50

Tara woke up to a pounding headache.

She groaned, pressing her palms against her temples, trying to recall the events of the previous night.

Flashes came to her in pieces—the party, the dancing, Aryan carrying her home, the slow dance... his hug.

Her eyes widened. Oh god.

She turned her head slightly, only to spot a strap of Panadol with a glass of water and a small folded note beside her. Frowning, she picked it up.

"He ghe, Taru. Kalji ghe. -Aryan"

(Here, take this. Take care)

She stared at it for a moment, heart skipping a beat at the nickname. Taru.

Her fingers tightened around the note.

"Oh god, what did I do?" she muttered to herself, rubbing her forehead.

Needing to shake off the overwhelming thoughts, she dragged herself out of bed and went straight for a long, hot shower.

Feeling refreshed, Tara stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. She quickly changed into simple shorts and a loose, oversized top, lazily drying her damp hair with a towel.

Just as she ran her fingers through her slightly messy strands, there was a knock at the door.

Frowning, she tossed the towel aside and walked over, unlocking it.

The moment she pulled it open, her breath hitched.

Aryan.

Standing there, in a plain black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, his messy hair falling perfectly over his forehead.

He was holding a coffee cup.

"What are you doing here, Aryan?" she asked, folding her arms.

His eyes flickered over her, scanning her face, before he casually replied, "I came to check on you. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said quickly. "Now go."

Instead of listening, he just stepped inside.

Tara huffed. "Excuse me?"

Aryan simply sat down on her couch, stretching his arms along the backrest, looking entirely at ease.

She rolled her eyes, trying to ignore him as she picked up her towel again and continued drying her hair.

But she could feel his eyes on her.

Watching.

Her movements slowed slightly, irritation creeping in.

"Stop staring," she muttered.

Aryan smirked. "I'm not staring."

"You literally are."

He didn't deny it.

Instead, he tilted his head, his voice teasing. "It's fun to see you all riled up."

Tara shot him a glare. "What do I have to do to get you to leave?"

He just chuckled.

She sighed, turning her back to him as she ran her fingers through her damp strands.

But the weight of his gaze didn't leave her.

She could feel it.

Lingering. Distracting.

Her fingers stilled.

"Aryan," she said slowly, not turning around.

"Yeah?"

"Go."

He only smirked wider, "Nope."

Tara sighed as she stood in front of Aryan, arms crossed. "Aryan, I told you to go."

He leaned back against the couch, one arm resting over the backrest, looking completely unbothered. "And I told you no."

She let out a frustrated groan. "I'm fine now, you don't have to play babysitter."

"I'm not playing babysitter," he replied smoothly, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "I'm playing boyfriend-in-training."

Her heart stopped. She looked at him, wide-eyed, unsure if she'd heard him correctly. "Excuse me?"

He simply got up, walking straight past her and into the kitchen. Tara blinked, turning to see him opening her cabinets like he owned the place.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked, following him.

"Making lunch." He pulled out a pot and set it on the stove like it was his own kitchen.

She scoffed, stepping closer. "I can make my own lunch, Aryan."

He turned, blocking her way, towering over her with an easy smirk. "Tu bas shanti ni bas. Mi karto." (You just sit relaxed. I'll do it.)

Tara clenched her jaw. She hated how effortlessly he could slip back into this—into them. "Aryan—"

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

"Fine," she muttered, throwing up her hands and plopping onto a chair.

The kitchen filled with the warm, nostalgic scent of ghee, cumin, and garlic. Tara sat there, arms crossed, pretending she wasn't enjoying the smell.

She watched him move around the kitchen like he'd done it a hundred times before. Like he still belonged here.

The way he mashed the dal, the way he measured out the salt, the way he stirred the pot with just the right pressure—it was all familiar.

Too familiar.

And then, as he pulled out the spice tin, she saw it. Kadhi Bhaat. He'd made her Kadhi bhaat.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "How do you remember all this?"

He glanced at her over his shoulder, that damn smirk still playing on his lips. "You think I could forget what my girl loves?"

Tara looked away. My girl.

She hated the way her heart reacted to that.

He plated up the food—soft, hot kadhi bhaat, crispy bhindi fry, a dollop of homemade pickle—and set it in front of her.

She hesitated for a second before taking a bite.

The moment it hit her tongue, she almost closed her eyes.

It tasted like home.

They ate in silence, the air between them thick with unspoken words. Aryan ate quickly. He was watching her.

She finally set her spoon down and met his gaze. "What?"

He didn't hesitate. "You remember last night?"

Her fingers curled around the edge of the table. "Not really."

"Don't lie, Star."

She exhaled sharply, pushing her plate away. "It doesn't matter."

"It does to me." His voice was steady, but there was something deeper underneath. "We almost kissed, Tara."

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She tried to act unaffected, taking another bite, pretending it didn't shake her.

Aryan leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, his gaze burning into hers. "Do you still want me?"

Her grip tightened on her fork.

"Tell me," he pushed.

"You left, Aryan," she said finally, voice low. "You walked away, you let me go, and now you want to come back like nothing happened."

His jaw clenched.

"You were the one who pushed me away," she continued, her voice sharper now. "So why are you here, acting like—"

"Because I still love you."

Silence.

Tara's breath caught.

He didn't blink, didn't waver. "Because I was stupid, because I was scared, because I was a coward to not have fought for you. Because the moment I saw you again, everything came back, and now I can't breathe without thinking about you. I can't eat without wondering if you're okay, I can't sleep without remembering how it felt when you were next to me."

She just sat there, frozen, staring at him.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "I know I don't deserve you. But I need you to know that I want to. That I'll fight for you this time."

She looked away, shaking her head. "You don't get to do this."

"Tara—"

"You don't get to say you still love me and expect me to just forget what happened," she snapped, standing up and taking her plate to the sink.

Aryan sighed, rubbing his jaw as he watched her turn her back on him. "I never asked you to forget what happened. Slap me, punch me, hit me—do whatever you want with me—just do it in my arms. With me."

After a moment, he got up too.

He walked to the door but stopped, glancing back.

"Not today," he murmured, voice quiet. "But one day, you'll answer me."

And then, he left.

💜