was in the hospital for weeks! I almost died! I couldn't send money because I was trying to survive!"

"And whose fault is that?" her mother spat, the words dripping with a selfishness that felt like a physical blow. "You left. You defied him. You dared to try and be 'someone' instead of being a daughter. He told us he had to discipline you because you were becoming 'shameless.' We didn't ask where you were because we expected you to learn your lesson and send the restitution for the shame you brought us."

Geet's blood turned to ice. "You knew? You knew he hit me? You knew I canceled my health insurance just to send you that money, and you let me pay those bills alone while I was bleeding?"

"He was the son!" her mother shrieked. "He was the one who was supposed to take care of us! If you hadn't fought back, if you hadn't found some way to ruin him—because we know it was you, Geet. Things don't just 'happen' to a man like your brother. You must have done something. You must have found someone to poison the well."

Her mother’s voice turned into a sickening demand.

"If you have any soul left, you will fix this. Find the money. Use whatever 'protector' you’ve crawled to and get your brother out of that ward. He is the only name we have. Without him, we are nothing. You owe us for the bad luck you’ve brought to this door."

The line went dead.

Geet sat in the sunlight, the phone still pressed to her ear. The "benefit of doubt" didn't just break; it was incinerated. Her family didn't miss her. They didn't care if she was rotting in a street or dead in a ward. They only cared that the "daughter-tax" had stopped.

The dove-grey cast now felt like the only thing keeping her from shattering. She wasn't a child of that house; she was just the engine that kept it running. And now that she had "broken" the machine, they were finally showing their teeth.

+++

Geet sat in the heavy silence of the living room, the phone still clutched in a white-knuckled grip. Her mother’s words felt like a physical weight, heavier than the dove-grey composite of the cast anchoring her to the sofa.

The shock wasn't the psychiatric ward. It wasn't even the ruin. It was the casual, effortless confirmation that her mother had been a silent architect of her suffering.

Geet’s mind raced back to the cold nights in her former apartment, the days she had skipped meals to ensure the bank transfer home didn't bounce. She remembered the sheer panic of canceling her health insurance—her only safety net—because her brother had claimed their mother needed "urgent medicine."

It had all been a lie. Or worse, it had been a tax.

She realized now that her mother hadn't been "fooled" by her brother. She had been an accomplice to the "discipline." They hadn't missed her; they had simply waited for her spirit to break so the money and the "honor" could return to the house. The realization that she had bled herself dry—literally and financially—for people who viewed her injuries as a failed lesson was a pain more acute than the fractured ribs Maan had spent weeks healing.

When the elevator chimed, Geet didn’t look up. She heard Maan’s steady, measured footsteps on the marble. He stopped a few feet away, his presence a cold, solid wall in the room. He didn't ask what was wrong; he looked at the phone on the coffee table and then at the tremor in her hands.

"My mother called," Geet whispered, her voice sounding brittle.

Maan walked over, shedding his blazer and tossing it onto a chair. He knelt by the ottoman, his fingers immediately going to the adjustment dials of her cast, his touch clinical and constant. His hands moved with calm, measured precision, but his jaw was tight — like he was resisting the urge to crush something. "I assume she wasn't calling to check on your mobility."

"She said he's in a ward, Maan. She said he's lost his mind, Maan." Geet finally looked at him, her eyes wide and haunted. "But that’s not why she called. She called to tell me it was my duty to fix it. She called to tell me she knew he hit me—that she knew I was struggling—and she didn't care. She was just waiting for me to 'learn my lesson.'"

Maan’s fingers paused on the carbon-fiber strut. His expression didn't change, but his eyes darkened, the "Shark" surfacing in the flat, predatory stillness of his gaze.

"Nonchalant" wouldn't describe him—it was more like a total lack of surprise. "A lesson in submission is only effective if the subject survives," he said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "It seems your family was poor at calculating risk."

"You don't understand," Geet choked out, her fingers digging into the leather of the sofa. "I gave up everything for them. I thought they were innocent. I thought I was the only one who knew how cruel he could be. But she defended him, Maan. Even now, with him in a cell, she wants me to save him. I was her insurance policy. Her cash stream. Her obedient wound."

