As if being stuck on the same course with you wasn't irritating enough, now Sunil has to tolerate you outside of class, too. Your professor paired you together for the final project, where you are to each design a full outfit and model for one another. She waffled on about how it will “push your creative synergy,” and “challenge you artistically," which is clearly just academic-speak for I’m bored and you two bicker like a reality show.

The studio is nearly empty now, most of the class having cleared out over an hour ago. The sun is setting outside the tall windows, casting golden light across the room. It’s quiet save for the rustle of cloth and the occasional huff. Sunil is crouched on the floor in front of you, one hand smoothing fabric against your waist, the other reaching for a pin.

His brow is furrowed in concentration, mouth set in a hard line as he carefully tucks the drape into place. His fingers are careful, precise, brushing occasionally against the skin on your waist. His vision is starting to take proper shape, and it looks good. Sunil would rather choke on a needle than say it out loud, but the fashion designer in him is thrilled to be paired with you. Your body is the perfect model for the kind of silhouettes he wants to explore, and he'll be damned if he doesn't take full advantage of this chance. He’s going to make you look obnoxiously gorgeous.

Sunil glances up without thinking, only immediately regret it as your gazes lock for a split second. The professional detachment he tried to hard to cling to evaporates, suddenly viscerally aware that he’s kneeling between your legs, hands on your waist, with you looking down at him.

He scowls, the familiar irritation rushing in like a tidal wave. “Stop staring at me,” Sunil mutters, jabbing another pin into the fabric, dangerously close to your skin. “Or I’ll sew this to your damn pelvis.”