I tear into the enormous package I bought for two thousand rupees and stare at the chaos inside. It's a "sorted formal men's bundle," which is apparently code for random shirt packets, mismatched pants, and a couple of blazers. There's no suit in sight, but as I sift through the pile, I spot a grey blazer and a pair of pants that, while not matching in texture, share a truce in colour.

Weirdly enough, they look perfect together—especially when paired with a soft lilac shirt I find buried underneath. It's like the universe said, "Here's your outfit. Don't ask questions." I dump the rest of the clothes back into the bundle, spread my finds across the bed, and feel a strange sense of victory. It's mismatched, it's free-sized, and it will work magic once altered.

I picture Romil in the suit—sharp lines and soft edges. The top two buttons undone, just enough to tease a glimpse of his smooth, warm skin and the glint of his chain stack catching the light.

I take a breath, a sharp one, as my mind ventures further than it should, imagining undoing the rest of those buttons one by one, my fingertips brushing his skin. Somehow in my imagination he always feels warm to touch.

'Nope,' I mutter to myself, shaking my head hard enough to knock the thought loose. Or at least try. Romil, it seems, is a very distracting kind of man.

I close my eyes and collapse onto the bed, letting the crazy thoughts rest. Then, the doorbell rings. My chest flares with hope before I can stop it. Romil? No. He wouldn't show up. Not after what I said yesterday. But... who else would it be?

I drag myself to the door, carefully arranging my face into something neutral, maybe even apologetic, just in case. But when I open it, my heart deflates instantly, like a balloon with a slow, sad hiss. There's no one there.

I step out, squinting toward the gate, and that's when I see him—Khatri's kid. He's barely hidden behind a tree, grinning like he's just outsmarted the whole universe. It takes everything in me not to yell, but I settle for a calm and exhausted, 'I can see you, Khatri,'

I cross my arms with a huff and say, 'Come out!'

He steps out from behind the tree, that same annoying grin stretched across his face. 'Sorry didi! Won't do it again,' he says, laughing so hard he can barely get the words out before sprinting off like the little menace he is.

I shake my head and turn back inside—only to freeze in my tracks. Romil is sitting on the bed, casually assessing the pile of clothes.

My heart flips into overdrive as I rush forward, snatching the clothes from his hands before he can make another smart remark. I shove it in the bundle and kick it out of his reach and out of his sight under the bed.

'Whoa! Did I catch you red-handed?' he asks, his voice dripping with amusement.

'What could I possibly be doing with these clothes to be caught red-handed?' I shoot back, my heart pounding so loudly it's a miracle he can't hear it.

He grins. 'Maybe you've got some kinks I'm not aware of,' he says, leaning back against his hands.

I glare at him, heat rushing to my cheeks. 'Did you seriously get that kid to play decoy so you could sneak in he—?'

Before I can finish the question, his hand darts out, catching mine. With one smooth motion, he pulls me forward, and I land unceremoniously on his lap.

'Yes,' he says, way too quickly, his grin now infuriatingly close. 'And, honestly, it worked better than I thought it would.'

I sit there, frozen, my heart racing like I've just sprinted a marathon. His hands stay steady on my waist, his gaze daring me to call him out. But instead, I manage a breathless, 'Funny, I see no camera crew,' trying to reclaim a semblance of the agitation I showed yesterday.

His hand inches closer, settling just above my hip, his touch burning through the fabric like it's made of nothing. My body betrays me, arching ever so slightly toward the heat radiating from him.

'Let me just close the door, and then we—' he whispers, his voice low and teasing, before standing up mid-sentence and leaving me stranded, flushed and breathless on the bed.

'Then we...?' I manage to ask.

'Then we...' He shuts the door with an infuriating slowness and sits beside me, his gaze steady. 'We talk.'

He tilts his head, studying my face like it holds some secret he's determined to uncover. Whatever he finds makes his lips curl into that stupid, amused grin. 'Why? You don't want to talk? You had something else in mind?' His voice drops, thick with challenge.

I blink, and for one charged second, the air crackles between us. Then, before I can second-guess it, I shove him back onto the bed, straddle him, and lean in close.

'Yes,' I say, my voice steady, daring him to call my bluff.

His face is pure shock, like I've thrown him a curveball he never saw coming. He mutters under his breath, more to himself than to me, 'Oh my God, am I the only responsible one here?'

I shift a little, moving on my knees, the subtle movement sending his eyes fluttering shut. He groans, more to himself than anything, 'Ugh, I hate being the responsible one.'

I bite back a laugh, but there's something in the way he says it—like he's caught between wanting to keep control and absolutely not wanting to play the responsible one.

'I just need to take your measurements,' I say, my hands snaking around his neck, gently coaxing him to open his eyes.

He does, but it's lazy, like he's trying to pretend he's not as affected as he is. His gaze drifts over me, and I shift on my knees again, suddenly aware of how the hem of my nightgown rides up my thigh, and he can see my nipples pinching against the soft fabric.

I feel the shift in him, the low grunt escaping his throat as he sits up, careful not to touch me. He mutters to himself again, 'This one's feisty!'

I raise an eyebrow, laughing. 'Why are you talking about me in third person?'

'Just take the measurements!' he huffs, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips—yay, victory, no questions asked.

I slip off to grab the measuring tape, notebook, and pen from the other room. When I return, he's still lying there, the same position, but now his face is ostensibly red and hot.

Strike while the iron is hot, I remind myself, and crawl back up to him. This time, I sit closer, the heat between us almost tangible as I loop the tape around his neck.

His gaze locks with mine, his pupils dilating. My heart pounds in my chest, a wild thing pressing against its cage.

I jot down the numbers, but it's hard to focus on anything other than the sharp line of his jaw, the smooth curve of his shoulders, and the firm build beneath his almost-too-sheer white shirt. I bite my lip, forcing my eyes back to the notebook.

He lets out a low, muffled laugh, like he knows exactly what's going through my mind.

I loop the tape around his chest, my hands unsteady, trying to act like I've done this a thousand times. I take the measurements, making sure everything is precise, but it's a struggle to ignore how close I am, how warm he feels beneath the fabric.

Next come his arms and waist, and I scribble the figures like I'm an expert—except when I reach his hips. That's when it becomes nearly impossible to keep my eyes on the tape and not the place just beneath it. The thought threatens to break through, but I push it back, clenching my jaw.

When I finish, he leans back on the bed, hands supporting his neck, eyes on me with an intensity that feels like he's assessing a model on the runway. I try not to squirm under the weight of his gaze.

'What are you looking at?' I ask, my voice soft as I curl the hem of my gown beneath me, sitting cross-legged across from him.

'You,' he says, voice low, brazen. 'And your lips.'

I open my mouth to say something, but before I can, he continues, his words falling from his lips like they've been rehearsed:

'Your skin. Your chin. Your eyes. Your thighs.'

Each word lands on me, teasing. He's not even looking at me anymore, not really—his gaze lost somewhere in the air.

I don't know what makes me move closer—maybe it's the heat between us, or maybe it's the way his words curl around me, but I slide toward him, pressing my head into the soft dip of his neck. My lips find his skin there, a whisper of a kiss against his honey-scented skin.

'Maithili,' he breathes.

'Mm-hmm,' I hum, nuzzling into him, stealing another kiss.

'I want to wait... until your birthday.'

'And then?' I whisper, looking into his chocolaty eyes.

'And then you can do all you want with this hot body.'

I can't help but laugh, and as the sound escapes me, I lean in, pressing an unhurried kiss to his lips in approval.