The Kindle clatters to the floor beside us. I don't even look at it. Because all I can see is him. His blackish-grey eyes—I have always found the color fascinating. His beard, his messy hair that I want to run my hands in. His mouth. That tension pulsing just under his skin like he’s holding something back.
The moment stretches. Too long. Far too long. And then, with a sharp breath, he pushes off me like I’ve burned him. But it’s actually him who might have burned me.
He looks at me, his eyes darkening just a bit, a longing in his eyes before he walks away into the kitchen like it never happened.
I’m still lying there, my chest rising and falling too fast, my face heating like it’s personally offended by the proximity.
What the hell was that?
No one touches my Kindle. Literally no one. It's a rule. I should’ve been mad. But I wasn’t thinking. I just—reacted. And now?
Now I want to scream. Or crawl into the couch cushions. Or possibly both.
Because if I’m being honest—which I really don’t want to be—I miss his weight. The warmth of him. The pressure.
God.
Get it together, Aditi.
You were cold. That’s all. Probably post-trauma chills or some crap like that. Has nothing to do with how ridiculously good he smells or how his stupid shirt felt against your skin or how long he looked into your eyes without flinching.
I sit up slowly, running a hand through my hair. My fingers are trembling.
Great. Amazing. What an emotionally stable adult I am.
From the kitchen, I hear movement—drawers opening, something being set down on the counter.
The smell of cocoa hits me first. Then something nutty. A little sweet. A little earthy.
Curious—and maybe trying to pretend like I’m not still a hormonal disaster—I walk over.
He doesn’t look at me as I lean against the doorway.
There’s a mixing bowl in front of him. A small mountain of dark chocolate chips melting in a steel pot over hot water. On the counter: flax seeds, walnuts, chia, a scoop of protein powder, oats, dates, and... almonds?
I blink. “Are you... baking?”
“No,” he mutters, not meeting my eyes. “Making something.”
“Well yeah, I can see that. What is it?”
He stirs the mixture with precise, efficient movements. “Protein bars.”
“Chocolate protein bars?”
He gives the tiniest nod. “Dark chocolate. Omega-rich. Good for head injuries. I read it helps.”
I blink. Once. Twice.
“You read it helps,” I echo softly.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just go full Nutritionist Google on my behalf.
The air shifts. Something in my chest melts. And I don’t think it’s just the smell of chocolate.
“You’re...” I trail off, because "sweet" feels like a word that would make him bolt.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say instead.
