“What the hell?” she gapes at me.
“You said you needed air,” I shrug. “Problem solved.”
Her eye twitches. Just once. Tiny. Sharp. Dangerous.
For a second, I genuinely think she’s going to throw something at me. A file. A book. Maybe the chair. I brace myself.
Instead, another paper floats down and lands right on my face again.
I peel it off slowly.
And then I hear it. Her laugh. Not a polite one. Not a controlled one. A real laugh. Soft at first, like it surprised her too, then a little louder. She shakes her head, shoulders loosening, eyes crinkling at the corners like she forgot to keep them guarded.
And for a moment, everything else fades.
She looks…beautiful.
Not in the dramatic, magazine-cover way. In the human way. The way people look when they’re unguarded and caught off-balance by joy. Her laughter spills out carelessly, freely, like it hasn’t been used in a while and doesn’t quite remember the rules.
“You are an idiot,” she says, still chuckling.
“I am,” I agree instantly, beaming. I don’t even try to hide the pride blooming in my chest. “And I feel very accomplished right now.”
She stops laughing abruptly, realization hitting her like a wave. Her posture stiffens, eyes narrowing slightly.
“I’ve already seen you laugh.” I smirk and she inhales sharply like she’s regretting it and it only makes my smile grow wider, which I didn’t think was possible.
“You can’t take it back now,” I tell her. “It’s documented. In my brain.”
She inhales deeply, clearly regrouping. “I was not going to.”
I tilt my head. “How does it feel,” she asks, tone curious and a bit angry, “to be so stupid and chaotic that you made a girl who doesn’t even smile laugh?”
She glares at me.
I chuckle. “It feels wonderful. Truly. I’m very proud of myself.”
She shakes her head, muttering something under her breath that I pretend not to hear. We both start picking up the fallen papers, moving around each other in an awkward, unspoken rhythm. I crouch to grab a few sheets near her feet just as she bends down from the other side.
Our fingers brush.
It’s brief. Barely there. But it’s enough. I look up at the same time she does. Our eyes meet, and something passes between us—quiet, electric, unexpected. Neither of us moves for a heartbeat too long. The room feels smaller. The air is heavier.
Then she straightens quickly, clearing her throat. I stand too, pretending my heart didn’t just skip something important. I gather the last few papers and hand them to her. She takes them without looking at me.
“Well,” I say lightly, backing toward the door, “I’ll let you recover from the great air incident.”
She snorts despite herself.
I pause at the doorway, turn back, and add softly, “You should smile more, Sunshine. It looks good on you.”
Her head snaps up, ready with a retort—but I’m already gone, retreating down the hall with a grin I can’t seem to wipe off my face.
Mission accomplished.
CHAPTER 12
ISHIKA
