Page 78 of Protect my Heart

“You wanted to be an artist when we were kids. I don’t know if that’s still what you want... maybe life got in the way. But tonight, I just—” I pause, breathing in. “I wanted to give you back a piece of that world.”

Her eyes glisten. I pull her close, brushing my thumb across her knuckles. “You matter to me, Anika. Every little piece of you. The one who paints, the one who sulks when I’m late, the one who still gives me butterflies when she walks in a damn room.”

She looks up, blinking fast.

“No crying,” I warn, brushing my nose against hers with a smile. “Not when I’ve set up a whole rooftop romance here. I mean, come on, there are even scented wipes to clean your brushes—classy, no?”

That makes her laugh, finally, like I’ve been holding my breath for it.

“You did all this?” she asks softly, reaching out to touch one of the brushes, then running her fingers over the palette.

“I did.”

“For me?”

I lean in, murmuring against her temple, “For the girl who once said she only feels free when there’s paint on her hands.”

She turns to me slowly, and I swear the way she looks at me—like I’ve handed her the moon with my bare hands—it knocks the air right out of my chest.

She picks up a brush, nudging one toward me. “Then paint with me, Mr. Malhotra.”

I grin, picking it up. “Always, Mrs. Malhotra.” Although I suck at it, I will do anything she asks me to.

She hands me the second brush, her fingers brushing mine again—soft, warm, familiar. And just like that, theheaviness I carried here melts off my shoulders. It’s just us now. Me and her. A couple of canvases and a sky wide enough to hold whatever the hell this night becomes.

We start slow. She dips her brush in deep yellow; I go for green because it’s the only color I know how to work with. Our strokes are aimless and childlike, but there’s something soothing about it. About standing beside her like this, painting side by side in silence, our shoulders bumping every now and then.

“This isn’t terrible,” I murmur, studying my sad little tree that looks more like broccoli.

She chuckles, dabbing white on her canvas. “It’s awful, Aarav.”

“I said it isn't terrible. Big difference.”

She looks over at mine and bites her bottom lip. “You’ve given the tree anxiety.”

I fake a wounded gasp. “My tree has character. Personality.”

“It has a crisis.”

I smirk and nudge her shoulder gently with mine. “You’re mean.”

She shrugs, not at all apologetic. “You were late.”

Fair.

I dip my brush again. “I’m trying to earn my way back.”

“Oh, you are. This…” she gestures around the rooftop, “this is beautiful. I mean, you actually remembered the blending sponges. That’s... weirdly sweet.”

“Hey, I pay attention.” I raise a brow. “Even when you think I’m not listening.”

She hums, brushing a streak of pale orange across the canvas. “That’s dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Because now I have to watch what I say around you.”

My hands stop, and I look at her. “No, you don’t, Anu,” I whisper. “That’s the point; you be you with me, okay?” I inhale deeply.