The air was thick with the scent of sun-warmed pine and sea salt, a lazy breeze drifting through the half-open window of the car. Ansh leaned back in the passenger seat, arm hanging out, fingers slicing through the wind. His best friend Yash gripped the wheel with one hand, the other tapping rhythmically to the beat of some old indie rock song playing low on the radio.
"Three days in paradise, bro," Yash grinned. "No parents. No lectures. Just us, the beach... and her."
Ansh smiled faintly, not looking at him. "Her?"
Yash chuckled. "Did I forget to mention? Riya's joining us. She has a beach house nearby."
The name hit Ansh like a small wave lapping at his chest. He'd heard about Riya—Yash had talked about her constantly these past few weeks.
"The older woman," Ansh said teasingly.
Yash's grin widened. "Not just older, man. She's... different. Classy. Intense. Beautiful. You'll see."
Ansh only nodded, watching the landscape blur past in tones of gold and green. He didn't know why his heart gave a strange thud at the idea. Maybe it was the way Yash said her name. Maybe it was just the heat.
---
The beach house was tucked into the hillside, wooden and white, overlooking the sea. They arrived late in the afternoon, the sky already tinted peach and amber. As they pulled into the gravel drive, she was there—on the porch, barefoot, in a long blue summer dress that clung to her form in the breeze.
Riya.
Ansh stepped out of the car, and time slowed.
She looked up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes met his—calm and unreadable, the corners of her lips turning just slightly.
"You must be Ansh," she said. Her voice was soft, low, and warm. "Yash talks about you."
"And you must be Riya," he replied, almost forgetting to breathe.
They shook hands. Her palm was cool, her touch brief but deliberate. A spark—not quite a jolt, not quite fire—but something lit quietly beneath his skin. Her fingers lingered half a second too long. Or maybe he imagined it.
Yash came up beside him, breaking the moment. "Come on, let me show you the place. You'll love the balcony."
But Ansh was still watching her. The way she turned and walked inside, the sway of her hips, the elegance in every motion. A woman who had lived, who had secrets, who wore silence like silk.
He didn't know what it was yet.
He just knew this summer wouldn't be what he expected.
---
That night, the air smelled of jasmine and ocean. Ansh couldn't sleep.
He stepped out onto the balcony, barefoot, shirtless, his chest still warm from the day's sun. Below, the porch light cast a soft glow. Riya was there, wrapped in a shawl, cradling a glass of wine.
She looked up. "Couldn't sleep either?"
"No," he said. His voice was quieter than usual.
"Come sit," she offered, patting the space beside her.
He hesitated, then descended the steps and joined her. The wooden bench was cool against his skin. For a long moment, they said nothing.
Then, her voice—like a whisper in the dark: "Yash tells me you're studying psychology."
He nodded. "Yeah. Final year. I like... understanding people."
She laughed lightly, but there was no mockery in it. "That's dangerous. People rarely want to be understood."
He looked at her profile—the curve of her cheek, the shadow at her collarbone, the way the breeze toyed with the ends of her hair. He didn't respond. He didn't need to.
Another pause. The air thickened with unspoken things.
"I find it... comforting," she said quietly. "Having someone around who doesn't try to impress."
Their eyes met. Close now. Closer than they should be.
The silence was electric. Every inch between them felt like a charged thread. Her fingers brushed his hand—barely. But it was enough. Enough to make his breath catch. Enough to make her look away quickly, as if afraid she'd already said too much.
He looked down, heart hammering in his chest.
"I should go," he said.
"Yes," she whispered, without conviction.
Neither moved.
The sound of a door opening upstairs broke the spell. Yash, maybe. Or just a creak in the wood. But it was enough.
Ansh stood. She didn't look up.
"Good night, Riya."
"Good night, Ansh."
But the way she said it—soft, tender, full of something he couldn't name—stayed with him all the way back to bed.
And long after he closed his eyes.