The morning sun bathed the porch in golden light. A soft hum of waves rolled in from the distant shore. Ansh stood in the kitchen, pouring coffee into mismatched ceramic mugs. The aroma filled the air—earthy, bitter, grounding. Behind him, the quiet padding of bare feet on wooden floors made his skin tighten.
"You're up early," Riya said, voice soft from sleep.
He turned.
She was in a thin cream robe tied loosely at the waist, her hair messy but elegant in a way only older women could manage. No makeup. Just raw, real beauty. It made something stir in his chest—deep and slow and unshakable.
"Yeah, couldn't sleep much," Ansh replied, handing her a mug.
Their fingers brushed again. Not deliberate. Not avoidable. Not innocent.
"Thank you," she murmured, holding the cup close, letting the warmth linger on her lips before taking a sip.
He watched the steam rise. Watched the gentle arch of her neck as she tilted her head back.
"So..." she said, eyes still on her cup, "did Yash mention how we met?"
He leaned against the counter, intrigued. "Only that it was at some... art event?"
She smiled, but something flickered in her gaze. "Not exactly romantic. He flirted, I ignored him. He persisted. I got curious. Then I got tired of resisting."
Ansh chuckled quietly. "That sounds like Yash."
"Persistent, charming... and exhausting."
Their eyes met again.
This time, she didn't look away.
He felt his heartbeat rise. Just enough to be noticed. Not enough to betray him.
The silence between them was intimate again, that same stillness from the night before—thick with everything they weren't allowed to say.
"You're not like him," she said softly. "You observe. You listen. You don't fill silence just to avoid it."
Ansh looked down at his cup. "Silence can be... revealing."
She laughed under her breath. "Yes. Terrifying, too."
She turned, walking slowly toward the balcony, the morning light catching the edge of her robe where it clung slightly to her hips. He followed after a moment, joining her outside where the sea spread endless and calm.
They stood side by side, not touching.
Just close enough to feel the heat of the other.
"Do you always keep this much distance?" she asked, not looking at him.
Ansh's throat tightened. He didn't know what she meant—emotionally? Physically? Or both?
"Only when it feels dangerous not to," he said.
Riya's laugh was low and breathy. "You're young, but you don't talk like it."
He turned toward her, barely a foot between them. Her eyes were soft, almost sad.
"You don't look like someone who's just playing house with a younger guy," he said carefully.
She didn't respond immediately. Just sipped her coffee, then set the mug down on the rail. "Sometimes I pretend I'm not lonely. Sometimes pretending feels better than being honest."
There it was. The first crack in her mask.
And he wanted to fall into it.
His hand itched to reach out—to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, to touch her cheek, just to see if it felt as warm as her words. But he didn't.
Not yet.
The sliding door opened behind them. Yash emerged in shorts and messy hair, stretching. "Morning, lovebirds."
Ansh took a full step back. Riya turned smoothly, smiling as if nothing had happened. As if their conversation hadn't just grazed the edge of something intimate and dangerous.
"You're up late," she teased Yash.
"Long night," he said, grinning. "Come back to bed?"
She hesitated. Just for a breath. Then smiled again, slipping past Ansh.
"Coming."
And she was gone.
Ansh stood there alone, the breeze brushing over his skin, her warmth still clinging to his senses.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides, trying to chase the image of her soft robe, her soft voice, her soft sadness.
But he couldn't.
Not anymore.