Kavya.

The heavy, rhythmic drumming of the monsoon rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows had become a comforting soundtrack to the quiet intimacy wrapping around us. I was still comfortably draped across Aryan’s lap on the sofa, thoroughly enjoying the sheer novelty of running my fingers through his dark hair without having to pretend it was just a casual, friendly gesture. The lingering warmth of his chest against mine, the steady beat of his heart—it was a kind of peace I had never known.

But then, with absolutely tragic timing, my stomach let out a loud, highly unromantic grumble that practically vibrated against his ribcage.

Aryan paused, his hand freezing mid-stroke on my waist. A slow, deeply amused smirk spread across his lips, and he tilted his head down to look at me, his dark eyes practically dancing with quiet laughter.

I felt the heat rush to my cheeks, but I refused to break eye contact. I arched a single brow, deciding to lean entirely into the embarrassment. "Well? Are we going to starve, or is the great Aryan Mehra going to feed me?"

"I would never starve you," Aryan declared smoothly.

Before I could even register the shift in his muscles, his arms tightened securely around my back and under my knees. In one fluid, entirely effortless motion, he stood up, lifting me completely off the sofa bridal style.

A startled laugh ripped from my throat, and my hands instinctively flew up to clasp around his broad shoulders to steady myself. "Aryan! Put me down, I can walk to the kitchen!"

"Absolutely not," he countered, his chest rumbling with a warm chuckle as he carried me across the expansive living room. "You demanded the services of the great Aryan Mehra, and I am committed to delivering a premium hospitality experience."

I rolled my eyes, though I couldn't wipe the massive, foolish grin off my face. Being carried by him felt ridiculously natural. I rested my head against his shoulder, catching the faint, intoxicating scent of cedarwood and rain clinging to his shirt, as he navigated the hallway and strode into his sprawling, state-of-the-art kitchen.

He didn't set me down on the floor. Instead, he stepped right up to the massive marble island in the centre of the kitchen and gently deposited me onto the cool surface of the counter. The height difference was instantly neutralised. With me sitting on the edge of the marble, my eyes were perfectly level with his. He stepped into the space between my knees, trapping me loosely with a hand planted on the counter on either side of my thighs, completely fencing me in.

"Alright," he murmured, his voice dropping a fraction as his gaze flicked down to my lips before rising back to meet my eyes. "What exactly does the lady want to eat?"

I didn't even have to think about it. I craved the comfort of our old routines mixed into this incredible new reality. "I want to eat the sandwiches you make."

Specifically, his legendary Bombay-style grilled cheese sandwiches—stuffed with spicy green chutney, thinly sliced potatoes, and an absolutely criminal amount of cheese. It was the exact meal he had made for me at 2:00 AM when I was panicking over my final university exams.

Aryan offered a crisp, exaggerated nod. "As you wish, ma'am."

He finally stepped back, immediately transitioning into absolute focus mode. I leaned back against the kitchen cabinets, pulling my knees up slightly, and gave myself full permission to do something I had strictly forbidden myself from doing for the last three years: I shamelessly admired him.

Aryan walked over to the oversized refrigerator, retrieving the ingredients with practised ease. As he moved, he reached down and unbuttoned the cuffs of his dark shirt, casually rolling the sleeves up past his elbows to get them out of the way. My breath hitched slightly. The simple action laid bare his forearms, drawing my attention directly to the lean, corded muscle there.

When he turned back to the cutting board and grabbed a chef's knife, I found my gaze tracking the subtle, powerful flex of his biceps with every slice of the tomatoes. The dark fabric of his shirt stretched taut across his broad shoulders and his back as he reached up to grab a skillet from the overhead rack. I realised, with a sudden and dizzying rush of clarity, just how much physical effort I had spent actively looking away from him in the past. Every time he had stretched, every time he had effortlessly carried my heavy architecture portfolios, I had forced myself to stare at the floor or check my phone, terrified that if I looked too long, my eyes would betray the massive secret I was keeping.

Now, he was mine.

Aryan tossed a pat of butter into the hot skillet, the sharp, delicious sizzle echoing in the quiet kitchen. He glanced over his shoulder, catching me staring directly at the thick line of his bicep. He didn't say a word, but a slow, knowing, and devastatingly cocky smile touched the corners of his mouth. He deliberately flexed his arm just a fraction more as he flipped the heavy sandwiches, showing off completely. I scoffed, throwing a spare cloth napkin at his back, though it did absolutely nothing to hide my blush.

Within ten minutes, the rich, mouth-watering aroma of toasted bread, melting cheese, and spicy cilantro chutney filled the entire kitchen. Aryan expertly slid the two perfectly golden-brown sandwiches onto a pair of ceramic plates.

I hopped down from the counter, smoothing out the wrinkles in my silk blouse. "I'll take the plates to the dining room."

"Yes," Aryan agreed, handing them over carefully. "I'll grab us some drinks."

I carried the warm plates out to the sprawling glass dining table that sat parallel to the massive windows. The storm had reduced to a gentle, misty drizzle, casting a soft, cinematic glow over the city lights outside. Aryan joined me a moment later with two glasses of iced water, taking the seat immediately to my left rather than sitting across from me. Our knees brushed under the table, sending a familiar, electric spark up my leg.

I didn't wait for formalities. I picked up my half of the sandwich and took a massive bite. The crunch of the perfectly buttered bread gave way to the sharp, spicy kick of the chutney and the rich melt of the cheese. I closed my eyes, letting out a soft, involuntary groan of absolute satisfaction.

"Oh my God," I mumbled around the bite, covering my mouth with my free hand. I swallowed and looked at him, completely awestruck. "This is so good. I am going to miss your cooking so much."

Aryan paused, his own sandwich halfway to his mouth. He lowered it slowly, turning his head to look at me with a perfectly arched brow, a dangerous, teasing light returning to his dark eyes.

"Just my cooking, Kavya?" he asked, his voice dripping in mock offence. "And not me?"

I nudged his shoulder with mine, laughing at his ridiculously dramatic expression. "You know what I mean, Aryan."

"I don't know; it sounded pretty specific to the culinary arts," he pressed, leaning closer until I could feel the warmth radiating from him. He reached out, his thumb gently wiping away a microscopic crumb from the corner of my mouth. The teasing edge in his voice softened into something incredibly tender. "How about a compromise? I'll cook for you every day until I leave, and you cook for me every day until I leave."

I smiled, the thought of spending every single evening of the next fourteen days wrapped up in this domestic bliss making my heart soar. "Are you sure you want to risk my cooking every other night? You know my pasta is historically terrible."

"I'd eat burnt toast every night if it meant you were the one making it for me in my kitchen," he replied softly, leaning in to press a lingering, buttery kiss to my cheek. "We have two weeks before the airport, Kavya. We're going to spend every single second of it together."

"Every single second," I echoed, resting my head against his shoulder as we finished our late-night meal, the terrifying countdown to his flight no longer feeling like an end, but the very beginning of everything.