His POV — Rishabh
She slept like someone who had finally put a heavy weight down.
Not peacefully—not the soft, careless sleep of someone untouched by fear—but deep. Exhausted. Earned.
I didn't move.
The engine was off, the street empty, the city reduced to a distant hum. Streetlight spilled through the windshield, brushing her face in pale gold. Her lashes were still wet, tear tracks faint against her skin.
I kept my hands on my thighs.
That was the rule.
She was safe.
And safety meant control.
Her breathing steadied slowly, like her body was learning a new rhythm—one that didn't require bracing for impact. Every rise and fall of her chest told me how close she still was to breaking.
Too close.
I should've taken her home.
But she hadn't said where "home" was anymore.
So I stayed.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time felt irrelevant when the only thing that mattered was keeping the world exactly as it was—quiet, still, harmless.
Her fingers twitched.
I tensed instantly, my attention snapping back to her face. She shifted slightly, her head rolling toward me before settling again, the jacket slipping just enough that I adjusted it—barely—so it wouldn't fall.
Careful.
Always careful.
I'd seen fear before.
I'd caused it in others.
But this—this was different.
This was the kind that hid behind apologies. Behind "I tried."
The kind that convinced you pain was normal, deserved even.
My jaw tightened.
Alex's face flashed in my mind—not scared, not angry.
Cornered.
And for the first time, I understood exactly why that unsettled him.
Because men like him relied on silence. On hesitation. On the way women learned to make themselves smaller to keep the peace.
Riya didn't know it yet—but tonight, she'd broken that pattern.
Even if she didn't feel strong.
Even if she still blamed herself.
She had stepped away.
That mattered.
I leaned back in my seat, eyes never leaving her. My pulse was steady now, but something heavier sat in my chest—an awareness I didn't welcome.
This wasn't professional anymore.
And it wasn't personal either.
It was something far more dangerous.
Protective.
She stirred again, this time more fully. Her brows drew together, a faint frown forming like her dreams had followed her here. A quiet sound left her throat—almost a whimper.
I was out of the car before I realized I'd moved.
I opened her door slowly, crouching beside her so I wouldn't loom, wouldn't startle her if she woke. The night air brushed my face, cool and sharp.
"It's okay," I said softly, not even sure she could hear me. "You're not there."
Her breathing hitched once.
Then eased.
I stayed there longer than necessary, watching, grounding myself in the simple facts: she was breathing, she was warm, she was safe.
Eventually, she slept deeper again.
Only then did I stand.
I didn't touch her after that.
Didn't let myself.
When dawn began to bleed faintly into the sky, I made the decision I'd been avoiding.
I drove.
Not fast. Not slow. Just steady.
When we reached my place, I parked and cut the engine. The building was quiet, early morning still clinging to the walls. I went around, opened her door, and hesitated.
"Riya," I said gently.
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, confused. For half a second, panic flashed—and then she saw me.
And it vanished.
That did something to me I didn't have words for.
"You're safe," I said immediately. "We're just somewhere quiet. You can rest inside."
She nodded faintly, trusting me without really thinking about it. That trust sat heavy in my hands as I helped her out—not carrying her, not lifting her—just guiding.
Inside, I gave her the couch, a glass of water, space.
Always space.
She curled under the blanket like she'd been waiting to do that for years.
"Thank you," she murmured, already half-asleep.
I didn't answer.
Because if I did, my voice would've betrayed me.
I stood there, watching until her breathing evened out again.
Then I turned away.
Because whatever this was becoming—
I needed to stay in control.
For both of us.I didn't sleep.
I sat at the small table near the window, a glass of water untouched beside me, watching the city wake up in pieces. Early morning had a way of lying—pretending things could start clean just because the sun rose.
Behind me, she breathed.
Soft. Even.
Every sound from that couch anchored me more than anything else in the room.
I'd dealt with worse nights. Bloodier ones. Louder ones. Nights where silence meant death, not peace. But this—this quiet pressed heavier against my ribs than any chaos ever had.
