The town's weekend market was alive with color and noise—stalls bursting with fresh fruit, woven fabrics, spices, laughter, music. But to Ansh, everything felt muted. Blurred. Distant.
Because she was walking beside him.
And the space between them was... unbearable.
Riya moved with elegance, her eyes scanning stalls, her voice soft as she asked vendors about prices, yet there was something off—her movements more careful, like she was aware of her every step.
Ansh trailed behind her at first, giving her space. But with every breath of hers he heard, every strand of hair caught in the breeze that danced across her shoulder, he found himself drifting closer.
They stopped at a stall selling bangles. Riya's fingers hovered over a delicate set—thin silver loops with tiny bells that shimmered in the sun.
"Pretty," she murmured.
"You'd look beautiful in them," Ansh said before he could stop himself.
Riya stilled.
Then slowly, she turned to look at him. Not with surprise—but with something warmer. Something deeper. Her lips parted slightly, and she held his gaze for longer than was proper.
The world around them moved. People jostled by. Vendors called out prices. But they were still.
"I mean," Ansh stammered, "they'd suit your hands."
She looked at her own hands. Slim fingers. Neatly trimmed nails. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"They used to," she said, almost to herself. "I haven't worn bangles in years."
Without thinking, Ansh reached out and touched her wrist. Lightly. Barely a brush of skin. But it was enough.
Her breath caught.
His fingers lingered just a second too long, feeling the warmth of her skin, the faint flutter of her pulse beneath.
She didn't pull away.
Not immediately.
But when she did, it was slow. Deliberate. Like she didn't want to.
They said nothing.
Instead, she stepped toward a fruit stall. Picked up a ripe peach. Held it to her nose and inhaled softly.
Ansh watched her—watched the way her lips gently parted, the soft sigh that left her mouth, the curve of her back as she leaned in closer to the fruit.
Everything about her felt sensual, even when she didn't mean it to be.
Especially then.
"Want to taste?" she asked, holding up the peach.
He blinked. "What?"
She gave a faint smile. "You've been staring at it like you're starving."
He couldn't tell if she meant the fruit.
She brought it to his mouth, her fingers still on it. He leaned forward. Bit into it. The juice ran down his chin.
Sweet. Sticky.
Her thumb brushed it away.
His breath hitched.
Her eyes lingered on his lips. Just for a second.
Then she turned.
"We should head back," she said, her voice low.
But it wasn't a dismissal. It was escape.
From something they both felt creeping in like a tide neither could resist.
Ansh followed her in silence, the taste of peach still on his tongue.
And her touch—still burning into his skin.