My eyes remain shut for another few seconds while my brain tries to load properly. Then panic nudges through the pain. I don’t recognize this bed. I force one eye open. Light blurs everything at first. Then shapes begin to settle. Neutral walls. Large room. Clean lines. A ceiling I have definitely never seen before.
I open the other eye.
And freeze.
Aryan is sleeping with his head in my lap. I stare down at him for a full five seconds, certain my hangover has started producing hallucinations. His head is tilted sideways awkwardly, one arm folded under him in what has to be the worst sleeping posture known to man. His hair is messy, falling over his forehead. His mouth is slightly parted. He looks annoyingly peaceful.
He also looks like he belongs in a shampoo advertisement. Why is he in my lap? Why amIin his room? Why am I wearing—I look down. A black oversized sweatshirt. Not mine. Very much not mine. I go still. My heartbeat kicks painfully against my ribs. I look around again. Unknown room. Unknown bed. Aryan. His clothes. My head hurting like punishment.
Oh my God. Did we—My eyes widen so fast it physically hurts.
No. No no no no.
I poke his shoulder with one finger. Nothing. I poke harder. He grunts and shifts but doesn’t wake. I poke him again, now aggressively. He finally inhales sharply, yawns, and opens his eyes slowly. For one very confusing second, he looks as startled to see me as I am to see him.
Then memory—or whatever version of memory he has—returns, and he smiles. “Morning, Sunshine.”
His voice. Deep. Rough with sleep. Warm in a way that should be illegal before breakfast. My brain briefly abandons all current emergencies to acknowledge that his morning voice is extremely hot.
Then panic returns. “Where am I?” I ask immediately. “What are you doing here? Why am I wearing your clothes?”
He pushes himself upright, stretching slightly before looking back at me with too much amusement. “Sunshine—”
“No. Answer in order.”
He laughs softly. “You are at my place,” he says. “Because I got a call last night saying you were wasted.” I close my eyes.
Oh God.
“I didn’t want to take you to yours considering you were…” He pauses, grin widening. “Really wasted.”
I hate him.
“This is my home,” he continues helpfully, gesturing around us. “Hence my presence.” I glare. “And you couldn’t exactly sleep in that.”
He points toward a chair in the corner. My clothes are draped there in a heap. I stare at them. Then back at him. Then at the clothes. Then back at him. “You changed me?” I ask in a dangerously calm voice.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Absolutely not.”
I narrow my eyes. “You changed yourself,” he says quickly. “And before you ask—no, nothing happened.”
“I know,” I say instantly.
My voice comes out two octaves too high. His smirk deepens. “I wouldn’t sleep with…” I wave vaguely at the whole of him. “You anyway.”
He tilts his head. “You found my bicepsveryinteresting, Ishika.”
I freeze. Slowly. Horribly. He leans closer. “You might recall complimenting them.” My mouth falls open. I want the earth to split. I want it to swallow me whole. I want to be reborn in another country under another name. Before I can speak, the door opens.
“Great, you two are awake.” I jump so violently I nearly leave the bed.
Aryan also startles. “Maa!” He clutches his chest dramatically. “You scared me.” His mother stands in the doorway smiling like she just walked into her favorite television show. She ignores him completely and walks straight to me, holding out a glass.
“Drink this,” she says gently. “It will help your headache.” I look from the glass to her, then to Aryan, then back to the glass. My cheeks are burning so hot I’m surprised the room hasn’t caught fire. This woman has met me professionally. Now she is seeing me hungover in her son’s clothes.
Excellent.
I take the glass carefully. “Thank you,” I whisper. I drink. And instantly regret being alive. It tastes disgusting. Sharp, bitter, aggressively medicinal. I make a face so involuntary it probably belongs in cartoons. She laughs softly.
