CHAPTER 47
ISHIKA
I should have known better than to let him into my workspace unsupervised. Not because he would do anything intentionally wrong. But because Aryan Khanna has a very specific talent for turning even the most structured, orderly environments into something…unpredictable.
And today, apparently, slightly dangerous. “Don’t touch that,” I say without looking up, flipping through the vendor samples spread across the table. “It’s not installed yet.”
“I didn’t touch anything.”
“You’re standing too close to it.”
“That is not a crime.”
“It should be.” I hear his quiet laugh behind me, warm and entirely unbothered by my tone. I don’t turn. I’ve learned that looking at him too often during work hours leads to…distractions I cannot afford.
We’re past design now. Past revisions. Past endless back-and-forth over finishes and textures. Execution has begun. Which means chaos, in a more organized form. Workers moving in and out. Measurements being rechecked. Fixtures being aligned. My attention is needed everywhere at once.
And somehow—he has decided to be here.
“Why are you still here?” I ask, finally glancing over my shoulder. He’s leaning casually against a half-installed partition, sleeves rolled up, watching me like this is entertainment. “I own this building, Sunshine.”
“Exactly,” I narrow my eyes, “You have an entire building to run.”
“And I chose this room.” He shrugs, his lips curling up in a lazy smile. “Besides I like watching you work.”
My chest does that annoying little thing again. I ignore it. “Stand somewhere else,” I say, pointing toward a safer corner. “Preferably somewhere you can’t interfere with anything.”
He salutes mockingly. “Yes, ma’am.”
I turn back to my notes, trying very hard not to smile. Trying very hard not to notice the way his presence fills the room differently than anyone else’s. Trying very hard to pretend this is normal. It is not normal. It is very distracting. But somehow…comforting.
“Sunshine,” he calls out a minute later.
“What?”
“Is this supposed to be loose?” I close my eyes briefly. Count to three. Then turn. He’s holding the edge of a panel that is very clearly not secured yet.
“Aryan—” It happens fast. The panel shifts slightly in his hand, and before I can tell him to let go—there’s a sharp sound. A hiss of breath. And then—blood spills from his hand.
My heart drops. “What did you do?” I move toward him instantly, grabbing his hand before he can even react properly.
“It’s nothing—”
“It’s bleeding.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“It’s not a scratch if it’s bleeding this much,” I snap, already scanning for the first-aid kit.
The cut is along his finger—clean, but deep enough to matter. Not dangerous, but definitely not something to ignore. “You weren’t supposed to touch anything,” I mutter, pulling him toward the nearby chair.
I push him down onto the chair. He lets me. Too easily. I’m too focused on the blood. On the way it beads along his skin. On the fact that my chest is still tight from that split second of panic.
“Hold still,” I say, grabbing gauze.
“I am still.” He is quiet and I take it as a sign that he’s hurting. I clean the cut carefully, my fingers steady despite the irritation still buzzing under my skin.
“You could have gotten hurt properly,” I mutter.
“I did get hurt.” He huffs a laugh.
“You know what I mean.” I roll my eyes.
“A little more drama and you’ll start sounding like me.”
I glare at him briefly and he smiles. Of course he does.
“Does this hurt?” I ask, pressing lightly. He doesn’t answer immediately.
And that’s when I realize—he’s not looking at his finger. He’s looking at me. Like the entire situation is secondary to whatever is happening in his head.
“What?” I ask, frowning slightly.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not a ‘nothing’ face.”
“It’s a very ‘nothing’ face.”
“It’s not.”
He doesn’t argue. Just keeps watching me.
And something about it makes me acutely aware of everything.
The way I’m standing between his knees. The way my hand is still holding his.
The way my fingers are brushing against his skin as I work.
My breath feels slightly uneven. I focus harder on the cut.
On the gauze. On literally anything else.
“Give me your hand properly,” I say, adjusting my grip.
He does. I press the gauze again, trying to stop the bleeding. It doesn’t stop immediately.
Without thinking—I bring his finger to my mouth. And suck the blood away. The moment lasts exactly half a second before I realize what I’ve done. Before I freeze. Before I look up. And see him staring at me. Not amused. Not teasing. Something else entirely. Something darker.
“Well,” he says softly, voice lower now, rougher in a way that does very dangerous things to my pulse, “that’s one way to take care of me.”
Heat floods my face instantly. I pull his hand away, reaching for the antiseptic like that will fix whatever just happened. “Don’t start,” I mutter.
“I didn’t say anything, Sunshine.” He smirks and winks at me, “If your mind is dirty, I cannot do anything about it.”
I shoot him a look. He doesn’t back down. “You do realize,” he continues, quieter now, leaning forward slightly, “you could have just used the gauze.”
“I know that.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
I don’t answer. Because I don’t have a good one. Because the real answer is instinct. Because seeing him hurt—even slightly—did something to me I didn’t pause to analyze. Because I didn’t think. And now I’m very aware of that.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say, focusing on wrapping the bandage.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking something.”
“I am thinking of something.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“You definitely don’t.”
I finish wrapping his finger quickly, a little more forceful than necessary. “There,” I say. “Done.”
“Thank you.” His voice is softer now. I nod, stepping back slightly. Creating space because I need it. But before I can move properly—his hand catches my wrist.
“Aryan—” He doesn’t let go. Doesn’t say anything immediately. Just looks at me the same way he was earlier. And this time—I don’t pretend not to understand.
“What?” I ask, quieter now.
“You worry about me,” he says. It’s not a question. I exhale softly.
“Yes.” The honesty comes easier now.
Something shifts in his expression. Softens.
And then—before I can react—he pulls me closer.
Just until the space between us disappears.
And then he kisses me. His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me there gently, like he knows I won’t pull away—but wants to be sure anyway.
My breath catches instantly. My fingers curl against his shoulder without thinking.
He tastes like something warm and familiar and entirely him, and it’s disorienting how quickly my thoughts scatter.
The world narrows and my focus is only on him, on the way his thumb brushes lightly against my skin as he deepens the kiss slightly, on the way his mouth devours me.
When he pulls back, it’s slow. His forehead rests lightly against mine. “I think I should get injured more often,” he murmurs.
I huff out a soft laugh, still a little breathless. “Absolutely not.”
“Worth a try.” I shake my head, but I’m smiling. I can feel it. And I don’t stop it this time.