Inaya

The rain falls harder at the bus stand, turning crueller by the minute if it were mocking me for wasting my time and waiting here. I pull my jacket tighter against myself, shivering as the cold seeps through the tiny denim of it.

The sky was completely dark now, thick clouds covering every trace of starlight. Even the moonlight barely managed to slip through, fading quickly into the weight of the night.

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my jeans, and I pull it out to see Rooh's text,

"Sorry :(((( Please don't be mad at me!! Stay safe!"

This was her third apology in the past hour, and she refused to let it even though I told her it was fine.

I should've known. I mean, if Rooh was going to see Avi, she would obviously go everywhere with him. I should've figured that she'll be going home with him. And I should have left for home earlier than waiting around for her.

Now I'm questioning why I even slipped out of the comfort of my bed, just to accompany Rooh to a stupid college fest. Had I figured out her intentions earlier, I wouldn't have come here in the first place.

But I can't blame her either. She's in love. Deep, pure, heartwarming love.

I glance around the bus stand again, searching for any lights beyond the faint ones flickering above my head. The bus should have been here by now, yet the road ahead remains swallowed in darkness. The rain pours harder, drumming against the tin roof of the shelter and bouncing off the uneven pavement. A damp chill seeps through my clothes, and I pull my arms around myself, watching the heavy downpour blur the world beyond. I breathe out a quiet sigh, the sound barely audible beneath the storm.

Great. I'm stuck here until god knows when.

Minutes drag by, each one heavier than the rain that keeps pouring over the silent street. Then, at last, a pair of lights breaks through the curtain of water. Relief flickers in my chest. I straighten, clutching my bag a little tighter.

But the shape that emerges is nothing like the heavy bulk I was waiting for. Sleek lines glisten beneath the storm, the kind of car that looks out of place on an empty street like this, black and polished, the body catching flashes of silver where the rain strikes and slides away. It moves with a quiet confidence, slowing as it reaches me, the engine a low, steady hum.

The headlights spill across the deserted pavement, pulling long shadows around me.

Not the bus. Something else. Someone else.

For a moment, I don't move, caught between hope and unease. Cars like this don't stop for people like me, not at a bus stand at midnight, not in weather that makes even the street dogs vanish. My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag as the window begins to lower, the motion slow, deliberate.

A shiver runs through me. I half expect a stranger's face, some shadow I shouldn't trust in the dark. My pulse quickens, a warning knocking hard against my ribs.

Then the dim glow from inside catches a familiar profile. My breath stutters.

Aditya.

The last person I imagined would find me here.

The glass lowers fully, rain hissing against the car's sleek frame. His eyes find mine, steady even in the fractured glow of the streetlight.

His voice is low, rougher as always, cutting through the storm like it belongs there. "What the fuck are you doing out here alone?"

For a beat, I can't answer. My throat tightens around the words, the shock of his presence tangling with the cold that's already seeped into my bones. Part of me wants to step back, to put distance between us, but my legs stay rooted to the wet pavement.

Of all the faces I could have seen tonight, it had to be his.

I swallow, forcing my voice to sound steady. "Waiting for the bus."

His gaze flicks to the empty road, then back to me. The silence between us stretches, heavy, before he speaks again, sharper this time. "Get in."

I shake my head, tightening my grip on my bag. "No. I'll wait."

His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking. Then his words cut through the rain like steel. "Either you get your ass in the passenger seat in five seconds, or I'll drag you in myself."

The threat lingers in the air, sharp enough to drown out even the roar of the storm. My breath fogs in front of me, uneven, as I search his face for a crack, for some hint that he's bluffing. But Aditya doesn't bluff. Not when his eyes look like that, dark and fixed, the kind of gaze that leaves no room for refusal.

My fingers curl tighter around the strap of my bag until it bites into my palm. I want to say no. I want to tell him I don't need his help, not tonight, not ever. But the street around me is deserted, the shadows too long, the rain pressing down in sheets heavy enough to make me shiver. The bus isn't coming. I know it. And he knows I know it.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, fighting the urge to retreat. Every part of me resists stepping closer, resists giving him that ground. Yet the cold gnaws deeper, and the thought of standing out here alone until morning makes my stomach twist.

