CHAPTER 41
ARYAN
If anyone had told me a month ago that I’d be sitting across a small wooden table, watching Ishika Vyas explain lighting like it’s a moral philosophy, I would’ve laughed.
Not because it’s unbelievable. Because I wouldn’t have understood how much I would want it.
She chose the place. That still makes me smile.
She didn’t ask for my opinion, didn’t “check what I prefer,” didn’t do the careful dance people usually do around me.
She just said, I’m picking, and sent me the address like it was a meeting invite.
There was a very clear subtext there—you’re not turning this into one of your expensive statements—and I let it go.
Mostly because I liked the way she took control of something that wasn’t work.
Also because I knew she’d pick something thoughtful.
What she doesn’t know is that the bill is still mine.
Entirely. Irrevocably. I’ll let her argue about it when the time comes.
I’m looking forward to that fight already.
Right now, though, I’m too distracted. She’s talking.
And I’m not even pretending to focus on anything else.
“…see, the thing is, most places overcompensate with lighting,” she’s saying, leaning slightly forward, her fingers loosely wrapped around her glass.
“They think brighter equals better, but it just flattens everything. Here, they’ve used layers. It creates depth.”
I follow her gaze toward a corner of the restaurant.
She’s right. Of course she is. But I don’t care about the corner.
I care about her. About the way her voice shifts when she’s explaining something she loves.
About how her brows draw together slightly when she’s thinking through her own thoughts.
About how she doesn’t realize she’s doing any of it.
Her design brain really doesn’t switch off. “Do you ever stop?” I ask, resting my chin lightly against my hand.
“Stop what?”
“Thinking like this.”
She glances at me, then back at the space she was analyzing. “No.”
“I don’t think I can,” she adds after a second. “Even if I want to.” There’s something quieter under that.
I tilt my head slightly. “Why interior design?”
She pauses. And for a moment, I think she’ll brush it off.
Give me something practical. Safe. Instead, she leans back slightly, her fingers tapping absently against the table as she considers the question.
“It’s the only thing that ever made sense to me,” she says finally.
Her voice is calmer now. Less analytical.
“When I lost my parents...” She shrugs lightly, like she’s minimizing it even as she says it.
“Everything in my life changed.” She finally meets my eyes, “The only thing that didn’t was the home they built together when I was six.
I like certainty, I think. I like knowing that something can fade but will still stay. ” I don’t interrupt. I don’t need to.
“I think I just…liked the idea that I could take a space and make it feel the way I wanted. That I could control how something looks, how it works, how it affects people.”
Her gaze drifts briefly across the restaurant again. “It’s strange,” she adds, almost to herself. “You can’t control life, but you can control the environment people live in. And sometimes…that’s enough.”
I sit there, just looking at her. Because that—that tells me more about her than anything she’s said before. “You make things feel safe,” I say quietly.
Her eyes flick back to mine, slightly surprised. “I make things functional.”
“You make them feel like someone thought about them,” I correct.
She doesn’t respond immediately. Just holds my gaze for a second longer than usual before looking away. I let it go. Not everything needs to be pushed. “What about you?” she asks, picking up her fork again. “What do you do when you’re not being…you?”
I grin. “Being me is a full-time job.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s very rewarding.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile there.
“I play cricket,” I say. “Watch it. Argue about it. Pretend I could’ve been a professional if life had taken a slightly different turn.”
“You absolutely would be one of those people who thinks they can do everything.”
“I don’t think so. I know.”
“Of course you do.”
“And I sleep,” I add.
She pauses mid-bite. “Sleep?”
“Yes.”
“That’s your hobby?”
“It’s a very underrated activity.”
She stares at me for a second. Then shakes her head, a small smile forming on her lips. “You’re unbelievable.”
“But you do like me,” I shrug.
“That’s still under evaluation.” I chuckle at the way she says it and then rolls her eyes trying to hide her smile.
I lean back slightly, watching her. “And you?” I ask. “What do you do when you’re not redesigning the world?”
She hesitates. It’s subtle. Barely there. But I notice. “I rewatch shows,” she says finally. “The same ones. Over and over.”
“Comfort watching.” I nod, understanding dawns over me, considering she’s been alone since so long, it must feel almost humane to watch something so many times that it starts feeling like home.
“And?” I ask gently.
She looks down at her plate, pushing food around again.
“I used to paint.”
Used to. The word sits there.
“Used to?” I repeat.
She nods once. “Not anymore.”
“Why?” She shrugs again, but this time it feels different. Less casual.
“I don’t feel like it.” That’s not the whole answer. I can hear it. But I don’t push. Instead, I lean forward slightly.
“Paint for me.” Her head lifts immediately.
“What?”
“Paint something. For me.”
Her brows knit together. “Why?”
“Because I want to see what you create when it’s not work.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s enough for one.” She studies me for a second, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious. I am. “Think about it,” I add.
She doesn’t agree. But doesn’t refuse. Just…lets it sit there. I’ll take that. “Do you remember our first meeting?” I ask, trying to shift the conversation and unable to stop the grin from forming.
She freezes. Just for a second. Then narrows her eyes. “No.”
“You’re lying.” I chuckle at the way she’s turning red at the memory.
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
She exhales slowly, like she’s already regretting this. “That was not my finest moment.”
“That was my favorite moment.”
She groans softly, dropping her head into one hand. “Please don’t.”
“I walked in late—”
“You were late,” she cuts in.
“—slightly delayed—”
“You were late,” she repeats firmly.
“—and you started lecturing me.”
“I thought you were an employee.”
“You told me punctuality reflects character.”
“It does.”
“You told me if I couldn’t respect time, I shouldn’t be in a professional environment.”
She winces. “I stand by that.”
“I told you I own the place.”
“You did.”
“And you nearly died.”
“I did not nearly die.”
“You did.”
“I was…surprised.”
“You were horrified.”
She looks away, clearly trying not to smile. “And then,” I continue, enjoying this far too much, “I handed you coffee.”
Her expression shifts instantly. “Oh God.” She instantly feigns a gag and I laugh again.
“Black coffee is not a normal human preference!” I feign a gag in response and she rolls her eyes.
“It is perfectly normal.” She shrugs.
“It is not. It looks like something that should not be consumed by human beings.” She laughs and it’s my favorite sound ever. I reach across the table without thinking, brushing my fingers lightly against hers. She stills for half a second. But doesn’t pull away.
Something warm and steady settles in my chest. Like I’ve been running toward something for a long time and just realized I’ve reached it.
I look at her. Really look at her. The way the light catches in her eyes.
The way her guard isn’t completely gone, but it’s not as sharp either.
The way she’s here. With me. Choosing this.
Choosing me. And it hits me—I have everything I want at this moment.
Not in the abstract way. Not in the big, life-achievement sense.
But here. Now. Across this table. Listening to her talk about things no one else would notice.
Watching her exist in a way she doesn’t even realize is rare.
Being close enough to reach out and touch her.
Being allowed to. I don’t say any of that out loud. I don’t need to.
Instead, I tighten my fingers around hers just slightly. She glances down at our hands. Then back up at me. There’s a question there. I answer it the only way I know how. By not letting go.