After what felt like the longest, most nerve-wracking bike ride of her life, Ishani finally let out a deep sigh of relief.
"Phew, finally... we arrived."
She quickly swung her leg off the bike, tugging at her clothes and smoothing out the wrinkles.
Harsh turned off the engine, his amused voice cutting through the soft hum of the street.
"Tough ride, isn't it?"
Ishani frowned, still adjusting her outfit. "Are my clothes that bad from the ride?"
"Not your clothes," he said, eyes glinting under the dim neon lights. "Your hair."
"What—" She hurried to the bike's rear mirror, instantly catching sight of her messy strands. Her fingers flew to her hair, combing through it frantically. "Mary will kill me if she sees me like this!"
Harsh leaned back slightly, watching her with quiet amusement. She was so close now — close enough that he could smell the faint, fresh scent of rosemary from her shampoo. It clung to the air between them, soft and warm.
His voice dropped to a murmur, almost to himself.
"Rosemary… I like it."
She paused, meeting his gaze through the reflection. "What?"
He blinked and quickly looked away. "Nothing. Let's go inside."
He switched off the bike completely, pulled the keys from the ignition, and reached for her bag. Handing it to her, he gave a small half-smile.
"You're perfectly alright. Except…"
Ishani tilted her head. "Except.....what?"
Harsh's eyes flickered to her lips — the faint smudge of her nude lipstick at the corner. Without saying another word, he lifted his hand and gently brushed his thumb against it. The touch was feather-light but enough to make her breath hitch.
Before either of them could react further, a deep voice boomed from behind them.
"Hey, lover boy! It's time to work, not romance!"
Ishani jumped slightly, startled. Harsh turned, unbothered, spotting a broad-shouldered man standing at the entrance — the owner of Blue Cross Bar.
Harsh's lips curved into a small smirk as he stepped back from her. "Coming, champ!"
He gave Ishani a reassuring pat on the head — almost teasing, almost protective.
"You're fine now."
And with that, he jogged toward the man, while Ishani followed, still trying to process the warmth lingering on her lips and the faint scent of rosemary in the air.
The moment Ishu stepped past the glass doors, her breath hitched.
From outside, Blue Cross had looked like just another small neighborhood bar — but inside, it was something else entirely.
Golden chandeliers shimmered above, casting waves of amber light across the polished floors. The left wall was dominated by a marble bar counter, its shelves lined with rows upon rows of expensive liquor bottles glinting like jewels. To the right, plush seating and costly abstract paintings filled the space, radiating wealth and indulgence.
She stood there, speechless.
A sharp snap in front of her face pulled her back.
"Beautiful?"
The voice carried a faint Italian accent — deep, rough, and teasing.
It was the same man who had shouted at Harsh earlier: broad-shouldered, with sharp eyes and an aura that screamed authority.
"If your admiration is over," he said dryly, "let's get to work."
Ishani quickly nodded, suppressing the nervous flutter in her chest.
He gestured for her to follow, leading her past the gleaming bar and the maze of tables.
"This," he said, pointing to the reception desk, "is where every bill and customer are noted. But this—" he looked at her briefly "—is not where you'll work."
He walked her past the tables next.
"This is the serving area. Food, tips, guests. Not your place either."
Ishani blinked, confusion flickering into annoyance. What was this? A tour or a test?
Finally, he led her toward the bar counter.
"And this is where your boyfriend works. You, on the other hand—"
That was it.
"Wait."
Her tone was sharp enough to make him stop mid-sentence.
Ishani crossed her arms, her patience snapping.
"I don't know what you think about me, but listen carefully. Harsh told me you'd offer a job as a stock refiller — and I know exactly what that means. Are you looking down on me because I'm an Indian?! And by the way—" she stepped closer, eyes blazing "—Harsh is not my boyfriend!"
Her voice echoed through the room, loud enough for a few staff members to pause mid-task.
Before she could go on, a hand covered her mouth.
Harsh.
"Chip!" he hissed under his breath, pulling her gently aside.
Her words came muffled against his palm. "What does he even think—"
"Shh." He took a slow breath. "Take a deep breath, okay?"
She glared up at him but finally inhaled, her shoulders easing as he removed his hand.
"Cool now?"
"Barely," she muttered, crossing her arms again.
Harsh exhaled in relief, his tone softening.
"Champ isn't a bad guy, Chip. He loves Indians — his wife's one too. He just… doesn't know how to talk to people, especially girls. He wasn't trying to insult you. He just wanted to show you around so you'd get comfortable here."
Ishani stared at him, watching the sincerity in his eyes. The way he stood — half between her and the world — made something warm twist in her chest.
Her anger faded, replaced by something quieter… something she didn't want to name yet.
"Fine," she said finally, sighing. "But if he tries that again—"
"—I'll handle it," Harsh interrupted with a small smile.
She rolled her eyes, but couldn't stop the corner of her lips from curling.
While Ishani and Harsh were still talking near the bar station, a small, hesitant voice interrupted them.
"I know you are upset…"
They both turned to see Champ — the intimidating owner from before — now standing there with the saddest expression, like a child caught stealing cookies. His towering, bossy demeanor had vanished, replaced with soft, almost guilty eyes.
"I just don't want you to leave like the last one did," he said quietly, staring down at the floor.
Ishani's fiery heart instantly melted. She sighed, her irritation dissolving.
"Champ sir," she said gently, "I don't know what your last worker thought, but I really like this place. And I like you too. If you're bad at talking, then maybe it's time you start listening to the other person."
Champ blinked, almost surprised by her sincerity, then slowly nodded.
"Then… shall I take you to your workplace?" he asked softly, reaching out and holding her hand as if she were made of glass.
