The rain had stopped by dawn.
The world outside was washed clean—sky soft and grey, droplets still clinging to every leaf. But inside the house, nothing felt washed away.
If anything, the storm had seeped in deeper.
Ansh woke to the smell of tea.
Not coffee—tea. The scent of cardamom and steam drifting from the kitchen. He didn't need to look to know she was the one making it.
He didn't want to go down.
He also couldn't stay away.
He found her in the kitchen, back turned, hair tied again in that careless way he had started to crave. She wore the same sweater from the night before. Her legs still bare. The light from the window traced the curve of her spine through the soft fabric.
She sensed him and spoke without turning. "You like it with sugar, right?"
He paused. Swallowed.
"Yeah. Just one."
She nodded.
No greeting. No small talk.
Only tea.
He sat at the table, watching the way she moved. Careful. Measured. Like someone afraid of the space around them. Or of filling it too much.
She poured the tea and slid a cup toward him.
Their fingers didn't touch this time.
She sat down across from him, curling her hands around her cup as if to warm more than just her fingers.
Silence.
He took a sip.
Then: "About last night…"
Her eyes lifted—sharp, nervous, searching. "Don't."
He flinched. "Why not?"
"Because if we talk about it, it becomes real."
He looked down into his tea. "It already was real."
Riya's breath hitched. She looked away, biting her bottom lip for a second before releasing it slowly.
"I can't afford real, Ansh."
There it was again—that flicker of truth. Of emotion she was too scared to name.
He leaned in, voice low. "I wasn't going to kiss you. You kissed me."
Her eyes snapped to his. "No, I didn't."
"You leaned in. You touched me first."
She stood, suddenly, walking to the window. Arms crossed tight over her chest.
"It was the rain. The wine. The moment."
"You didn't drink."
She turned.
He stood now, too. Neither of them breaking eye contact.
"Don't make me feel guilty for something I didn't even do," she said, her voice rising slightly.
"I'm not trying to. I'm just…" He stopped. Exhaled. "I'm just tired of pretending."
That cracked something.
Her shoulders slumped.
And then—she said it. Quietly. Almost like it hurt.
"I think about you."
He blinked.
Her voice was almost a whisper now. "Sometimes. At night. When I can't sleep."
Ansh's heart thundered.
"I don't want to," she added. "But I do."
He stepped closer.
So did she.
Only the table between them now.
"I think about you too," he said. "More than I should."
She looked down. "This has to stop."
But she didn't mean it.
He could see it in the way her fingers twitched, in the slight tremble of her lips.
She was scared.
Of him.
Of herself.
Of everything.
"We could stop," he said. "Right now. If you want me to."
Her lips parted.
She didn't say yes.
She didn't say no.
Instead, she walked past him. Their arms brushed again. She paused behind him.
Close enough to feel.
Then: "I'm going for a walk."
And she left.
But this time, she didn't close the door behind her.