Because she was here.
And because she trusted me enough to sleep.
I shouldn't let this continue.
That thought came sharp and clear, cutting through everything else.
Doctor.
Patient.
Lines existed for a reason.
I reminded myself of that as I stood and moved toward the kitchen, keeping my steps measured. I poured coffee I didn't want, just to give my hands something to do. The bitterness hit my tongue and grounded me.
Behind me, fabric shifted.
I froze.
Not fear.
Awareness.
I turned slowly.
She was awake.
Not fully—still soft around the edges—but her eyes were open, watching me like she was trying to place herself in the world again. For a moment, panic flickered. Then recognition followed.
And relief.
Subtle. Quiet.
Dangerous.
"You didn't leave," she said, her voice hoarse, like she hadn't used it enough in years.
"No," I replied simply.
She pushed herself up, the blanket slipping slightly before she pulled it back around her. She didn't look embarrassed. Just… careful.
"Where am I?"
"My place," I said. "You fell asleep. I didn't want to wake you."
She nodded, absorbing that. No accusations. No fear. Just acceptance.
That acceptance again.
Her fingers tightened in the blanket. "I'm sorry if I—"
"No," I cut in immediately. Too quickly. I softened my tone. "You didn't do anything wrong."
She went quiet at that.
I saw it then—the way her shoulders eased just a fraction. Like her body was slowly learning new rules.
I set the mug down, keeping the counter between us. Distance wasn't coldness. Distance was respect.
"Do you feel okay?" I asked. "Physically."
"Yes." A pause. "Tired. But… lighter."
That word hit harder than it should've.
Lighter.
I nodded once. "That makes sense."
She studied me for a moment, her gaze steady but uncertain, like she was trying to understand who I was outside the role she knew me in.
"Did I say… too much last night?" she asked quietly.
"No," I said without hesitation. "You said what you needed to."
Her lips parted slightly, like she hadn't expected that answer.
Another silence settled between us—but this one wasn't heavy. It was fragile. New.
"I don't want to go back there," she admitted, barely above a whisper.
I didn't ask where there was.
"I know," I said.
She exhaled shakily. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do next."
I leaned back against the counter, grounding myself before answering. This mattered. Every word did.
"You don't have to decide everything today," I said carefully. "You just have to stay safe today."
Her eyes glistened again, but she didn't cry this time.
"Can I stay here… just for a bit?" she asked. Not pleading. Asking.
I nodded. "As long as you need."
Something settled in her expression then—gratitude, yes—but also something quieter.
Trust.
And that was when I knew.
This wasn't just about protecting her from someone else anymore.
It was about protecting her from rushing into another kind of dependence.
I stepped back, giving her the space she deserved. "I'll make breakfast. Nothing fancy."
A small smile touched her lips. The first real one I'd seen.
"That sounds perfect."
As I turned toward the stove, one thought stayed with me—clear, undeniable.
Whatever this was becoming…
I wouldn't let it turn into another cage.
Not for her.
Not ever.The pan barely hissed as I cracked the eggs, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen. Toast browned slowly. Ordinary things. Safe things.
Behind me, she shifted on the couch.
I didn't turn right away.
I didn't want her to think every movement of hers was being watched. She deserved a moment where she didn't feel monitored, measured, managed.
But then my phone vibrated on the counter.
Once.
I ignored it.
It vibrated again.
I glanced down.
Alex.
The name sat there like a stain.
I didn't let my expression change. I turned the phone face down and continued cooking, my movements calm even as something colder settled in my chest.
He didn't get access to her anymore.
Not through me.
A few seconds passed.
Then her voice—soft, hesitant.
"Is… someone calling you?"
"Yes," I said evenly.
She went quiet.
I plated the food, carried it to the small table, and only then did I look at her. She was sitting upright now, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, hands clasped together like she was bracing herself.
"It's him, isn't it?" she asked.