Before Ishani could answer, Harsh stepped in between them, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"No, Champ. It's alright. I'll take her."
He gently guided ishani away toward the bar station.
"Wait," ishani said, half-turning to look at Champ's still-sad face. "He was actually trying to be nice this time. What happened?"
Harsh exhaled, half amused, half serious.
"I know, chip. You're trying to give him a chance to improve, but… this is not the right time."
ishani frowned.
"Why?"
"Follow me," Harsh said simply.
He led her through a small doorway behind the counter that spiraled downward — a narrow staircase leading to the dimly lit basement. The air grew cooler as they descended. Rows of wooden shelves stretched across the room, filled with bottles of wine and whiskey gleaming under a dull amber light.
"This," Harsh said, waving his hand dramatically, "is your battlefield."
PP's eyes widened. "Wow…"
"Champ loves this place," Harsh continued.
"But he has one small problem."
Ishani looked up. "Problem?"
Harsh turned to her with a perfectly straight face.
"He can't handle glassware."
She blinked, processing. Then let out a short laugh.
"Haha—what? You're kidding."
"Nope." Harsh shook his head solemnly.
"Believe it or not, he broke thirteen bottles just on his way upstairs last week."
Ishani's mouth fell open. "Thirteen?! Oh my god—he'd go bankrupt before the customers even show up."
Harsh snapped his fingers, pointing at her.
"Exactly what I said."
Ishani chuckled again, shaking her head.
"So," Harsh continued, "your job's simple. Refill this stock every week, and keep the counter upstairs supplied when they run out. That's it."
"That's it?" she repeated, a little surprised. "How much does it pay?"
Harsh thought for a moment, adjusting a few bottles into perfect rows.
"He agreed to twenty Canadian dollars per hour."
Ishani went silent for a while in shock and surprise.
He glanced at her. "Why? Is that not enough? Should I talk to him?"
Ishani immediately grabbed his arm.
"No, no! That's more than reasonable. Really—it's fine."
Her grip lingered a little longer than necessary, and Harsh's lips curved into a small smile.
They climbed back upstairs, their footsteps echoing softly. Harsh reached the top first and turned, extending his hand down to her.
"You think I can't come up on my own?" she teased, playfully smacking his hand away.
Harsh grinned. "Suit yourself."
Ishani was almost at the last step when her foot slipped on the smooth edge.
"Ah—!"
In an instant, Harsh moved. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her against his chest, the other shielding her head as a glass plate slipped from a nearby shelf and shattered against his hand.
The sound cracked through the silence — sharp and violent.
Shards scattered across the floor.
Ishani froze, eyes shut, her heart pounding against his chest. She could smell the faint mix of soap and cologne on his shirt, feel the tension in his muscles.
"You okay?" Harsh's voice was low, controlled, but his jaw clenched from the pain of the cut.
Ishani opened her eyes, still pressed against him, her breath shaky.
"You—your hand—"
He smirked softly, brushing off the sting.
"Told you to hold on tight, didn't I?"
Ishani stared in horror at the crimson streak running down Harsh's hand. A few drops of blood splattered onto her cheek — warm, vivid, and shocking against her skin.
Before she could even react, Champ came rushing over like a frantic father hen.
"Oh my girl hotpot! You're bleeding—oh god, your face—someone call an ambulance!"
He fumbled for his phone, panic written all over his face.
"No ambulance, Champ," Harsh said quickly, his voice calm despite the blood dripping from his hand. "She's fine. I'm the one bleeding."
Champ froze, glancing between the two of them — Ishani's shocked face streaked with his blood, and Harsh's steady composure.
Ishani wiped her cheek with trembling fingers and looked down at the red stains on her palm. Her stomach twisted. In the next heartbeat, she was at his side.
"Harsh! Are you—are you crazy?!" she shouted, her voice breaking between fear and anger. "You shouldn't have stopped it like that!"
Harsh tilted his head, half-smiling despite the pain.
"Then your head would be bleeding instead of my hand," he said softly. "I'm alright, Chip. Don't worry."
"Don't you dare tell me not to worry!" she snapped, eyes blazing.
Before he could pull away, she grabbed his injured hand firmly, ignoring his protest.
"No, this needs to be disinfected immediately! Do you have any alcohol?!"
Harsh looked around the bar, raising an eyebrow.
"You're seriously asking that here?"
Her glare could cut glass.
"Shut up, I meant ethyl alcohol—or sanitizer—or a first aid fucking box, for god's sake!"
For once, Harsh went silent.
"I—I'll get it!" Champ stammered, sprinting toward the back room.
In the tense silence that followed, Ishani pressed her palm gently against Harsh's wound, trying to slow the bleeding. Her touch was warm and steady, and despite the sharp sting, Harsh found himself watching her face instead of the wound — the way her brows furrowed in concentration, the trembling in her lower lip.
Champ returned, panting, holding out a small box and a bottle.
"No bandage, but I found ethyl alcohol!"
Ishani snatched it from him and immediately tore a corner of her kerchief. She poured the alcohol on her kerchief and pressed over Harsh's wound.
He hissed under his breath, his fingers twitching.
"It's going to sting," she warned softly, biting her lip as she cleaned the gash. "Just a little more…"
Then she wrapped the kerchief tightly around his palm, tying it into a knot with careful fingers.
"There," she murmured, looking up at him. "It should stop bleeding soon. You okay?"
Her face was drawn with worry, eyes glistening faintly under the bar's golden lights.
Harsh looked at her — really looked at her — the girl who had come to Canada chasing a dream, now holding his wounded hand like it was something precious.
"Yeah," he said finally, a small smile curving his lips. "Better than okay."