Color rises slowly in her cheeks. There. There it is. My favorite miracle. The way she blushes like she resents the body betraying her. “Ishika.”
“What?”
“You turn red when angry, embarrassed, complimented, or breathing near me.”
“I do not.”
“You’re doing it now.”
She grabs her folder at once. “I’m leaving.”
I laugh softly, then regret it the second I see her shoulders tense. Too far.
Again. I always push one step more than I should because teasing her is easy and stopping myself is not.
“Ishika—”
“I have work.”
The warmth drains from the room as quickly as it came. She stands, gathering papers too fast, too neat. Creating distance in every movement. I hate that I know this version too. The retreat.The shut door behind the eyes. And I hate more that I cause it. My voice softens without permission.
“I was joking.”
“I know.”
But she doesn’t look at me. Which means it still hurt. Something twists low in my chest. Because making her blush is fun. Making her pull away is not. She slides the folder into her bag.
“I’ll send revised material estimates.”
“Okay.” She nods once. Then she turns toward the door. I should let her go. I know that.
Instead I stand as she passes, and for one stolen second the scent of her wraps through the space between us again. Warm skin. Shampoo. Something sweet I can’t name. I inhale before I can stop myself.
Ridiculous man.
She pauses at the door, maybe sensing something, maybe not. Then she leaves. And the room becomes only a room again. I sit slowly and stare at the empty chair opposite mine. At the place her hands rested. At the page where she drew a future for my office. I should make this easier for her. But the truth sits plain and unmovable inside me. I don’t know how to want her quietly. I don’t know how to look at her and feel less.
And if she pushes me away ten times, I’ll still be there the eleventh. If she hides in work, I’ll find reasons to stand in doorways. If she turns every conversation professional, I’ll smuggle warmth into the margins. Because some people walkinto your life and make surrender feel smarter than pride. She is one of them.
And I am many things. Patient. Persistent. Occasionally manipulative.
But I am not a man who gives up on what matters.
Especially not when what matters walks away smelling like spring and pretending she feels nothing at all.
CHAPTER 37
ARYAN
By four in the afternoon, the office has that strange in-between quiet. Not the calm of early morning. Not the rush of evening. It’s the kind of lull where people pretend to work but are really just counting down the hours. Chairs creak less. Conversations drop to murmurs. Even the AC hum feels louder than usual.
Normally, I would have wrapped up my meetings by now. Left early, maybe, if I wished to. Found an excuse to step out, stretch the day somewhere that doesn’t smell like files and deadlines.
But today, I’m still here.
Because she is.
It’s a ridiculous reason.
