𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐒: Reunited | Part 1

38.pancake.

DRITI:

I stared at the blackened lump in the pan, its charred edges mocking me. A pancake? No, this was… something else entirely. The burnt smell wafted up, filling the kitchen like the aftermath of a battlefield.

Great, I thought, folding my arms. Out of all the things I could've failed at today, it had to be this.

The pan hissed back as I poked at the evidence of my culinary disaster with a spatula. I’d started with high hopes, maybe even a spark of optimism. "Make pancakes," they said. "It’s easy." Clearly, they lied.

Cooking was never my thing, and yet, here I was, standing in a smoky kitchen, desperately trying to make something edible out of batter. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. I envisioned fluffy golden stacks with syrup sliding down the sides. What I had was… roast. Burnt, blackened roast.

I glared at the mess. For a moment, I thought about calling for backup, maybe even just giving up. But then I straightened, feeling that familiar fire inside. I wasn't going down that easily.

Pancakes or not… I wasn’t done yet.

I nearly dropped the spatula, my pulse racing as that familiar deep voice sliced through the smoky haze of the kitchen.

"What are you doing there?" His tone held that unmistakable mix of exasperation and amusement, low and dangerous.

I whirled around, eyes widening as I met Vyaan's gaze. He stood there, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, and that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips. He was enjoying this. Watching me flounder, sink in a mess of my own making.

"Nothing," I said, too quickly, pushing the pan behind me as if it would somehow disappear. "Just… trying something new."

His smirk deepened, and he took a slow step forward, eyes flicking to the sad, burnt mess behind me. "Looks like you're roasting it instead."

The heat that rose in my cheeks had nothing to do with the stove. I hated that he could waltz in here, take one look, and see straight through my struggles. It was maddening. And worse? The way he was looking at me—like I was some chaotic amusement he couldn't pull himself away from.

"Mr. Mehra," I said, forcing a steady tone, even as my gaze drifted over the water droplets sliding down his hair, dripping along his jawline, catching the faint light as they traced down his neck. He'd just showered, his hair damp, shirt clinging in places it shouldn't.

"What?" he echoed, his laugh low and annoyingly amused, as if he could see exactly what his presence was doing to me. His smirk grew as he leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms, clearly enjoying every second of my failed cooking experiment.

he’d walk straight to the shower the second we got home.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” I tried, hoping the irritation in my voice covered the flutter in my stomach. But his eyes stayed locked on me, one brow quirking up, as if daring me to keep my composure.

“Now why would I want to be anywhere else?” He shrugged, but his voice softened, those dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Not when you’re burning my kitchen down.”

Before I could form another thought, he closed the distance between us in one smooth stride. His hands gripped my waist, firm and unyielding, and in a swift motion, he lifted me onto the kitchen island. The cool marble pressed against my legs, but it was nothing compared to the warmth radiating from him.

My breath hitched, my heart pounding in ways I hadn’t planned for. "Vyaan—what are you doing?"

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze roaming over my face, lingering on the flush creeping up my cheeks. The playful smirk was gone, replaced by something sharper, something that made the air between us feel heavy and electric.