The wedding rituals slowly dissolved into silence, but the magic they had woven refused to fade.

The mandap, once alive with chants and fire, now glowed softly in the afterlight—petals scattered like fallen promises, lamps flickering as if reluctant to dim. Guests began to drift away, laughter and blessings trailing behind them, yet time itself seemed to slow around Ishaan and Aanya. The world had moved forward, but they remained suspended in the moment where forever had just begun.

Aanya stood beside Ishaan, her hand still in his, her bangles warm against his skin. The weight of the sindoor at her hairline, the mangalsutra resting against her heart—each symbol felt heavier than gold, not because of tradition, but because of choice. She was no longer walking toward him. She was with him. Fully. Finally.

Ishaan looked at her as if he was afraid to blink. Every detail felt unreal—the soft exhaustion in her eyes, the faint smile she wore as if still absorbing the truth of the night, the way her fingers curled naturally into his palm. He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear.

"You're mine," he whispered, not in possession, but in awe.
"And you're home," she replied quietly.

They were guided away from the mandap, elders offering blessings, hands resting on their heads, prayers murmured into the night. Mothers wiped their tears. Fathers smiled with pride. Friends teased, laughed, and watched with soft eyes, knowing they had witnessed not just a wedding—but a return.

Later, away from the noise, they stood together beneath the open sky. The lake reflected the moon like a silver promise, calm and endless. Aanya rested her head against Ishaan's shoulder, the exhaustion finally settling in, the adrenaline fading into peace. Ishaan wrapped his arm around her, holding her not tightly, not possessively—but securely, as if anchoring them both to this new beginning.

For the first time in a long while, there was no fear left to speak of. No revenge to carry. No wounds to guard. Just the quiet understanding that love, when chosen again with honesty, becomes unbreakable.

They did not speak much after that.

They didn't need to.

Their silence was full—of forgiveness already given, of pain already survived, of a future already claimed. And as they stood there, husband and wife once more, the night wrapped around them gently, as if the universe itself was whispering the truth they had fought so hard to earn:

This time, love stayed.

___

The room assigned to the newly married couple was vast and quiet, wrapped in a softness that felt almost sacred. Lamps glowed dimly against carved walls, curtains swayed gently with the night breeze, and rose petals lay scattered like remnants of vows whispered only hours ago. At the center of it all sat Aanya.

She was exhausted—bone-deep, soul-tired. The weight of rituals, emotions, blessings, and love had finally caught up to her. She sat on the edge of the bed, her back resting against the headboard, her heavy lehenga pooling around her like a deep maroon tide. Her eyes fluttered despite her effort to stay awake. She had waited for this night too—but her body surrendered before her heart could.

Outside the room, chaos reigned.

Ishaan stood at the door, impatient and desperate to get inside, only to be blocked by Suzy, Bella, and Nisha, who stood like immovable guards with mischievous smiles.

"Dii, you're my sister," Ishaan pleaded dramatically, hands folded. "At least stay on my side."

Nisha crossed her arms, unapologetic. "Not tonight. Today I'm Aanya's sister-in-law. And if you want to go inside to your Rose, you'll have to pay the joota churaai first."

The girls burst into laughter, teasing him mercilessly as they negotiated shamelessly. Ishaan groaned, protested, tried bargaining—but eventually gave in, surrendering a painfully large amount amid cheers and claps.

When the door finally opened and he stepped inside, breathless and triumphant—

He froze.

Aanya was asleep.

Her head rested against the cushion, her lashes soft against her cheeks, lips slightly parted in exhaustion. For a long second, Ishaan simply stared, disbelief hanging open on his face.

"Oh God," he muttered to himself, half offended, half helplessly fond. "Aanya... how could you do this? I waited for this night for so long—and you fell asleep?"

He walked closer, sitting beside her carefully, afraid even his breath might wake her. She looked impossibly beautiful, even in her exhaustion. Her jewelry glittered harshly against her skin, her posture awkward, clearly uncomfortable. A faint sound escaped her lips—a soft, restless whine.

