CHAPTER 19
ADITI
His thumb brushes along the inside of her thigh, mouth hovering just above her skin.
She arches, breathless, and he chuckles low against her.
"Patience," he murmurs. "Let me taste all of you first."
I shift a little under the blanket, tugging it higher over my lap even though I’m alone on this couch. Alone with my Kindle. Alone with my completely, 100% fictional boyfriend who is apparently very good at—
The Kindle vanishes. Like, one second I’m holding it, deeply immersed in thigh-related literary events, and the next, someone yanks it straight out of my hands.
I gasp, grab at it on instinct—because hello, sacred object—and in the process, pull so hard that the person on the other end stumbles forward.
Straight onto me. The air whooshes out of my lungs. Abhimaan lands with one knee on the couch, the other foot braced on the floor, hands pressed into the cushion on either side of me—and his entire body almost on mine.
His chest against mine. His face was a breath away. His damn heat everywhere.
For a second—just a second—neither of us moves.
I can feel his heart, steady but fast. His breath grazed my cheek. My hand is still tangled in his shirt where I grabbed it.
The Kindle clatters to the floor beside us.
I don't even look at it. Because all I can see is him. His blackish-grey eyes—I have always found the color fascinating. His beard, his messy hair that I want to run my hands in. His mouth. That tension pulsing just under his skin like he’s holding something back.
The moment stretches. Too long. Far too long. And then, with a sharp breath, he pushes off me like I’ve burned him. But it’s actually him who might have burned me.
He looks at me, his eyes darkening just a bit, a longing in his eyes before he walks away into the kitchen like it never happened.
I’m still lying there, my chest rising and falling too fast, my face heating like it’s personally offended by the proximity.
What the hell was that?
No one touches my Kindle. Literally no one. It's a rule. I should’ve been mad. But I wasn’t thinking. I just—reacted. And now?
Now I want to scream. Or crawl into the couch cushions. Or possibly both.
Because if I’m being honest—which I really don’t want to be—I miss his weight. The warmth of him. The pressure.
God.
Get it together, Aditi.
You were cold. That’s all. Probably post-trauma chills or some crap like that. Has nothing to do with how ridiculously good he smells or how his stupid shirt felt against your skin or how long he looked into your eyes without flinching.
I sit up slowly, running a hand through my hair. My fingers are trembling.
Great. Amazing. What an emotionally stable adult I am.
From the kitchen, I hear movement—drawers opening, something being set down on the counter.
The smell of cocoa hits me first. Then something nutty. A little sweet. A little earthy.
Curious—and maybe trying to pretend like I’m not still a hormonal disaster—I walk over.
He doesn’t look at me as I lean against the doorway.
There’s a mixing bowl in front of him. A small mountain of dark chocolate chips melting in a steel pot over hot water. On the counter: flax seeds, walnuts, chia, a scoop of protein powder, oats, dates, and... almonds?
I blink. “Are you... baking?”
“No,” he mutters, not meeting my eyes. “Making something.”
“Well yeah, I can see that. What is it?”
He stirs the mixture with precise, efficient movements. “Protein bars.”
“Chocolate protein bars?”
He gives the tiniest nod. “Dark chocolate. Omega-rich. Good for head injuries. I read it helps.”
I blink. Once. Twice.
“You read it helps,” I echo softly.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just go full Nutritionist Google on my behalf.
The air shifts. Something in my chest melts. And I don’t think it’s just the smell of chocolate.
“You’re...” I trail off, because "sweet" feels like a word that would make him bolt.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say instead.
He doesn’t respond. He just adds the nuts and seeds to the bowl like he’s avoiding my eyes on purpose.
I walk up behind him, trying to peek over his shoulder. “Do you always stress-bake protein bars?”
He flinches. Just barely. But I feel it.
Tension coils in the space between us again.
He takes a step to the side. Slight. Measured. But definite.
I stop moving and watch his face carefully.
“Are you okay?” I ask, gentle now. He nods wordlessly. “Are you sure I didn’t—”
“I am fine, Aditi,” he interrupts, without looking at me. I don’t believe him. Not even for a second.
Because I saw it. That flicker of something in his eyes. Fear. Not of me. Not of the moment. But of something older. Deeper.
And Abhimaan doesn’t do fear.
He hides it. Compartmentalizes it.
Which means whatever just brushed against the surface wasn’t small.
But he doesn’t want to talk. That much is clear.
So I change the subject.
“Can I help?” I ask lightly. “I have very delicate chocolate-sensing abilities. And zero cooking skills. It’s a useful combination.”
His mouth twitches. Just a little. But enough to make my heart slow down.
“You’d burn the oats,” he says.
“Hey! That was one time!” He is right, of course.
I tried making upma yesterday because it is supposed to be very easy according to Bhabhi, but guess what?
I couldn't even do that. I just had good in mind; I wanted to give him some rest but ended up making it worse for him.
I sigh. “Whatever,” I mutter. “Keep hoarding the cocoa, you selfish man.”
The corner of his mouth lifts again, and he passes me a spoonful of the melted chocolate mixture.
I taste it. It’s bitter. Rich. Silky. A tiny hint of sweetness from the dates.
“Holy hell,” I breathe. “This tastes like... gym rat fudge.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Yes.” I lick the spoon clean. “A very high one.”
We fall into a rhythm after that—him mixing, me pretending to supervise—and for a while, it’s comfortable again.
But a thought lingers in the back of my mind.
This man, this storm of control and silence, this calculated, guarded loner—he didn’t just keep me here, he took care of me, gave me his room, let me ruin his house’s minimalistic aesthetic, and now he googled what foods help concussions.
He stood in this kitchen, melting chocolate and measuring seeds because I was hurt.
There’s more to him than what he shows the world.
And maybe, just maybe, there’s more he wants someone to see.
Somehow, I want to be that someone.