“It’s a very ‘nothing’ face.”
“It’s not.”
He doesn’t argue. Just keeps watching me. And something about it makes me acutely aware of everything. The way I’m standing between his knees. The way my hand is still holding his. The way my fingers are brushing against his skin as I work. My breath feels slightly uneven. I focus harder on the cut. On the gauze. On literally anything else. “Give me your hand properly,” I say, adjusting my grip.
He does. I press the gauze again, trying to stop the bleeding. It doesn’t stop immediately.
Without thinking—I bring his finger to my mouth. And suck the blood away. The moment lasts exactly half a second before I realize what I’ve done. Before I freeze. Before I look up. And see him staring at me. Not amused. Not teasing. Something else entirely. Something darker.
“Well,” he says softly, voice lower now, rougher in a way that does very dangerous things to my pulse, “that’s one way to take care of me.”
Heat floods my face instantly. I pull his hand away, reaching for the antiseptic like that will fix whatever just happened. “Don’t start,” I mutter.
“I didn’t say anything, Sunshine.” He smirks and winks at me, “If your mind is dirty, I cannot do anything about it.”
I shoot him a look. He doesn’t back down. “You do realize,” he continues, quieter now, leaning forward slightly, “you could have just used the gauze.”
“I know that.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
I don’t answer. Because I don’t have a good one. Because the real answer is instinct. Because seeing him hurt—even slightly—did something to me I didn’t pause to analyze. Because I didn’t think. And now I’m very aware of that.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say, focusing on wrapping the bandage.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking something.”
“I am thinking of something.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“You definitely don’t.”
I finish wrapping his finger quickly, a little more forceful than necessary. “There,” I say. “Done.”
“Thank you.” His voice is softer now. I nod, stepping back slightly. Creating space because I need it. But before I can move properly—his hand catches my wrist.
“Aryan—” He doesn’t let go. Doesn’t say anything immediately. Just looks at me the same way he was earlier. And this time—I don’t pretend not to understand.
“What?” I ask, quieter now.
“You worry about me,” he says. It’s not a question. I exhale softly.
“Yes.” The honesty comes easier now.
Something shifts in his expression. Softens.
And then—before I can react—he pulls me closer. Just until the space between us disappears. And then he kisses me. His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me there gently, like he knows I won’t pull away—but wants to be sure anyway. My breath catches instantly. My fingers curl against his shoulder without thinking. He tastes like something warm and familiar and entirely him, and it’s disorienting how quickly my thoughts scatter. The world narrows and my focus is only on him, on the way his thumb brushes lightly against my skin as he deepens the kiss slightly, on the way his mouth devours me.
When he pulls back, it’s slow. His forehead rests lightly against mine. “I think I should get injured more often,” he murmurs.
I huff out a soft laugh, still a little breathless. “Absolutely not.”
“Worth a try.” I shake my head, but I’m smiling. I can feel it. And I don’t stop it this time.
CHAPTER 48
