Chapter Seventeen
1337 Words
Ryan' POV
She ran.
Again.
The moment Ryan saw Aanya spot him in the courtyard, her smile had vanished. Her steps turned frantic. Her eyes—usually filled with fire—refused to meet his as she escaped through the gates.
It wasn’t the cold dismissal that twisted something in his chest.
It was the fact that she didn’t even spare him a second glance.
He stood there, perfectly composed in his suit, surrounded by murmuring students and bored faculty members, but inside, his blood simmered.
So she wanted to pretend he didn’t exist?
Not after what happened between them. Not after that kiss.
Not after the way she looked at him while wearing nothing but his shirt.
Ryan clenched his jaw, his hands buried in his pockets to stop them from fisting.
She could run.
But he would never let her hide.
He returned to his office by late afternoon, but his mind wasn’t on the files Gabe kept dropping on his desk or the meeting requests flooding his inbox.
He sat behind his glass desk, fingers steepled, staring at nothing but Aanya’s face burned into his mind. Her flushed cheeks. That tiny smile when she laughed with her friends. The way she looked away the moment their eyes met, as if his presence alone scorched her.
Why are you running, little firefly?
He pushed his chair back with one firm motion and stood. Gabe glanced up from the adjoining room through the glass wall, sensing something shift.
Ryan didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.
He already knew where he was going.
The sky was a velvety black when he parked outside her modest apartment building.
The street was mostly silent at this hour. Just the occasional honk in the distance, and the rustle of wind through the old trees lining the road. He checked the time—10:58 PM.
She should be home by now. He’d waited, purposefully giving her time to settle in. Now she’d have no excuse to run.
He stepped out of his car, his polished shoes echoing against the pavement. His long coat billowed slightly with the night breeze. He approached her door, raised his hand, and rang the bell.
Nothing.
He rang it again, slower this time.
Still nothing.
He narrowed his eyes. Was she pretending not to hear?
His knuckles flexed with the need to knock again, harder—but just then, he heard soft footsteps approaching from inside.
The lock turned, the door cracked open slightly, and there she was.
Ryan’s breath caught for a brief second.
Aanya stood in front of him, hair disheveled, eyes barely open, her entire body wrapped in a blanket like a child woken from a fever dream. Her skin was pale, lips parted slightly, and her breathing sounded uneven.
She blinked at him.
As if she couldn’t believe he was real.
As if she was too tired to even fight.
But then, realization dawned in her foggy gaze. She tried to shut the door immediately.
“Aanya,” Ryan growled, pushing gently against it. “Don’t.”
She used what little strength she had to resist. “Go away,” she mumbled, her voice raspy.
“You’ve been running enough,” he said, pushing harder.
Her hands trembled against the frame. She wasn’t strong—he realized that now. Something was wrong.
She stumbled back as the door opened, her knees giving out.
“s**t—” Ryan caught her instantly, his arms wrapping around her like instinct.
Her body collapsed into him.
She was burning.
Fever.
He felt it the moment her head touched his chest. Her skin was like fire. Damp strands of hair clung to her temple, and her body trembled against him.
His heart slammed against his ribcage. “Aanya?” he said, softer now, crouching to her level.
She didn’t respond right away.
Only a faint whimper escaped her lips.
Without thinking, he pressed the back of his hand against her forehead. “You’re burning up.”
She tried to push him away weakly. “I’m fine…”
“The hell you are.”
She was burning up and still had the nerve to argue.
He slipped his arm under her knees and swept her up in one swift motion. She was light—so light—and her head lolled against his shoulder.
“No,” she whispered. “Put me down...”
Ryan’s voice dropped to a low, commanding tone. “Where’s your bedroom?”
“No,” she said again, more from instinct than defiance. “I don’t want you here—”
He tightened his hold, jaw locked. “Aanya.”
That one word.
That single tone—sharp, cold, absolute.
Her eyes fluttered open briefly. And then she gave in, whispered one word. “Left…”
He moved without hesitation, carrying her through the living room, past her small kitchen, and into the room on the left. Her bed was unmade, the sheets tangled. He carefully laid her down, pulled the blanket over her, and sat on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, he just watched her.
The rise and fall of her chest. The way her brows furrowed in discomfort.
Even in this state, she was beautiful.
Vulnerable. And somehow still brave enough to push him away.
She didn’t even ask how he found her.
He brushed a strand of damp hair off her forehead.
What the hell was she doing, running around like this when clearly sick?
Didn’t she have anyone looking after her? Any friends? Family?
The realization that she might’ve been completely alone in this tiny apartment while burning up with fever made something twist deep in his chest.
Unacceptable.
He stood abruptly and walked out of the room.
In the kitchen, he found chaos.
Half-eaten noodles on the table. Unwashed plates. Soggy vegetables on the counter. A pot with burnt sauce still sitting on the stove.
She had tried to make herself dinner.
And failed.
He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, tossed the trash, cleaned the table, and put water to boil. He wasn’t exactly a chef, but hangover soup and basic broth? He could manage.
He remembered what his mother used to make when he fell sick as a child. He copied it as best he could. Ginger, garlic, pepper, a pinch of turmeric.
While it simmered, he filled a glass of water and returned to the room.
She hadn’t moved.
Her blanket had slid slightly, revealing her bare arm. Her skin glistened with sweat.
He leaned closer and gently woke her. “Aanya,” he murmured. “Wake up for a bit. You need water.”
She stirred, opened her eyes slightly, and frowned. “Why… are you here?”
His heart ached, but he hid it. “Because you ran from me. And I don't like being run from.”
She closed her eyes again. “That’s not a good reason…”
“It is to me.”
He slipped an arm under her shoulders and helped her sit up just enough to sip the water. She drank slowly, wincing, but didn’t argue.
When she lay back again, she whispered, “You shouldn’t have come…”
He stared at her, face unreadable. “You don’t get to be alone when you’re like this.”
Later, he brought her a bowl of the soup.
She didn’t finish it, but he got a few spoonfuls into her before she dozed off again.
Ryan stayed beside her most of the night. Occasionally, he went to the kitchen to rinse the bowl, refill her water, or make a mental note of the medicines she didn’t have.
He’d get them first thing in the morning.
And while she slept, curled on her side in a bed too cold for her heat, Ryan sat in the chair by her bedside, fingers laced, watching over her.
Not as a billionaire.
Not as a mafia king.
Just as a man who couldn’t stop caring.
- Writer
