Page 77 of Protect my Heart
“You forgot.” Her arms are crossed, chin tilted just enough to make my heart drop.
“I didn’t forget.” I step closer. “I got stuck. Last-minute meeting. But tonight—it’s not ruined. Please, let me fix it.”
Her eyes narrow. “Fix it? Aarav, I sat here for an hour, like a fool, thinking maybe you were outside with flowers or some surprise. But nothing.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out a small key. “I have something better.”
She doesn’t move. So I walk to her, slowly, close enough to smell her perfume—vanilla and something that always drives me crazy.
“I know I messed up. And you have every right to be pissed. But, Anika,” I pause, fingers brushing hers, “do you really think I could forget a date with the woman I am obsessed with?”
Her eyes soften, barely. “You’re late.”
“But not too late.” I bend down and kiss her knuckles. “Give me this night. Just tonight. If I mess it up, you get full rights to murder me with that butter knife you hide in the closet.”
Her lips twitch, fighting a smile. “You know about the butter knife?”
“Of course. It’s for bread and butter you have every alternative night,” I chuckle, “because you are hungry and feel embarrassed to go down in the kitchen and eat actual food. Am I right or am I right?” I smirk.
Her mouth widens. “You knew?”
“Of course, why do you think you found the chips and chocolates in the closet?” I peck her lips. “It was meant for you; you know I rarely have them.” She looks at me dumbfounded and then rises on her tiptoes, kissing my cheek softly.
“Fine, I am forgiving you this one time.” She pokes my chest, and I smile triumphantly.
She exhales and shakes her head. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” I wink as I take hold of her hand, intertwining our fingers.
“We should inform—” I say, but she interrupts me.
“I have already informed Maa, plus she is out right now.” She smiles, making my lips curl up. This smile is what makes my life worth living. She has no idea what I have missed.
We make our way to the car. I pull open the door for her. She mutters a soft “thank you,” not quite meeting my eyes, but there’s a twitch in the corner of her lips—like her smile’s trying to win the war against her pride. She slips in, her dress brushing against my hand, and I shut the door gently before jogging around to my side.
Once I’m in, I start the engine. My right hand naturally finds hers, fingers tangling. She doesn’t stop me. She even tries to act annoyed, staring out the window like the view suddenly matters, but her thumb brushes mine—slow and soft, like muscle memory, like her heart’s already forgiven me and her ego is just trying to catch up.
We don’t talk much during the drive, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that hums between two people who’ve known each other a long time, the kind that doesn’t need filling. Twenty minutes later, we pull up to this quiet rooftop studio I rented out. From the outside, it doesn’t look like much. Just another building in the city. But I see her brows knit together as I get out and walk around to open her door again. She steps out, adjusting her red dress. The heels she’s wearing click lightly against the concrete.
“Aarav?” she asks, eyes scanning the empty surroundings. Confused. Curious.
I smile, slipping my fingers into hers and tugging her toward the elevator. “Just come.”
She doesn’t resist.
Once we’re on the rooftop, the doors open to soft golden lights strung like stars across the canopy. There’s a light breeze up here. The city looks distant and quiet. And in the middle of it all are two easels, blank canvases, a wooden table with paint sets, brushes, and even her favorite—those soft blending sponges she used to rave about when we were kids. Music plays gently from a speaker in the corner. Low, old-school Hindi, just enough to fill the silence without stealing the moment.
She stops walking. Her fingers tighten in mine.
“What is this?” She breathes, her voice barely above a whisper.
I step in front of her, taking both her hands this time. “You like painting, Anu.”
She blinks.
“I never see you do it anymore,” I continue, my voice a little rougher than I want it to be, because this means more to me than I realized. I mean, yes, she did when I asked her to, and it was a pretty painting of a devil; it’s hung up in my office. Every time I walk in and my eyes land on the painting, I chuckle imagining Anika’s face while painting it. She must have thought it would annoy me, but it only amused me. “It used to be your whole world. You’d paint on walls, school notebooks, your palm, my palm, my shirt—remember when you ruined my white uniform with that stupid blue splash?”
Her lips twitch again, that smile threatening.
