Veeresh sat at his desk, the glow of his laptop reflecting in his eyes, but his mind wasn’t on the spreadsheet in front of him. His phone kept buzzing—unknown number, again and again. The same number that had been haunting him for weeks. His fists tightened. Not now… not again.

The ringing in his ears wasn’t just the phone—it was his past, clawing its way back into the present. The memories he had buried, the people he had left behind, the wounds that never fully healed—they were knocking at his door, demanding attention.

He was already on edge when the door creaked open.

“Veeresh… dinner is ready,” Poornima said softly, stepping in with her usual warmth.

Something inside him snapped. Without thinking, he turned sharply and his hand struck her cheek. The sound of the slap seemed to echo louder than any phone ring, louder than any memory.

Poornima froze, her hand instinctively going to her cheek, her eyes wide with shock.

“I… I’m sorry,” she stammered, her voice trembling. “I didn’t know you were working. It’s already time for dinner, so I came to call you.”

Her voice, gentle despite the pain, cut through the haze in Veeresh’s mind. He looked at her—really looked—and saw the faint red mark blooming on her soft skin. His chest tightened with guilt.

“Poornima…” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I’m sorry. I was angry and frustrated at something else, and I… I should never have done this. Not to you. Never to you.”

He stepped closer, but she stayed still, not moving away, not moving closer.

“You stay here,” he said firmly, his voice now soft but leaving no room for argument. “I’ll get dinner… and ice.”

“I can—” she began.

“Sit,” he said, his tone stern, not in anger, but in care.

He left the room quickly and returned minutes later with a tray. A bowl of warm food, a glass of water, an ice cube wrapped in a cloth, and a small tube of ointment.

Without a word, he knelt in front of her and gently pressed the ice to her cheek. She winced at the cold but didn’t pull away.

He took the spoon and began feeding her, his eyes never leaving hers. She ate quietly, the heaviness of the moment making each bite feel different—more fragile, more intimate.

When she finished, he set the tray aside, took the ointment, and softly dabbed it on her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, almost to himself.

Then, without warning, he pulled her into his arms and lay back, resting his head on her chest, his arms locking around her waist as if afraid she might slip away.

Poornima hesitated for a moment, then let her hand rest on his head, her fingers brushing through his hair. She could feel the tension leaving his body bit by bit, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable.

Soon, his breathing slowed, his grip still tight but protective, and he fell asleep. Poornima closed her eyes, holding him close, and despite the earlier storm, she felt an odd sense of peace—because in that embrace, she knew he still needed her.