CHAPTER 11
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.
“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.