That was enough to pull Ishaan out of his stunned trance.

His expression softened instantly.

"Shh... I know," he whispered gently, more to himself than to her.

With infinite care, he began removing her jewelry one piece at a time—first the bangles, then the heavy necklace, then the earrings—each movement slow, deliberate, reverent. He loosened her hairpins, letting her hair fall freely down her back, removed the veil gently, never once waking her. She shifted slightly, but remained asleep, trusting even in her unconsciousness.

When he reached her lehenga, he hesitated, then sighed softly and carefully removed it, discovering the jeans she had worn underneath—practical, stubborn, unmistakably Aanya. A smile curved his lips. He changed her top into one of his oversized T-shirts, the fabric swallowing her frame, making her look smaller, softer, safe.

Once she was comfortable, he laid her down properly, tucking her in gently as if she were something precious the world could never be allowed to harm.

He went to the bathroom, freshened up, changed, and returned quietly. Sitting beside her again, he took her hand in his.

That's when he noticed the mehndi.

Curious, tender, he searched her palm slowly, carefully, tracing every curve and line—until finally, after what felt like an eternity, he found it. His name," ishaan" written in small calligraphy hidden near her ring finger, tucked so deeply it wasn't meant to be seen at first glance.

He let out a soft breath, eyes warming.

"Oh God, Aanya," he whispered, overwhelmed. "You hid me so deep... like someone steal me from you"

He leaned down and kissed her forehead, lingering there longer than necessary.

"Sleep, love," he murmured. "From now on, this is how we'll be. Together. Always."

He looked at her for a long time after that—memorizing her face, her stillness, the quiet rise and fall of her chest. Thoughts spilled silently from his heart.

I broke your toys. I broke your trust. I broke you once... and still you're here. Still mine. Still choosing me.

I don't deserve this peace—but I'll spend my life protecting it.

Holding her hand, still watching her as if she might disappear if he closed his eyes, Ishaan finally let exhaustion claim him too.

Somewhere between love and relief, between gratitude and disbelief, he fell asleep—still seated beside her, still holding her hand—smiling.

Because for the first time in his life, happiness didn't feel fragile. It felt real. after all he is holding his rose."

___

Morning slipped into the room quietly, wrapped in pale sunlight and warmth.

Aanya stirred first.

For a moment, she didn't move. She simply lay there, half-awake, half-lost, feeling something solid and warm pressed against her. When awareness fully reached her, she realized Ishaan was still asleep—curled into her as if she were his safest place. One arm was draped possessively around her waist, his face tucked into the crook of her neck, his breath steady and calm against her skin.

She smiled.

Carefully, so she wouldn't wake him, she shifted slightly onto her back. Ishaan followed instinctively, tightening his hold, his forehead resting just below her collarbone now. It was as if even sleep refused to let him drift away from her.

Aanya's heart softened.

She wrapped both arms around him, pulling him closer until he was almost completely folded into her. His head rested against her chest, his ear over her heartbeat, and without thinking she adjusted herself to make him more comfortable—one hand sliding into his hair, the other settling at his back.

"You fit here," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "Like you were always meant to."

Her fingers moved slowly, soothingly through his hair. Each gentle stroke made him relax further, his body growing heavier against her, his breathing deeper. He murmured something unintelligible in his sleep and pressed himself closer, his hand tightening at her waist as if claiming reassurance even in dreams.

Aanya let out a soft laugh, full of affection.

She rested her chin lightly on the top of his head, closing her eyes, holding him the way one holds something precious—carefully, protectively, with quiet gratitude. In that moment, she wasn't the bride, or the wife, or the woman who had endured storms and heartbreak.

She was simply his.

"So this is what peace looks like on you," she whispered, more to herself than to him.

He didn't answer, but his grip told her enough.

Her smile softened into something deeper.