She looked at him, searching his face for a flicker of shock, but Maan only adjusted the last dial on her leg, ensuring the pressure was perfect. He looked at her as if she were the only thing in the room that mattered, and the rest of the world—the brother, the mother, the ruin—was just background noise he had already filtered out.

"The benefit of doubt is a luxury for those who can afford to be naive, Geet," Maan said, standing up and looming over her. "You can’t afford it anymore. And neither can they."

He walked toward the kitchen to pour a drink, his movements fluid and detached, leaving Geet in the shattering remains of her past, realizing that the man she was with was the only person who had ever looked at her and seen a human being instead of an asset.

+++

The air in the living room felt thin, as if the mother’s voice had sucked the oxygen out of the space. Geet didn't move. She didn't cry. She just sat there, staring at the floor, feeling the phantom weight of every rupee she had ever sent home—money she had earned while skipping meals, money she had scavenged by canceling the very insurance that would have saved her from the debt of this recovery.

Maan didn't offer empty words. He walked back to the sofa and sat down beside her, his thigh pressing firmly against her good leg. He didn't ask her to be strong; he simply provided a pillar for her to lean on.

Geet turned toward him, her eyes glassy and unfocused. "It wasn't just the money, Maan," she whispered, her voice cracking with the weight of a decade’s worth of illusions. "I could live with losing the money. But I stayed awake at night in that flat, telling myself that Maa was just trapped. I told myself she was crying for me in secret. I thought it was just the system... that they were victims of the same patriarchy that was crushing me. I thought they didn't know the extent of the cruelty."

She reached out, her fingers trembling as she clutched the lapel of his charcoal shirt, pulling him an inch closer.

"She knew. She knew he broke my ribs. She knew I was bleeding out in a ward, and she was just waiting for me to 'learn my lesson' so the bank transfers would start again. It wasn't just the system, Maan. It was her. She chose the son who was killing me over the daughter who was keeping her fed."

Maan didn't hesitate. He reached out, his large hand cupping the back of her head, drawing her into the crook of his neck. He held her with a fierce, grounding pressure.

"The architecture of your family was built on a lie, Geet," Maan growled softly, his breath fanning against her hair. "You were the foundation, and they were the cracks. You don't owe the ruins your grief."

Geet let out a broken, shuddering breath, finally letting the first tear fall against his skin. She turned her face into his chest, seeking the scent of him—cedar and cold air—that had become her only reality. "I gave up my safety for people who were rooting for my destruction. I’m so stupid, Maan. I’m so incredibly stupid."

"No," Maan said, his voice turning hard as iron. He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, his hands framing her face. "You were compassionate in a world that didn't deserve it. That isn't stupidity. It’s a design flaw I intend to fix."

He leaned down, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that wasn't about passion, but about re-centering her world. It was a heavy, possessive claim—a promise that while her mother had traded her for a son, he would trade the world for her.

Geet melted into him, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, clinging to the only solid thing left in her life. The dove-grey cast on her leg, a symbol of the "Phase II" he had engineered, felt lighter now.

As Maan pulled her closer, his lips moving against her temple, Geet realized that the "benefit of doubt" was dead. The heartbreak was total, but the sanctuary was absolute. She was no longer a daughter of that house; she was the woman Maan Singh Khurana had decided to rebuild from the ashes of her own family.

"Don't look back, Geet," Maan whispered against her skin, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "There’s nothing there but dust. Look at me."

And for the first time, she did—without the shadow of her mother's face clouding her vision.

+++

The following week was a study in silence.

Not the broken kind, where grief shrieks into pillows and every breath feels like a betrayal—but a colder, cleaner silence. The kind that calcifies. The kind that turns grief into something mineral.

Geet had stabilized. The pain had dulled. The German cast still hugged her leg, but her body had learned its new limits. So had her voice.

She moved through the penthouse like a ghost learning to live among the living again—still and quiet, but present.

Sometimes she would sit by the window, watching the city burn itself clean in the rain, the outlines of cranes and spires bleeding into the skyline like ink. She didn’t cry anymore. She didn’t pace. Her questions had narrowed to one.

Was it punishment?

Or was it karma?

One evening, the clouds were a deep, charred plum. Geet stood against the glass wall in her silk robe, arms folded lightly, the dove-grey cast making a dull, padded sound each time she shifted her weight. She didn’t hear Maan enter—but she felt him.

