And somehow—he has decided to be here.
“Why are you still here?” I ask, finally glancing over my shoulder. He’s leaning casually against a half-installed partition, sleeves rolled up, watching me like this is entertainment. “I own this building, Sunshine.”
“Exactly,” I narrow my eyes, “You have an entire building to run.”
“And I chose this room.” He shrugs, his lips curling up in a lazy smile. “Besides I like watching you work.”
My chest does that annoying little thing again. I ignore it. “Stand somewhere else,” I say, pointing toward a safer corner. “Preferably somewhere you can’t interfere with anything.”
He salutes mockingly. “Yes, ma’am.”
I turn back to my notes, trying very hard not to smile. Trying very hard not to notice the way his presence fills the room differently than anyone else’s. Trying very hard to pretend this is normal. It is not normal. It is very distracting. But somehow…comforting.
“Sunshine,” he calls out a minute later.
“What?”
“Is this supposed to be loose?” I close my eyes briefly. Count to three. Then turn. He’s holding the edge of a panel that is very clearly not secured yet.
“Aryan—” It happens fast. The panel shifts slightly in his hand, and before I can tell him to let go—there’s a sharp sound. A hiss of breath. And then—blood spills from his hand.
My heart drops. “What did you do?” I move toward him instantly, grabbing his hand before he can even react properly.
“It’s nothing—”
“It’s bleeding.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“It’s not a scratch if it’s bleeding this much,” I snap, already scanning for the first-aid kit.
The cut is along his finger—clean, but deep enough to matter. Not dangerous, but definitely not something to ignore. “You weren’t supposed to touch anything,” I mutter, pulling him toward the nearby chair.
I push him down onto the chair. He lets me. Too easily. I’m too focused on the blood. On the way it beads along his skin. On the fact that my chest is still tight from that split second of panic.
“Hold still,” I say, grabbing gauze.
“I am still.” He is quiet and I take it as a sign that he’s hurting. I clean the cut carefully, my fingers steady despite the irritation still buzzing under my skin.
“You could have gotten hurt properly,” I mutter.
“I did get hurt.” He huffs a laugh.
“You know what I mean.” I roll my eyes.
“A little more drama and you’ll start sounding like me.”
I glare at him briefly and he smiles. Of course he does.
“Does this hurt?” I ask, pressing lightly. He doesn’t answer immediately.
And that’s when I realize—he’s not looking at his finger. He’s looking at me. Like the entire situation is secondary to whatever is happening in his head.
“What?” I ask, frowning slightly.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not a ‘nothing’ face.”