Her gaze traced his face—his closed eyes, the familiar arch of his brows, the quiet vulnerability written across his features. Slowly, almost reverently,  She brushed her thumb along his cheek, then down the line of his jaw. When she reached his lips, she paused, her breath catching.

She lingered there for a moment, watching the slight movement of his mouth as he breathed, something tender and dangerous stirring in her chest. Leaning down, she pressed a gentle kiss to his eyelids

"You look lighter," she murmured. "Like you're not carrying the world alone anymore."

Another kiss followed—on his cheek, then his nose—each one unhurried, full of quiet affection. Finally, she kissed his lips, barely there, a secret meant only for her heart.

It was meant to be brief. Innocent. Just a quiet good morning he would never know about.

But as she began to pull away— In one swift, fluid motion, Ishaan moved. And suddenly the world shifted.

In one smooth motion, Ishaan turned them over, pinning her beneath him. Her breath hitched, eyes widening in surprise, but before she could speak, his lips claimed hers—warm, deep, unrestrained. The kiss was different now. Awake. Certain.

For a heartbeat, she froze. Then she melted.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she kissed him back with equal intensity, hands gripping his shoulders, her heartbeat racing to match his. The kiss was slow and consuming, filled with everything they hadn't said, everything they had survived.

When he finally broke the kiss, he stayed close, his forehead resting against hers, his nose brushing hers as he smiled.

"Enjoying the view, Rose?" he asked softly, a teasing smile curving his lips.

Aanya flushed instantly, turning her face away, suddenly shy.

He laughed quietly and leaned down, resting his forehead against hers, his voice dropping into something warm and sincere.

"You should really stop testing me when I'm asleep," he murmured.

She laughed softly, breathless. "I thought you were dreaming."

"I was," he said, his voice low. "About you."

Her heart skipped. "Liar."

He smiled wider. "I swear. You always find your way into my dreams. Even when I'm awake."

She looked away, shy despite herself. "You weren't supposed to wake up."

"I wasn't supposed to fall in love either," he replied gently, lifting her chin so she had to look at him. "But here we are."

Their noses brushed as he kissed her again—slower this time, softer, as if savoring the moment rather than claiming it. Between kisses, he whispered, "Good morning, my dear  wife."

She smiled against his lips. "Good morning, my dear husband."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his gaze warm, playful, adoring. 

Her cheeks flushed instantly. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm the only thing in the world."

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Because you are."

She closed her eyes then, resting her hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palm—steady, strong, real.

In that quiet morning light, wrapped in soft laughter and whispered words, love didn't feel loud or dramatic. It felt settled. It felt forever.

Ishaan was still hovering over her, his weight carefully balanced, his arms caging her in as if the world outside the room no longer existed. His eyes traced her face slowly, openly, with a softness that made her breath falter.

He smirked first. That dangerous, familiar smirk.

"You"  he said lightly, brushing his thumb along her jaw, "do you have any idea how many dreams I ruined last night?"

Aanya frowned in confusion. "Dreams?"

"My first night dreams," he corrected, feigning deep tragedy. "Years of imagination. Detailed planning. Extremely high expectations." He sighed dramatically. "And what does my wife do? Falls asleep."

Her face burned instantly. "I was exhausted," she protested. "Do you know how heavy that lehenga was?"

"I do," he replied smoothly, eyes glinting. "I removed it."

She froze.

Slowly, she looked down at herself—his oversized T-shirt, bare arms, no jewelry, no weight, no bridal armor. Her gaze snapped back to his face, sharp and questioning.

"You—" she began.

He tilted his head, utterly unrepentant. "Yes?"

"You didn't," she said firmly.

His smile turned wicked. "You were sleeping. Peacefully. Trustingly. And I am your husband."

Her eyes narrowed. "Ishaan."

"I only did what you're thinking," he said calmly, leaning closer. "And no, before you accuse me—nothing improper. I just took care of you."

