The last rays of sun painted the sky in soft oranges and purples as we walked out of the little art store, our hands and clothes still bearing traces of dried paint. Lorenzo looked like a walking canvas with that streak of blue still on his neck, and I couldn't stop giggling every time I looked at him.

He glanced sideways at me. "What's so funny?"

I shook my head. "Nothing. You just look... very artistic."

He raised a brow, a lazy smile forming on his lips. "Says the girl who has a literal sun painted on her arm."

I glanced down and laughed. "Touché."

The car ride back was quiet, but the good kind of quiet. The kind where your chest feels full, and your heart softens just a little more than you thought it could. I stared out the window, watching the city blur past, while he hummed along to some soft jazz playing on the stereo.

When we reached the apartment, I kicked off my shoes and went straight to my room to change. I pulled on a soft oversized t-shirt and comfy pyjamas, tied my damp hair in a bun, and held the little box in my hands.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped out.

Lorenzo was already on the sofa, dressed in a loose grey hoodie and joggers, scrolling through something on his phone. He looked so different like this—relaxed, effortless, a version of him the world didn't get to see.

I walked up to him and placed the little wrapped box on the table.

He looked up, confused. "What's this?"

"Open it."

His eyes lingered on me for a second before he reached for the package and peeled off the wrapping. When he opened the box and saw the mug, he blinked slowly. The deep navy paint, the tiny stars I'd painted carefully, and inside the rim—my words:

"To the one who brought back my stars."

He didn't speak right away.

Instead, he stared at it for a few seconds longer, then looked at me. Really looked at me. His expression was unreadable—almost soft, almost fragile.

"I know it's silly," I mumbled, suddenly self-conscious. "But I just wanted to thank you... for today. For everything, really."

He ran a hand through his hair, clearing his throat. "It's not silly. Not even close."

Then, he smiled. A slow, genuine smile that warmed something inside me.

"I love it," he said. "Thank you, Adhira. Truly."

I nodded, heart pounding a little harder. Then, like we had silently agreed, we settled onto the sofa, chose a comfort movie—something light and ridiculous—and pressed play. He sat next to me, not too close, not too far, just... there. Present.

By the time the credits rolled, I could barely keep my eyes open.

"I'm heading to bed," I murmured, standing up and stretching.

"Go ahead. I'll finish up some emails," he replied, his voice soft.

I nodded and headed into my room, slipping under the covers with a satisfied sigh. The day had been warm in the best ways. Safe. Light.

But peace doesn't always last the whole night.

Sometime later—maybe an hour, maybe less—I woke with a jolt. My breath was ragged, my heart pounding like a war drum. I couldn't see clearly. My skin was clammy. The images from my nightmare were still fresh—dark water, screaming voices, that helpless feeling of being trapped.

I shot out of bed, my chest tight, my throat closing up. The apartment felt too quiet. Too dark.

And then... I ran.

I didn't think. I just followed the faint glow from the hallway, my feet moving faster until I reached the study. I didn't even knock.

The door flew open and there he was.

Lorenzo's eyes widened as I crashed into him, arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying my face in his chest as tears poured freely down my cheeks.

"Adhira?" His voice was low and urgent. "Hey, hey—what happened? What's wrong?"

"I—" I couldn't form the words. I just clung to him, shaking.

He held me instantly, his arms wrapping around me with the kind of strength that didn't feel overwhelming—it felt like safety.

"Shh, it's okay. You're okay," he whispered into my hair, one hand gently rubbing circles on my back. "I've got you. I've got you, angel."

I sobbed harder at the nickname, at the way he said it like he meant every syllable.

"I had a nightmare," I finally whispered, voice trembling. "It felt so real..."

"You're safe," he said, pulling me in tighter. "Nothing can hurt you here. Not while I'm around."

I didn't know how long we stood like that. Eventually, he pulled back slightly, just enough to see my face, and wiped away a tear with his thumb.

"Come on," he said softly. "Let's get you back to bed."

He walked with me to my room, never letting go of my hand. When I sat on the bed, he didn't leave. Instead, he sat beside me and pulled the covers over us both.

"You don't have to stay—" I began.

"I want to."

I turned toward him, his presence grounding me. Slowly, I curled into his side, my head resting on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

His arm wrapped around me protectively. "Close your eyes," he murmured. "You're safe now."

And for the first time in a long time, I believed it.

______________________________________________________________________________

The next morning, warm sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft golden stripes across the white blankets wrapped around me. I blinked groggily, my mind slowly registering that the space beside me was empty. The warmth from Lorenzo's body had faded, leaving only the faint trace of his scent.

Sitting up, I stretched lazily, a quiet yawn slipping out. The events of last night fluttered into my memory—his arms, the safety, the comfort. A soft smile crept to my lips before I shook it off and made my way to the bathroom.

