Why am I even nervous?
It’s just athank you.
Nothing more. When I reach the office, I walk straight to his cabin before my brain can talk me out of it. The door is slightly open.
Aryan is inside, leaning back in his chair with his sleeves rolled up, one arm behind his head as he scrolls through something on his phone. His hair is slightly messy in that unfair way that somehow makes him look better instead of worse.
He notices me standing there and immediately grins.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite grumpy designer,” he says. “Good morning, Sunshine.”
I narrow my eyes at him as I step inside. “Good morning, Golden boy.”
He sits up straight, clearly amused. “That nickname is still a problem.”
“Your existence is still a problem,” I reply calmly.
He laughs under his breath like he enjoys being insulted. I place my bag on the chair opposite his desk and pull the small box out before I can lose my nerve. “This is for you,” I say, putting it on the table.
He looks at the box and then back at me, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Should I be worried?”
“Very,” I say flatly.
He picks it up slowly, turning it over once in his hands like he’s inspecting a suspicious object. “Is this a trap?”
“Just open it.”
He gives me a dramatic sigh but flips the lid open. For a moment, he just looks at the pen inside. Not speaking. Not joking. And suddenly I regret everything.
“It’s just a pen,” I say quickly. “Before you start being dramatic. A normal, functional pen. You sign a lot of documents. Your previous one betrayed you mid-meeting, so—”
“I remember that,” he interrupts softly.
He lifts the pen carefully, testing the weight in his hand. His fingers roll it slightly before he uncaps it and scribbles a quick line on a notepad.
The ink flows smoothly.
His lips twitch. “This is a good pen,” he comments after a moment.
“That’s…the point.”
He looks up at me again, something different in his expression now. Not teasing. Not exaggerated. “You got this for me?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply immediately, folding my arms so he doesn’t notice the strange tightness in my chest. “Before your ego gets carried away, it’s just a thank you for the car.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Just a thank you?” he repeats.
“Yes.”
He studies the pen again before placing it carefully on the desk. “You didn’t have to,” he says.
“I know.”
The room goes quiet for a second. Then he leans back in his chair and tilts his head at me. “So this means we’re even now?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I reply. “You gave me a car. I gave you a pen. You’re still ridiculously ahead.”
He chuckles. “You realize,” he says slowly, twirling the pen between his fingers, “this is the first time you’ve voluntarily given me something that isn’t sarcasm.”