She studied his face, searching for mischief, for lies—but all she found was affection wrapped in teasing.

Her lips curved despite herself. "You're impossible."

"And you married me anyway," he replied proudly.

She sighed, then asked softly, boldly, meeting his gaze, "So... what kind of dreams were you having?"

He blinked. "You don't want to know."

"I asked," she said, arching a brow.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper meant only for her. "The kind where my wife doesn't fall asleep. The kind where she looks at me like she looks at me right now."

Her breath caught. "And what kind is that?"

"Like I'm both her safest place," he murmured, brushing his nose against hers, "and her biggest trouble."

Her hands slid up his arms, fingers curling into his shoulders. "You talk too much for someone who missed his chance."

He laughed softly. "You'll never let me forget that, will you?"

"No," she said sweetly. "Absolutely not."

For a moment, they stayed like that—smiling, teasing, touching—until reality slowly crept back in.

She glanced toward the window. Sunlight poured in, bright and unapologetic.

"What time is it?" she asked.

He sighed. "Ten."

Her eyes widened. "Ten?! Ishaan!"

He groaned, rolling onto his back beside her. "This is why I hate mornings. They steal you. always from my dreams' and now in real too.""

She turned toward him, resting her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm beneath. "You looked so peaceful while sleeping," she said quietly. "Like you hadn't slept like that in years."

His body stilled.

"I hadn't," he admitted softly.

She lifted her head to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"I didn't sleep in a bed," he said, voice low, honest. "Not properly. Not since you left. I stayed up. Worked. Sat on couches. Floors. Anything but a bed."

Her eyes filled instantly. "Ishaan..."

"I didn't want comfort without you," he continued. "It felt wrong."

She swallowed hard, emotion tightening her throat. "I missed you every day," she confessed. "Even when I was angry. Even when I told myself I didn't."

He pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers. "All I ever wanted was to come back to you. Every road led here."

She closed her eyes, pressing her lips to his chest. "We're here now."

"Yes," he said, kissing her hair gently. "And this time, we stay."

She smiled, then pulled back slightly. "Now get up, Mr. Mehra."

He groaned. "Do I have to?"

"Yes," she said, laughing. "Go get fresh. We have a whole life waiting outside this room."

He kissed her once more, slow and sure. "As long as it's with you, Rose."

She watched him get up, her heart full, knowing that for the first time in years—neither of them was alone anymore

__

The breakfast table was anything but quiet.

Sunlight spilled generously through the tall windows, glinting off silver cutlery and half-filled cups of tea, while the room buzzed with overlapping voices, laughter, and shameless teasing. Everyone had gathered—still glowing from the wedding, still riding that high where sleep barely mattered and joy came easily.

Aanya and Bella sat side by side.

Bella was mid-sentence when she noticed Aanya leaning slightly forward, her lips moving—not toward Bella, but past her. Bella followed the invisible line of her gaze and realized Aanya wasn't talking aloud at all. She was warning someone. Through her eyes.

Bella's brows furrowed in confusion.

Then she noticed it.

Aanya's leg shifted abruptly, tapping the table leg once, then twice—an unmistakable signal of irritation. Bella's eyes widened in slow understanding. She glanced across the table.

Ishaan.

Seated directly opposite Aanya, completely composed, sipping his tea like an innocent man—except his eyes were far too amused. His foot moved lazily, deliberately brushing against Aanya's ankle under the table, tracing just enough to make her stiffen.

Aanya shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Stop, her eyes screamed.

He didn't.

Instead, his lips twitched as his foot slid again, slower this time, unapologetic. Aanya's fingers clenched around her spoon. She kicked him lightly in warning.

He grinned.

Bella bit her lip to stop herself from laughing. Oh, so that's how it is now, she thought.

Right beside her, she was having her own quiet moment.

