CHAPTER 42
ISHIKA
The office is silent in the mornings. Quieter, obviously—but not the kind of quiet that settles you.
I like this silence. The construction team hasn’t arrived yet.
The finalized plans are spread across the large table in front of me, edges held down by sample tiles and metal strips, corners slightly curling because paper refuses to behave no matter how precise the work on it is.
I’ve been here since eight. Too early, according to most people. Perfect, according to me.
This is the only time the space feels entirely mine—no interruptions, no questions, no someone standing behind me asking for clarification on something I’ve already explained twice.
I run my hand over the layout one more time, tracing the lines I’ve redrawn so many times they’ve started to feel embedded in my muscle memory.
This is the part I like most. Not the planning. Not the back-and-forth. Not convincing. This. Where everything starts to become real. The measurements translate into structure, the sketches into walls, the imagined into something you can actually step into.
It steadies me. Or at least, it usually does.
Today—my mind drifts. Back to last night.
To the restaurant. To him sitting across from me, looking entirely too satisfied with himself for no valid reason.
To the way he listened. Like what I was saying mattered.
Like I mattered. I press my lips together and force myself to focus on the plan again.
There’s a small misalignment in the shelving unit dimensions. I fix it quickly, adjusting the numbers, noting it down for execution.
The door opens behind me. I don’t turn immediately. There’s a certain rhythm to footsteps you start recognizing after a point. The construction team is heavier, louder, less concerned about being quiet.
This—Is not that. This is unhurried. Familiar.
And entirely too comfortable in this space.
I exhale once, steadying myself before I turn.
Aryan walks in like he belongs here. Which, technically, he does.
But that’s not what I mean. He’s holding a bag in one hand, coffee in the other, sleeves rolled up just enough to make it look effortless instead of intentional.
There’s something irritating about how easily he fits into every environment. “Good morning,” he says, like he hasn’t already disrupted the careful balance I had going.
“It was,” I murmur under my breath, turning back to the plans.
I hear the soft thud of the bag being placed on the table. Before I can react, I feel a brief, warm press at the top of my head. My entire body stills.
It’s quick. Not dramatic. Not something that demands attention. But it lingers anyway. I don’t move for a second. Because I don’t know how to. That’s new. Annoying. Unacceptable. So I do what I always do.
I recover. Fast. Straighten myself, pick up my pencil, and say flatly, “You’re early.”
“I could say the same thing.”
“You don’t need to. I’m aware of my schedule.”
“I’m aware of it too, apparently.”
I glance at him briefly. “You don’t need to be here this early.”
He smiles at me, amused, probably because this is his office and he can be here whenever he wants to and I have no rights to tell him off from here. “And miss this?” he gestures vaguely at the plans, at me, at the entire scene like it’s all part of the same picture. “Unlikely.”
I ignore that. “What’s in the bag?”
“Breakfast.” He answers and pulls out a tiffin.
“I didn’t ask you to bring anything.” I drop my pen on the table.
“I didn’t wait for you to.”
“I’ve already eaten.”
He studies me for a moment and sighs, “That’s a lie.”
I look at him. He looks back. Completely unconvinced. He finally breaks the silence when I don’t say anything for more than a minute, “You forget to eat when you’re focused,” he says easily. “And you’ve been here since before eight.”
I narrow my eyes slightly. “That’s not your concern.”
He smirks, “It wasn’t in the past,” He shrugs, “It still didn’t stop me so what do you think will stop me from feeding my girlfriend now?”
My breath hitches at the way his intense eyes won’t leave mine, “You’re already breaking the condition number one, Aryan,” I mutter, this is so unfair, the way he looks, the way he cares, “Go away.” I say as firmly as I can.
He exhales slowly, like he’s deciding how much patience he has today. Apparently, a lot. Because the next thing I know, he’s moved.
From standing—To kneeling beside my chair. I frown.
What is he doing?
He tilts his head slightly, looking up at me with an expression that is dangerously close to a pout. “I need to complain to my girlfriend,” he says, entirely serious.
I stare at him. “About how my interior designer is being very impolite to me.”
“That sounds like a tragic situation.” I press my lips to control my smile because he looks so adorable.
“It is. I brought her breakfast. She rejected it. I’m deeply hurt.”
“You’ll recover.” I scoff.
“I don’t know if I will.” He wipes fake tears off his cheeks and I almost laugh out loud. Him and his dramatics. I roll my eyes.
“You’re resilient.”
“I’m suffering, Sunshine.”
I look down at him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I will take that, but please,” He drags the word please, “have your breakfast.”
Before I can say anything else, he shifts slightly—And rests his head in my lap.
My breath catches. This is not something I know how to handle.
At all. My hands hover awkwardly for a second.
Because I don’t know where to put them. What to do.
Whether to move him. Tell him to get up.
Maintain whatever version of normal this is supposed to be.
He settles in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like this is not completely new territory for me.
Like he hasn’t just placed himself in the exact space I’ve spent years keeping people out of.
I look down at him. His eyes are closed. For a second, I think he’s doing it to annoy me.
Then I realize—He’s just…comfortable. He looks so peaceful. Slowly, carefully, like I’m testing something I don’t fully trust—My hand lowers.
My fingers brush through his hair. I don’t even realize I’m doing it at first. Until he shifts slightly. Not away. But closer. And something in me softens before I can stop it.
This is dangerous. I know it is.
But for a moment—I let it happen.
He opens his eyes. Looks up at me. And there’s something in his expression that makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.
“What?” I ask, quieter than I intended. He studies my face for a second. Like he’s memorizing it. Like he has time.
Then he lifts his head slightly—Just enough to press a kiss to my cheek.
It’s gentle and entirely unfair. “You look good like this,” he murmurs.
My fingers still in his hair. My guard somewhere behind me, trying to catch up.
“Like what?” I ask, because I need something to hold onto.
“Not fighting everything.” I withdraw my hand before I can think about it.
“I’m not fighting anything.”
He doesn’t argue, only beams at me. Which is worse.
Because it means he’s choosing not to push. And that feels more deliberate than any argument.
I shift slightly, trying to regain some sense of control over this situation.
“You should get up,” I say.
“I will,” He smirks, “Only if you promise to eat?” I nod reluctantly.
“And you promise to run your hands through my hair later?”
I feel my cheeks redden, “Are you a dog?”
He chuckles, his eyes turning a playful shade of green, “I will be that if you want me to be.”