CHAPTER 40
ISHIKA
I am not thinking about last night. I am absolutely not thinking about the way his mouth felt against mine. Not the way it started—soft, careful, like he was asking without words—and definitely not the way I stopped thinking altogether after a few seconds. Not the way my fingers curled into his shirt without permission. Not the way I forgot every argument I had prepared.
No.
I am working.
That is what I am doing.
Working.
The pencil moves across the paper in front of me, but the line I draw is slightly uneven. I stare at it for a second, then erase it with more force than necessary.
Focus.
I lean closer, adjusting the angle of a panel, measuring again, rechecking proportions I have already checked three times.
This is familiar. Safe.
This is the version of me that makes sense.
Not the one who stood in the middle of a dimly lit office last night and let a man touch her like she mattered. My grip tightens around the pencil. It shouldn’t have happened. Or—it shouldn’t have happened like that. That easily. That…naturally.
My chest tightens slightly, and I sit back, pressing the eraser to the page even though there’s nothing left to fix. I remember everything. The warmth of his hand around mine. The way he said my name like it belonged somewhere softer than the life I’ve built. The way he didn’t rush me. Didn’t take more than I gave. And that’s the problem.
If he had pushed—If he had assumed—If he had crossed a line—I would know exactly what to do. I would have walked away. Shut it down. Closed the door. But he didn’t. He stood there and waited. And I stepped forward.
My stomach flips. I don’t usually do this but it felt right. I don’t let someone close enough to blur the edges I’ve worked so hard to sharpen. And yet—I press my fingers to my lips before I can stop myself.
The memory is still there. “Ishika.” I freeze. I don’t turn immediately. I don’t trust my face. Or my thoughts. Or my pulse, which has suddenly decided to behave like it’s been waiting for this exact moment. I inhale slowly, steadying myself, then turn. And there he is. Standing in the doorway like he owns the morning. Like nothing complicated happened last night. Like he didn’t completely rearrange something inside me.
He’s smiling. Not his usual smirk. Not the teasing, half-annoying expression he wears when he’s about to say something ridiculous. This is different. And for a second, I just look at him. Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this. Happy. Notjust in the casual way. Not surface-level charm. This looks…real. And it does something unsettling to my chest.
“What?” I say, because silence feels more dangerous.
He steps in. And I notice the flowers.
Of course.
Of course he would.
A bouquet in his hand—nothing overly extravagant, nothing dramatic—but still enough to make it very clear this is intentional.
“I come in peace,” he says lightly, lifting the flowers slightly. I stare at them. Then at him.
“You’re holding evidence to the contrary.” He huffs out a quiet laugh, stepping closer, placing the bouquet on my desk like it belongs there.
“Just hear me out.”
“That has never ended well for me.” I shake my head.
“Today might be different.”
“Unlikely.” I almost chuckle. He leans against the edge of my desk, closer now. Too close. And suddenly, I am very aware of everything again. The space between us. The memory of last night sitting right there, unspoken but impossible to ignore. His gaze flickers briefly to my lips. Then back to my eyes. He clears his throat slightly, like he’s pulling himself back.
“I want to ask you something.” My stomach tightens.
