CHAPTER 45
ISHIKA
I’m not expecting anyone. Three steady taps that cut through the quiet of my apartment like something deliberate. For a second, I just sit there. Staring at the door.
I push myself off the sofa slowly, brushing my hands down the sides of my kurta as I walk toward the door. My steps are careful, measured in that unconscious way they always are when I’m unsure.
I reach the door and hesitate for a fraction of a second before opening it.
And there he is. Aryan. Standing in the corridor like he belongs there.
Like he’s been here a hundred times before.
He’s not dressed for work anymore—no blazer, wearing a sweatshirt, hair slightly messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times. And he’s smiling, a sheepish one.
But something inside me—something that has been wound tight since earlier today—loosens the second I see him.
“Hi,” he says. Like he didn’t set his office on fire. Like he didn’t scare me out of my mind. Like he didn’t show up here unannounced and ruin whatever resolve I had left.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Instead of answering like a normal person, he does something that makes my eyes widen instantly. He kneels. Right there. In the middle of the corridor. “Aryan—” I whisper sharply, glancing around on instinct. “What are you doing? Someone will see you.”
He frowns up at me, completely unbothered. “I’m just giving flowers to my own girlfriend.”
My brain still short circuits when he calls me that.
My breath hitches and I feel a flush travel up my neck.
He’s so huge that I couldn’t see the bouquet he was hiding behind his back.
I have never received flowers and I always thought I would be someone who wouldn’t care about such theatrics but…
it feels good. Even kneeling he still reaches almost till my chest. Wow.
I blink and silently accept the flowers, all the arguments vanishing in my brain.
He beams, as if he has won some lottery and that makes me smile.
“You have some weird…kneeling kink, don’t you?” I mutter, trying to recover some control over this situation.
His expression shifts. His smirk deepens, and something darker flickers in his eyes—something that makes my stomach do a very inconvenient flip. “Didn’t know you thought so much about my kinks, Sunshine.”
Heat rushes to my face instantly. My mind betrays me in the worst possible way. An image flashes—uninvited, vivid, entirely inappropriate—and I have to physically shake my head to get rid of it. Him kneeling in front of me, tasting my…Stop.
“I don’t,” I snap, crossing my arms. “Stop talking.”
He laughs as if my reaction is something amusing while I stand here horrified at the train of thoughts that just occurred in my mind and I am…so sure he would be good at…it.
“What do you want?” I ask, sharper than I intend.
His laughter fades, but the softness stays. “Forgiveness,” he says simply. Something in my chest shifts again. He lifts a steel tiffin toward me. It’s slightly dented on one side. I take it slowly, suspicious of its content.
“What is this?”
“Open it.” I hesitate. Then flip the lid. And freeze. Inside are some small, slightly uneven looking muffins. Definitely not professionally made. My fingers tighten slightly around the container.
I look up at him. He’s watching me carefully now. He looks nervous. “You said you used to bake muffins with your father,” he says, a little quieter. “When you were upset.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly. “So…” he shrugs, suddenly looking less like the confident man who walked into my life and more like someone hoping he hasn’t completely messed this up, “…you’re upset with me.”
I stare at him and then at the muffins, at the effort. At the fact that he remembered something I said once. Something I barely let myself think about.
And he—He held onto it. Used it. Came here with it. Something inside me softens so quickly it almost hurts. “You made these?” I ask quietly.
He winces slightly. “I tried.”
I let out a small breath half in disbelief, half something warmer.
“You tried,” I repeat.
“They might not be…” he trails off, clearly choosing his words carefully, “…perfect.”
I don’t respond. I just step aside. “Come in.” Relief flickers across his face so quickly I almost miss it.
He stands, brushing his hands against his jeans before stepping inside.
I close the door behind him, the quiet of my apartment wrapping around us again.
He looks around briefly, taking in the space.
I walk to the kitchen without saying anything, placing the tiffin on the counter and opening it again.
The muffins look…dense. A little too firm. Definitely not how I remember making them.
I pick one up anyway. Break a piece off. It doesn’t break easily. That should be a warning but I ignore it. I take a bite. And immediately realize—This is possibly the hardest muffin I have ever eaten in my life.
I chew it very slowly and don’t react. I will not ruin this. I swallow and look up at him. He’s watching me like his entire future depends on my reaction. “It’s…” I pause. Choose my words. “…very chewy.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I knew it.”
I can’t help it. A small laugh escapes me. And then another. And suddenly I’m laughing properly, the tension of the entire day cracking just enough to let it out. “They’re terrible, aren’t they?” he says, half defeated, half amused.
“They’re…” I take another bite, just to prove a point, “…not great.”
“But?”
“But,” I say, softer now, “they’re the best thing I’ve had in a long time.”
His expression shifts to something gentler.
The humor fades slightly. And I don’t know when exactly it happens—But the laughter fades too.
Because the truth of that statement settles in my chest. Not the muffin.
The gesture. My eyes sting suddenly. I look down at the muffin in my hand.
And just like that—I’m not in my kitchen anymore.
I’m somewhere else. Years ago. Standing on a stool too tall for me, mixing batter while my father laughs behind me because I’ve made a mess of the counter again. The smell of sugar and…him. My chest tightens painfully.
“I miss him,” I whisper before I can stop myself. The words slip out quietly. Unintentionally. But once they’re there—I can’t take them back.
Aryan steps closer. Carefully. I look up at him and try to smile, “I miss my father…” His eyes soften and he returns the smile to me as he pulls me into his chest and I let him, feeling the warmth of his body offering some comfort to me, “Sometimes…I feel guilty for missing him more than my mother,” I admit, my voice barely steady now. “And I hate that.”
My chest hurts, “I shouldn’t feel that way.”
“Why not?” he asks gently.
“Because she was also there,” I say, frustration creeping in. “She didn’t leave often. She was always around.”
“But was she…there?” he asks quietly. He frowns, “Being around and being there for you isn’t the same, sunshine.”
“But…” I try to argue slowly.
“You were a child,” he continues, his voice steady, grounding. “Children don’t measure presence by proximity. They measure it by attention. By love.”
My throat tightens again. “And you didn’t get that,” he adds, not as an accusation, but as a simple truth.
I shake my head slightly. “I got enough.”
“You got what you had,” he corrects gently. “That doesn’t mean it was enough.”
My chest aches. “Any human craves that,” he says quietly. “Love. Attention. Being seen.” I look down again, blinking back the tears that refuse to fall properly. “You’re not wrong for missing the person who gave you that,” he murmurs.
Something in me breaks just a little at that. Just…enough to let something softer through. I press my face into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him—something clean, something warm, something that feels like safety in a way I don’t fully understand.
“I’m still mad at you,” I mumble against his chest.
“I know.”
“You did something very stupid.”
“I know.”
“You scared me.” His hold tightens slightly.
“I’m sorry.” I close my eyes.
And for a moment—Just a moment—I let myself stay there.
When I pull back, it’s slow. Reluctant. He looks down at me, something soft still lingering in his eyes. I don’t overthink it this time. I just lean in. And kiss him. Gently. His hand lifts to my cheek, thumb brushing lightly against my skin as he kisses me back.
And for the first time in a long time—I don’t feel like I’m holding myself together. I feel like I’m allowed to fall a little. And I know for sure this time, he’ll be there when I do.