“You were horrified.”
She looks away, clearly trying not to smile. “And then,” I continue, enjoying this far too much, “I handed you coffee.”
Her expression shifts instantly. “Oh God.” She instantly feigns a gag and I laugh again.
“Black coffee is not a normal human preference!” I feign a gag in response and she rolls her eyes.
“It is perfectly normal.” She shrugs.
“It is not. It looks like something that should not be consumed by human beings.” She laughs and it’s my favorite sound ever. I reach across the table without thinking, brushing my fingers lightly against hers. She stills for half a second. But doesn’t pull away.
Something warm and steady settles in my chest. Like I’ve been running toward something for a long time and just realized I’ve reached it. I look at her. Really look at her. The way the light catches in her eyes. The way her guard isn’t completely gone, but it’s not as sharp either. The way she’s here. With me. Choosing this. Choosing me. And it hits me—I have everything I want at this moment. Not in the abstract way. Not in the big, life-achievement sense. But here. Now. Across this table. Listening to her talk about things no one else would notice. Watching her exist in a way she doesn’t even realize is rare. Being close enough to reach out and touch her. Being allowed to. I don’t say any of that out loud. I don’t need to.
Instead, I tighten my fingers around hers just slightly. She glances down at our hands. Then back up at me. There’s aquestion there. I answer it the only way I know how. By not letting go.
CHAPTER 42
ISHIKA
The office is silent in the mornings. Quieter, obviously—but not the kind of quiet that settles you. I like this silence. The construction team hasn’t arrived yet. The finalized plans are spread across the large table in front of me, edges held down by sample tiles and metal strips, corners slightly curling because paper refuses to behave no matter how precise the work on it is.
I’ve been here since eight. Too early, according to most people. Perfect, according to me.
This is the only time the space feels entirely mine—no interruptions, no questions, no someone standing behind me asking for clarification on something I’ve already explained twice.
I run my hand over the layout one more time, tracing the lines I’ve redrawn so many times they’ve started to feel embedded in my muscle memory.
This is the part I like most. Not the planning. Not the back-and-forth. Not convincing. This. Where everything starts to become real. The measurements translate into structure, the sketches into walls, the imagined into something you can actually step into.
It steadies me. Or at least, it usually does.
Today—my mind drifts. Back to last night. To the restaurant. To him sitting across from me, looking entirely too satisfied with himself for no valid reason. To the way he listened. Like what I was saying mattered. Like I mattered. I press my lips together and force myself to focus on the plan again.
There’s a small misalignment in the shelving unit dimensions. I fix it quickly, adjusting the numbers, noting it down for execution.
The door opens behind me. I don’t turn immediately. There’s a certain rhythm to footsteps you start recognizing after a point. The construction team is heavier, louder, less concerned about being quiet.
This—Is not that. This is unhurried. Familiar. And entirely too comfortable in this space. I exhale once, steadying myself before I turn. Aryan walks in like he belongs here. Which, technically, he does. But that’s not what I mean. He’s holding a bag in one hand, coffee in the other, sleeves rolled up just enough to make it look effortless instead of intentional.
There’s something irritating about how easily he fits into every environment. “Good morning,” he says, like he hasn’t already disrupted the careful balance I had going.
“It was,” I murmur under my breath, turning back to the plans.
I hear the soft thud of the bag being placed on the table. Before I can react, I feel a brief, warm press at the top of my head. My entire body stills.
It’s quick. Not dramatic. Not something that demands attention. But it lingers anyway. I don’t move for asecond. Because I don’t know how to. That’s new. Annoying. Unacceptable. So I do what I always do.
I recover. Fast. Straighten myself, pick up my pencil, and say flatly, “You’re early.”
“I could say the same thing.”
“You don’t need to. I’m aware of my schedule.”
“I’m aware of it too, apparently.”
I glance at him briefly. “You don’t need to be here this early.”
He smiles at me, amused, probably because this is his office and he can be here whenever he wants to and I have no rights to tell him off from here. “And miss this?” he gestures vaguely at the plans, at me, at the entire scene like it’s all part of the same picture. “Unlikely.”