Karan's hand had slipped into Bella's under the table, his thumb gently stroking her knuckles in a way that felt intimate, grounding. Bella glanced at him; he met her gaze with a soft smile—warm, calm, entirely unlike the chaos around them. For a moment, the noise faded for both of them.

Until—

"I picked that bread first!" Suzy announced loudly, reaching for the basket in the center.

Jay's hand landed on it at the exact same moment. "Excuse me, I looked at it first. That means it's mine."

Suzy scoffed. "Since when does looking count as ownership?"

"Since I'm involved," Jay shot back, tugging the basket toward himself.

The two glared at each other like it was a matter of honor.

Around the table, conversations paused. Heads turned.

Mrs. Mehra sighed deeply, rubbing her temple. "Beta, there is more bread. Take another one."

"No," Suzy and Jay said together, in perfect unison, eyes still locked on each other.

"I want this one."

They both pulled harder.

The basket slipped.

Time seemed to slow as the plate flew dramatically off the table, spinning once before landing several feet away with a dull clatter. Everyone gasped collectively, eyes following its tragic journey.

Silence.

Then Suzy and Jay looked at the fallen plate, then at each other—still stubborn, still glaring.

They both stood at the same time and marched toward it, shoulders squared, determination written all over their faces.

Before either could bend down—

Mrs. Verma appeared like divine intervention.

She picked up the plate calmly, dusted it off, and placed it back on the table. Then, with exaggerated patience, she pick the bread from the table and  tore cleanly in half and handed one piece to Suzy and one to Jay.

"Here," she said sweetly. "Now eat."

They froze, then sheepishly took their pieces and returned to their seats without a word.

Around the table, dramatic sighs turned into laughter.

Bella leaned closer to Aanya and whispered, "At least they're fighting over bread. Your husband is fighting over you."

Aanya groaned softly as Ishaan's foot finally retreated—only for his eyes to meet hers with pure mischief.

Breakfast continued, chaotic, loud, full of life.

And under the table, love stories—old and new—were being written in stolen touches and silent smiles.

___

Days slipped by like soft pages turning—some chaotic, some tender, all unforgettable. One sunrise bled gently into another as laughter filled hotel corridors, late-night conversations spilled into early mornings, and Udaipur slowly wrapped itself around them like a memory they would carry forever. They wandered through narrow streets glowing with heritage, tasted food rich with spice and warmth, shared stolen glances by the lakes, and laughed until their sides hurt. Happiness had become effortless, almost natural.

And then came the morning of departure.

The courtyard buzzed with movement as suitcases were loaded into open trunks, one after another, the sound of zippers and instructions blending with teasing voices. The air was bittersweet—heavy with goodbyes, yet bright with anticipation.

Bella circled Aanya with an unmistakable grin, arms folded, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"So," she said casually, dragging the word, "Paris, huh?"
Aanya rolled her eyes, cheeks already warm.
Bella leaned closer, lowering her voice just enough to be scandalous. "Come back with three," she added, winking shamelessly.

Aanya gasped, swatting Bella's arm. "You're impossible." Bella only laughed louder. "Just being supportive, darling."

Cars began to fill—one by one, the family gathered for final hugs. Blessings were whispered, foreheads kissed, promises to call repeated endlessly. Mrs. Mehra hugged Aanya tightly, lingering just a second longer than necessary. Mrs. Verma wiped her eyes discreetly, smiling through the emotion. Nisha hugged both Ishaan and Aanya, teasing them even as her voice cracked. Karan shook Ishaan's hand before pulling him into a brotherly embrace, murmuring something that made Ishaan smile softly.

Engines started. One car left. Then another. Each departure carved a small hollow in the moment.

Soon, only Ishaan and Aanya remained standing beside their car.

"We'll meet you directly at the airport," Ishaan announced, holding up a bag. "Last-minute shopping."

The driver nodded and stepped aside.

The city welcomed them one last time.