"Five seconds," he says again, quieter this time but firmer, like a final warning.

My pulse stumbles. The stubborn part of me wants to wait him out, to call his bluff even if it means standing here all night just to prove a point. But another part, the one tired of shivering, tired of being left behind, knows better.

I drag in a shaky breath, my throat tight, and take a small step forward. Then another. The car looms closer, the polished surface catching streaks of rainlight. My hand hovers just above the handle, trembling with hesitation.

I close my eyes for half a second, force the air from my lungs, and wrap my fingers around the cold metal.

I slip inside. The leather seat is cold against my damp clothes, the door closing with a soft thud that feels too final. The rain fades to a muted hiss on the roof, leaving only the hum of the engine and the pounding in my chest.

I keep my gaze fixed on the windshield, on the blur of water streaking down the glass, anything but him. The air between us is thick, heavy with things unsaid, with memories I've spent months trying to bury.

He doesn't speak. Neither do I. The silence stretches, taut and unyielding, until it feels like it might snap. And still, I can feel it, the weight of him beside me, the sharp edge of his presence filling every corner of the car.

The wipers drag across the windshield, sweeping the rain aside in harsh, rhythmic strokes. I focus on the motion, willing it to drown out the silence pressing between us.

Then his voice cuts through, low and even, but edged like a blade.
"Why are you stranded out here alone in the middle of the night?"

The question makes me flinch, though I try not to show it. His tone isn't gentle, not concerned, it's interrogative, demanding, as though my being here is some kind of crime. I clutch the strap of my bag in my lap, my knuckles pale.

"I wasn't supposed to be," I say quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them. "Plans changed."

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the flicker of his jaw tightening, but he doesn't respond right away. The car feels smaller with each second that passes, like the walls are closing in, and I can't tell if it's the storm outside or him that makes it harder to breathe.

His hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles pale against the leather. "Plans changed," he repeats, flat, as if testing the excuse on his tongue. His eyes flick toward me, steady and unyielding. "That's not an answer."

Heat creeps up my neck, though the air inside the car is cool. I press my lips together, staring at the rain sliding down the glass.

He doesn't let up. "Who were you supposed to be with?"

The question lands heavy, like he already knows I don't want to say it. My silence is enough to make him scoff, quiet but sharp, before he asks again, harder this time.

"Who left you out here?"

My chest tightens. I clutch my bag closer, wishing I could disappear into the seat. "Rooh," I mutter, barely more than a whisper.

He doesn't answer right away. No sharp remark, no scolding, just silence, heavy and watchful. His calmness unsettles me more than if he'd snapped.

I shift in my seat, fingers worrying at the strap of my bag. "I was supposed to stay at Rooh's tonight. That was the plan. My father thinks I'm there." The words scrape out, softer than I intend. "But she... she went off with her boyfriend. And now," I let out a shaky breath. "Now I'm practically homeless for the night."

His silence presses harder, unbroken except for the hum of the engine and the hiss of rain against the roof.

"So I called Kaynaaz, but she's working a late shift at the hospital. Said she couldn't let me in. I even asked about Kyra, but she hasn't been home all day." My voice drops, the admission tasting bitter. "And when I tried Rooh again, she just told me she was going home with him."

The seat feels smaller, the air heavier, as the truth tumbles out. "So I waited. For the bus. But it never came. And I couldn't... I couldn't go home." My throat tightens around the last words. "Not like this."

I glance at him, half-expecting judgment, half-dreading what I'll see. But Aditya's profile remains composed, calm in a way that makes my chest tighten even more.

For a long moment, he doesn't speak. Just the wipers, the rain, the steady hum of the car filling the silence. Then, at last, his voice cuts through, calm, but edged.

"So she left you out in the middle of the night."

It isn't a question. More like a verdict.

Heat creeps up my neck, shame and anger tangling in my chest. "I told you, I had nowhere else to go."

His eyes flick toward me briefly before returning to the road, unreadable. "And not one of them thought about that."