I didn't lie.
"Yes."
Her fingers tightened.
"He always knows when he's losing control," she murmured. "That's when he panics."
I studied her face carefully—not for weakness, but for readiness.
"Do you want to talk to him?" I asked.
The question hung there.
This was important.
Choice mattered.
She shook her head almost immediately. "No. Not yet."
"Then you won't," I said.
Simple.
Final.
My phone vibrated again. Then again. Call after call. Messages stacking up without being read.
Her shoulders trembled slightly.
"He's going to get angry," she said, more statement than fear.
"I know."
She looked at me then, eyes searching. "What if he comes here?"
"He won't," I said calmly.
That made her pause. "How do you know?"
Because men like Alex didn't confront strength head-on.
They circled. Manipulated. Waited.
But I didn't say that.
"Because he doesn't have an invitation," I said instead. "And he doesn't have you."
That landed.
She exhaled slowly, like she'd been holding her breath without realizing it. I slid the plate toward her.
"Eat," I said gently. "You haven't eaten properly in days."
She hesitated, then nodded, taking a small bite. Color returned to her face gradually, life settling back into places it had abandoned.
I watched without staring.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, I picked it up.
Not to answer.
To end it.
I blocked the number.
Her eyes widened slightly when she noticed.
"You didn't have to—"
"I know," I said. "I wanted to."
Silence followed.
Not shocked.
Relieved.
She swallowed. "Thank you."
I inclined my head slightly, accepting it without turning it into something more.
Another rule.
She ate a little more, then stopped, pushing the plate aside. Her gaze dropped to her hands.
"What happens now?" she asked quietly.
I leaned back in my chair, considering.
"Now," I said, "you take the day to breathe. To rest. To remember what it feels like not to be on edge."
"And after that?"
"After that," I said carefully, "we figure things out one step at a time. With support. With boundaries."
She nodded, absorbing it.
"You're not going to tell me what to do," she said.
"No."
Something fragile but real settled between us then—an understanding without promises.
She stood slowly, moving toward the window. Sunlight caught her face, softer now. Stronger too, in a way that didn't announce itself.
"I don't feel stupid anymore," she said suddenly.
The words stopped me.
She turned back toward me. "For staying. For hoping."
"You weren't stupid," I said firmly. "You were human."
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.
For a moment, emotion hovered dangerously close again—but this time, it didn't break her.
She held it.
I watched her stand there, wrapped in my jacket, sunlight at her back, and understood something I hadn't allowed myself to before
She walked toward me, her footsteps silent on the floor. She didn't stop until she was inches away. Then, she did something I didn't expect. She hopped up, sitting on the side table that stood directly in front of me, bringing her eyes level with mine.
The air in the kitchen vanished.
"Riya," I warned, my heart hammering a rhythm I couldn't control. "You don't have to—"
"I'm sorry, but I need this," she said. Her voice wasn't shaking anymore. It was a command. A choice.
I started to speak, to tell her I already knew she was grateful, to tell her she didn't owe me anything—"I alr—"
But the words died in my throat.
Before I could finish the sentence, she leaned forward. I felt the soft heat of her breath for a fraction of a second, and then—
I felt her lips on mine.
The world stopped. The coffee, the sunlight, the shadow of Alex—it all burned away. Her kiss wasn't just a thank you; it was a reclamation. She was choosing this. She was choosing me.
My hands, which had been so determined to stay at my sides, moved instinctively. I didn't pull her closer—I didn't have to. She was already there, anchoring me to a reality I hadn't dared to dream of.
In that moment, I realized the hardest part of my job wasn't going to be protecting her from the world.
It was going to be protecting her from the man I was becoming every time she touched me.I gripped the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles turned white. I wanted to give her space. I wanted to respect her boundaries. But Riya had just rewritten every rule in the book.
She didn't stay by the window. She walked toward me, her scent—that haunting mix of vanilla and rain—filling my lungs until I couldn't think straight. She didn't stop. She hopped up onto the side table directly in front of me, forcing me to stand between her knees, bringing her eyes level with mine.
