CHAPTER 27
ARYAN
When my phone rings in the middle of the night and Ishika’s name flashes across the screen, I genuinely think I’m dreaming.
I’m half asleep, face buried in my pillow, one arm hanging off the bed, brain moving slower than basic human function.
The room is dark except for the glow of the screen, her name bright against the black, and for two full seconds I just stare at it.
This has to be a dream. Because Ishika does not call me at midnight.
Actually, Ishika barely calls me in daylight unless it’s work related, delivered in that clipped, efficient tone that makes me feel like a contractor who has disappointed her.
Yesterday she invited me into her apartment, fed me emotional vulnerability and let me feed her fried rice, and I still wasn’t sure what that meant for our actual status.
Were we friends?
Were we pretending?
Was I one bad joke away from exile?
I had no clue. The phone stops ringing. I squint at the ceiling. Then it rings again.
Okay.
Second call means reality. Unless dreams upgraded recently. I grab it and answer immediately. “Hello?”
A male voice speaks over loud music. “Hi, I am the bartender from Julious Club.”
I sit upright so fast I nearly dislocate something. “The owner of the phone is completely wasted,” he continues, “and this is the last number she dialed. Is it possible—”
“I’m on my way,” I cut in instantly. “Please take care of her.”
I hang up before he can say anything else. Then I stare at the wall.
What the hell is wrong with her?
No, scratch that. What the hell is wrong with me that my first reaction is panic and not annoyance? I throw the blanket off and get up immediately. I don’t bother changing. I’m in track pants and an old T-shirt, and right now fashion is not on the priority list.
My hair is probably insane. My face definitely looks sleep deprived. Ishika is drunk in a club.
We all have our problems. That's the only reason I give myself as I grab my keys and head out. The drive takes thirty minutes. That’s if you obey laws.
I do not. I break enough speed limits to lose my license in spirit if not officially.
My fingers drum against the steering wheel while my brain cycles through increasingly ridiculous possibilities.
Why is she there? Who is she with? Is she safe? Why am I this stressed? And most importantly—Why does the idea of some random drunk man near her make me want to commit crimes?
By the time I reach Julious Club, I park badly enough to shame my father who taught me how to drive and stride inside with the kind of focus usually reserved for hostage rescues.
The first thing that surprises me is the crowd.
It’s…decent. Not the sticky-floor, broken-dignity kind of place I expected.
More upscale. Dim lights, expensive interiors, people dancing without looking like they’ve abandoned all values.
That calms me for exactly three seconds.
Because then I see her. And I honestly think I hallucinated her.
There is no universe where Ishika Vyas is on a dance floor.
No universe where she is dancing wildly, hair loose and flying around her shoulders, laughing with her head tipped back, one hand in the air like she personally invented joy.
So yes.
I briefly assume this is sleep paralysis.
She’s wearing black heels, fitted jeans, and a top that makes several men in the room too interested for my liking.
Her cheeks are flushed, lips parted in laughter, eyes bright and unfocused.
She looks beautiful. Not polished beautiful.
Not curated beautiful. Dangerously beautiful.
Alive beautiful. Messy, reckless, impossible beautiful.
Then her eyes land on me. She squints. I shake my head and start walking toward her.
“Aryan!” she exclaims loudly. Then she looks around at the people nearby and announces, “Guys! This is my boss!” No one really cares.
Except one man near the back who lets out a cheer.
I turn and glare at him. He sits down immediately.
Good choice. Ishika crouches suddenly in the middle of the dance floor like a disgruntled goblin and frowns up at me.
“You are ruining the mood, Golden boy,” she says accusingly. “Come on. Let’s dance.”
“Ishika,” I say as gently as I can. “Let’s go home. It’s late, Sunshine.”
She pouts. “I don’t want to go.” Then she leans forward and wraps both arms around my waist. My heart does something deeply unprofessional. I help her stand, and she immediately stumbles, one heel stabbing directly into my shoe. I nearly yelp.
God damn.
“Come on,” I say more firmly. “We’re going home.” She huffs dramatically.
“You are such a mood killer.” Then she stomps toward the exit like an offended queen. I let her go, grabbing her purse and phone from the table on the way. The bartender gives me a look that says good luck. I nod solemnly. He has no idea. The drive back is chaos. Absolute chaos.
Because the moment the car starts moving, she begins screaming songs from the Tees Maar Khan album with shocking confidence and very little accuracy. I don’t know how this became her drunk soundtrack. But I am learning things tonight.