I press my lips together, fighting the urge to defend them. "Kaynaaz was working. Kyra wasn't home. Rooh..." I trail off, biting back the bitterness. "I didn't want to bother them. Everyone has their own problems."

The words taste hollow even as I say them, flimsy against the quiet weight of his silence. My fingers twist the strap of my bag tighter, as though it could anchor me.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue. The calm in his profile is unnerving, like he's holding back more than he's saying.

I shift in my seat, clutching the strap of my bag tighter, but I don't speak. Neither does he. It feels almost safer this way, two strangers sharing the same silence, pretending the weight between them doesn't exist. Pretending the years, the arguments, the fracture, all of it isn't still sitting here with us.

Minutes stretch, long and uneven, until I lose track of how far we've driven. My body aches from the cold, my eyelids heavy, but my nerves keep me from sinking into it. I keep my gaze fixed on the blur of rain-streaked glass, too aware of him beside me, too aware of how close I am to unravelling.

Then, just when the silence has almost settled into something unbearable, his voice cuts through. Low. Smooth. Almost careless.

"Stay at my place tonight."

No hesitation. No room for negotiation. He says it as if it's already decided, like he's stating a fact instead of offering me a choice.

The words hit harder than they should. My breath catches, a rush of heat rising beneath my skin. I turn to him, searching his face for some hint of irony, some trace of the sharpness he usually keeps in reserve. But his expression doesn't change. Calm. Composed. Absolute.

My throat tightens. The words scrape out before I can stop them. "No. I'm not staying with you."

He doesn't look at me, doesn't even flinch. Just drives on, calm as ever.

"I'll figure something out," I add quickly, the desperation in my voice making me wince. "I can call someone again. Or... or wait it out at the stand until morning. I don't need,"

"Inaya." His tone is sharp enough to slice through my rambling. My mouth snaps shut.

Finally, he glances at me, his eyes dark and unyielding. "It's past midnight. It's storming. You have no one else to call, no bus, and no way home. Tell me," his voice drops lower, clipped, steady, "do you think it's safe for you to wander around this city alone right now?"

The words sink into me like ice.

"I'll manage," I whisper, though it sounds weak even to my own ears.

His hands flex on the wheel. "No, you won't." There's no heat in his voice, no anger, just fact. Cold, final. "You don't have a choice, Inaya. Not tonight."

The silence that follows is louder than the rain. My chest rises and falls too fast, my pride warring with the undeniable truth in his words. And for the first time since getting into the car, I can't bring myself to argue.

The rest of the drive passes in silence, stretched tight as a wire. I sit rigid in the seat, my bag clutched in my lap like it could shield me from him, from this. Every streetlamp they pass throws fleeting shadows across his profile—strong, composed, unreadable.

My mind spins with half-formed protests, ways to claw back control of the night, but none of them hold up against the storm outside or the weight of his certainty. He hasn't said another word since his reality check, and somehow that unsettles me more than anything.

When the car finally slows, my stomach twists. We turn into a gated complex, the sleek outline of buildings looming against the rain-smeared dark. The tires crunch softly over wet gravel until he pulls into an empty slot and cuts the engine. The sudden hush rings in my ears, louder than the storm.

I stare straight ahead, pulse hammering. "I didn't agree to this," I mutter, voice hoarse.

At last, he looks at me. Calm, steady, unyielding. "You didn't have to."

The apartment light flickers on as he opens his door. Rain rushes in, cold and sharp. He doesn't wait for me to move, doesn't coax or threaten, just assumes I'll follow. And the worst part is, he's right.

His apartment greets me the same way it did a year ago, sleek, ordered, untouched by time. Nothing has changed, not the cool grey walls or the way the lights fall soft and dim across the living room. Even the stack of books on the coffee table, the framed sketch on the wall, they're all still there.

And yet, it feels colder. Like the air itself has stiffened, like the space remembers what we were and is punishing me with the familiarity of it. I know that if I moved through the rooms, I'd find everything exactly where it used to be—his kitchen knives lined with military precision, his desk scattered with neat piles of papers, the blanket folded over the edge of the couch.