The fear was gone. In its place was a raw, desperate hunger.
"Riya," I warned, my voice dropping into a rough, jagged growl. "You don't have to do this. You're not yourself yet..."
"I'm sorry, but I need this," she countered. Her tone wasn't a plea; it was a command. It was the sound of a woman finally claiming something for herself.
I opened my mouth to argue, to tell her "I alr—" but the words were devoured before they could leave my throat.
I felt her lips on mine.
At first, it was a ghost of a touch—soft, testing the waters. But then it shifted. She buried her hands in my hair, gripping the strands and pulling me flush against her. The kiss turned hungry, frantic, as if she were breathing for the first time after years of being underwater.
The iron-clad control I spent my life perfecting snapped like dry glass.
I didn't just kiss her back; I claimed her. One of my hands slid to the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in her hair to anchor her, while the other crushed her waist, pulling her so close there wasn't even room for air between us.
It was bold. It was possessive. My mouth moved against hers with a sudden, dark intensity that drew a muffled whimper from her throat. Her body arched into mine, her heat seeping through my shirt, melting the last of my cold professional distance.
In that moment, there was no doctor. There was no survivor. There were only two people standing on the edge of a cliff, clinging to each other to keep from falling.
When I finally pulled back, just an inch, we were both breathless. Her lips were swollen and red, and the hollow look in her eyes had been replaced by a fierce, burning life.
"Tell me," I whispered against her mouth, every nerve in my body screaming for more. "Do you still feel safe now?"The silence that followed wasn't quiet. It was loud with the sound of our ragged breathing and the blood rushing in my ears. I didn't let her go. I couldn't. My hands were still locked on her, one holding her jaw, the other anchored to her waist as if she might vanish if I loosened my grip.
She leaned her forehead against mine, her eyes fluttering shut. I could feel her heart racing against my chest—a frantic, wild bird trying to find its way out.
"Riya," I breathed, my voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. "Look at me."
She hesitated, then slowly opened her eyes. They were dark, clouded with a mix of shock and something that looked dangerously like hope.
"I didn't think..." she started, her voice trembling. "I didn't think I could feel anything but... fear. Not anymore."
I traced the line of her cheek with my thumb, my touch surprisingly steady despite the storm inside me. "You're not just a victim, Riya. You're not a project, and you're sure as hell not a possession. Do you understand me?"
She nodded, but her gaze flickered to my phone on the counter—the phone that was still dark, still hiding the ghost of Alex's calls.
"He'll kill you," she whispered, the reality of her situation crashing back in. "If he finds out... if he sees how you look at me..."
I felt a cold, sharp smile tug at the corner of my mouth. The professional in me was gone. The protector had taken over, and he was a much more violent man.
"Let him try," I said, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. I leaned in again, my lips brushing against hers, not in a kiss this time, but as a promise. "I've spent my whole life building walls, Riya. I'll turn this city into a fortress before I let him put a hand on you again."
She didn't pull away. Instead, she let out a long, shuddering breath and slumped into me, burying her face in the crook of my neck. I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her off the table and into a full embrace, holding her as if I could shield her from her own past.
I knew then that I had crossed a line I could never uncross. I wasn't just her doctor. I wasn't just her temporary shadow.
I was the man who was going to have to burn the world down to keep her warm.
And as I looked over her shoulder at the rising sun, I knew the war was just beginning.The peace didn't last. It never does.
Riya was still leaning into me, her forehead resting against my shoulder, when my phone on the counter didn't just vibrate—it screamed.
It wasn't a call. It was the high-pitched, piercing alert of my home security system.
Riya jumped, her body going rigid. I caught her by the elbows, stabilizing her, but my eyes were already on the monitor mounted near the kitchen door.
"Rishabh?" she whispered, her voice laced with that familiar, cold dread. "Is it him?