𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗣𝗼𝘃 :

The cityscape rushes past the window, bathed in golden afternoon light, but my brain? Stuck. Glitched. Still buffering.

Because what the hell was that dream?

Not just any dream. A wet dream. About him. My professor.

I squeeze my scarf tighter in my hands, my fingers playing with the fabric as if that’ll somehow distract me from the fact that my subconscious is a traitor. I mean—seriously, Alizeh? Azael Khan? Out of all the men in the world, my brain picked him? And the worst part?

I told him to touch me.

Down there.

I shut my eyes for a second, my heart slamming against my ribs. Who even does that? Not me. Definitely not me.

And yet, here I am, heat creeping up my neck, my professor sitting inches away, oblivious to the absolute chaos happening in my head.

But it doesn’t even stop there. It gets worse.

Because not even a few hours after that dream, in broad daylight, my professor almost kissed me. Again.

Twice now. Twice in forty-eight hours, I’ve been this close to something that should not be happening. That cannot be happening. And if it weren’t for Aria’s call, I don’t even know if I—

I inhale sharply, throwing my head back against the seat.

**Mere subconscious ne toh 4K mein betrayal de diya.** Full HD slow motion mein bhi dikhaya hota, toh bhi itna painful nahi hota.

This is all Aria’s fault.

If she hadn’t forced me to watch that stupid professor × student love shoot, my subconscious wouldn’t be running wild with inappropriate content

And now, thanks to Miss Matchmaker Aria, I’m out here shopping with my freaking professor.

Like, girl, be so for real. How did we get here??

I teased her once. Ek Baar. Just one little “OMG, Aria, you’re in love with your professor?” and this is what I get? Bhai, maine koi contract sign kiya tha kya apne life ke liye? Ki ab mujhe bhi professor × student tropes live-action mein dekhne padenge?

I hate it here.

Now look at me. A walking, talking, breathing professor × student scandal.

Jaise ki main simping mode pe nahi jaungi. Jaise main koi bhi professor ko dekh ke ‘oh my god, he’s so hot’ nahi bolungi.

Lekin, listen, I’m not her. I’m not about to pull an Aria and start feeling things. That’s not happening. Like, ew.

I mean, sure. He’s… something. But pyaar? Nah, babes. Not even in my delulu era.

Attitude? Check.

Ego? Check.

Control-freak energy? Check.

Not my type? BIGGEST CHECK.

My heart literally scoffs inside me. Alizeh shut up. Just don’t say it.

Because… DAMN.

He is hot. Like, stupidly, unnecessarily, unfairly hot.

I groan, gripping my scarf tighter. “Ugh, Aria. You’re literally my worst enemy.”

Oh God, I need therapy.

My fingers fidget with my scarf again, mind still spiralling when—

“Stop fidgeting your scarf.”

Azael’s voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade. Deep, commanding, almost annoyed.

I don’t react. Maybe because my mind is still caught between the absurdity of my situation and the lingering heat of my thoughts.

My fingers continue toying with the edge of my scarf, twisting and tugging at the delicate fabric as my gaze stays fixed on the passing scenery outside.

“You need to stop fidgeting with—” He stops, exhales through his nose, and then his voice came rougher, laced with raw, burning frustration. “Stop fucking fidgeting with it. Or I swear, I’ll tie you with this scarf and have my way with you without giving a fvck where we are”

What the hell.

My breath lodges in my throat, lungs straight-up forgetting how to function. My fingers freeze mid-motion.

Did he—did he just—

The air in the car shifts, crackling with something unspoken, something heavy. I swallow hard, forcing myself to lift my gaze to his, but the moment I do, my stomach flips.

His gaze

Not at my face.

Not at my lips.

His focus is lower. Way lower.

Right where my scarf rests, half-slipped over the neckline of my top. Right where my mole is—my right breast.

My heart slams against my ribs, my body burning in real time as realization hits.

And the worst part?

The bastard doesn’t even try to hide it.

No shame, no guilt—just a slow, deliberate smirk pulling at his lips as he lifts his gaze back to mine, as if saying, Yeah, I saw it.

My breath stumbles.

“You talk too much,” I snapped, needing to break the moment.

Azael doesn’t even flinch. If anything, his smirk deepens. “I do a lot more than just talk.”

My stomach flips. Oh. Oh no.

I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

He leans back, slow, controlled, like he’s enjoying this. “Don’t worry, princess.”

I swear my pulse trips over itself.

He holds my gaze, something dark flickering in his eyes before he murmurs, “I’ll show you soon.”

My breath catches. Excuse me?

For a second, I just stare at him, my mind short-circuiting between “Did he just say that?”and “WHY DID THAT SOUND ILLEGAL?”