It's the sameness that unsettles me most. A year has passed, and still, his world looks untouched, while mine has shifted and broken.

Left alone for a moment, I let my gaze drift across the apartment. The sameness presses on me, books still stacked neatly on the coffee table, the armchair angled just so, the faint scent of the same cologne lingering in the air. A year gone, and yet I could close my eyes and know exactly where everything is, as if no time had passed at all.

I move without thinking, fingertips brushing the edge of the shelf where his records are lined in careful order. My chest tightens at the sight of the one I used to play on repeat, the sleeve worn at the corner. I take half a step back, suddenly aware of what I'm doing, but it's too late.

"You still snoop around," Aditya's voice cuts through the silence. He's leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching me like I've disturbed something sacred.

"I wasn't—" I start, flustered, then bite down on the words. "It's not snooping. It's just... nothing's changed."

His eyes narrow, unreadable in the dim light. "Is that disappointment I hear? Or relief?"

The question coils in the air, sharp, unfair, tugging at things I don't want to name. "It just feels strange," I mutter, setting the record back in its place. "Like stepping into a memory I shouldn't touch."

That's when the air shifts. The cold quiet thickens, heavy with everything we never said. My pulse hammers as the distance between us seems to shrink, as if the apartment itself is conspiring to push us closer.

I set my bag down carefully, as if the sound of it hitting the floor too hard might shatter the fragile quiet. Aditya moves past me, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it onto the arm of the couch with casual ease. Like this is nothing. Like I'm not standing here, trespassing on a life I swore I'd never touch again.

"You can take the bedroom," he says flatly, already heading toward the kitchen. "I'll use the couch."

The words feel too easy, too practised. I swallow. "I won't stay long. Just until the storm passes."

His back stiffens, but he doesn't turn. "You always say that."

My chest tightens. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Now he does look at me, his gaze sharp in the dim light. "It means you're good at walking away, Inaya. At making promises you don't keep."

The air in my lungs burns. "That's not fair."

He laughs, low and bitter. "Fair? You swore forever. Remember? Then you folded the second, your father told you to."

My heart lurches. "You think it was that simple? You think I wanted to..."

"You didn't fight." His words cut through mine, precise and brutal. "Not for me. Not for us."

I step forward before I realise it, anger breaking through the fear that had weighed me down all night. "You think I didn't want to fight? You think I don't live with that choice every day? You weren't the one standing in front of my father, hearing him say I had to choose between you and my family." My voice cracks on the last word, but I don't stop. "So don't you dare tell me I didn't care."

He's closer now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, the tension between us coiled so tight it hurts. "If you cared, you would have chosen me. End of story."

The words hit like a blade. And before I can stop myself, my palm arcs through the air and connects with his cheek, the sharp sound splintering the silence.

For a heartbeat, the world is frozen, the rain outside, the air between us, even my own pulse. His head tilts slightly from the blow, but his eyes never leave mine.

The sharp crack still rings in my ears, louder than the storm outside. My palm stings, but the ache in my chest is worse. His head is turned slightly, a red mark blooming across his cheek, yet he doesn't flinch, doesn't raise his voice, doesn't even move.

And for a breathless second, I hate him for it.

Because if he shouted, if he fought back, if he gave me a reason to armour myself in anger, I wouldn't feel this hollow. I wouldn't feel like the villain in a story I never meant to write.

I tell myself I had no choice, that my father's voice had been a cage, that the weight of family had pinned me down until breaking that promise was the only way to breathe. I tell myself Aditya never understood what it meant to live in that house, to carry expectations sharp enough to cut.

But another part of me knows it isn't the whole truth. Because I could have fought harder. I could have risked it all for him. For us.

Maybe the slap wasn't for what he said just now. Maybe it was for every reminder of the girl I used to be, the girl who swore forever and then shattered it with a single choice.

My vision blurs, the room warping at the edges. Hot tears rise unbidden, sliding past the defences I've held all night. I blink hard, but they keep coming, until I'm staring at him through a haze of salt and regret.

