The first light of morning painted the riverhouse in gold when Mihir stirred. His body ached with the deep, marrow-deep exhaustion that always followed his transformations - but the pain was different this time. Softer. Warmer.
He blinked, realizing why. Maira was curled against him, her head tucked beneath his chin, one hand fisted in his shirt even in sleep. They'd collapsed against the wall sometime in the night, her legs tangled with his, dried blood from their wounds crusting where their skin touched. The remnants of his rampage surrounded them - overturned furniture, shattered glass, the scent of ozone still clinging to the air from his telekinetic outbursts.
*'I threw that bookshelf at her.'* The memory lanced through him. *'She stood her ground. Let it graze her arm rather than abandon me.'*
Careful not to wake her, Mihir slid an arm beneath Maira's knees, the other cradling her back. She murmured something unintelligible, nuzzling unconsciously into his chest as he lifted her. The morning light caught the fading bruises on her face - *his* bruises, left by *his* hands when the darkness had him.
He laid her gently on the sofa, wincing as the movement pulled at the half-healed gashes on his back where the chandelier had struck. His demonic healing had already sealed the worst of it, but Maira's injuries remained - the cut on her temple, the purpling fingerprints around her wrist.
Kneeling beside her, Mihir summoned what little energy he'd regained. His hands hovered over her wounds, the familiar red glow of his healing magic shimmering to life. As the bruises faded, he traced the newly unmarked skin with trembling fingers.
*'You should have run.'* His thumb brushed her cheekbone. *'You should have left me to rot in that darkness.'*
Maira sighed in her sleep, turning into his touch. A strand of hair fell across her face. Before he could stop himself, Mihir tucked it behind her ear, his hand lingering.
"Crazy girl," he whispered, voice rough with unspent emotion. The rising sun caught the gold in her lashes, the peaceful set of her mouth. Something tight and painful clenched in his chest.
Behind them, the ruins of last night's battle stood testament - broken things,. Yet here she was. Here *they* were.
Mihir exhaled shakily and rested his forehead against the sofa's edge, his fingers still threaded through hers. For the first time in years, the darkness within him felt... quiet.
The Kashyap mansion stood silent under the weight of anticipation, its high ceilings swallowing every sound, every breath, until even the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner seemed like the slow, deliberate countdown of a time bomb.
Kailashi worked in the center of the living room, her fingers deft as she crushed the golden pulp of the Ras Jeevan fruit into a shimmering elixir. The scent of honey and something wild-something untamed-filled the air, curling around the ancient books on the shelves, the family portraits that watched with painted eyes. Every stir of the potion sent ripples of violet light dancing across the walls, as if the very house held its breath.
Sapna paced. Her silk sari whispered against the marble floors, the only sign of her distress in an otherwise perfectly composed exterior. But her fingers, twisting the edge of her dupatta into knots, betrayed her.
"They should have been back by now," she murmured, for what might have been the fifth time in the last hour.
At the window, Sahir stood motionless, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the winding driveway beyond the gates. The fading sunlight caught the lenses of his glasses. He had been quiet since they'd returned with the fruit
"You don't think-" Sapna started, then stopped, as if voicing the fear would make it real.
Kailashi's hands stilled. The silver spoon in her grip trembled, just slightly.
Sahir turned then, his voice quiet but firm. "Maira will bring him back."
"But what if he's-"
"He won't hurt her." Sahir's jaw tightened. "He never has."
It wasn't entirely true. They all knew it. Mihir had never *meant* to hurt her, but the darkness didn't discriminate. And yet, Sahir said it with such conviction, as if he could will it into reality.
The clock chimed. A deep, resonant sound that shuddered through the room.
The sun gilded the wreckage of the river house in pale gold when Maira woke to emptiness.
Her hand clutched at the sofa and her eyes scanned the room where Mihir should have been.
Panic seized her throat before she could reason it away. The memories of last night flooded back-the shattered chandelier, Mihir's eyes bleeding from brown to crimson, the way he'd shielded her with his own body as glass rained down. And afterward, when the demon had receded and they'd collapsed here together, exhausted and wounded but *alive*.
Now the silence was deafening.
"Mihir?" Her voice came out hoarse. No answer.
She scrambled up, ignoring the protest of her healing wounds. The living room was a warzone-overturned furniture, glittering shards, the lingering scent of burnt ozone. Her pulse hammered against her ribs.
*He left. After everything-*
Then she saw it.
A single mug of steaming chai sat on the windowsill, the morning light turning the rising steam to gold. And Maira reaches the rooftop -
Mihir stood barefoot, his back to her as he watched the river. The rising sun caught the edges of his silhouette. His shoulders rose and fell with slow, even breaths.
Maira didn't realize she'd moved until she was crashing into him from behind, her arms locking around his waist.
Mihir startled, then stilled. "Easy, hellcat," he murmured, but his hands came up to cover hers where they clutched at his stomach. "I just needed air."
"You weren't there when I woke up." The accusation trembled in her voice.
His thumb brushed over her knuckles-a silent apology. "Made you tea first."
She pressed her forehead between his shoulder blades, breathing him in-soap and summer storms and that indefinable scent that was purely *Mihir*. The tightness in her chest eased.
They stood like that as the world woke around them, the river singing its endless song, the steam from their forgotten chai curling into the dawn.
Somewhere in the ruins of the house, a clock began to chime.
Mihir turned in her arms, his fingers finding her chin. In the morning light, his eyes were dark and clear and *his* again. "I'm here," he said quietly.
Maira's grip on Mihir's wrist tightened as she searched his face-*really* searched-for any sign of the shadows that had nearly consumed him. The morning light revealed only exhaustion and something softer, something uncertain.
"You won't run," she said again, firmer this time.
Mihir didn't pull away. His pulse jumped under her fingers. "Would it matter if I did?" The question was quiet, stripped bare.
Her nails dug into his skin. "*Yes.*"
A beat of silence. The river murmured behind them.
Then Mihir exhaled, long and slow. "I'll come back with you." He said it like a surrender, like a man stepping out of dark water. "But Maira-" His voice caught. "I'm not... fixed."
She almost laughed. As if any of them were. As if love demanded perfection instead of *trying*.
The words rose unbidden and maira recited ,:
*"Broken things still stand if braced,*
*Cracked bells may yet ring true-*
*What matters isn't what was lost,*
*But what the hands still choose to do."*
Mihir went very still.
"Terrible meter," he muttered. But his thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, just once. A silent *thank you*. A silent *I'm here*.
And for now, that was enough.