The days blurred into each other.
Morning light slipped through the tall windows, pale and cold, settling over Ranvijay's room. He was healing, slowly. Too slowly for her nerves. Too quickly for her guilt.
Myra became routine.
Not affection.
Routine.
She woke before him. Checked his medicines. Counted hours. Measured doses. Her voice was scarce, her expressions guarded — but her hands never shook when she worked.
She helped him sit up when the pain flared.
Her palm pressed against his shoulder. Firm. Controlled.
"Careful," she said once, automatically.
The word hung between them longer than it should have.
Ranvijay smirked faintly. "You say that like you're worried."
Her jaw tightened. "I'm being responsible."
"Of course," he murmured.
That look in his eyes — the one that always made her pulse betray her — returned. Not teasing. Not soft.
Aware.
One afternoon, his wound burned more than usual. Fever lingered beneath his skin, stubborn and irritating. He hated weakness. Hated showing it even more.
Myra noticed anyway.
She always did.
"You're overheating," she said, placing the back of her fingers against his neck before she could stop herself.
She froze.
So did he.
Her touch lingered for half a second too long.
His breath shifted. Just slightly.
She pulled her hand back as if she'd crossed a line she wasn't allowed to see.
"I'll get a cold compress."
"Stay," he said.
Not a request.
Her back stiffened. "You need rest."
"So do you," he replied. "You haven't slept."
She turned sharply. "That's irrelevant."
Ranvijay studied her — the dark circles beneath her eyes, the tension coiled tight in her shoulders, the way she refused to sit unless absolutely necessary.
"You're punishing yourself," he said quietly.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"And you're letting me," she shot back.
That shut him up.
Later, when the pain peaked, she knelt beside the bed to adjust the bandage. Her fingers were careful, precise — but when he hissed, her hand stilled.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
It wasn't clinical.
It slipped out raw.
Ranvijay's gaze locked onto her face.
"Would it matter if I said yes?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Then, softly, "Yes."
That was the problem.
The room tightened around them.
She focused on her task again, refusing to meet his eyes. But her fingers were warmer now. Slower. As if her body remembered something her mind was trying to erase.
When she finished, she stood abruptly.
"I'll bring your medicine."
"Myra."
She stopped.
He leaned forward slightly, pain flashing across his face before he masked it.
"You don't have to do this," he said. "I have people."
She turned.
Her eyes were fierce. Wet. Exhausted.
"I need to," she replied. "So don't take that away from me."
Their gazes collided.
Something unspoken surged between them — not forgiveness, not love.
Need.
Control.
Unfinished wounds.
That night, when his fever spiked again, she stayed.
Sat closer than usual.
Her elbow brushed his hand.
Neither of them moved.
Minutes passed.
Then, slowly — deliberately — Ranvijay let his fingers curl just enough for the side of his hand to touch hers.
Not holding.
Not claiming.
Testing.
Myra inhaled sharply.
She didn't pull away.
Didn't lean in either.
They stayed like that — barely touching, hearts racing, both fully aware that this thin line between them was more dangerous than distance ever had been.
Care had become intimacy.
Silence had become tension.
And neither of them knew who would break first.
The water steamed softly, curling against the marble walls like something alive.
Myra stood at the edge of the bath, sleeves rolled, eyes fixed anywhere but him. The tub was already filled, medicines dissolved carefully the way the doctor had instructed. Everything was prepared.
Everything except her composure.
Ranvijay sat on the stool beside the tub, shirt discarded, bandages stark against his skin. The injury made him vulnerable. The man didn't.
He watched her in silence.
She handed him a towel without looking. "You need to sit slowly."
"I know," he replied.
But he didn't move.
When she finally lifted her gaze, she found his eyes already on her dark, steady, stripped of the restraint he'd been forcing for days.
Her breath hitched.
"Don't look at me like that," she said quietly.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm… something you're waiting to claim."
A faint smile curved his lips. Not playful. Not soft.
"You always were," he said.
That was the first crack.
She stepped closer despite herself, hands hovering as she helped him lower into the bath. Her fingers brushed his arm. Heat bloomed instantly not just from the water.
She pulled back too fast.
"I'm only doing this because you're injured," she said, as if convincing herself.
Ranvijay leaned back slightly, water rippling around him. "Then don't tremble."
Her hands stilled.
She hated that he noticed everything.
She dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it out, and began carefully shoulder first, avoiding the bandages. Her touch was efficient. Professional.
Too controlled.
He exhaled slowly, eyes fluttering shut for a second. When they opened again, they were darker.
"You're punishing yourself," he said.
She swallowed. "i deserve it."
That did it.
His hand came up not rough, not fast fingers closing around her wrist. Firm. Certain.
"Don't," he said quietly. "Not like that."
Her pulse slammed under his touch.
She didn't pull away.
Didn't lean in.
They were balanced on a blade.
"I blamed you," she whispered, guilt breaking through. "I looked at you like you were"
"A monster?" he finished.
Her eyes burned. "Yes."
His grip tightened not painful, just enough to remind her he was real. Dangerous. Still holding back.
"And I still let you take care of me," he said. "What does that make me?"
She shook her head. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore."
Ranvijay leaned forward slightly, their faces closer now, breath mingling.
"I do."
His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist slow, deliberate.
"You're drowning," he murmured. "And you think guilt will save you."
Her eyes fluttered shut.
"Ranv..vijay"
"Look at me sweetheart."
She did.
The restraint he'd been wearing cracked fully then not into violence, not into lust but into something more dangerous.
Truth.
"I stayed away because you asked," he said. "I kept my hands to myself. I swallowed everything because you were breaking."
His hand slid from her wrist to her waist not pulling, not forcing. Claiming space.
"But don't stand this close," he continued softly, "touch me like this, look at me like that… and expect me to be nothing."
Her breath stuttered.
"I don't want this," she whispered.
"Yes, you do," he replied. "You're just afraid of what it costs."
Her hands clenched in the towel.
Silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Slowly painfully he let go.
The loss of his touch felt sharper than the touch itself.
He leaned back again, jaw tight, eyes burning with restraint reborn through sheer will.
"Finish," he said. "Before I forget why I'm holding back."
She nodded, shaken.
The rest of the bath passed in dangerous quiet.
She washed him carefully, never once letting her fingers linger too long. Every movement was deliberate. Controlled. But her thoughts were chaos.
When it was done, she helped him stand, wrapping the towel around him quickly, efficiently no room for hesitation.
As she turned away, he spoke.
"Myra."
She paused.
"I am not the kind of man who survives loving halfway," he said. "So if you stand this close again… decide what you're ready to lose."
Her throat tightened.
She didn't turn around.
But her heart answered long before her mind could.