I wanted to stay in his arms forever, wrapped in the strange safety of his touch, but Viraj had other ideas. He told me to take a shower and come to the kitchen. There was no edge to his voice, no room for argument either. I didn’t have the energy to protest, so I did as he asked. Truth be told, I needed it. My clothes clung to my skin, damp with sweat, and my hair felt sticky and heavy from sitting for hours in that suffocating interrogation room. The grime of the last twenty-four hours felt like it had settled deep into my pores.

The hot water did little to soothe the ache in my chest, but it washed away the dirt, the sweat, the stink of fear. When I stepped out, I pulled on one of Viraj’s oversized t-shirts, soft, clean, and smelling faintly of him. It fell to my mid-thigh, swallowing my frame. His pants would never fit me, and honestly, I didn’t feel the need for them. The shirt was enough.