Page 115 of Wasted Grace

The intimate nickname hits different this time. Accompanied with a sliver ofsurrender. Her calling meVikis why I’ve been taking small liberties with calling herbaby. I probably shouldn’t.

She gets up then, her feet landing on the floor with a quiet thud. Her movements are almost mechanical,tired. She pauses for a few seconds before letting out a heavy sigh.

Then almost in an instant, she squares her shoulders, nods to herself, and is out the door. Leaving me alone with the mess that is my mind.

I spend a few minutes letting it out. Grieving the woman who died every day forone year, two months, twelve days, and twenty-three hours.

My sobs are muted, muffled against my palms. I run a shaky hand over my face once I calm down. Then I force myself to get up and join her.

She’s in the kitchen, her back to me, staring into the fridge like it’s a puzzle she needs to solve.

Then—she picks up the tomatoes.

My heart lurches.

We’ve only been ordering takeout the past week. Since she got here, there hasn’t been a single meal cooked at home except for breakfast. And now... now she’s reaching fortomatoes?

I blink hard—wondering if I’m hallucinating yet again. Is she planning to cook?

I don’t even have fresh produce beyond some sad onions and a few bulbs of garlic.

But this? This isGreesha, isn’t it?

Fuck. This ismyGreesha. The one who used to hum to herself while dicing.

My brain stutters at her sudden shift. Just moments ago, she was flipping a knife between her fingers. And now... she plans to slice the fucking tomatoes with it?

She turns, startled for a second when she sees me just stupidlygapingat her.

“Good, you’re here,” she says, like this is the most ordinary thing in the world. “Where’s your phone?”

My brows twitch in surprise. “Uh... in the room.Yourroom.”

She doesn’t answer. Just circles around me and disappears down the hall.

A moment later, she returns—my phone already in her hand, her thumbs flying over the screen like she owns it. Which, for all intents and purposes, she kind of does.

She knew the passcode. Of course she did. I had to tell her the day she agreed to be mybodyguard. She’d asked for it with a smirk. I think she was fucking with me.

I hadn’t minded then. I sure as hell don’t mind now.

She sets the phone down on the kitchen counter. I grab it the moment she lets go.

And when I look at the screen—my throat closes. A grocery delivery app. A fresh order already placed.

Lauki (bottle gourd). Carrots. Fresh curd. Bananas. Cream. Estimated arrival: 32 minutes.

I sniff. Quietly. Hoping she doesn’t hear it.

I clear my throat—almost letting out a wet cough. It takes effort to look at her. I don’t know what I expect. Anger? Tears? Maybeindifference?

What I get is... a smile. Small. Fleeting. Butreal. Painted softly across her scarred, ravaged, beautiful face.

“You’re—”

“I’m makingmalai kofta,” she cuts me off.

She swiftly turns away, without sparing me another glance. And then starts rummaging through the pots and pans. Like muscle memory.