They walked side by side through boutique-lined streets, the mood lighter now, playful. Ishaan picked up a scarf and draped it dramatically over Aanya's shoulders.
"For Paris," he said, pretending to assess her like a designer. "You'll freeze without this."

She raised an eyebrow. "I know it's cold. I'm not careless."
"Oh, really?" he smirked, lifting a silk dress from a rack. "Then what about this? Planning to defy weather and logic?"

She snatched it from his hand. "This stays."
"And that?" he pointed to another.
"That stays too."
"And this?"
She narrowed her eyes. "You're not paying, so stop judging."

He laughed, leaning closer. "I just want to make sure my wife survives Europe."

They moved from store to store—Aanya carefully choosing warm coats, elegant dresses, gloves—while Ishaan shamelessly teased every choice, imagining scenarios, whispering comments that made her blush and threaten him in equal measure. At one point, he held up a long coat and said innocently, "This one... very honeymoon appropriate."
Her glare said everything.

Bags in hand, they finally stepped back into the car, laughter lingering between them, hearts light, love settled and sure.

Neither of them noticed the way the breeze shifted—how the city suddenly felt quieter, as if holding its breath.

They drove away, unaware that somewhere behind them, unseen and patient, a storm was beginning to follow.

___

The car moved forward in a gentle rhythm, tires gliding over the quiet road as if the night itself were carrying them. Soft romantic music filled the space between them, low and warm, blending with the sound of their breathing. Ishaan's fingers were laced with Aanya's, his thumb brushing slow circles over her knuckles. Every few words, every shared smile, he leaned in to kiss her hand, her temple, the corner of her lips—as if he could not stop reminding himself that she was real, that this moment was real.

Behind them, another car followed at a measured distance.

Inside that car, a man watched with cold patience, his eyes fixed on the taillights ahead. His lips curved into a smile that held no warmth, only intent.

"Enjoy the last ride of your life, Ishaan Mehra," he murmured, voice laced with menace. "Because in a few minutes, you are not going to Paris. You are going straight to hell." His laughter echoed inside the car—low, cruel, final.

Unaware of the shadow trailing them, Ishaan spoke lightly about the air turning colder, about how Paris would be wrapped in winter by the time they arrived. Aanya laughed softly, resting her head against his shoulder. Everything felt safe. Everything felt perfect.

And then—

Something shifted.

Ishaan pressed the brake.

Nothing happened.

His smile faltered. He pressed again, harder this time. The pedal sank uselessly beneath his foot. The car was still under control, still steady at sixty, but it needed to slow—urgently. Ahead, in the dim distance, a truck emerged from the darkness, massive and unforgiving. The road they had taken as a shortcut was narrow, silent, swallowed by shadows on either side.

The speed did not drop.

Ishaan's chest tightened.

Aanya turned toward him, sensing the change before he spoke. "Ishaan... what's wrong?" she whispered.

For a split second, the present vanished.

Ten years ago surged back with brutal clarity—metal screaming, fire exploding, his father beside him, hands on the wheel, eyes steady even as death rushed toward them. His breath hitched. His hands began to tremble.

"A-Aanya," he whispered, voice barely there. "The brakes... they're not working."

Her heart stilled—not because of the words alone, but because of him. His shaking hands. His uneven breathing. The terror etched into his eyes. She remembered his story, remembered the night her mother had told her how his father had died when their car's brakes failed, how the memory still haunted him.

She grabbed his hand firmly, grounding him. "Ishaan, look at me," she said urgently. "Breathe. Take a deep breath. Nothing will happen. Just maintain the speed."

But the truck was coming closer.

Too close.

Ishaan wasn't afraid for himself. Fear for his own life had vanished the moment he felt Aanya beside him. What terrified him was the thought of her being hurt—of even a single scratch on her skin. He knew he would never forgive himself.

"No," he told himself fiercely. "You cannot lose control now. Aanya is with you."

The moment he looked ahead again, his blood turned ice-cold. It did not feel like an accident anymore.

