The restaurant was quieter than Ananya expected.
Not empty, just calm—soft lighting, muted conversations, the kind of place people chose when they wanted privacy without admitting it. She noticed that immediately, and it irritated her. It felt deliberate.
"This place isn't cheap," she said as they were led to their table.
"I know," Aarav replied.
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I didn't take it as one."
They sat across from each other, menus placed neatly between them like a barrier. For a moment, neither reached for it.
"This doesn't count as part of the arrangement," Ananya said. "You know that."
"Of course," he said. "This is just dinner."
She narrowed her eyes. "You said that very carefully."
He met her gaze. "I'm careful by nature."
She picked up the menu, more to give her hands something to do than because she was hungry. The words blurred slightly as she scanned the page.
"You chose this place because someone from your office could see us," she said without looking up.
"Yes."
"So this is still work."
"In a way."
She exhaled. "I don't like being used as evidence."
"You're not evidence," he said. "You're context."
That made her pause.
She looked up. "You have a strange way of explaining things."
"I prefer accurate ones."
A waiter approached, breaking the tension. They ordered—simple, unremarkable choices. Water for her. Coffee for him.
"Coffee at night?" she asked.
"It helps me think."
"Or avoid sleeping?"
A brief silence.
"Both," he admitted.
The honesty caught her off guard.
They sat in quiet for a few moments after the waiter left, the low hum of the restaurant filling the space between them.
"This still feels risky," Ananya said finally.
"Yes."
"That's it?"
"You're not wrong," he said. "But risk doesn't always mean regret."
She studied him again, trying to find the angle, the hidden motive. All she found was control—carefully maintained.
"Tell me something," she said. "Why do you look so calm about this?"
He considered the question. "Because panic clouds judgment."
"And you never panic?"
"I do," he said. "I just don't show it."
The food arrived, momentarily saving them from the weight of conversation. She took a few bites, realizing she was hungrier than she'd thought.
"You don't eat much," she observed.
"I forget," he replied.
"That's not healthy."
"I'm aware."
She shook her head slightly. "You're very… self-contained."
"That's one word for it."
Another silence settled, this one less sharp. She found herself relaxing despite herself, shoulders lowering, breathing evening out.
She hated that.
"I want to be clear," she said. "I'm not here to play girlfriend."
"I wouldn't expect you to."
"And I don't want you trying to impress me."
"That would defeat the purpose."
She raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"
"Keeping this uncomplicated."
She laughed softly. "You really believe that's possible?"
"I believe it's manageable."
She took a sip of water, eyes drifting briefly to the window. Outside, the city moved on, unaware.
"You're very sure of yourself," she said.
"I'm sure of my boundaries."
"That's not the same thing."
He didn't argue.
When the waiter returned to clear the plates, Ananya realized something unsettling.
She was comfortable.
Not relaxed. Not happy.
But… present.
That shouldn't have happened.
As they stood to leave, she reached for her bag—and felt a sudden, sharp jolt as it slipped from her shoulder.
Aarav caught it before it hit the floor.
His hand brushed hers in the process.
It was brief. Accidental.
Still, her breath caught.
He froze too, just for a second, before releasing the bag and stepping back.
"Sorry," he said.
"It's fine," she replied quickly.
But it wasn't.
The air between them felt different now—charged, aware.
They walked out together in silence.
Outside, the night was cooler, the street quieter.
"This doesn't change anything," Ananya said, more to herself than to him.
"No," Aarav agreed. "It doesn't."
But his gaze lingered on her a second longer than necessary.
She noticed.
She hated that she did.
They stopped near her building.
"You don't have to walk me up," she said.
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good."
A pause.
"Thank you for dinner," she added, reluctantly.
"You're welcome."
She turned toward the entrance, then hesitated.
"This doesn't mean we're crossing lines," she said.
"No," he replied. "It means we're aware of them."
She nodded once and walked inside.
From the elevator mirror, she caught her reflection—thoughtful, unsettled, undeniably affected.
Back in her apartment, she set her bag down and leaned against the door, eyes closed.
Dinner wasn't supposed to feel like this.
And that was the problem.