The living room was alive with music. Not loud—just a soft, jazzy playlist Yash had thrown on while rummaging in the kitchen for drinks. The lights were low, the atmosphere warm. A little too intimate.
Ansh sat at the edge of the couch, eyes drifting toward the hallway where Riya had disappeared minutes ago. He could still feel her. The earlier moment clung to his skin like the scent of her—coconut and heat and something unspoken.
Yash returned with a bottle of wine and a cocky grin.
"Bro, tonight is perfect, right? I swear—this place, this vibe... it's like magic." He poured two glasses and handed one to Ansh. "Riya's picking a movie. Something artsy, probably. She likes deep stuff."
Ansh nodded, barely hearing him.
His thoughts were upstairs.
With her.
Her lips. Her eyes. That slipping towel.
He took a sip of wine, hoping it would cool the fire in his chest.
Then—light footsteps.
Riya entered the room.
And for a second, the world tipped.
She wore a loose, sleeveless black top that clung in all the right places and dipped just low enough to reveal the soft valley between her breasts. Linen pants hugged her hips, flowing around her legs with grace. She'd dried her hair. It fell in soft waves, brushing her collarbones. No makeup. Just her. Bare. Lethal.
Yash whistled. "Damn, babe. Looking like that, we won't even need a movie."
Riya smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. She walked past Ansh and sat on the far end of the couch.
Distance.
But even now, he felt her presence like gravity.
She looked at him once. Brief. Burning. Then looked away.
"This okay?" she asked, holding up a DVD. The Before Trilogy. Of course. Romantic. Real. Raw.
"Yeah," Yash said, already flopping onto the couch between them. "As long as there's some kissing in it."
Riya pressed play.
The film started.
But Ansh couldn't focus.
Every time the characters on screen leaned close, he remembered the moment on the porch. Every brush of skin made his own tingle. And Riya… God, Riya… She sat so still, so composed, yet he could sense the storm inside her.
She wouldn't even look at him now.
That distance—both a shield and an invitation.
Halfway through the film, Yash's head slumped back.
Drunk. Tired. Out cold.
His breathing grew slow, deep, a soft snore curling from his lips.
Riya reached for the remote and paused the movie.
Silence.
Ansh turned.
She was already looking at him.
Not blinking.
Not pretending anymore.
Her voice was soft. Careful. "Why do you keep looking at me like that?"
He hesitated.
"Because I can't not."
She exhaled slowly, fingers tightening on her lap. "You're Yash's best friend."
"I know."
"I'm too old for this."
"I know."
"I have a daughter. I have—" she stopped. Shook her head. "—too many reasons not to feel what I feel."
Ansh leaned forward, his voice a whisper now, dangerous and trembling. "But you do feel it."
That broke her.
Her shoulders dropped. Her eyes softened. She didn't deny it.
"I hate that I do," she said. "But yes."
Then—
She stood.
Walked toward the balcony without another word.
Ansh followed.
Outside, the night was cool. The wind was soft. The moon hung heavy above the sea.
She turned to him.
He was close again.
Close enough to feel the heat rising off her skin. Close enough that the edge of her top brushed his chest.
"If you touch me right now," she whispered, "I won't be able to stop."
He didn't move.
He just looked at her, every breath shallow.
"You don't have to touch me," he whispered back. "Just... don't walk away again."
Her eyes closed, as if that sentence hurt.
And then—her hand reached up.
It hovered near his chest.
Almost touching.
Almost.
But she stopped. Just an inch away. Fingers trembling.
"I want to," she said. "God help me, I want to."
Then—Yash's voice called faintly from inside.
"Babe? Where'd you go?"
She gasped.
Pulled away.
Vanished inside without looking back.
Ansh stood alone again.
Every nerve alive.
Every inch of skin still burning from the touch that almost happened.