Sanjita's Pov

My jaw tightened at the nickname. "Stop calling me that, Kuwarsa."

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. "Then you have to stop calling me that, Rose."

I clenched my fists, glaring at him. "Not happening."

"Then neither is this." His smirk deepened as he leaned back slightly, looking completely at ease in my home. Without hesitation, he took a seat on the uncovered sofa, stretching his arm along the backrest like he owned the place.

I huffed, crossing my arms. “You’re impossible.”

Avyant simply raised a brow, the amusement in his eyes only growing. “And yet, here we are.”

Letting out a frustrated sigh, I turned on my heel toward the kitchen. “Fine. But don’t expect anything fancy.”

His deep chuckle followed me. “As long as it’s edible, Rose.”

I froze mid-step before spinning around to glare at him. “You—”

“Oops,” he interrupted, feigning innocence. “Slipped out.”

Gritting my teeth, I turned back to the kitchen, muttering under my breath. Behind me, I could hear him settling into the sofa, making himself comfortable.

Banging a pan onto the stove with more force than necessary, I hoped the noise would be enough to annoy him. It wasn’t.

"Careful, Rose. That poor pan did nothing to you," he said, his voice laced with amusement.

"Neither did I, yet here I am suffering your presence," I shot back, grabbing ingredients with sharp, precise movements.

He chuckled, completely unfazed. "Suffering? I thought you’d be honored to cook for me."

I scoffed, refusing to turn around. "Kuwarsa, if you keep talking, I might just 'accidentally' add extra chili."

His deep laugh filled the room. "I do like my food spicy."

I rolled my eyes and focused on chopping the vegetables, determined to ignore him. My hands moved swiftly, the knife rhythmically hitting the cutting board. But just as I glanced toward the spice rack, the blade slipped.

A sharp sting shot through my finger.

I hissed as the sting throbbed in my finger, jerking my hand back as a bead of crimson welled up.

Before I could react further, Avyant was suddenly there—too fast, too silent, like he had always been standing close, waiting. His fingers wrapped around my wrist, his touch unnervingly cool against my skin.

"Sanjita," he murmured, his voice carrying an unfamiliar weight. His usual smirk had disappeared, his gaze locked onto the tiny wound as if it held some deeper meaning.

"It’s just a cut," I muttered, trying to pull away, but his grip held steady.

"Blood is never ‘just’ anything." His eyes flickered with something strange—an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. He guided my hand under the running water, his movements precise, deliberate, like he was performing some silent ritual.

I scoffed. "You’re acting like I’ve been mortally wounded."

He ignored my words, dabbing my finger with a clean towel. His thumb brushed against my skin, lingering just a second too long. The air between us shifted, thick with something unseen, something ancient.

"You always move too fast," he murmured, more to himself than to me. "Like the world won’t wait for you."

I frowned. "What?"

But the moment was gone. His smirk didn’t return this time, but his expression hardened into something resolute.

"Sit" he ordered.

I blinked. "What?"

"Come here and sit" he repeated, softer, yet no less commanding. And before I could protest, he was already leading me to a chair by the kitchen counter.

I huffed. "You do realize I’m supposed to be cooking for you, right?"

"You can’t even hold a knife properly. I’d rather eat food than blood," he remarked, rolling up his sleeves.

I scoffed. "Dramatic, much?"

He didn’t answer, already moving through the kitchen with effortless ease. He reached for the ingredients I had left on the counter, his movements precise, methodical. It was unsettling—watching him take over my space, my task, like it was second nature to him.

"You cook?" I asked, unable to hide my surprise.

His lips curved slightly, but he didn’t look at me. "I know how to make what I like."

There was something oddly hypnotic about the way he worked—the controlled way he chopped vegetables, the careful way he adjusted the flame, the unhurried grace in his hands. He wasn’t just cooking; he was... creating.

"Why are you really doing this?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

For a moment, he didn’t reply. Then, finally, he turned his head slightly, his dark eyes glinting with something unreadable.

