I pick up one of the containers and wave it slightly. “Ma won’t like it if I take this back untouched.”
“That sounds like your problem.” She snaps and I almost chuckle, I think I love getting on her nerves.
I smile a little. “It becomes yours when I give her a call?” I raise and eyebrow and she huffs.
“I will eat when I am hungry.” She announces. Right on cue, her stomach betrays her. A soft, unmistakable growl fills the space between us. There’s a beat of silence. Then another. She freezes. I stare at her. And then I laugh. She glares at me like she wants to throw something.
“I can’t ignore that, Sunshine,” I say, shaking my head. “I have to rescue your stomach from you.”
A flush spreads across her cheeks, quick and bright. And for a moment, I forget everything else.
This soft, embarrassed color blooming across her face—It might be the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all day.
She looks away first. “Stop talking.”
“Start eating.” She exhales sharply, clearly debating whether this argument is worth continuing. Then, without another word, she walks past me toward the door.
I grin slightly and follow. My temporary office isn’t much—smaller, functional, lacking the personality of the one that’s currently being rebuilt—but I’ve grown oddly fond of it.
Mostly because of one thing.
It has that glass wall.
I don’t have to pretend I’m not looking at her.
I can just…look at her and that’s borderline creepy but I don’t think I can stop. She walks in, glancing around briefly before settling into the chair opposite mine. I set the tiffin down between us and start opening the containers.
The smell fills the room instantly—home-cooked, warm, familiar.
She tries not to react.
Fails.
She picks up the spoon with a kind of reluctant acceptance, like she’s giving in to something she doesn’t want to examine too closely. For a few minutes, there’s silence. The comfortable kind. The kind that doesn’t demand to be filled. I watch her take the first bite. Then another. Slow at first. Then a little less careful. And something in my chest eases. “Better?” I ask lightly.
She doesn’t look at me. “Don’t make it a thing.”
“It is a thing. You forgetting to eat is definitely a thing.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“You ignored it.” She doesn’t argue that. Instead, she takes another bite, gaze fixed stubbornly on the tiffin.
I lean back in my chair, watching her. And before I can stop myself—“The balcony.” She stills. Just slightly but noticable. “That night,” I add quietly.
She sets the spoon down. “It was nothing.” The words come out flat. I feel something tighten in my chest.
“Nothing?” She finally looks at me. And there’s a wall there now. Solid. Immovable.
“Nothing happened,” she says. For a moment, I just stare at her. Because I was there. I remember the way she leaned into me. The way her breath caught. The way her hand felt against my chest like she was holding on and letting go at the same time.
Nothing.
Right.
I nod once, slowly. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“It is.” Her voice doesn’t waver. That almost makes it worse. Something sharp flickers through me—hurt, maybe, or frustration—but I push it down before it reaches my face. Because the last thing she needs right now is me turning this into something she’ll run from.
