Page 57 of Protect my Heart

It’s upside down. He walks over and sits beside me on the bed. Beside me. Not across. Not at a polite distance. Right there. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.

He leans back against the headboard, arms behind his head, and my heart does a full gymnastic routine. I’m not even into sports.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” he says.

“I’m reading.”

“Upside down?”

I slam the book shut. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he says, and when he turns to look at me, it’s not teasing anymore. He’s watching me—really watching me—with this calm intensity that makes me feel seen and exposed all at once.

“Fine. Maybe I was a little flustered,” I admit, crossing my arms. “You walk out half-naked, dripping wet, like that’s some kind of normal Tuesday behavior.”

He shrugs. “It’s my room too. You said so yourself.”

God. This man.

I grab the blanket and pull it over myself like I’m hoping it’ll work as a shield. “From now on, walk out fully dressed or give me a five-minute warning so I can blindfold myself.”

He laughs this time—not a smirk, not a scoff. A real laugh. Low. Warm. A sound I wasn’t prepared for. “Why?” he grins. “Am I too hot for you to handle?”

I shoot him a look. “No, Mr. Malhotra. It’s because I can’t stand the sight of you; that’s why.”

He goes quiet.

For a moment, I wonder if I took it too far. I peek at him, and he’s staring at me like he’s trying to figure out if I mean it.

“You’re cute when you try to act mad,” he says eventually.

“I’m not trying—” I start to protest, but then I stop. Because he’s giving me that look again. The one that makes my lungs forget how to work.

He looks at me like he knows me. Like he remembers me—not just now, not just this version of us—but the girl I used to be. And maybe that’s what really terrifies me. Because I think I remember him too.

I shift under the blanket, turning slightly away. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m yours.”

The silence after that is too much.

And then, soft and steady, “But you are, Anika.”

My heart flips again. Stupid heart. “It’s just a contract,” I say, but even I don't sound convinced.

“Is it?”

His hand brushes mine, lightly at first—like he’s giving me the chance to move. To say no.

I don’t.

“It doesn’t feel like it anymore,” he says, quieter now. Like he’s not even talking to me, just... saying the truth out loud.