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"What are you doing here?" he asks me, his eyes raking over my drenched body and widening. Instantly, he opens the door further, allowing me to slip inside and grab a towel from somewhere, handing it to me.
My sobs may have taken a backseat f...
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The scent of cocoa powder and burnt vanilla hangs in the air like an accusation. My latest attempt at the cake I’ve been trying to perfect for days sits on the counter, lopsided and too dense. Again. I frown at the sponge, poke it half-heartedly with a fork, and groan into my apron.
Behind me, a low chuckle makes my frustration flare.
“I swear, Aayansh,” I mutter, not turning. “You’re not even trying to hide that you’re enjoying this.”
He doesn’t deny it. Of course he doesn’t. “I told you not to use that brand of cocoa, jaan.”
The word slips from his mouth like it’s always belonged to me. Jaan. My heart stutters. Not because it’s new — he’s called me that before, whispered it against my skin, breathed it like a prayer when he thought I was asleep. But now… now it feels different. Now it hurts a little, because I don’t know if he still has the right.
And yet, something about it cracks through me. Softens me. My hands still, sticky with sugar and frustration, as I glance at him. I catch him watching me — not just looking, but watching. Like I’m the only thing in the room that matters. Like I’m art, chaos, home — all in one.
I want to believe that look. God knows I do.
But doubt coils inside me like smoke. Did he look at me like this when he was lying, too?
I study his face — every line of it. The way the late sunlight glances off the stubble on his jaw, the slight tilt of his head, like he’s trying to memorize me. There’s no smirk this time. No teasing glint in his eyes. Just a quiet kind of sincerity that unnerves me more than anything else.
Because I still love him. Even when I don’t want to.
Even when I want to throw this spatula at his annoyingly beautiful face.
I turn and glare at him where he sits on the barstool across the counter, legs stretched out, arms crossed.
It’s been four hours since we got here. Four hours since he showed up at my door, said nothing except, “I’m not going anywhere today. I’ve missed looking at you for almost twenty-four hours. Let me have this.”
And then he walked towards the counter and made the barstool his home. Like he belongs here.
He hasn’t left since—except for ten minutes when he stepped outside for a call. Even while the carpenters came in to fix the last bit of woodwork, while the electricians adjusted the lights, and I moved between tasting spoons and gritting my teeth—he stayed.
Like we never broke apart.
Like I never walked away from him with a broken heart and shaking hands.
“Shouldn’t you be merging companies or signing contracts or saving the country?” I grumble, scraping the batter bowl angrily.