After freshening up, I slipped into a comfortable pair of light blue jeans and a soft white top. My hair was tied into a loose braid as I padded out of the room, barefoot, following the smell of coffee.

In the kitchen, I found Lorenzo seated at the table, looking effortlessly handsome in a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled up, eyes glued to the screen of his laptop. On his right, a steaming mug and his phone. On the left, a breakfast plate—half-eaten sandwich and some fruit. He was multitasking like a pro.

He looked up and offered me a soft smile. "Morning."

I smiled back. "Good morning."

I sat down across from him, grabbing a sandwich from the counter and pouring myself some coffee. The silence was comfortable, broken only by the faint sound of typing and the low hum of the coffee machine. As I bit into the sandwich—crispy bread, fluffy eggs, a hint of cheese—I couldn't help but feel a sense of... peace.

A few minutes later, he ended his call and turned his full attention to me.

"You sleep okay?" he asked, voice low and warm.

I nodded. "Better than I have in weeks." I hesitated, then added, "Thanks to you."

He gave a small shrug but didn't hide the hint of a smile. "You don't have to thank me."

"I want to," I said gently. "For staying. For holding me."

Something unreadable flickered in his eyes before he looked away and stood up.

"I have a few meetings at the office today," he said. "But I'll be back before dinner." He walked over to the far end of the hallway, stopping in front of a tall wooden door with a vintage brass handle.

He opened it and turned back to me. "Come. Let me show you something before I go."

Curious, I followed.

As the door creaked open, I gasped. It was a private library.

Not just a room of books—but a beautifully curated collection of novels, lined across tall wooden shelves that reached the ceiling. Soft yellow lights glowed above the shelves. A warm, brown leather armchair stood near the window, flanked by a side table and a throw blanket. The room smelled of cedarwood and old pages.

My eyes darted from spine to spine—and I couldn't help the excitement bubbling up in me. What a coincidence...

"Reina Kent, Sienna Brown, Remix... you have all of them?" I turned to him in surprise.

He smirked. "You mentioned them once, and I might have remembered."

My heart swelled. He noticed. Even the little things.

"I could live in this room forever," I whispered, walking toward the shelves like a kid in a candy store.

He leaned on the doorway, arms crossed. "Just don't forget to eat."

I grinned. "No promises."

As he turned to leave, I called after him, "Lorenzo?"

He glanced back.

"I really mean it. Thank you—for everything."

His expression softened, and then he was gone.

I chose The Night Flame and curled up in the armchair, disappearing into the world of tortured heroes and hidden scars. Hours passed like minutes.

Eventually, hunger nudged me back into reality, and I stepped into the kitchen where I found the cook preparing lunch.

"Good afternoon, sweet girl!" she greeted me with a wide smile. "How was the book?"

"It was... intense," I said with a chuckle.

She was a kind woman in her mid-50s, hair tied in a bun, with a softness in her face that made you feel instantly at home. Lorenzo had once told me she'd worked for his family for years and lived nearby with her grandson.

"You're lucky to have such a cozy library," she said while stirring a pot. "When I was your age, all we had were radio stories."

We laughed, and I leaned on the counter.

"What's for lunch today?"

"Pasta with roasted veggies and some garlic bread. Want to help with the salad?"

I nodded, and together, we chopped cucumbers and tomatoes, talking about good food and how she cried watching that new romantic movie everyone was obsessed with.

After lunch, I decided to take a short walk around the apartment. The sky outside was beginning to cloud, and a light wind stirred the curtains. As I walked past the living room, the sharp ding-dong of the doorbell cut through the air.

I paused.

No one was expected.

I hesitated, then walked toward the front door and opened it slowly.

A security guard stood there, holding a large brown box.

"This just arrived, ma'am. It's addressed to you."

My eyes widened with surprise. "Oh! Thank you."

I took the box eagerly. Maybe Ayaan or Aryan sent something?

With a little bounce in my step, I carried it to the sofa and placed it gently on the coffee table.

Grabbing the scissors, I sliced through the tape.

The box opened—

And my breath froze.

Inside... were bloodstained notes.

Death threats. Messy handwriting. Crimson smudges.

My heart dropped. I couldn't move. My mouth went dry.

Then, instinct kicked in. I screamed.

The sound was raw, panic-filled, echoing through the apartment.

I stumbled back, almost tripping over the edge of the carpet, and ran toward my room to grab my phone. My fingers trembled violently as I scrolled to his contact.

"Pick up, pick up, please—"

He answered after the second ring.

"Adhira?"

"Lorenzo—" My voice cracked as I choked on a sob. "You have to come back. Please. I—there's a box—blood—I don't know who—"

"I'm on my way. Lock every door. Don't open anything. Stay inside. Do you hear me?"

"Yes." My voice was barely a whisper.

"I'll be there in ten."

____________________________________________________________

There goes chapter 12.

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