Initially I’m stressed. Then, somewhere around her aggressively performing Sheila Ki Jawani while pointing at passing traffic, I start laughing so hard I have tears in my eyes.
This is the funniest thing I have ever experienced.
Which is why I decide I am absolutely not dropping her home.
God knows what she’ll do alone. So I drive to my place instead.
When we reach the penthouse parking, I don’t turn the car off immediately.
Instead, I take out my phone. I place it carefully on the dashboard camera-facing us.
And I record. Because no one would believe this.
No one. This is rarer than lightning striking us right now.
And I need evidence. Also, I deserve future entertainment.
For five full minutes I capture Ishika lecturing me on why music is a human right and why I am “anti-vibe.” Then I finally switch it off and manage to get her out of the car.
This involves whining, dramatic betrayal, and at one point her accusing me of emotional manipulation.
We get inside somehow. She immediately starts snooping. Opens a cabinet. Touches a sculpture. Nearly knocks over a vase worth more than my first bike. I move fast and cover her mouth lightly with one hand while steering her toward the guest room.
“If my mother wakes up,” I whisper, “we are dead.” She blinks solemnly. Then nods. I guide her onto the bed. “I’m going to get clothes for you, okay?”
She nods again. “Ishika. Stay here.” Another nod. I don’t believe her for one second. But she looks exhausted now, some of the manic energy fading. So I risk it. I go to my room and grab a sweatshirt and shorts. They’ll drown her, but everything else will be worse.
When I return, she’s sitting exactly where I left her. Hands in lap. Sulking. “I turned the music off,” she says bitterly.
“Yes,” I reply. “Get changed, Sunshine.” She takes the clothes and shuts the door in my face. I wait outside, leaning against the wall. Ten minutes later, the door opens. And I forget language.
She’s wearing my black sweatshirt, sleeves hanging over her hands, hem falling mid-thigh. The shorts are invisible under it. Her hair is messy, makeup smudged, eyes heavy with sleep.
She looks soft. Domestic in a way that should come with warnings. My chest tightens for reasons I choose not to inspect. “Come on,” I say, clearing my throat. “Let’s put you to bed.”
I usher her back inside. She climbs in obediently this time, lying down with zero grace. I lift the blanket over her. Then she grabs my hand. Tightly. I look down. “Stay,” she whispers. “Please.” My heart, once again, behaves irrationally.
So I sit on the edge of the bed. “Hi,” she says.
I laugh softly. “Hi.”
“You have great biceps,” she says casually.
I grin. “Thanks, Sunshine.”
She hums. For a moment we sit in silence, her fingers wrapped around mine. Then I ask quietly, “Why were you at a bar, Ishika?”
She’s silent long enough that I think she’ll ignore me. Then she sits up suddenly and jabs a finger into my chest. “It’s all your fault.”
I blink. “I was so okay before I met you,” she accuses. “Never once did I miss them or feel the need of stupid, irritating humans.”
“You are one too,” I point out, gently catching her finger in my hand.
“No!” she yells.
I stare. “I am not.”
She straightens with dignity. “I am a cat.” Then she meows. I lose it. I laugh so hard I nearly fall off the bed. This night cannot get better. Then I look at her face.
And my laughter dies instantly. Her eyes are shining. Full of tears she’s trying not to let fall. “I hate you,” she whispers. My chest aches. “So much.” Then she leans forward and bangs her forehead against my bicep. I catch her shoulders quickly.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Hate me with all your guts.” She sniffles. “I’m still going to be here.”
I smile at her gently. She frowns at me through watery eyes. “It’s your stupid green eyes,” she mutters. “That’s why I might believe you.” I bite back a laugh. “But I won’t be weak,” she adds sternly.
“Of course not.”
“I will not let you do black magic on me.” That does it. I laugh again. Then lean closer and lower my voice dramatically.
“You are already in my trap, Sunshine.”
She gasps. “I knew it!” I nearly roll off the bed laughing. “You caught me,” I say, wiping my eyes.
She pouts. Then glares. Then yawns. “Okay,” I say, gentling my tone. “It’s very late. Your head is going to hurt a lot tomorrow.” She groans in advance. “You should sleep.”
“Okay,” she huffs. She lies back down obediently. But she doesn’t let go of my hand. Her fingers curl around mine again, smaller and warm and trusting in a way she’d probably deny sober.
I sit there quietly. Watching her breathing slow. Watching her face soften into sleep.
I had planned to slip away once she slept. But I don’t move. Because right now—I think she needs someone there.
And if I’m honest—So do I.