Recap: Ryan made dessert. A FREAKING chocolate mousse.

I stalked the length of my room like a caged animal, my feet pounding a frantic rhythm on the floorboards.

"That man is impossible," I hissed, hands flailing as though trying to strangle the air.

The universe, ever a fan of irony, decided this was the perfect moment for a knock at my door. I froze mid-stride, glaring at the offending wood as if it had personally betrayed me. The knock came again, sharper this time.

"What?" I barked, my voice cracking just enough to annoy me.

The door creaked open, and there he was. Ofcourse Ryan. Leaning lazily against the frame like he owned it, a dessert plate balanced precariously in one hand. His smirk was its usual brand of infuriating—cocky and just this side of charming.

I folded my arms tightly across my chest. "What do you want now?"

He ignored the warning in my tone, sauntering in like he hadn’t just intruded on my private indignation.

"Woah! Slow down, tigress," he drawled, a lazy smirk playing on his lips.
"I brought you something."

I squint my eyes, scrutinizing his every little movement.

He held out the plate, and I stared at it with all the suspicion of a medieval knight offered a goblet by his sworn enemy.

"I thought you said you were going to eat it all yourself," I frowned.

Ryan laughed, low and easy,
"I was kidding. Believe it or not, I do have a heart."

"I doubt that." I scoffed, rolling my eyes.

"Unlike someone, I don't pretend."

"I’m not pretending!" I snapped, my voice jumping an octave higher than I’d intended.

"I never said it was you, did I?"

"I-" I froze mid sentence, too stunned to speak a word.

He seized the opportunity to set the plate on my desk with a smug flourish
Stepping back, hands in his pockets, he gave me one last grin—the kind that made me want to hurl the plate at his face.

"Enjoy it. It’s my masterpiece."he muttered performing a royal bow, then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him before I could summon a single clever comeback.

I stood there, my arms still crossed, glaring at the plate like it had personally insulted my ancestors.

"I don’t want it," I muttered to no one, though the rich, velvety aroma of chocolate and raspberry betrayed my resolve almost instantly.
The mousse shimmered under the light, its delicate swirls practically whispering, 'One bite'

I sat on the edge of my bed, arms clamped tighter than ever, determined not to give in. Five minutes passed. Then ten. I glanced at the plate, then at the door.

Ugh- Fine!

With a loud groan enough to startle the neighbor’s cat, I grabbed the spoon and stabbed it into the mousse. It'd be one bite. Just one small bite to prove it wasn’t even that good.

The first taste melted on my tongue, and I swear the world shifted either that or my brain just lost its place. Dark chocolate, rich and smooth, hit first—like velvet had been spun into flavor—followed by the bright, tangy burst of raspberry, perfectly balanced and utterly unforgivable.

My resolve crumbled faster than the delicate chocolate curls garnishing the top.

"Great! F*ck." I muttered under my breath as I glared at the empty plate with a mix of rage and reluctant awe.

That man was insufferable, yes, but damn if he didn’t know his way around a dessert.

As if on cue, Ryan’s voice echoed in my mind: "Impressed yet?"

I groaned, flopping back on the bed and dragging a pillow over my face.

Gosh! I hate him.

I utterly, deeply, madly, hate him.

______

When I woke up the next morning, every inch of my muscles were brimming with resolve. Today was the day. I was going to avoid Ryan, his shenanigans, and most importantly, his hand-made delicious food. I had to stay away from it, no matter what.

It was time to reclaim my sanity.

Or so I thought.

I strolled into the kitchen, fully prepared to grab a quick breakfast and breeze out the door before Ryan even knew I existed. But of course, fate—or Ryan’s magical sixth sense—had other plans. There he was, leaning casually against the counter, coffee cup in hand, looking like he’d just stepped out of a magazine ad.

Ignore! Ignore! Ignore!

"Morning, sunshine," he greeted, his voice syrupy smooth.

"Don’t call me that," I muttered, already suspicious.

"Fine. Morning, Aisha," he dragged my name out like it was some kind of melody, and damn, it sounded too good coming from him. "Slept well?"

"So and so." I replied curtly, grabbing the orange juice carton. The quicker I could pour a glass and leave, the better.

But as I reached for a glass, I noticed him moving out of the corner of my eye. Slow. Dammit too slow. My internal alarms blared, and I turned around only to find him holding a plate of waffles so perfect they looked like they belonged in a food commercial—crispy edges, fluffy centers, strawberries glistening like rubies, and a cloud of whipped cream that screamed decadence.

Why does it smell so good? It’s just waffles!

"Breakfast?" he offered, smugly.

I crossed my arms, narrowing my eyes. "I’m not falling for this. Again."

"What?" he chimed, innocently. "I’m just being thoughtful."

"You mean trying to win the bet," I shot back, not bothering to hide my glare.

He chuckled, setting the plate down with exaggerated care. "Maybe. But can you really say no to waffles?"

"Watch me,"
I swiftly grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl with more force than necessary.

"Are you sure?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows as he lifted the plate of waffles and practically shoved it in my face.

I folded my arms tighter, biting my inner cheeks hard.
"Nice try, but I don’t have time for this. I’m going to be late."

Ryan raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Late? It’s barely seven. The office doesn’t open until nine."

Of course, he’d know that. I scrambled for a convincing excuse.
"Still. I have… things to do."

His smile widened. "Oh, you mean the Melon Project?"

I froze. "Yes. Exactly. It’s due today—"

"It was finalized last week," he said smoothly, cutting me off.

I blinked, caught off guard, then awkwardly forced a series of fake laughs.

"N-no, not that one," I stammered, my voice faltering. "The… other one. You know."

