Heat rushes to my face instantly. My mind betrays me in the worst possible way. An image flashes—uninvited, vivid, entirely inappropriate—and I have to physically shake my head to get rid of it. Him kneeling in front of me, tasting my…Stop.
“I don’t,” I snap, crossing my arms. “Stop talking.”
He laughs as if my reaction is something amusing while I stand here horrified at the train of thoughts that just occurred in my mind and I am…so sure he would be good at…it.
“What do you want?” I ask, sharper than I intend.
His laughter fades, but the softness stays. “Forgiveness,” he says simply. Something in my chest shifts again. He lifts a steel tiffin toward me. It’s slightly dented on one side. I take it slowly, suspicious of its content.
“What is this?”
“Open it.” I hesitate. Then flip the lid. And freeze. Inside are some small, slightly uneven looking muffins. Definitely not professionally made. My fingers tighten slightly around the container.
I look up at him. He’s watching me carefully now. He looks nervous. “You said you used to bake muffins with your father,” he says, a little quieter. “When you were upset.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly. “So…” he shrugs, suddenly looking less like the confident man who walked into my life and more like someone hoping he hasn’t completely messed this up, “…you’re upset with me.”
I stare at him and then at the muffins, at the effort. At the fact that he remembered something I said once. Something I barely let myself think about.
And he—He held onto it. Used it. Came here with it. Something inside me softens so quickly it almost hurts. “You made these?” I ask quietly.
He winces slightly. “I tried.”
I let out a small breath half in disbelief, half something warmer.
“You tried,” I repeat.
“They might not be…” he trails off, clearly choosing his words carefully, “…perfect.”
I don’t respond. I just step aside. “Come in.” Relief flickers across his face so quickly I almost miss it. He stands, brushing his hands against his jeans before stepping inside. I close the door behind him, the quiet of my apartment wrapping around us again. He looks around briefly, taking in the space. I walk to the kitchen without saying anything, placing the tiffin on the counter and opening it again.
The muffins look…dense. A little too firm. Definitely not how I remember making them.
I pick one up anyway. Break a piece off. It doesn’t break easily. That should be a warning but I ignore it. I take a bite. And immediately realize—This is possibly the hardest muffin I have ever eaten in my life.
I chew it very slowly and don’t react. I will not ruin this. I swallow and look up at him. He’s watching me like his entire future depends on my reaction. “It’s…” I pause. Choose my words. “…very chewy.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I knew it.”
I can’t help it. A small laugh escapes me. And then another. And suddenly I’m laughing properly, the tension of the entire day cracking just enough to let it out. “They’re terrible, aren’t they?” he says, half defeated, half amused.
“They’re…” I take another bite, just to prove a point, “…not great.”
“But?”
“But,” I say, softer now, “they’re the best thing I’ve had in a long time.”
His expression shifts to something gentler. The humor fades slightly. And I don’t know when exactly it happens—But the laughter fades too. Because the truth of that statement settles in my chest. Not the muffin. The gesture. My eyes sting suddenly. I look down at the muffin in my hand. And just like that—I’m not in my kitchen anymore.
I’m somewhere else. Years ago. Standing on a stool too tall for me, mixing batter while my father laughs behind me because I’ve made a mess of the counter again. The smell of sugar and…him. My chest tightens painfully.
“I miss him,” I whisper before I can stop myself. The words slip out quietly. Unintentionally. But once they’re there—I can’t take them back.
Aryan steps closer. Carefully. I look up at him and try to smile, “I miss my father…” His eyes soften and he returns the smile to me as he pulls me into his chest and I let him, feeling the warmth of his body offering some comfort to me, “Sometimes…I feel guilty for missing him more than my mother,” I admit, my voice barely steady now. “And I hate that.”
My chest hurts, “I shouldn’t feel that way.”
“Why not?” he asks gently.
