“You two continue talking,” she says, looking between us with suspicious brightness. Then she winks.
Winks. Oh my God.
“I’ll call you when breakfast is ready.” And then she leaves. The door closes.
Silence. I turn slowly toward Aryan. He is flushed. Actually flushed. Which makes me feel slightly better. “I am sorry about that,” he says, now standing several feet away like distance can save him.
I press my fingers to my temples. “Was I too…”
His smirk returns immediately. “Oh, you were so fun.”
I hate that look. “You danced,” he says, counting on his fingers. “You called me a mood killer. You yelled at me. You said you hated me.” My stomach drops. “And so much more.”
“I will punch you,” I say out loud.
“You can do that.” He shrugs casually. Then lifts his phone. “No.”
He presses play. My own face fills the screen. I watch in horror as I dance wildly in the car, hair flying everywhere, yelling lyrics with complete confidence and zero rhythm. “No.”
Aryan is laughing so hard he can barely hold the phone steady. “That cannot be me.”
“It is deeply you, Sunshine.”
I leap off the bed. He reacts instantly, jumping backward onto the mattress and holding the phone away. “Give me that!”
“Never!” I climb onto the bed after him, reaching across, nearly grabbing it—My foot catches in the blanket. I pitch forward. He drops the phone and both his arms come around me automatically—one around my waist, one behind my head. Wehit the bed with a heavy thud. The air leaves my lungs. For one suspended second, nothing moves. I’m half sprawled over him. His arm is still around my waist. My face is inches from his.
Too close. Way too close. His hair is messy beneath my fingers. His eyes are bright and startled and green and entirely too beautiful at this distance. There’s a tiny scar near his jaw I’ve never noticed before. His breath touches my cheek. My heart goes feral.
I push myself off him immediately and sit upright, putting distance between us before my traitorous organs do something humiliating.
He sits up too.
“Sorry,” he says quickly.
“Fine,” I reply too quickly.
Neither of us looks at the other for a second. The room feels warmer now. Or maybe that’s me. I clear my throat. “Sorry for the trouble yesterday.”
He turns toward me immediately. “It was not trouble at all.” There is no teasing in his tone. No grin.
Just sincerity so gentle it hurts. “Bailing you out of dangerous situations,” he says, smiling softly now, “is exactly the duty I signed myself up for.”
Something in my chest twists painfully. No one says things like that casually. No one means them either. And yet with him—I can never tell where the joke ends and the truth begins. He stands. “You can get changed,” he says. “I’ll meet you in thirty minutes.”
I nod. Still not trusting my voice. He reaches the doorway, then pauses and turns back. “And Ishika?” I look up.
“Next time you feel lonely,” he says carefully, “or want to go to a bar for whatever reason…”
He hesitates. Then finishes quietly. “Please let me know.” He stands there looking almost hopeful. Like my answer matters. LikeImatter. I nod again. He gives me one last small smile and leaves. The room falls quiet. I look down at the oversized sweatshirt hanging off my frame. At the bed where I woke with his head in my lap. My phone lying abandoned near the pillow. At the place in my chest that feels too full.
I came here drunk. Embarrassed myself. Cried, probably. Complimented his arms. And somehow the worst part of all this is not the humiliation. It’s that I liked waking up here. Liked him being the first thing I saw. Which is dangerous. Because now I know what this feels like.
And wanting something once you’ve felt it—That’s how ruin begins.
CHAPTER 29
ARYAN