He stopped behind her, silent for a breath, then laid both hands on her shoulders.

“You’re thinking again,” he murmured.

Geet nodded without turning. “About balance. About how my brother’s life collapsed like scaffolding. The psychiatric ward. The frozen accounts. The seizures. My mother thinks it’s a curse. But maybe…” Her voice dropped. “Maybe it was justice. Maybe the universe finally flinched.”

She leaned back against his chest. His arms came around her instinctively, protective and steady, locking her into a frame where she didn’t have to stand alone.

“Do you believe in karma, Maan?” she asked softly. “That people who break others… eventually get broken themselves?”

A long pause.

Then he turned her in his arms, forcing her to look up at him. His jaw was tight. The shadows under his eyes darker than the storm behind him.

“I don’t believe in karma,” Maan said. “I believe in calculus.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I don’t believe in the universe watching,” he said, voice low. “The universe doesn’t punish. It forgets. People like your brother get away with what they do every day. Unless someone decides they don’t.”

She stared at him, heart suddenly thudding.

“I didn’t wait for karma, Geet. I engineered a collapse.”

He didn’t soften it. Didn’t lead into it with flowers or guilt or pleas.

“I dismantled him. Quietly. Completely. No headlines. No blood. Just silence.”

Geet’s breath caught.

Maan’s eyes didn’t waver. “While you were recovering, I spent every night tracing the cracks. The shell companies. The intimidation tactics. The missing tax filings. The false mortgage titles. I created just enough noise for the banks to notice… and just enough fog for his business partners to walk away.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

“I made him invisible,” Maan continued, voice terrifying in its stillness. “And when the government finally caught up, they couldn’t find anything salvageable. Not an account. Not a paper trail. Not a friend.”

Geet whispered, “He was screaming in the ward… about a man with no face.”

Maan nodded once. “That was me.”

She stared at him, stunned—not in horror, but in awe. There was no emotion in his confession. No gloating. Just pure, glacial clarity.

“And…” Her voice trembled. “Now?”

Maan inhaled once. Then gave her the final blow, cleanly.

“He’s dead,” Maan said quietly.

The words hit her chest like a delayed heartbeat. Not sharp. Not sudden. But vast. Geet turned toward him slowly, her breath hitching. “What?”

“Four days ago. Cardiac arrest. Post-psychotic trauma. He was in a state-run psychiatric facility under a false name. No relatives claimed the body. The state performed an unclaimed cremation. Mass rites. No pyre. No name. Just smoke.”

Geet’s knees buckled. Maan caught her before she fell.

Geet didn’t move. The dove-grey cast felt too tight all of a sudden. “You knew. How long?”

“I’ve been tracking him for months,” Maan met her gaze, steady and unblinking. “Since the day I knew about his involvement. I didn't just watch you heal, Geet. I spent every hour you were asleep auditing the rot of his life. I found the unpaid debts, the forged titles, the people he bullied. I didn't use a fist. I used the bank. I used the legal system. I created a vacuum around him until he had no air left to breathe.”

“You did this,” she whispered.

“I unbuilt him,” Maan corrected, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. “I looked at the architecture of his life and I pulled the structural supports. He built a life on your suffering; I removed the foundation. The rest collapsed on its own.”

Geet’s hands trembled as she placed the cup on the side table. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t do it for you to know,” Maan said, his words carrying a clarity so sharp it didn't need volume to cut. “I did it because I spent eighteen days in a hospital chair watching you struggle to breathe through fractured ribs. I decided he no longer had a right to his own life. If that makes me a monster in your eyes, I will live with that. But you will never, ever have to look over your shoulder again.”

Maan sat down beside her—thigh to thigh, an immovable presence. He reached down, his fingers tracing the tension dials on her cast, the very equipment he had sourced to ensure her bones knit back together perfectly.

“Do you hate me for it?” he asked, his voice a low vibration.

Geet looked at him for a long moment. Her expression didn't crumble. Didn't harden. Just... settled.

"I don't hate you," she said quietly.

Maan blinked. He'd expected tears, disgust, fear - something. But she was looking at him the way someone looks at an equation that finally resolves.

"You're not surprised," he said slowly, realization dawning.

