ARYAN
I don’t remember when exactly it started becoming normal for me to just…wander into her space.
Not the intrusive kind of normal. Not the entitled kind. Just the quiet, curious kind where my feet carry me somewhere before my brain finishes arguing about whether I should be there at all. Her office—temporary, half-settled, filled with samples and sketches and the faint smell of paper and coffee—has become one of those places. A place where work happens loudly and silently at the same time.
She’s standing near the window when I step in, back to me, sleeves pushed up, hair tied loosely, a pencil tucked behind her ear. Papers are spread everywhere—on the desk, on the chair, some even on the floor like they gave up trying to stay organized. It looks chaotic. It also looks exactly right.
I clear my throat lightly.
She turns, startled, irritation already lining her face before recognition settles in as if she knew it could only be me who would disturb her.
“You know,” she says immediately, tone sharp, not angry but enough to let me know she doesn’t like me being here, “people usually knock.”
“I did,” the lie slips out easily. “You didn’t hear.”
She narrows her eyes. “That’s not comforting.” And so not true. Because I didn’t really knock.
I smile because it rarely is, and because she always reacts like this—guard up, sarcasm loaded, ready to defend her territory. I lean against the doorframe, arms folded, taking in the scene like it’s art.
“Busy?” I ask.
“No,” she deadpans. “I just spread my life across the room for decoration.”
I hum thoughtfully. “Minimalism isn’t your thing.”
“Neither are you being here,” she shoots back, turning to face her desk again.
I step inside anyway. Carefully. Like someone entering a room with a temperamental cat. “And yet, here I am.”
She exhales sharply through her nose, the universal sign of someone trying very hard not to say something regrettable. “What do you want, Aryan?”
I like the way she says my name. Direct. No honorifics. No hesitation. Just…Aryan.
“I was passing by,” I mentally grin at my lie. “Thought I’d check in.”
“You check in a lot,” she mutters.
“Concerned client,” I say lightly.
She spins around then, irritation finally spilling over. “You’re not a client right now, you’re a distraction.”
“Wow,” a breathy laugh escapes, impressed. “I usually have to try harder for that title.”
Her jaw tightens. I can practically see her patience thinning, stretching, about to snap. She drops the pencil on the desk with more force than necessary and presses her palms flat against the surface. “I need air,” she says suddenly.
Without missing a beat, I reach behind me and switch on the fan. The big one. The industrial one. The one that roars to life like it’s been waiting for this exact moment. The effect is immediate and catastrophic.
Papers lift. Then scatter. Then they fall everywhere as if they have lost their minds.
Sheets fly off the desk, swirl through the air like confused birds, slap against the walls, the chair, my chest. One hits my face squarely and sticks there for a second like it’s mocking me. Her carefully arranged chaos becomes…well, actual chaos.
She freezes.
Just stands there watching chaos falling over us.
Mouth slightly open. Eyes wide. Her face turns red so fast it’s almost impressive.
I bite my lip hard, trying—failing—not to laugh.
