It started with a whisper.
A soft drizzle on the roof. The scent of wet earth drifting through the open windows. Then the thunder rolled in—low and distant, like a warning.
By nightfall, it was pouring.
Yash had passed out early again, thanks to too much rum and too little restraint. His bedroom door closed with a dull thud, and with it, the house fell into that strange kind of silence that rain fills—not quiet, exactly. Just... suspended.
Ansh sat alone in the living room. Lights dim. A soft playlist hummed in the background. He had a book open in his lap but wasn't reading. His attention drifted again and again to the faint sound of footsteps upstairs.
Riya.
He hadn't seen her since the balcony.
Their almost-touch still lived in his chest like static—always there, just beneath the surface. And he knew she felt it too. She had to.
Then—
The stairs creaked.
Slow, deliberate steps.
And there she was.
Wearing a long, oversized sweater that hung just above her thighs. Her legs were bare. Her feet silent on the wooden floor. Her hair was tied up messily, small strands clinging to her cheeks from the humidity.
She held a blanket in her arms.
"I can't sleep," she said softly. "The storm's too loud."
He nodded, heart stammering. "Me too."
"Mind if I sit?"
He shook his head. "Please."
She walked over, curled beside him on the couch—close, but not touching. She pulled the blanket over both their laps without a word.
Their shoulders brushed.
A small contact.
But enough.
The warmth from her body bled into his skin like a slow, dizzy fever. The rain outside poured harder, a steady rhythm against the glass.
"Storms make me feel..." she hesitated, then glanced at him. "Lonely."
Ansh turned his head slowly, met her gaze.
"You're not alone."
Her lips parted slightly. "Don't say that."
"Why?"
"Because I'll believe you."
His breath caught.
The air between them was thick, heavy with everything unsaid. The kind of silence where even the smallest touch could unravel everything.
Riya shifted, her thigh brushing against his under the blanket. She didn't move away.
He could feel her heartbeat. Not by sound—but in the way her breathing changed. Shallow. Controlled. Like his.
She reached for the edge of the blanket and adjusted it—an excuse to move closer. Their legs pressed now. Skin to skin.
And then her fingers—slow, trembling—found his.
She didn't look at him.
Just held on.
And he let her.
Held her back.
No words.
Just the storm. The closeness. The ache.
Then—
A rumble of thunder, louder this time. The lights flickered. For a second, everything went dark. Her hand tightened around his.
When the lights returned, she was closer.
Face inches from his.
Eyes dark and searching.
"Tell me this isn't wrong," she whispered.
He didn't lie.
"It is."
She nodded slowly. Her forehead touched his. Just lightly.
Then her hand lifted—brushed his jaw, fingers trailing the edge of his neck. His skin tingled where she touched.
She leaned in—
And—
Her lips grazed his.
Not a kiss.
Just the ghost of one.
A breath shared.
A line crossed.
And then—
Her phone buzzed.
Loud. Sharp. A message lighting up the screen.
Ishu: Mom, can we talk?
Riya's body stiffened.
Her hand slipped away. Her eyes shut tight.
Reality returned like ice water.
"I should go," she whispered, standing too fast.
Ansh stared at the now-empty space beside him. Still warm. Still echoing.
He didn't move. Didn't stop her.
But the storm kept raging—outside and inside.