His grin turned downright wolfish. I knew I’d lost this round. Without thinking, I bolted for the door, determined to escape before Ryan could say another word. But as I dashed, my toe caught on the edge of the rug, causing me to stumble forward. My hands flailed everywhere to maintain balance. The banana I’d been gripping flew out of my hand, landing with a soft thud against the wall. In my effort to avoid face-planting, my elbow grazed the counter, and somehow—because the universe had a twisted sense of humor—the edge of the whipped cream can tipped over.

The hiss of foam startled me as a dollop shot straight onto my lip.

Ryan’s laughter filled the room before I could even process what had happened.

"You okay there, tigress?" he asked, barely managing to stifle a laugh.

"I’m fine," I snapped, swiping at my face with the back of my hand. But instead of clearing the whipped cream, I managed to smear it further along my chin. My cheeks burned as I turned back toward the door, desperate to leave before I embarrassed myself further.

"Aisha."

I froze, my fingers hovering over the doorknob. The way he said my name—low, soft, unguarded—made me  stop dead in my tracks.

Reluctantly, I turned to face him. Ryan wasn’t leaning casually against the counter anymore. He’d stepped closer, his smirk softened into something unreadable. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, now held a quiet kind of focus that made my heart stutter.

"What?" I asked, trying and failing to keep my voice steady.

"You’ve got whipped cream on your lip,"

"I know!" I blurted, defensive heat rushing up my neck. "I was just about to—"

"Here." Before I could finish, his thumb brushed against the corner of my mouth, slow and deliberate.

Everything froze around me as his thumb lingered briefly on my skin before he stepped back, wiping it on a napkin he’d grabbed somewhere, all while I fumbled to break free from whatever spell he'd cast.

My brain screamed at me to move, to speak, to do something, but all I managed was a weak, "Thanks."

"You’re not used to letting people take care of you, are you?" he asked softly, his head tilting just enough to make the question feel heavier than it should have been.

"I…" The words caught in my throat. "I don’t need—"

"I know you don’t," he interrupted gently, his lips curving into a faint, genuine smile. "But maybe you should let it happen every once in a while."

Why is it that every time he smiles, I feel like I’m losing some unspoken game I didn’t agree to play and I hated how much I felt it—how much it tugged at the walls I’d spent years building.

My breath hitched, but before I could figure out a response, Ryan took a step back.

"Just think about it," he whispered, slow and gentle. "And if you ever change your mind, the waffles are still on the counter."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the kitchen, my pulse racing and my defenses shaken. I glanced back at the plate of waffles, then at the empty space where he’d been, and for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I’d won or lost.

.
.
.

Adjusting my bag on my shoulder, I hurried down the street, eager to put as much distance as possible between myself and Ryan. The lingering scent of freshly made waffles clung to me like a taunt, but I forced myself not to look back.

Two hours early, and I’m already done with the day. Maybe I should move to a new city. Or planet.

I decided to walk a few blocks, letting the crisp morning air clear my head, before hailing a cab. Toying with the idea of swinging by the coffee shop to grab a latte—something to salvage what little dignity my morning had left. The thought of warm coffee and sweet solitude steadied my nerves, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I let myself sink into a sense of calm.

Out of nowhere, a hand suddenly clamped around my wrist firmly.

"What the—!" I shrieked out loud, panic flaring as I was yanked into the shadowed alley. My shoulder scraped against the rough brick, and my bag slipped, dangling awkwardly at my elbow.

Instinct kicked in before logic had a chance to catch up. I swung my bag wildly, aiming for the shadowy figure.

"Back off" I shouted, my voice cracking halfway through. My bag missed entirely, the momentum spinning me off balance.

But before I could hit the ground, a strong arm shot out, grabbing me and pulling me upright. His grip firm like steel as I thrashed, trying to break free. I opened my mouth to scream, but a hand clamped tightly over it, muffling my protests.

This is not happening. This is NOT happening.

"Relax," he muttered close to my face, his voice unmistakably familiar. Naveen!

Ryan had warned me. He'd warned me about this. And like an idiot, I brushed it off.

My chest tightened as recognition set in. I thrashed harder, kicking and writhing, trying to loosen his hold. But before I could make any real progress, he spun me around with surprising ease and pinned me against the wall. The cold surface pressed against my back, and his hand stayed firmly over my mouth.

"Calm down," he growled, his voice sharp and commanding. "And stop making this harder."

His words were like a bucket of ice water. My breathing slowed, though my heart still hammered in my chest. I had no choice but to comply, for now. Slowly, I tapped on his arm, signaling surrender. His grip loosened, and he stepped back, but not before giving me one last piercing look.

The alley seemed quieter now, the sounds of the city muffled by the tension hanging between us. For a moment, I couldn’t speak, couldn’t process.

I studied him, my mind struggling to reconcile the person before me with the man I once knew. Ragged jeans, messy hair, eyes that once held warmth were now cold and empty. Void of any light.

"What the hell was all that about?" I demanded, shoving my fear aside. "You can’t just drag people into alleys like this!"

His expression didn’t change. No flicker of guilt, no smirk of amusement. Just an unyielding stare that made my stomach churn. He looked at me like I was the one being unreasonable.

"You’re fine," he said, his tone clipped and dismissive.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack!" I snapped, my grip tightening on my bag as a surge of adrenaline burned through me.

The corners of his mouth twitched—just barely—but whatever emotion had threatened to surface disappeared just as quickly. He took a step closer, his towering presence amplifying the unease gnawing at me.

"We need to talk." He grumbled, in a low, hoarse voice.

The words weren’t a request, and the calm finality in his tone made the hairs on my neck stand on end.

Whatever he wanted, it wasn’t good.
Help?

**********

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