Chapter 8

The string lights overhead buzzed with a low, electric hum, a sound that seemed to vibrate directly against my skin, syncing with the frantic, happy thudding of my own heart. We had been here for hours, moving through the labyrinthine aisles of the night market like two ghosts who had finally found their way back to the living. The air was thick with the scent of roasted chestnuts, diesel fumes from the generators, and the cloying sweetness of overripe mangoes. It was chaotic, loud, and beautifully messy, but all I could focus on was the weight of his hand in mine. He had refused to let go since we left the vintage fair’s inner sanctum, that small, dimly lit alcove where the mirrors had been fogged with our breath and the shadows had been long enough to hide our sins from the casual glances of the crowd. His fingers were interlaced with mine, tight and possessive, his thumb rubbing slow, deliberate circles over the back of my hand. It was a grounding anchor, a silent promise that said, *I am here. I am real. And you are mine.* "Look at this," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that I