And he just stands there, silent, eyes locked on mine, making it impossible to hide.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. My breath trembles, uneven, as the tears slip down unchecked. I expect him to stay cold, to meet my weakness with silence the way he always does.

But then his eyes shift. The sharpness dulls, softening in a way that feels far more dangerous than anger ever could. It's the look I remember from before everything fell apart, the one that made me believe forever was real.

His gaze lingers on my face, on the tears tracing their way down, and his voice comes low, rough, almost reverent.

"Every time you cry, Inaya... it makes me forget all of it. The anger, the promises, the years in between, everything. All I can see is you."

His voice is low, rough at the edges, like the words are dragged out of him against his will. "You have no idea what you've done to me."

The ache in his tone splinters something inside me. I part my lips to speak, to defend myself, to apologise, to say anything, but the words tangle in my throat.

And before I can gather the scattered words trembling at the edge of my lips, he closes the distance in a single breath. His nearness steals the air from my lungs, the warmth of his body cutting through the cold that's clung to me all night.

His hand rises slowly, almost uncertain, brushing the air beside my cheek before hovering just shy of my skin. He hesitates for the briefest heartbeat, his eyes searching mine as if daring me to stop him. But I can't move, I'm rooted to the spot, trembling beneath the weight of what's about to happen.

Then the hesitation breaks. His fingers slide against my jaw, firm and grounding, and his mouth crashes onto mine.

The kiss is nothing gentle. It's fierce, aching, desperate, like he's trying to pour every unsaid word, every broken promise, every year of silence back into me. His lips are warm and demanding, parting mine with a force that sets my pulse roaring in my ears. My hands clench at my sides, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer, closer, until the ache between us finally quiets.

The world tilts, blurs. The storm outside fades to nothing, the sting in my palm forgotten, even the burn of tears dissolves into the heat of his mouth. All that exists is the press of him, unyielding and consuming, reminding me of everything I swore I'd never allow again.

But the lie crumbles the moment my hands move of their own accord, fisting in the fabric of his shirt. The heat of him seeps through the cotton, burning against my palms as I tug him closer, erasing what little space was left between us.

He answers instantly, his grip tightening at my waist, pulling me flush against him. The force of it steals the last of my restraint, and I melt into him, the kiss deepening until it's no longer just lips and breath, it's years of anger, loss, and longing bleeding out in frantic gasps.

His mouth moves over mine with a hunger I remember too well, fierce and consuming, every stroke of his lips a demand, every clash of teeth a reminder of what we once had. My breath hitches when his thumb brushes beneath my jaw, tilting my face to him like he refuses to let me hide.

The taste of him is familiar, maddening, like a memory I've tried to bury but could never forget. I respond in kind, my fingers curling tighter into his shirt until I'm almost clinging, my body betraying every wall I built. The storm outside thrashes against the windows, wild and relentless, but inside, it's nothing compared to the storm breaking open between us.

For a heartbeat, there's no past, no father's demands, no shattered promises. Just us, raw and desperate, lost in the fire we swore we'd never touch again.

And God help me, I don't want to stop.

His hand slides from my jaw down to the curve of my neck, his thumb pressing lightly against my racing pulse as if he wants to feel the proof of what he's doing to me. The kiss deepens, hotter, rougher, until my head spins. I tug at his shirt helplessly, dragging him down to me, and he answers with a low sound in his throat that makes my knees weaken.

When his other hand splays across my back, pulling me tighter against him, I gasp into his mouth. The sound only fuels him, his lips claiming mine harder, his teeth grazing in a way that makes my breath stutter. My fingers, almost without thought, slide up to his shoulders, clutching, needing him closer even as my mind screams at me to stop.

The fire builds, scorching, dangerous, and just when it feels like we're teetering over an edge we can't come back from, he suddenly pulls back. His lips leave mine, his breath harsh against my cheek, his hand still firm at the back of my neck to keep me from stepping away.

His eyes burn into me, dark and unflinching. His voice is low, uneven, but certain.

"Tell me you don't want this," he says, each word deliberate, almost a challenge. "Look me in the eye, Inaya, and lie."

