He doesn’t respond. He just adds the nuts and seeds to the bowl like he’s avoiding my eyes on purpose.
I walk up behind him, trying to peek over his shoulder. “Do you always stress-bake protein bars?”
He flinches. Just barely. But I feel it.
Tension coils in the space between us again.
He takes a step to the side. Slight. Measured. But definite.
I stop moving and watch his face carefully.
“Are you okay?” I ask, gentle now. He nods wordlessly. “Are you sure I didn’t—”
“I am fine, Aditi,” he interrupts, without looking at me. I don’t believe him. Not even for a second.
Because I saw it. That flicker of something in his eyes. Fear. Not of me. Not of the moment. But of something older. Deeper.
And Abhimaan doesn’t do fear.
He hides it. Compartmentalizes it.
Which means whatever just brushed against the surface wasn’t small.
But he doesn’t want to talk. That much is clear.
So I change the subject.
“Can I help?” I ask lightly. “I have very delicate chocolate-sensing abilities. And zero cooking skills. It’s a useful combination.”
His mouth twitches. Just a little. But enough to make my heart slow down.
“You’d burn the oats,” he says.
“Hey! That was one time!” He is right, of course. I tried making upma yesterday because it is supposed to be very easy according to Bhabhi, but guess what? I couldn't even do that. I just had good in mind; I wanted to give him some rest but ended up making it worse for him. I sigh. “Whatever,” I mutter. “Keep hoarding the cocoa, you selfish man.”
The corner of his mouth lifts again, and he passes me a spoonful of the melted chocolate mixture.
I taste it. It’s bitter. Rich. Silky. A tiny hint of sweetness from the dates.
“Holy hell,” I breathe. “This tastes like... gym rat fudge.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Yes.” I lick the spoon clean. “A very high one.”
We fall into a rhythm after that—him mixing, me pretending to supervise—and for a while, it’s comfortable again.
But a thought lingers in the back of my mind. This man, this storm of control and silence, this calculated, guarded loner—he didn’t just keep me here, he took care of me, gave me his room, let me ruin his house’s minimalistic aesthetic, and now hegoogled what foods help concussions. He stood in this kitchen, melting chocolate and measuring seeds because I was hurt.
There’s more to him than what he shows the world.
And maybe, just maybe, there’s more he wants someone to see.
Somehow, I want to be that someone.
CHAPTER 20
ABHIMAAN
