Page 29 of Cherish my Heart
When I try to get down myself, he lifts a hand and says, “Slow.”
I roll my eyes but let him help me anyway.
The stairs creak under our weight as we walk up. When I stumble a little, he instinctively reaches out—fingers wrapping around my wrist, warm and firm, steady. My heart stutters.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
He nods once, like it’s no big deal, like he hasn’t just short-circuited my pulse.
We reach the third floor. He unlocks the door, pushes it open, and gestures for me to step in.
I freeze. The apartment is... simple. Like painfully simple.
Clean. Minimal. Beige walls. A couch that’s definitely more functional than comfortable. A tiny bookshelf with a couple of books lined up like they’re afraid to get messy. A single table fan humming softly in the corner. The kitchen’s visible from the main room—open plan, spotless, no signs of chaos or life.
But what really throws me is the lack of anything personal.
No photos. No magnets on the fridge. No half-finished laundry piles or random socks hiding under cushions.
The space feels like it was designed not to be lived in. Or maybe like someone’s still figuring out how to live.
“This is your place?” I blurt it out before I can filter it.
He shuts the door behind us with a soft thud. “That’s what the nameplate says.”
I turn around slowly, arms crossed. “No offense, but it’s kind of giving... interrogation-room-meets-hotel-lobby.”
He quirks a brow. “Is that a complaint?”
“Just an observation.” I pause, lips twitching. “Are you a serial killer, by any chance?”
That gets a reaction.
He steps closer, tilts his head slightly, and says—very calmly—“I don’t kill people who make decent coffee.” I see his lip twitching, and my stomach does something very uncool. And I hate it. Because it’s just a sentence. Just a stupid, dry joke. But it’s the look in his eyes—steady and unreadable and quietly amused—that makes my heart trip over itself like a clumsy child.
“I am glad my coffee is growing on you,” I whisper, unable to look away from his eyes.
“I am glad too,” he rasps.
I clear my throat. “Right. Noted.”
He walks toward the kitchen. I follow him like a duckling because I don’t know what else to do.
He gestures to the chair by the counter. I sit down without argument, suddenly aware of how loud my presence feels in aplace like this. Like I’m disturbing the balance of something he’s spent years protecting.
“You’re cooking?” I ask, watching as he pulls vegetables out of the fridge and starts rinsing them.
“I live alone, Aditi,” he says like I’m an idiot. “I need to eat.”
I lean back, crossing my arms. “You could order in.”
He looks at me over his shoulder. “I don’t like other people touching my food.”
“I’m starting to think you don’t like people, full stop.”
“I don’t,” he replies smoothly. “But unfortunately, they exist.”
I snort.