"I don't want this," I manage, steadier this time, the lie sharp on my tongue. I keep my chin lifted, try to match his gaze without flinching, but the effort tears at me.

Because even as the words leave my mouth, I can feel the tremor in my hands still fisted in his shirt. I don't let go. I can't. My knuckles whiten with the effort of holding him, even as I try to push the words between us like a wall.

His eyes flicker down, catching the truth in my grip, the way I'm leaning into him instead of pulling away.

"Then let go," he says, voice low, almost cruel in its calm.

My throat tightens. I want to. God, I want to prove him wrong, to force the lie into truth. But my fingers only curl tighter, craving the heat of him, the solid weight of him against me. My silence betrays me.

His mouth tilts, not quite a smile, more like a victory carved out of pain. He leans closer, his breath ghosting over my lips.

"You can't even pretend, Rose."

And he's right. Because every part of me aches with the need for him, the years between us collapsing in the space of a single breath.

The silence between us is thick, my pulse pounding against his thumb where it rests at my neck. His words hang heavy, daring me to deny them, but I can't. My grip on his shirt is iron, my body pressed close to his like I've already given him the answer.

And he sees it. He feels it.

His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking there, and then the restraint in his eyes shatters. With a low, almost guttural sound, he closes the gap and crushes his mouth against mine.

This kiss is different, hotter, rougher, claiming me with a kind of fury that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the truth I tried to bury. His lips part mine, insistent, unrelenting, until my breath breaks into a gasp he swallows whole.

I cling to him, desperate, pulling him closer still, as though I could fuse us and make the ache vanish. The heat of his body seeps into mine, searing through every layer of doubt, every lie I told myself about moving on.

There's nothing careful here, nothing soft. It's messy and hungry and so achingly real that my chest feels like it's splitting open. Years of silence, of distance, of aching loneliness, all of it collides in this single, reckless moment.

And still, I don't pull away. I don't want to.

Because craving him feels like the most honest thing I've done in a long, long time.

His lips leave mine only when we're both breathless, foreheads pressed together, his hand still tight at my jaw as though letting go would undo him completely. His breathing is harsh, uneven, every exhale ghosting hot against my skin.

Every brush of his lips is fire, every breath we steal from each other a punishment and a prayer. His hand slides down my arm, fingers catching at my wrist, pressing it back against the nearest wall as if to remind me, he still has this power, and I've never stopped giving it to him. I should pull away. I should fight. But instead, my other hand fists in his hair, pulling him into me, as though the distance between us is the real betrayal.

He tears his mouth from mine, breathing hard, his lips grazing the line of my jaw, then lower to the frantic beat of my pulse. "Do you even realise," he murmurs, voice hoarse, "what you do to me? One look, one word, one tear, and I forget everything. Every promise I made myself to stay away."

My breath shudders out. "Then don't forget. Let it destroy you. Because I can't," my voice breaks, "I can't keep pretending I don't want this."

His laugh is low, wrecked, almost disbelieving, and he presses his forehead to mine. "Say it again."

"I want you," I whisper, the truth scraping raw out of me. "God, I want you."

That's all it takes. His control unravels. His hand leaves my wrist only to slide under the fabric of my shirt, splaying hot against my skin, and I arch helplessly into his touch. The room tilts, the air thick, and suddenly it's his mouth at my collarbone, his teeth dragging lightly over skin that makes me gasp, makes me clutch him like he's the only solid thing in a collapsing world.

"You don't get to run from this anymore," he growls against me, every word sinking into my bones. "Not tonight."

He moves so fast it yanks a gasp from my throat. One second, I'm pressed against the wall, his mouth bruising mine; the next, my feet leave the floor, Aditya's hands locked under my thighs, lifting me as if I weigh nothing. The back of my head knocks lightly against the drywall, but I don't care, not with the way he's looking at me, like I'm already undressed, like I'm already his.

I wrap my arms around his neck out of instinct, squeezing to anchor myself, and he holds me there, our faces close enough that his breath is the only thing I can taste. His lips graze the corner of my jaw, trailing down to my neck. He bites, gentle but not soft, his tongue tracing the sting. I shudder, hips clamping tight around him because if I let go, I'll fall, I'll dissolve.

