“I love you more,” she sniffles.
“Nope. Not possible.”
“Shut up,” she mutters, half-laughing, half-crying. “You’re annoying.”
I laugh too. Quietly. Brokenly. But it’s a laugh.
Because in this moment—wrapped in her arms, her warmth chasing away the shadows—I feel okay.
CHAPTER 51
ADITI
It’s late evening when I finally shut my laptop and rub my eyes, my fingers digging into the tired muscles at my temple. My brain’s still buzzing—one meeting had bled into another, and now the glowing number next to my inbox has hit triple digits. I lean back in my chair and stretch my arms over my head, a soft groan escaping as my spine cracks in a few places.
God, I’ve been sitting for too long.
I glance sideways.
He’s on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm draped lazily over the backrest like he owns the damn space—which, well, he kind of does. His phone is angled toward his chest, thumb scrolling at a slow, thoughtful pace. There’s a small crease between his brows. Not the sharp, irritated kind that appears when someone’s trying to get on his nerves—but the softer, focused one I’ve come to associate with him watching some new recipe or cooking video he’ll never admit he enjoys.
“You said we’re doing date night,” I say, my voice rough from hours of silence. I sound like a toad as I clear my throat dramatically.
His eyes lift slowly from the phone to me, and that stupid smile—the slow one that starts in the corner of his mouth and spreads like it’s meant to live there—takes over his face. The kind of smile he doesn’t give to the world. The kind he saves just for me.
“We are,” he says, stretching like a cat. “I’ve just been waiting for you to stop trying to save the corporate world from imploding.”
I roll my eyes, but the laugh bubbles out before I can stop it. “The corporate worldisimploding. I’m just trying to soften the fall.”
He smirks and pushes his phone aside, finally standing. He’s barefoot too, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the top two buttons of his shirt undone. He looks too good for someone who’s done nothing all day—which is both annoying and unfair.
I pad into the kitchen, my toes cold against the tiles. “Please tell me you didn’t cook already.”
“I was about to,” he says, joining me by the counter. “But I figured you’d kill me if I didn’t let you pick the playlist.”
I give him a pointed look. “Smart man.”
He shrugs, stepping closer to open the fridge, pulling out a couple of ingredients, and placing them on the counter. “I learn fast.”
There’s something strangely intimate about cooking with him. Not because we’re making some gourmet meal—he’s doing most of the work, obviously. I’m just here for moral support and unsolicited taste tests. But it’s the in-between moments that get me.
The way he brushes past me, too close on purpose. The way his hand casually finds my waist when he reaches for a spice jar behind me. The way I pretend I’m being helpful when I’m very much not.
I fiddle with the speaker on the counter, scrolling through the playlist I’ve curated over the months—a mix of old Bollywood, soft indie, and the occasional song he’s secretly Shazam’d and added behind my back. He swears he doesn’t care about music, but I know better.
“Are you going to do something this time?” he asks, raising an eyebrow as he chops a tomato with an alarming level of precision.
“I’m the emotional support,” I say, hopping up onto the counter stool. “You need me.”
He snorts. “Yeah? For what?”
“To look at while you cook.”
He turns, lips twitching. “You really think you’re doing something, huh?”
I grin. “Iamsomething.”
He shakes his head like he’s pretending to be exasperated, but I catch the way his eyes soften when they linger on me. He reaches for the oil bottle, heating up the pan. The sizzle fills the silence between us, and for a while, we just fall into rhythm—music low in the background, his movements fluid, mine clumsy but trying.
