“Don’t,” she warns.
“Why would I?” I tease.
She sighs. “Why do you want to change them?”
“Got bullied in school,” I shrug. “People called mematar.” I laugh humorlessly at the memory. They were some rough years. Until Rudraksh punched one of those guys and Shivansh poured cold water on them one day and I don’t think I ever left their side, so in a way I am thankful too.
Her face scrunches up. “What the fuck?”
I laugh. “I hate people,” she mutters.
“I gathered.”
“Favorite season?” she asks.
“Summer.”
She gasps. “Finally! Someone who likes summer.” I grin, seeing her child-like reaction.
“Why do you like it?” she asks.
“It’s warm,” I shrug. “I can’t deal with the cold.”
She nods quickly. “Same. And I can eat ice cream without thinking.” I chuckle. I am not sure if I should find her adorable or be extremely worried about her nutrition from all the information I have about her food habits. The GPS chimes softly.
Thirty minutes left. “Your birthday?” she asks.
“Fifteenth December.”
“Twenty five January,” she replies.
I nod. “I’m out of questions,” she says finally, leaning back in her seat.
I exhale dramatically. “Finally. I thought that was never going to end.”
She laughs. “My turn,” I say immediately.
“Nope,” she says just as quickly.
“That’s not fair.”
She shrugs, smiling. And I glance at her, shaking my head, unable to stop the grin spreading across my face. Yeah. This is going to be a long ride. But a fun ride.
CHAPTER 25
ISHIKA
I have no clue why I agreed to this.
That thought has been looping in my head since the moment I sat in his car this morning, and it refuses to leave. I remember standing in front of my mirror, hair half-tied, eyeliner slightly uneven, giving myself a full ten-minute lecture like I was both the problem and the solution.
Keep it professional, Ishika. Keep it casual. No oversharing. No personal questions. No getting pulled into his chaos.
And then—Somewhere between the drive and his stupid grin, I ended up conducting a rapid-fire round like I was interviewing a celebrity on national television.
I grip the edge of the car door slightly as we step out at the warehouse, still mildly annoyed at myself. He had pushed, of course he had, and I had resisted—of course I had—but not enough.
Never enough with him.
