The day unfolded quietly. Warm sun, the scent of salt in the air, distant laughter from the shore. Ansh had spent most of it walking alone along the beach, shoes in hand, the sand cool and damp beneath his feet.
But his mind... it wasn't on the waves, or the gulls, or even the wind. It was on her.
Every time he closed his eyes, Riya appeared like a whisper—bare feet brushing the porch, the edge of her robe grazing her thigh, the vulnerable look she wore when no one else was watching.
He hated that he noticed her so much.
He hated that he wanted to.
---
That night, the house was silent.
Yash had passed out hours ago, dead drunk after too much beer and too much bragging. Ansh couldn't sleep. Not with the way the air felt—thick with something unspoken. A memory? A possibility?
He stepped outside quietly, barefoot, wearing only a loose white T-shirt and boxers. The wood beneath his feet was cool. The moon above was full.
And there she was.
Riya.
Sitting at the far end of the porch, facing the sea. Her back was to him. A soft cardigan hung loosely over her shoulders, but beneath it, he could see the thin straps of her silk nightgown. Bare legs tucked beneath her. Hair cascading freely down her back like spilled ink.
He hesitated.
Every step toward her felt like a test. A line drawn in the dark. But he took it anyway.
She didn't look at him when he sat beside her.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked softly.
"No." His voice was hoarse. Honest. "You?"
A pause.
"Sometimes the night feels too quiet. It brings thoughts I try to bury."
He looked at her, but she kept her gaze on the horizon. Her profile glowed in the moonlight—delicate, strong, heartbreakingly beautiful.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
Her lips curved faintly. Not a smile. Just a movement. "Things I shouldn't. People I miss. Touch I crave... but don't ask for."
Ansh swallowed, throat dry.
Her words lingered in the air like perfume—seductive, aching, unfinished.
He didn't speak.
He couldn't.
His gaze dropped—he saw her hand resting on her knee, fingers relaxed, nails painted a soft pink. He wanted to take that hand. Kiss her knuckles. Feel the weight of her palm on his chest.
Instead, he asked, "Do you regret... being here?"
Finally, she turned to him. Slowly. Her eyes locked on his.
"No," she whispered.
The silence was electric. Their faces were close now. Not quite touching, but close enough for breath to mix.
And he felt it.
That ache in his chest. That maddening pull toward her. It wasn't just lust. It was gravity. It was the terrifying need to understand someone so completely that the space between bodies no longer mattered.
Her lips parted—soft, damp with wine. Her eyes flicked down, just briefly, to his mouth.
Then her hand moved.
Gently, she reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. Her fingers lingered... sliding across his temple... tracing the line of his jaw.
"You're too young to look at me like that," she whispered, almost brokenly.
"And you're too beautiful to pretend you don't feel it too," he said, his voice low, almost a breath.
For one dizzying second, he thought she'd kiss him.
She leaned in.
Her breath touched his lips.
Their noses almost brushed.
But—
A light turned on inside.
Yash's silhouette passed by the upstairs window.
Riya pulled back. Like a flame snuffed out.
Her eyes flickered with panic. Then sadness.
She stood.
"We can't," she said, barely audible. "Not like this."
Ansh stood too, but didn't touch her. His fists were clenched. His jaw tight.
"I know," he said, swallowing the storm in his throat. "But we already are."
She didn't respond. She turned and walked inside, the silk of her nightgown catching the moonlight for a brief, maddening second.
He stood on the porch, breathing hard.
Alone.
Wanting.
Ruined.