It was evening again.
Golden light slanted through the windows, catching dust motes in mid-air. The rain was gone, but it had left everything soaked, swollen with memory.
Yash was in the kitchen, shirtless, humming to himself as he stirred something on the stove. He looked at ease—sweaty from a jog, grinning like nothing had changed.
But Ansh could feel it.
Something had.
Not just in him. In the air. In her.
Riya hadn't come downstairs all day.
And when she finally did—quiet, poised, dressed now in a simple black kurta—her gaze avoided Ansh like he was made of fire.
But even in her silence, her distance, he could see it.
The tension was still there.
Just buried.
Compressed.
Yash noticed, too.
He always noticed things, even if he pretended not to.
When Riya barely acknowledged his kiss on the cheek, his brow twitched.
When she sat on the couch with a little too much space between them, his arm slid around her tighter than necessary.
And when he saw Ansh watching?
His smile faltered.
"You good, bro?" Yash asked later, when Riya was upstairs again. He leaned against the railing on the porch, lighting a cigarette. "You've been kinda... off."
Ansh shrugged. "Just tired."
Yash exhaled smoke and narrowed his eyes, like he didn't believe him.
Then: "You and Riya seem close these days."
Ansh turned his head. "She's just nice to talk to."
Yash gave a low chuckle. "Yeah. Too nice sometimes."
A pause.
Then—without warning—Yash's voice dropped an octave.
"You're not thinking of doing something stupid, right?"
The words hung between them like fog.
Ansh looked him in the eye. "What are you trying to say?"
Yash stared at him a moment longer... then shook his head, smiling coldly. "Nothing, man. Just... you know. She's older. Been through a lot. She needs stability, not more chaos."
The irony of it—coming from Yash—nearly made Ansh laugh.
Instead, he said nothing.
That night, after dinner, Riya came to the kitchen when everyone had gone to their rooms. Ansh stood at the sink, rinsing dishes.
She didn't speak at first.
Just stood behind him, arms folded.
He could feel her presence like heat against his spine.
"You okay?" he finally asked.
She stepped closer.
"Did Yash say something to you?"
Ansh paused. "Kind of."
She sighed. "He gets possessive sometimes."
"He has a right to."
Silence.
Then—
"I hate how guilty I feel around you," she whispered.
Ansh turned around. She was so close now.
Close enough to smell the jasmine in her hair. Close enough to see the faint smudge of kohl beneath her eyes.
"But you don't hate me," he said.
Her breath caught.
"No," she murmured. "I never did."
She reached past him to grab a glass from the sink—but their arms brushed. Her hand lingered just a second too long.
He could see her chest rise, her pulse fluttering in her neck.
They were back in that same dangerous place.
A moment away from falling again.
But this time—
She stepped back.
"I should go," she whispered. "Before I forget who I am again."
He didn't stop her.
But when she walked out, she looked over her shoulder.
Just once.
And that glance?
It was a promise and a warning.
All in one.