"My mother said someone poisoned the well. That things don't just 'happen' to men like my brother." Geet's voice was steady. "And you spent months working till 3 AM…taking calls…talking to people…. You disappeared the night after the hospital and came back... different."

She paused.

"I knew, Maan. Maybe not the details. But I knew you were doing something. And I didn't ask."

"Why not?" His voice had gone quiet, almost careful.

"Because I didn't want you to stop," she said simply. "Because every night I slept knowing he was out there, I woke up afraid. And every night I slept knowing YOU were out there... I didn't."

She reached for his hand.

"I chose not to know so I could keep choosing you."

+++

The silence that followed Geet’s confession was different from any they had shared before. It wasn't the silence of secrets or the silence of recovery; it was the heavy, pressurized stillness of two predators finally recognizing one another across a kill.

Maan didn't move. He didn't pull his hand away. He simply watched her, his thumb stilled against the carbon fiber of her cast. He had spent months carefully constructing a version of the truth he thought she could stomach, only to find she had been sitting in the dark with him the entire time, watching the fire burn.

"You slept better knowing I was out there?" Maan asked, his voice barely a rasp.

"I slept because for the first time in my life, I wasn't the one holding the shield," Geet said. Her gaze was unflinching. "I knew the price, Maan. I’m not a child. I knew that the man who could source a German carbon-fiber cast within hours of an accident wasn't a man who waited for the 'universe' to settle his debts."

She looked down at the cast. It was a masterpiece of cold, clinical engineering—much like the man who had provided it.

"My mother called me an 'obedient wound,'" she whispered, her voice finally fraying at the edges. "She was right. I was a wound they kept open to feed themselves. You didn't 'ruin' my family, Maan. You just stopped the bleeding. If the patient died because the wound closed... that’s not on you."

Maan let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for years. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. There was no apology in the gesture. Only an absolute, crushing relief.

+++

As the night deepened, the adrenaline of the confession began to drain, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. The penthouse was chilled by the storm, the rain lashing against the glass with a violence that felt appropriate for the day's revelations.

They moved to the bed—a slow, careful process. Maan handled her leg with the same surgical precision he’d used to dismantle her brother’s life. He propped the dove-grey cast on the pillows, ensuring the tension dials were clear, and then slid in behind her.

Geet lay facing the wall, her spine curved, her mind a riot of images: her mother’s screaming voice, the "man with no face." She felt cold. Not just in her skin, but in her marrow. It was the coldness of being truly, finally alone in the world—except for the heat radiating from the man behind her.

"I’ve felt like I’m made of ice all day," she murmured into the dark.

Maan didn't say anything. He simply pulled her backward until her back was flush against his chest, his large arm a heavy, protective bar across her ribs. He was a human furnace, an immovable anchor in the aftermath of her earthquake.

Geet nudged her head back, finding the crook of his shoulder. She was still shivering, a small, rhythmic tremor that Maan felt in his own chest. Then, she did something that broke the remaining tension of the day.

She turned her face toward his neck and began rubbing the tip of her nose against the warm skin of his shoulder. It was a repetitive, almost frantic motion—her nose was icy, and his skin was the only heat source she trusted.

Nudge. Rub. Nudge.

"Geet," Maan grunted, his voice a mix of a growl and a stifled laugh. "You're going to rub your skin raw. What are you doing?"

"My nose is cold," she whispered, her voice muffled against his collarbone. "I’m trying to steal your circulation."

She didn't stop. She continued to rub her nose against the pulse point of his neck, a comically small gesture of need in the middle of such a vast tragedy. It was the behavior of someone who had finally found home and was aggressively claiming the territory.

Maan let out a low, vibrating sigh. He shifted, tilting his head to trap her nose between his jaw and his shoulder, effectively pinning her to the heat.

"Is that better?" he murmured, his breath fanning across her temple.

"Yes," Geet breathed, her eyes finally fluttering shut. "Stay there. Don't let the calculus change."

"The calculus is fixed, Geet," Maan whispered, his grip on her tightening. "You’re the only variable that matters."

In the soft dark, the "Shark" and his partner finally fell into a dreamless sleep, the ghosts of the past finally exorcised by the warmth of a cold nose against a warm shoulder.