But then something kicks in—some desperate need to fire back, to not let him have the last word.

I let out a breath, tilting my head. “Oh? You’ll show me?”I mock, my voice dripping with fake nonchalance. Yeah“, sure. I’ll just sit here quietly, waiting to be impressed.”

Azael chuckles. Deep. Low. Infuriating.

And then—“What’s wrong, princess? Got cold feet?”

Oh, he did not just say that, right?

I scoff, crossing my arms. “Why the hell would I be scared?”

His gaze flickers, tracing my face, reading me in that unnerving way he always does. “Your face says otherwise,”he murmurs, smug.

My fingers tighten around my scarf. Oh, he thinks he’s slick.

I let out a breath, raising a brow at him. “Well, time will tell, right? Who’s actually scared of whom?”

Azael’s smirk sharpens like he’s thoroughly entertained by my little challenge. His blue eyes gleam under the dim car lights, an unreadable intensity lurking behind them.

This man is dangerous.

I break eye contact first, turning my face toward the window—because screw him and his stupid, stupid effect on me.

After what felt like an eternity, the car rolled up to a luxury boutique, its grand exterior practically screaming “I’m expensive.” But was that what had my pulse doing somersaults? Nope. It was the man next to me.

Azael killed the engine, the hum fading into silence. The shift in his demeanour was subtle—barely there—but I felt it. It was in the way his fingers flexed against the wheel. In the way his gaze flicked to me, dark and unreadable.

I reached for my scarf, adjusting it purely for the sake of doing something. But before I could process why I even felt the need to fidget, his voice dropped—low, commanding, possessive.

“Apna dupatta theek karo, main nahi chahta jo mera hai, usey duniya dekhe.”

(Fix your dupatta. I don’t want the world to see what is mine)

I blinked. Froze. Glitched.

Mine.

That word hit like a slow-burning fire. My fingers stilled for a second before I actually obeyed, my brain short-circuiting at the sheer audacity of this man. I should’ve said something—anything—but the way he said it? Soft, absolute, like it was simply the truth? Yeah. My system crashed.

Before I could recover, Azael stepped out, making his way around the car like he owned the entire damn city. Then, in true Azael fashion, he opened my door—not as a gentlemanly gesture, but like it was an expectation. His hand extended toward me, fingers steady, firm, waiting.

I hesitated.

But the moment my fingers slipped into his, a strange warmth settled in my chest. The kind that whispered, I know this touch. Like I’d held this hand before. Like it had always been mine to hold.

And one word came to mind—safe.

Butterflies? Everywhere. My heart? A mess.

He pulled me up with ease, but his grip? It lingered. Like he wasn’t in a hurry to let go. His eyes swept over me, dark and searching, as if deciding something.

We stepped inside, and instantly, the air changed. The boutique was dripping in quiet luxury—gleaming marble floors, golden chandeliers, and the scent of pure money. The kind of place where people didn’t check price tags.

Near the entrance, a security guard straightened the moment he saw Azael, giving him a polite nod. “Welcome again, sir.” His tone held something… respectful. Familiar.

Again?

I turned to Azael, a slow smirk curving my lips. “So... you've been here before?”

Azael leaned back slightly, slipping off his black sunglasses in one smooth motion. His smirk was slow, deliberate. “Why? Curious?Princess?”

I arched my brow, tilting my head. “Just wondering if you came here with your girlfriend.”

For a brief second, his expression was unreadable. Then, with a lazy tilt of his head, he leaned in, his breath warm against my ear.

“Maybe.”

Something twisted in my chest—something I refused to name. I shoved it down, keeping my tone playful. "Then your girlfriend won’t mind?" I let my gaze flick around the boutique. “Now that the staff has seen us together… what if they tell her?”

Azael chuckled, the sound low, indulgent. “My girlfriend has given me permission.”

I faltered—just for a second. My pulse stuttered before I forced composure.

“Permission for what?”My voice was smooth, but I hated the way my curiosity slipped through.

His smirk deepened, his voice dipping into something lower, something downright sinful. “To have more than one.”

My brain short-circuited.

For a second, all I could do was stare at him, processing.

And then—

“Oh, so you collect women like you collect watches?”My smirk was sweet, but my words carried an edge of challenge.

Azael let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “No, princess. Watches are replaceable.”

His gaze dipped to mine, something flickering in those ocean-blue depths. “The ones I choose aren’t.”

A slow, dangerous warmth crept up my spine. No. Absolutely not. I refused to react to that.

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “Well, I never said I was your girlfriend.”

Azael didn’t miss a beat. His smirk sharpened as he leaned impossibly close, his voice dangerously smooth. “And I never said you were”

Silence. Thick. Charged.

