Page 34 of Cherish my Heart
We sit like that for a moment—quiet, coffee warm between our hands, distance charged but not uncomfortable.
“Still not letting me go to work tomorrow?” She asks, breaking the silence.
“No.”
“Even if I bring back your favorite dark roast beans?”
“Bribery won’t work on me, Aditi,” I smirk.
“I can be very convincing.” She doesn’t have to be; if she would say “please,” I would probably agree to anything.
“I’m aware. Still no.”
She sighs, overdramatic. “You know, for someone who claims to hate emotions, you’re doing a great job acting like someone who cares.”
“I don’t.”
“You just brewed coffee and argued about my recovery schedule. In your house. While letting me wear your clothes.” She raises an eyebrow, and I know I care, but I won’t admit it out loud; that would make it too real.
“I said I don’t care. I never said I’m not invested in your functionality.”
She barks out a laugh. “My functionality? Wow, say that at my wedding. Please.”
“If you’re marrying someone stupid enough to let you get in a cab alone again, I’ll crash the wedding.”
We fall into silence then—but it’s not awkward.
It’s just... quiet. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled.
She picks her laptop up again, curls back into the couch, and resumes typing. I return to my emails, but I barely read a word.Not when she’s here. Not when she’s breathing in the same room I’ve only ever inhabited alone.
And I don’t understand what this is. This softness. This noise in my head doesn’t sound like me.
But for now—for just a little while—I let it stay.
CHAPTER 19
ADITI
His thumb brushes along the inside of her thigh, mouth hovering just above her skin.
She arches, breathless, and he chuckles low against her.
"Patience," he murmurs. "Let me taste all of you first."
I shift a little under the blanket, tugging it higher over my lap even though I’m alone on this couch. Alone with my Kindle. Alone with my completely, 100% fictional boyfriend who is apparently very good at—
The Kindle vanishes. Like, one second I’m holding it, deeply immersed in thigh-related literary events, and the next, someone yanks it straight out of my hands.
I gasp, grab at it on instinct—because hello, sacred object—and in the process, pull so hard that the person on the other end stumbles forward.
Straight onto me. The air whooshes out of my lungs. Abhimaan lands with one knee on the couch, the other foot braced on the floor, hands pressed into the cushion on either side of me—and his entire body almost on mine.
His chest against mine. His face was a breath away. His damn heat everywhere.
For a second—just a second—neither of us moves.
I can feel his heart, steady but fast. His breath grazed my cheek. My hand is still tangled in his shirt where I grabbed it.
