Heat rushes up my neck. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.” He leans in slightly as he pushes my glasses up, his voice a whisper now. “Don’t worry. I like it when you look at me.”
My stomach flips, and I quickly turn back toward the painter, hoping he can’t see the ridiculous flush spreading across my cheeks.
We sit there for what feels like hours, Vihaan occasionally shifting closer, his knee brushing mine, his fingers tapping lightly on the cushion behind me as if to a rhythm only he can hear. Every tiny touch sends my pulse skittering, and I hate that he knows it. I hate that he enjoys knowing it more.
At one point, the painter asks us to hold still, and Vihaan chooses that exact moment to lean in, his lips hovering near my ear. “Do you know what I see when I look at us?”
I swallow hard. “What?”
“A story.” His breath fans against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. “One that no one expected, not even the two of us. But here we are, and I wouldn’t change a single line of it.”
I squeeze my hands together in my lap, desperately willing my heartbeat to slow down. He says these things so easily, and I… I don’t know what to do with them.
I whisper, “How are you not uncomfortable?”
He chuckles under his breath. “Years of practice. Sitting in council meetings, pretending to listen while old men argue about taxes. I’ve mastered the art of looking regal while thinking about completely different things.”
“What are you thinking about now?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
He doesn’t even hesitate. “You.”
My heart beats wildly against the ribs, how is he always so unfazed when he says things that undoes me.
He leans a fraction closer, his voice low and warm. “I’m thinking how no brush, no paint, can ever get you right. They’ll try. They’ll capture your eyes or your smile, but they’ll never catch the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. They’ll never get that right.”
My throat goes dry. “Vihaan,” I whisper, half warning, half plea.
“What?” he asks, innocent as ever, though his smirk says otherwise.
I don’t answer. I can’t.
The painter interrupts gently, “Perhaps a little closer, Kunwar-sa. The composition works better if you turn towards her slightly.”
Vihaan obeys, shifting so that his shoulder brushes mine. I stiffen, heat curling through me like smoke. He, of course, looks entirely at ease, as though being pressed against me was his idea of perfect posture.
“I think he just wants an excuse,” Vihaan murmurs near my ear, “to make me sit closer to you.”
“Stop,” I hiss, but my lips curve helplessly.
“Say please.”
I glance at him, scandalized. “We are in the middle of—”
The painter clears his throat again, misunderstanding my expression. “Ah, yes, hold that look, Kunwarani-sa. Very natural.”
I sigh.
The painter eventually sets down his pencil, satisfied with the sketch. He explains he will begin painting later, and that the sitting is done for today.
I place my hand in his, and as he pulls me up, his thumb brushes deliberately against my wrist. My skin tingles where he touches me.
“See?” he murmurs, smirk still in place. “That wasn’t so bad.”
I bite my lip, trying not to smile too widely. “You were impossible.”
“And yet,” he says lightly, leading me toward the door, “you survived. Perhaps you even enjoyed yourself a little?”