The truck was not just coming toward them—it looked as if it were aiming for them, deliberately closing the distance with a cruel certainty. Its headlights burned into his vision, and suddenly the present shattered. The past rushed back with violent force. That night when he lost his father. Screeching metal. His father's steady voice. The helpless pounding of brakes that never responded.

His pulse spiked. His hands trembled uncontrollably on the steering wheel. Cold sweat broke across his skin as his mind drowned in memory. Again and again, he slammed his foot down, trying desperately to force the car to stop, to listen, to obey. Nothing worked. The car only surged forward, blind and unstoppable.

Beside him, Aanya stared at the approaching truck, her breath locking painfully in her chest. She grabbed Ishaan's arm more tightly, her fingers digging into him as reality hit her with brutal clarity. The truck was too close now. There was no space left. No time. No escape.

Ishaan turned toward her one last time.

His breathing was ragged, uneven. Panic clawed at his throat, but beneath it burned something stronger—love, fierce and absolute. His father's words echoed in his mind, spoken on a night that had stolen everything from him.

Protect the one beside you. No matter the cost.
jump ishaan. 

Even as fear threatened to crush him, Ishaan made his decision.

He unlocked the door.

"Aanya," he said hoarsely, voice breaking, "jump."

She looked at him as if he had grown horns, disbelief freezing her expression. Then she laughed—a small, fractured sound, full of shock and denial.

Ishaan snapped. "Are you crazy?" he shouted, his voice raw. "I said jump!"

But she didn't move.

"I am not going anywhere, Ishaan Mehra," she said firmly, staring straight at him. "Not without you."

"This is not the time for courage," he pleaded, desperation tearing through him. "We will both die. Please—jump."

He tried to push her with one shaking hand, but she resisted, stubborn and unyielding, her grip tightening instead.

"If this is the end," she said through tears, a sad smile breaking across her face, "then we end it together."

His eyes filled instantly. "Please, Rose," he begged, his voice cracking. "Don't do this. I am begging you. Save yourself. You can do this."

She shook her head, tears streaming freely now. "No."

They didn't notice how close the truck had come.

In the next heartbeat, everything ended.

The collision was sudden and brutal. A deafening crash tore through the night as metal slammed into metal. The windshield shattered violently, glass exploding inward. The world tilted, spun, screamed.

Ishaan didn't think.

He moved.

In one instinctive motion, he tore himself from his seat and threw his body over Aanya's, sealing her beneath him completely. He covered her with everything he had—his arms, his back, his life.

She screamed his name as debris rained down around them. Blood spilled from his head, warm and relentless, dripping onto her skin.

"No—no—why did you do this?" she cried, her voice breaking apart.

He looked at her and smiled, even as pain swallowed him whole.

"I told you," he whispered weakly, "I will protect you... even if it costs my life."

His eyelids began to fall.

"No," she sobbed desperately. "Don't you dare close your eyes. Ishaan—don't you dare."

He smiled at her through fading vision, love etched into every breath he had left.
"I love you, Rose," he whispered.

"I love you too," she cried instantly, panic flooding her voice. "Did you hear me? I love you too. Please—open your eyes. Please."

But he didn't.

His body grew heavy against hers. She felt no breath on her skin. Terror froze her completely. Blood dripped down her forehead—some of it his, some her own, where a shard of glass had pierced her skin. She didn't care. She only held him.

"No," NO  she screamed, her voice breaking into nothing. "You can't leave me. Ishaan, please... don't..." Ishaan Please breathe with me ISHAAN.

Her words dissolved as her strength failed.

Just before darkness claimed her, her blurred vision caught something outside the wrecked car.

A man stood there.

Watching.

Hatred burned in his eyes, and a cruel, satisfied smile curved his lips.

Arav.

The name barely formed in her mind before the world went black, and she slipped into unconsciousness with Ishaan's weight still protecting her—still loving her—even as everything else was lost.

Thank you Bye bye 🙂👍