A warmth curled in my stomach, crawling up my neck. I turned away, fingers toying with my scarf in a feigned display of indifference, but the smirk tugging at Azael’s lips told me he saw right through it.

Just then, a staff member approached, impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit.

“Sir, this way, please.”

Azael straightened, slipping his sunglasses into his pocket with a casual grace that only he could pull off. As he stepped forward, his fingers brushed against my wrist—a touch so brief, so deliberate, it sent a ripple of heat coursing through my veins.

And just like that, he was leading me inside, his grip firm, possessive—like he had every right to.

Scene: The Private Shopping Section

As we step into the private shopping section, the atmosphere shifts—secluded, intimate, wrapped in soft lighting that casts a golden glow over the finest collections. The scent of luxury lingers in the air—leather, expensive cologne, and a faint trace of sandalwood—blending seamlessly with the hushed elegance of the space. The polished wooden floor absorbs the soft click of my heels as Azael leads me further inside, his presence a quiet command of the room.

Within moments, a staff member approaches, their demeanor shifting with quiet professionalism.

“Please have a seat.” Their voice is smooth, practiced, as they gesture toward the plush velvet chairs arranged around a low, glass-topped table.

Azael moves first, his posture effortlessly composed as he settles into a chair, exuding the kind of authority that demands attention without a word. His gaze flickers to me, a subtle expectation lingering in the air.

I lower myself onto the seat, smoothing the fabric of my skirt as I cross my legs.

The staff member waits, hands folded neatly in front of them. Azael doesn’t waste a second. “Show her the best you have,” he commands, his tone smooth but firm.

The moment the staff leaves to fetch the selections, an almost tangible silence settles between us. I shift, suddenly aware of his gaze, sharp and unwavering. His blue eyes hold an intensity that makes the air feel warmer, heavier.

“Why are you looking at me?” I ask, my voice lighter than I feel.

Azael’s lips tilt into a slow, deliberate smile.

“Mujhe khoobsurat cheezein dekhna pasand hai.”

(I like looking at beautiful things.)

I arch a brow, crossing my arms. “Yahan itni saari khoobsurat cheezein hain. Aap udhar dekhiye.” I nod towards the neatly arranged displays, my own words laced with challenge.

(Well, there are so many beautiful things here. Look over there.)

Azael leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze locked onto mine—steady, unwavering, as if he’s memorizing every detail. His voice drops, smooth and deliberate.

“Meri nazar kabse sirf usi khoobsurat cheez pe tikki hain.”

(My gaze has been fixed oon that one beautiful thing for a long time)

My brain hadn’t even processed it yet, but my heart? My heart had already reacted. For a second, my breath caught. Then reality slapped me in the face.

I mean, seriously? How can one man be this dangerously smooth? He isn’t just lethal in looks—his words are straight-up cardiac arrest material.

So not only does he look like that, but he also drops lines like this? God, have some mercy!

I needed to say something. Something sarcastic, something witty—anything to dilute the impact of that direct hit to my chest—

But before I could, his phone vibrated against the glass table, breaking the moment.

Saved.

But one thing was clear—if he kept talking like this…

“I need to write my confession letter immediately—ON MY KNEES, PROFESSOR!”

I paused.

Wait.

Professor??

My stomach did a whole backflip. What the hell did I just say?

Oh no. Oh no no no.

I clutched my scarf in horror. I just pulled an Aria.

Before I can fully process on my own embarrassment, my attention shifted

Azael exhales, jaw tightening before he pulls out his phone. His entire demeanor shifts—his usual unshaken confidence marred by a flicker of tension.

He glances at me once, his expression unreadable. Then, pushing to his feet, he murmurs, “Take your time. Find something. I’ll be back soon.”

I watch as he strides away, his long, measured steps carrying him past the draped partition. His phone is already against his ear, his voice dropping into something low and urgent as he disappears from sight.

A small frown tugs at my brows. I’ve seen him in many shades—teasing, intense, exasperated—but this? This feels different. Something about that call unsettled him.

Before I can dwell on it, the staff returns, laying out a curated selection of pieces in front of me. Soft silks, intricate embroidery, tailored silhouettes—all exquisite.

I let my fingers brush over the delicate fabrics before glancing up. “Western wear?”

The staff nods, gesturing toward another section. “Of course, ma’am. Right this way.”

I steal a glance toward the direction Azael left, but he’s still out of sight.

I exhale slowly, pushing aside the lingering thoughts of Azael and turning my focus back to the racks in front of me. My fingers trail over a silk gown, but nothing holds my interest for long. I need something bold. Something striking.

“Show me something in red,”

I say, my voice steady.

