Sanjay felt the warmth of the premiere lights still on his skin, the cameras, the applause, the shaking hands, the congratulatory smiles that always felt just a little too careful. Tonight had been another step in earning back a reputation he’d nearly lost to the years carved out of him by his past. You stood beside him, dazzling but steady, grounding him in ways he still didn’t understand. He was about to pull you closer when a paparazzo’s voice sliced through the noise.

“Arre Dutt saab, qatl ki aadat kab chhodege? Still running from your crimes, haan?”

It was a blade. Clean. Precise. Straight into an old wound that had never fully healed. Sanjay lunged forward before he realized he was moving. Rage surged, the kind he’d spent years burying. He saw red, felt Sunil Dutt’s voice echo from another lifetime: “Beta, gussa tujhe barbaad karega.” But he couldn’t stop himself. His fist was half-raised when he felt your hand grip his arm. Firm. Pleading. Pulling him back toward the present he was supposed to be worthy of. “Are- mujhe maat roko yaar! Kya kar rahi ho?!”

He snapped words sharp, raw, unfiltered at the one person who didn’t deserve it. The second he saw your eyes widen, something inside him collapsed. He shut down after that, riding home in silence, staring out the window while every pothole shook guilt deeper into his chest.

Back at the estate, he mumbled something about needing air and disappeared before you could reach for him. He didn’t want you to see him unravel. Not again. So he went to the gym, the one room where pain made sense. Where sweat burned more predictably than memories.

He punished himself the only way he knew: through pain, through repetition. The weights clanged, his breath burned, sweat stung the corner of his eyes. He pushed until his arms trembled, until the floor swayed, until his reflection in the mirror blurred into the man he used to be. The addict. The convict. The son who promised his father he’d never spiral again. And then another flash, your laugh echoing in their kitchen the first time he’d tried to cook for you. Your hands smoothing the wrinkles in his kurta before a charity event. Your voice saying softly, I trust you, on a night he didn’t trust himself.

Hours blurred. He didn’t even hear you get up. When he looked up, you were in the doorway, soft light behind you, wearing something that made his heart squeeze with memory. His legs nearly buckled from exhaustion… and from the ache of wanting to fall into your forgiveness but not knowing if he deserved it. He could still hear Sunil’s steady voice: “Tu achha aadmi ban sakta hai, Sanju. Sirf koshish chahiye.” It felt farther away than ever.

He didn’t hear the door until he nearly dropped the weight. You stood there in the soft darkness, hair tousled from sleep, eyes full of worry he didn’t deserve. He froze, chest heaving, sweat dripping onto the mat. For a moment, he could only stare. Flashbacks flickered—your laugh against his shoulder, your hand smoothing his hair when nightmares woke him, your whisper against his sternum promising he was more than his sins.

His throat tightened. You hadn’t said a word, yet he felt the apology tearing through him. He swallowed hard, voice hoarse, barely a whisper. “Tum… yahan kya kar rahi ho…?”