Page 132 of Dublin Beast

She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks go pink, and I take that as a win.

We wander the shops for another hour, gathering odds and ends—a woven iron basket for beside the hearth, a few books she insists are essential, and some delicate glass ornaments shaped like wolves—very on brand and masculine, she says.

We even find a rug. Midnight blue, thick and soft with silver thread running through it like veins of moonlight.

She crouches down to run her hand over the lush pile. “Oh, I could write a novel on this rug.”

Sold.

By the time we make it to the till, our cart is a patchwork of blues and silver, sparkles and soft, masculine lines softened by her sensual touches.

And I’m one hundred percent on board.

While we wait for the cashier, I glance over at her, and something proud and possessive twists in my chest. Ever since she said she wanted to ‘go home’ in Paris, I’ve known she’s well and truly mine.

She’s happy. Peaceful. Settling in for the long haul.

“Hey,” I murmur, threading my fingers through hers. “Thanks for doing this.”

She gives me a questioning look. “For shopping?”

“For helping me turn a room into a home.”

Her gaze softens. Her thumb strokes over my scabbed and scarred knuckles. “The bones were strong and always there… I’m just adding a little softness and flair.”

The look she gives me makes it clear she’s talking about more than the decorating of my room, but she’s right. I’m still me, just less angry and ready for a future.

“Hey, I have somewhere I’d like to take you. Are you hungry?”

* * *

The scent hits me the second we step through the front doors—ginger, cardamom, masala, and something sweet baking in the back. It pulls me back—like it always does—to a simpler time. A time before heartbreak and darkness. A time of love and of belonging.

I never thought I’d get back to that place again.

Ashwin’s breathes around me. It’s more than a restaurant—it’s a heartbeat. Warm, welcoming, alive.

The soft clatter of dishes, the melodic shuffle of Hindi and English from the kitchen, the faint sitar music weaving through the dining room, all wraps around me like a familiar embrace.

Harper slows beside me, eyes wide, taking it all in. She looks good—her leather jacket open, scarf looped loose around her neck, and cheeks pink from the wind outside.

Nervous energy crackles off her, though she tries to hide it. She’s been steady all day, but I know what this means to her.

Meetingthem.

The parents of the first woman I ever loved.

I’ve been coming back regularly—slowly rebuilding something I lost after Yasmine died. It took me four years to walk back through those doors.

It took being in Harper’s life less than a month to give me the strength to try.

“Bryan,” Riya calls, her voice soft and bright as she rounds the corner from the kitchen. Her sari is deep maroon tonight, gold embroidery glittering in the low light, her dark hair braided and coiled in a knot at the base of her neck.

She sees Harper, and her whole face lights up.

“Mera beta,” she murmurs, drawing me into a hug that smells like sandalwood and cinnamon. “You’ve brought her.”

Harper smiles politely, hand half-raised, but Riya doesn’t hesitate. She crosses to her and pulls her in, hugging her with both arms.

---