The morning after their almost-kiss was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of silence that wasn't peaceful… but pulsing. Like holding your breath after a dream you shouldn't have had.
Ansh sat on the edge of the porch, his elbows resting on his knees, pretending to read from his phone while his thoughts raced in circles. Last night kept replaying—not in words, but in sensations.
The heat of her breath.
The flutter of her fingers on his jaw.
The sound her voice made when she whispered we can't—a sound that didn't match the hunger in her eyes.
And now, she was inside.
Still in the house.
Still close.
Yet so impossibly far.
Then, the soft creak of a door. The patter of wet feet on tile. He looked up—
Riya.
She walked out from the bathroom in a long white towel, wrapped snugly around her body. Her hair dripped, strands clinging to her shoulders, trailing droplets down her collarbone. A smaller towel was in her hand, twisting her hair gently.
She froze when she saw him.
Just for a moment.
Then she smiled, but it was careful—measured. The kind of smile that tries to bury everything else.
"Good morning," she said, voice smooth, as if nothing had happened.
He couldn't speak. Couldn't even look away.
The towel clung to her curves—damp at the hem, almost translucent in the sunlight. She moved with quiet grace, stepping toward the laundry line where dry towels hung. As she passed him, the scent of her shampoo hit him—coconut, something floral, and something warm, like skin after a hot shower.
"I didn't expect anyone to be up," she said casually, reaching for a fresh towel.
"I couldn't sleep," Ansh said, trying to sound normal—but his voice was low, tight. Too tight.
She glanced at him. Just a second too long.
Then she began to dry her hair—raising both arms, twisting the fabric through her strands. The motion lifted the towel around her chest, revealing the soft underside of her thighs. A drop of water trailed down the side of her leg, glinting in the light.
He couldn't breathe.
Not properly.
She noticed. Of course she did. Her eyes flicked toward him—testing him, maybe. Or teasing. Or trying not to crumble.
"Can you hand me that towel?" she asked, pointing to the one hanging by his side.
He picked it up slowly, walking it to her.
Their fingers touched as he handed it over.
And neither of them let go immediately.
The towel became an excuse—a middle ground where their fingers lingered, pressed, trembled.
Her lips parted.
She looked at him again—really looked. Searching his face for something. Doubt? Guilt? Permission?
"Last night..." she began, then stopped.
He leaned closer. Close enough to smell the heat of her skin.
"Yeah?" he asked, his voice nearly a whisper.
She exhaled. The sound trembled.
"It shouldn't have happened."
"But it didn't," he replied.
Their eyes locked.
"No," she said, "but something did."
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
Her towel slipped slightly on one side—just an inch, but enough to expose the top curve of her breast. She didn't move to fix it.
Ansh's breath caught in his throat. His fingers twitched.
Her chest rose and fell faster now, her body betraying the calm mask she tried to wear.
And then—
Footsteps.
From inside.
Yash's voice. "Riya? You out there?"
She stepped back so fast, it was like the moment had never happened. She pulled her towel tighter, turned her back, adjusted her hair.
"Out here!" she called, her voice perfectly normal.
Ansh stood there, the phantom heat of her skin still clinging to his fingers.
He turned away before Yash stepped outside.
But nothing could undo what had just passed between them.
Not a towel.
Not a smile.
Not even guilt.