The staff member nods. “Any specific type?”

I tilt my head, considering for a moment. “Bodycon.”

They nod again and disappear behind a concealed doorway, leaving me alone with the hushed elegance of the boutique. My gaze drifts for a second—toward the entrance Azael disappeared through—but I pull myself back, pushing away the irrational anticipation curling inside me.

A few moments later, the staff member returns, their arms draped with a selection of sleek, red bodycon dresses. Deep hues, sculpted silhouettes. My gaze sweeps over them, drawn to one in particular.

“Show me that red one,”I say, gesturing toward it.

The staff member reaches out, about to hand me the dress. Their fingers hover just above mine, barely a whisper away from touching—

“Don't touch her… unless you have a death wish.”

The voice cuts through the air, sharp as steel, laced with a quiet, simmering threat.

A heavy silence crashes over the room. The subtle hum of background music, the faint rustle of fabric—everything dies in an instant.

The staff member jerks back as if burned, their hands trembling as they drop the dress, letting it crumple onto the floor like it had suddenly caught fire.

A hush spreads through the boutique. Every other staff member freezes, their eyes darting toward the source of the voice.

Something in my chest tightens, an eerie stillness wrapping around me. Slowly, I turn.

And there he is

Standing near the entrance, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched tight. His stormy blue eyes lock onto me, ablaze with an intensity humourlesss a shiver down my spine.

The air around him crackles, his fury so palpable that it weighs down the entire room.

A tense beat follows, the silence so thick it’s suffocating. Then, one of the staff members quickly steps forward, their voice trembling slightly.

“S-Sorry, sir. I’ll call a lady staff member right away—”

“No one has the right to touch her.” Azael’s voice cuts through, low and final.

A dead silence follows.

The weight of his words settles over the room like a heavy storm cloud. Every staff member lowers their gaze, their postures stiff, as if afraid to even breathe wrong in his presence.

And then, he moves.

Each step is slow, deliberate. I feel his presence before I even see him right beside me. Without a word, he crouches, his fingers brushing against the fabric as he picks up the same red dress that had been abandoned on the floor.

The air shifts.

With effortless ease, he lifts the dress and holds it up to me, aligning it against my body.

My breath catches in my throat.

The soft material aligns with my frame, the touch featherlight but undeniably intimate. His knuckles graze my arm—light, fleeting, but enough to send a sharp jolt through me. My pulse pounds at the base of my throat, erratic and loud.

And then, just when I think he’s done, he leans in.

His breath—warm, teasing—fans against my ear as he murmurs, “Only I can.”

A slow shiver runs down my spine. My fingers tighten at my sides. A thousand butterflies erupt in my stomach, their wings fluttering wildly against my ribs.

I try to form a coherent thought, but my mind betrays me, drowning in the pull of his presence, in the heat that lingers where his touch had been.

Ughhh… Why does he always have to say things like this?

I can already hear my own frustrated voice in my head, muttering at myself—

Is it normal to forget how to breathe just because someone speaks?

As soon as Azael pulls the dress away, I feel the weight of reality settle back onto me, snapping me out of whatever daze I had fallen into. My breath, which I hadn't even realized I'd been holding, escapes in a slow, uneven exhale. The warmth of his touch still lingers like an imprint against my skin, but his movements are effortless—casual, as if he hadn’t just stolen the air from my lungs.

I blink rapidly, forcing myself to focus as he hands the dress to the staff member. My pulse is still erratic, but I push past it, straightening my posture, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

“Pack this.” I heard him saying, his voice is calm, but there’s an unspoken finality to it.

The staff members exchange uneasy glances before one of them quickly nods.

“O-Okay, sir.” They bow their heads slightly before hurrying away.

I exhale sharply, trying to shake off the heat crawling up my spine. This was too much. Completely unnecessary.

“That was unnecessary,” I say, my voice laced with irritation. “He was just handing me the dress, not—”

Azael cuts me off, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You mean, not touching you?”

I fold my arms, tilting my head slightly. “Yes.”

He lets out a quiet, humorless chuckle before stepping closer, his presence overwhelming. “So, I was supposed to wait for him to touch you before doing something about it?”

I open my mouth to argue, but before I can say anything, Azael cuts in smoothly.

“Maaz called.”

His voice is composed, but there's something unreadable in his expression. “Aria is coming with him to pick you up. I'll be leaving with Maaz, and you two can head home directly from the salon.”

I stared at him, my mind still tangled in his earlier words, in the way he effortlessly stole my breath just seconds ago. But now, just like that, he was back to being composed, unreadable.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to push past the lingering weight of his statement.

Azael Khan was impossible.

And I hated that I didn’t know whether I wanted to run from him or toward him.