"I think you should stop being so mean to me, Zahed."
"Why would I ever do that?"
Aryan grins, a bright, wicked thing.
"Because I kiss you like this."
•
Mira Zahed and Aryan Shankar are at war.
When her best friend and his cousin decide to fall in...
sexually explicit content warning; you can simply skip the third part of this chapter if you're not interested in reading such content and you won't miss any plot points <33
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"YOU SURE KNOW HOW TO MAKE AN introduction. I'll give you that," Aryan says, his tone jovial as he grins across at the fourteen-year-old who just called me sis.
I know he's covering until I get a grasp of what the fuck is going on.
However, Naz doesn't appear to be so easily distracted because she only returns Aryan's grin— I'd never seen someone match the pure arrogance of that grin quite as much as this girl— and then she's looking back at me.
My fingers tighten on the cushion below me. I'd never let myself imagine how a meeting like this would go down because I'd convinced myself I'd never let a meeting like this happen to begin with.
Sis.
Really?
I've never had a sister or anything remotely close to one. Dima is the closest thing to a sibling I have but we don't have twin telepathy or whatever. I'm fine with that.
I don't need a sister, I conclude, as the overly-ecstatic teenager beams at me across the table.
Aryan kicks me under the table. Well, he gently nudges my knee with his. But, in my tense state of quiet, it might as well be a kick. I straighten sharply, rattled from my head, and glare at him.
I feel Naz's gaze follow my movement curiously. She has dark eyes, not my father's and mine's. Hers are brown and bright, like darkly brewed black tea, glinting with faint amber in the light, framed with thick black lashes. We have the same eyelashes though, long and feathering. And eyebrows. I didn't realise that I processed all of that in the small space of her having sat down. I pocket it away and ignore her as I'm holding Aryan's stare now. I glower at him for kicking me under the table.
His response is an even look. Earth to Mira, it says.
Fuck off, is my responding glare.
He knows it well enough that his brows lift and his eyes shift to the right, to our table mate. I catch his drift as his lips twitch upwards. There are children present, Mira. Watch your language.
I glare again, a defensive one this time. I won't curse in front of the fourteen-year-old. I have some morals. I think. I didn't even say anything.
