CHAPTER 64
ISHIKA
There’s something strangely quiet about the house today.
Not empty—never empty—but softer somehow. Like everything is moving around him instead of with him.
I notice it because he notices it.
Aryan Khanna, who fills space without trying, who talks even when he doesn’t have to, who laughs like it’s second nature—has been…quieter.
Not in a bad way.
Just different.
He’s on the couch, one arm stretched along the backrest, the other resting carefully over his stomach like he’s still adjusting to the fact that his body betrayed him. There’s a file open in front of him, but he hasn’t turned a page in the last five minutes.
He’s pretending to work.
Badly.
I lean against the doorway for a second, watching him.
There’s a faint crease between his brows. His jaw tightens and relaxes like something is running in the background of his mind that he hasn’t quite figured out how to switch off.
He looks…human. Not untouchable. Not invincible. Not the man who stood in front of a moving car and told me to crash into his like it was the most logical solution in the world.
Just…him.
And something inside me softens in a way that feels too big for my chest. I push myself off the doorframe and walk in. “You’re not even reading that.” He glances up, a slow smile spreading across his face like I just gave him exactly what he wanted.
“I was,” he lies easily.
I snort, walking over and plucking the file right out of his hand before he can pretend any further.
“You’ve been on the same page since I walked in.”
“Maybe I like that page.”
“Maybe you’re bad at lying.”
He grins. That stupid, familiar grin that does something very inconvenient to my ability to think straight. “Come here,” he says, patting the space beside him.
I roll my eyes.
But I go.
Because apparently I’ve stopped fighting the things I want. I sit down, a little more carefully than I used to, aware of his injury without making a big deal out of it. He notices anyway. He always does.
“See?” he murmurs, watching me. “You’re getting nicer.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
I shake my head, but there’s no real irritation behind it. Just…comfort. We sit like that for a minute. This used to be the kind of thing I avoided. Now it feels like…rest. I glance at him only to find him looking at me. “What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“That didn’t look like nothing.”
“It wasn’t,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “I just like looking at you.”
I roll my eyes automatically, but my chest does that thing again. That annoying, warm, traitorous thing.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re avoiding the compliment.”
“I’m not avoiding anything.”
He hums, like he doesn’t believe me. He probably shouldn’t. Because I am. Not the compliment. Something else.
Something that’s been sitting at the edge of my thoughts for days now, pressing in a little harder every time he looks at me like that.
Every time he says my name like it belongs somewhere safe.
Every time he does something stupid and reckless and then smiles like he’d do it again without thinking twice.
I hate how much that affects me. I hate how much he affects me. And I hate that I don’t want it to stop.
I shift slightly, turning toward him more fully, my knee brushing against his. He notices. His gaze sharpens just a little. “What are you thinking?” he asks.
I exhale slowly.
Because this—This is the part I’m bad at. The part where things stop being easy. Where words matter too much. Where saying something out loud makes it real in a way that can’t be taken back.
“I think…” I start, then stop. He doesn’t interrupt. “I think you’re very annoying,” I say finally.
His lips twitch.
“I’ve been told.”
“And reckless.”
“Also true.”
“And you don’t listen.”
“I’m sensing a pattern here.”
“And you have absolutely no self-preservation,” I continue, ignoring him now, my voice steadier than I feel.
He watches me more closely. Like he knows this isn’t just me complaining.
“And I don’t like any of that,” I add.
A pause.
Then, softer—“But I don’t want you to change it either.”
Something shifts in his expression. I swallow loudly. Because my heart is beating too fast now. Because I’m already in too deep to stop. “You make everything…louder,” I say, searching for the right words and hating that they don’t come easily. “In a way that should be overwhelming.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. “You don’t let me hide,” I continue, my voice quieter now. “You don’t let me pretend I don’t feel things when I clearly do. And I used to hate that.”
Used to.
The word lingers between us.
His eyes soften. “I don’t anymore,” I admit.
I look at him properly now. Not the way I usually do—quick glances, guarded, ready to look away if it gets too much.
No.
This time I hold it.
“I don’t know how to say this the way you do,” I tell him honestly. “I don’t have…those words.”
His expression shifts slightly, something careful settling in.
Like he’s afraid to hope for something he doesn’t want to assume.
“I don’t think I ever will,” I add, because that matters too. Because I don’t want him expecting something I might not be able to give the way he does.
He shakes his head slightly. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” I cut him off because I need to say this my way. “I just…” I exhale, my fingers curling slightly against my palm before I force them to relax. “I think about you all the time,” I say.
His breath stills. “And it’s not annoying anymore,” I add, a small, almost helpless huff of a laugh escaping me. “Which is concerning.”
That earns me the faintest smile. I hate how much that helps. “I look for you,” I continue. “Even when I don’t need to.”
My voice dips. “And when something happens—good or bad—you’re the first person I want to tell.”
His gaze doesn’t leave mine.
Not for a second.
“And when you’re not around…” I hesitate, then push through it anyway. “It feels wrong.”
There’s no taking that back. No softening it. No pretending I didn’t just say that. My heart is pounding now. But I don’t stop. “Which is…inconvenient,” I mutter.
He huffs out a quiet laugh. But there’s something in his eyes now. Something deeper. “I don’t like depending on people,” I say softly. “I don’t like needing them…But I think I need you.”
The words settle between us. I hold his gaze. “So…if this is what it is,” I finish, my voice quieter now but steadier than before, “then I think…”
I take a breath.
And let it out.
“I think I love you not because you showed up for me.” The words come out steadier than I expect. His expression shifts, just slightly. Not surprise. Not confusion. Just…attention.
“I don’t love you because you take care of me,” I continue, my voice quieter now but not breaking. “Or because you make things easier. Or because you…stayed when I made it difficult.”
I pause, searching for the right words—not perfect ones, just honest ones.
“I love you because it’s you.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes. Something that looks like it hit deeper than he expected.
“I love the way you think,” I add, slower now, more certain. “The way you see things. The way you don’t let people reduce you to one version of yourself.”
His hand stills against my arm.
“I love that you’re…annoyingly optimistic even when you have no reason to be. That you still believe in people. That you still show up without calculating what you’ll get in return.”
My throat tightens just slightly, but I keep going.
“I love that you don’t pretend to be less than you are just to make someone else comfortable. And that you don’t expect me to do that either.”
He exhales softly.
I don’t stop. Because if I do, I might not start again.
“You feel like…” I pause, trying to find something that makes sense. “Like something steady in a world that isn’t.”
His gaze doesn’t leave mine.
Not for a second.
“And I don’t say this because I feel like I owe you something,” I add, more firmly now. “Or because you’ve done things for me. Or because I’m trying to give something back.”
I shake my head slightly.
“I’m saying it because even if you hadn’t done any of that…I would still feel this way.”
Silence settles between us. Like everything we haven’t said before is sitting right here now. “I love you, Aryan.”
He cups my face. His thumb brushing lightly against my cheek.
And the way he looks at me—God. Like I just gave him something he didn’t think he’d ever get. “Sunshine…” he breathes.
I wrinkle my nose. “Don’t make it a moment.”
“It is a moment.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
I glare at him weakly. He smiles. Happy in a way that makes my chest feel too tight again. And then he leans in. Slow enough that I could pull away if I wanted to.
I don’t. His lips meet mine gently at first. Careful. Like he’s still not sure I’m real. And then a little deeper. My fingers curl into his shirt without thinking, holding on.
Because this—This is real.