“Again.”

I looked at my cousin in disbelief. “We’ve been practicing for two hours.”

“And you still missed the step.”

“I missed it because your choreography is horrible.”

“That’s rude,” she gasped dramatically before turning toward the boys. “Aryan, explain to her that she’s the problem.”

Worst possible person she could’ve picked.

My eyes lifted automatically—

and found him already looking at me.

This time in navy blue shirt.

Sleeves folded.

Gold watch glinting under the warm fairy lights while he leaned lazily against the DJ table like he had absolutely no business looking that attractive during a stupid family dance rehearsal.

“I think she’s distracted,” he said calmly.

The way his eyes stayed on mine while saying it made heat crawl slowly up my neck.

“I’m not distracted.”

His smirk deepened slightly.

“Then look at me while dancing.”

Dangerous sentence.

Especially because he said it softly.

Like it was meant only for me.

Before I could answer, my cousin shoved me toward the center of the stage. “Perfect. Aryan will practice with her.”

Absolutely not.

But apparently nobody cared about my opinion because music started again instantly.

Aryan walked toward me slowly before placing one hand lightly on my waist.

My entire body stiffened.

Not because the touch was inappropriate.

Because it felt too natural.

Too easy.

His fingers spread slightly against the fabric of my lehenga while his other hand caught mine effortlessly.

“Relax,” he murmured.

Easy for him to say.

He wasn’t the one trying to breathe normally while standing this close.

“You’re overthinking.”

“You’re standing too close.”

“That’s usually how couple dances work.”

Couple.

The word alone nearly ruined my heartbeat.

The music slowed.

Aryan pulled me slightly closer to guide the next step and my body reacted instantly to the warmth of his chest brushing near mine.

God.

He smelled unfairly good.

Expensive perfume.

Smoke.

Something masculine enough to stay inside my head long after he walked away.

“You keep going quiet around me,” he said softly.

I avoided his eyes immediately. “Maybe I don’t like talking.”

“That’s not true.”

I looked up finally. “And how would you know?”

His thumb moved slowly against my waist.

Tiny movement.

Still enough to make my stomach tighten.

“Because,” he said quietly, lowering his face slightly toward mine, “people who don’t like talking don’t look at someone the way you look at me.”

My breath got stuck somewhere inside my chest.

He noticed that too?

The music continued around us.

Family members laughed nearby.

Nobody was paying attention.

Yet somehow standing there with Aryan felt more intimate than being alone with anyone else ever had.

His hand tightened slightly on my waist when I missed another step.

“Focus.”

“I am focused.”

“No,” he murmured near my ear. “You’re thinking about the fact that my hand is on your waist.”

Heat exploded across my face instantly.

I tried stepping back.

His grip stopped me easily.

Not rough.

Just firm enough to make my pulse lose control again.

“Aryan—”

“You get nervous every time I touch you,” he said softly.

“And you enjoy that too much.”

A low laugh escaped him.

God.

Even that sound felt dangerous.

“Maybe.” His gaze dropped briefly toward my lips before returning to my eyes again. “Or maybe I just like seeing what affects you.”