45

The night had turned colder, a crisp Oxford breeze sweeping through the streets as they all piled into the waiting cab. Tara, full from dinner and comfortably warm, felt sleep creeping in.

Aryan, ever observant, noticed how exhausted she looked. Her blinks were slower, her posture more relaxed. So, as they slid into the cab, he subtly guided her inside first, ensuring she got the window seat.

The ride was quiet, the city lights flashing past in a blur. Tara, fighting sleep, rested her head against the window, only for it to bump against the cold glass every few minutes.

Aryan frowned. With a careful motion, he reached out and gently pulled her head away from the window, letting it rest against his shoulder instead.

She stirred slightly but didn't resist. A soft sigh left her lips, and within seconds, she was fully asleep.

Aryan just sat there, still, a small, almost unconscious smile tugging at his lips. He had missed this—the simple act of just being near her, taking care of her in the smallest ways.

Across from them, Aisha had been watching. She raised an eyebrow at Aryan, her expression unreadable.

He met her gaze and sighed, whispering, "You need to let me explain my perspective."

Aisha exhaled, looking at Tara's peaceful form before glancing back at him. She didn't say anything, but her silence was enough for now.

The cab continued down the quiet roads, the hum of the engine the only sound as Tara slept soundly against Aryan's shoulder.

~•~

Tara yawned, her limbs heavy with exhaustion, but that didn't stop her from aimlessly tidying up her studio. She wasn't even sure why she was doing it—maybe it was just a habit, or maybe it was a distraction. Her blanket lay in a messy heap on the couch, and she frowned at it before sluggishly folding it.

She moved to her desk, stacking a few scattered papers, then picked up a mug from the coffee table. She was just about to place it on the counter when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

"You really should lock your doors, Tara."

She startled slightly and turned around, narrowing her eyes when she saw Aryan leaning casually against the doorframe, looking far too smug for her liking.

"I literally locked the door," she muttered, rubbing her temples.

Aryan smirked. "No, you didn't. You forgot."

Tara let out a long sigh. "Of course I did."

He stepped inside closing the door, hands in his pockets, taking in the sight of her moving around in her sleepy state. "What are you even doing? You look like you're seconds away from passing out."

"Cleaning."

Aryan gave her a pointed look. "At—" he glanced at his watch, "—almost one in the morning?"

"I like a clean space," she said stubbornly, bending down to adjust the rug under the coffee table.

Aryan groaned. "Tara, you're practically sleepwalking. Just go to bed."

She stood up, glaring at him. "Don't tell me what to do."

He raised his hands in surrender, a teasing glint in his eyes. "I would never, ma'am."

Tara shot him an unimpressed look. "Good."

But before she could move past him to fix something else, Aryan grabbed her wrist, stopping her. "Seriously, go to bed."

"Seriously, mind your own business." She pulled her hand back, crossing her arms.

Aryan chuckled and exhaled, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

"And yet, here you are, breaking into my studio instead of sleeping like a normal person."

"I didn't break in. You just forgot to lock the door."

"Semantics," she muttered, rubbing her arms.

Aryan chuckled. "You always do this, you know?"

Tara raised a brow. "Do what?"

"Pretend you're fine when you're obviously exhausted. You'd rather drop dead than admit you need rest."

"I don't drop dead. I function perfectly well."

"Right," Aryan drawled. "Totally explains why you just put your book in the fridge."

Tara froze. "I did not."

Aryan wordlessly pointed toward the fridge. She turned, opened it, and—sure enough—there was her notebook, sitting next to a carton of juice.

She shut the fridge door slowly, turning back to him with a straight face. "That never happened."

Aryan grinned. "Oh, it happened. And I will be bringing it up in the future."

Tara groaned. "Go home, Aryan."

"Not until you agree to sleep."

"Not your problem."

"See, that's where you're wrong," he said, stepping closer. "It kinda is."

Tara rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of something softer in them. A hesitation. A memory.

Aryan, on the other hand, had gone quiet. Because this—this banter, this push-and-pull—was familiar. It was them. And for the first time in a long time, it felt like nothing had changed.

A slow smile tugged at his lips.

Tara frowned. "What?"

"Nothing," Aryan murmured, shaking his head slightly, but his gaze was still locked onto hers.

It wasn't nothing. It was everything.

Tara moved around her studio sluggishly, fixing her bed with half-lidded eyes. She smoothed out the blanket, fluffing the pillow absentmindedly before tugging at the sheets to make them look somewhat presentable. Aryan stood nearby, watching her with an amused expression at first, but then, as he turned slightly, he felt a familiar sensation creep up on him—hunger.

He didn't say anything, though. He just pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, running a hand through his hair as he looked away. It wasn't like he hadn't eaten earlier, but giving up his pasta for Tara had left him a little empty. Not that he regretted it. He'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Still, he didn't expect Tara to notice.

"Aryan."

His head snapped up, caught off guard.

"What?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

Tara just sighed, clearly reading him better than he'd anticipated. She walked over to the microwave, opening her mini-fridge to grab a bowl of leftover daal and rice. Without saying another word, she popped it into the microwave, punching in a timer. Aryan frowned, watching her in confusion.

When the microwave beeped, Tara took the warm bowl out, grabbed a spoon, and extended it toward him.

"Take."

Aryan raised an eyebrow. "Star, I just had dinner."

Tara scoffed. "No, you didn't. You gave me your pasta for no reason, so now you're eating this. Just take it and leave me alone."

A slow smirk crept onto Aryan's lips. "I'll take it," he said, reaching for the bowl. "But I won't leave you alone. Sorry."

Tara rolled her eyes but didn't argue further. Instead, she climbed onto her bed, tucking her legs under her as she leaned against the headboard. Aryan sat near her, cross-legged, resting the bowl on his knee as he scooped up a bite.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. The room was dimly lit, the warm glow of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows on Tara's face. She looked... peaceful. Maybe even a little tired. But there was something else in her eyes—something that made Aryan pause.

"Do you want some?" he asked, holding out the spoon toward her.

Tara glanced at him, then at the food, shaking her head. "No, I'm good."

Aryan, however, didn't take no for an answer. Without breaking eye contact, he scooped up another bite and held it out to her, waiting.

She hesitated. Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, it seemed like she was going to refuse again. But then, as if caught in the pull of the moment, she leaned in slightly and took the bite from his spoon.

Aryan watched her, his gaze darkening just a fraction. Tara's eyes flickered up to meet his, and suddenly, it was like time slowed.

The tension between them shifted, thickening into something deeper.

Her lips closed around the spoon, and his eyes traced the way she swallowed. Her gaze dropped to his lips for a fleeting second before snapping back up, but he caught it.

Neither of them spoke.

Aryan smirked slightly, his voice lower now. "Good?"

Tara exhaled, blinking a few times before looking away. "It's just daal rice, Aryan."

"Yeah," he murmured, still watching her. "Just daal rice."

But the way they were looking at each other—like the world had faded away, like it was just the two of them in this quiet, warm space—made it feel like something much more.

💜