He kicks the bedroom door open, the sharp slam ricocheting through the silence of the apartment. The sound startles me, but his mouth never leaves mine, swallowing the tiny gasp it pulls from my throat.

I barely register the darkened room before he's guiding me backwards, each step careful despite the urgency thrumming through him. The edge of the bed presses against the backs of my knees, and he lowers me down with a gentleness that doesn't match the storm burning in his kiss.

My hands cling to his shoulders, unwilling to let go, even as he eases me onto the mattress. The sheets are cool against my skin, a contrast to the heat radiating from his body as he leans over me. For a moment, I simply lie there, breathless, staring up at him as if I'm seeing him for the first time all over again.

My arms uncurl slowly, fingers slipping away from the solid anchor of his frame. It feels almost impossible to let go. When I do, my chest rises and falls in frantic rhythm, each breath heavy, uneven, like I'm running without moving an inch. My heart is sprinting, hammering with the realisation of what's happening, what we're letting happen.

His gaze lingers on me, dark and unreadable, before he leans down again, brushing his lips over mine in a kiss that is softer this time, aching with something unspoken.

His lips linger over mine, slow and searching, before they trail down to my jaw, to the hollow beneath my ear. Each kiss leaves me trembling, my fingers twitching against the sheets as though I need something to hold on to.

Then his hands shift, brushing the hem of my shirt. The touch is tentative at first, as if giving me space to refuse, but I don't. Instead, I arch into him, wordlessly granting permission. He slips the fabric upward, knuckles grazing my skin, and I raise my arms almost without thinking. The shirt is gone in a single motion, forgotten on the floor.

The cool air of the room rushes over me, chased immediately by his warmth as he leans closer. My hands, restless and hungry, slide beneath his own shirt. The familiar heat of his skin sears my palms, and I push upward until the fabric yields. He pulls it over his head, tossing it aside carelessly, his eyes never leaving mine.

For a heartbeat, we just stare, half-dressed, half-undone, the weight of our history pressing down harder than the storm outside. My chest tightens, but not with fear. With want.

He bends again, capturing my mouth in a kiss that's rougher, needier, while my fingers explore the lines of his back, tracing what time never managed to take away. Each movement feels like both a question and an answer, until we're both stripping away the barriers that remain, clothes falling piece by piece to the floor.

His mouth never leaves mine as he presses me deeper into the mattress, the heat of his body flooding over me in waves. Every shift of his weight makes my breath hitch, a sound escaping me before I can catch it. 

And then, he moves, slow but unrelenting, and the world tilts. My breath shatters into a cry, my fingers clutching at him in a desperate search for balance as my body takes him in. The sharp ache melts into a fire that spreads through me, pulling another gasp to my lips.

My fingers twist in the sheets, then in him, nails grazing his skin as a low moan slips from my lips. The sound seems to undo him; his pace grows rougher, hungrier, like he's chasing every note I give him.

I part beneath him without thought, the air catching in my throat as his hands grip my hips, anchoring me. His control is tight, sharp, but I feel the strain in it, the tension threatening to unravel. My body arches to meet his, and when his rhythm finally deepens, a cry breaks from me, raw and breathless.

The storm outside pounds against the windows, but it's nothing compared to the storm inside me, each movement, each press, tearing another gasp, another moan. His name falls from my lips again and again, not as a confession, but as a release, like it's the only word I remember.

Time blurs, my body caught in the pull of his, every nerve alight, every breath stolen and returned through the rough drag of his mouth against mine. The world narrows to this, his weight, his warmth and the unrelenting rhythm that leaves me trembling and breathless beneath him.

And when the storm finally breaks, it swallows everything, the rain, the thunder, and the walls I swore to keep between us. All that's left is the silence after, raw and fragile, my body still pressed to his, our breaths tangled in the dark.

I don't think about what comes next. I can't. For now, there's only this, his heartbeat against mine, steady and unyielding, anchoring me to the one place I was never supposed to return.