"Maybe I just don’t like seeing you hurt."

The words were simple, but they lingered, settling into the quiet space between us. I stared at him, trying to find the teasing, the usual sharp edge, but there was none.

Something about Avyant Rathore remained a mystery. And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to solve it—or get lost in it.

I watched him work, the rhythmic sound of the knife against the chopping board filling the silence. His hands moved with practiced ease, slicing through vegetables with a precision that felt almost out of place. There was no hesitation, no wasted movement—every action deliberate, every motion efficient.

Soon, the dinner was ready. Avyant had made soup, dal, rice, and a crisp aloo sabzi, the rich aroma of tempered spices filling the air. He moved with quiet efficiency, placing the plates on the table, his expression impassive as he ladled soup into a bowl and slid it toward me.

I leaned back, arms crossed. "I was supposed to cook for you."

He finally glanced at me, his dark eyes unreadable. "Then get well soon so you can."

My fingers curled into fists. "You really won’t let this go, will you?"

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. "A deal is a deal, Rose."

I scowled at the nickname but didn’t argue. Hunger gnawed at me, and the food smelled too good to ignore. I picked up the spoon and took a sip of the soup. It was perfect—warm, slightly peppery, the kind of meal that settled deep in your bones.

Annoyingly, I hated that he could cook.

His gaze remained on me as he took his own plate, his movements measured, calculated. He wasn’t eating like someone who enjoyed his food—more like someone who had learned to do things a certain way, with precision, without indulgence.

"You cook well," I admitted begrudgingly, setting my spoon down.

He didn’t look up. "I know."

Something about the way he said it, so matter-of-fact, made irritation prickle at my skin. There was no arrogance in his tone, no smugness—just certainty, as if he had known from the start that I’d end up admitting it.

The silence between us wasn’t tense, but it wasn’t easy either. It sat there, heavy, filled with things neither of us would say.

After dinner, Avyant didn’t wait or ask—he simply gathered the plates and carried them to the sink. I expected him to leave them there, but instead, he turned on the tap and started washing them with the same quiet efficiency he had while cooking.

I watched, arms crossed, still seated at the table. "You don’t have to do that."

He didn’t even glance at me. "Someone has to."

His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, water running over his hands as he scrubbed the dishes with precise, methodical movements. There was no unnecessary noise, no wasted motion—just the steady sound of water and the clinking of plates.

The dim kitchen light flickered slightly, casting his reflection in the window above the sink.

I narrowed my eyes. "Why are you really here, Kuwarsa?"

His grip on the plate tightened for the briefest second before he set it aside. "To collect what’s mine."

A strange chill ran down my spine. "Your dinner?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay even.

His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "You still think this is just about dinner, Rose?"

My breath hitched. There was something in his voice—something that made me feel like I was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle. Before I could demand an answer, he shut off the tap, drying his hands with unhurried ease.

Then, just as he passed by, he leaned in slightly, his face near my ear. His voice was husky as he whispered,

"Get well soon… so that you can give me what I want from you."

Blood rushed to my cheeks.

I looked at him in shock, my eyes widening so much that I was pretty sure they were about to pop out like a cartoon character.

Avyant chuckled, obviously entertained by my reaction, his eyes glinting with pure mischief. His gaze traveled to my cheeks—undoubtedly redder than a ripe tomato—and his smirk widened as if he had just won some silent battle.

"Ah… so you really do live up to the name," he said, tilting his head slightly.

I blinked, confused. "What?"

His fingers suddenly brushed against my left cheek, and I swear my brain short-circuited. "Goodnight, Rose. Have sweet dreams," he whispered, his tone so smug I wanted to throw something at him.

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, frozen, my thoughts running in circles.

Did he just—?

Did he really just—?

My brain finally caught up, and I scowled at his retreating figure. Entry hai funq si, exit toofaan hai—except the toofaan had left me with a racing heart and the overwhelming urge to scream into a pillow.