The power cut out just as Puja stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in nothing but a towel. A sudden hush fell over the apartment—the low hum of the air conditioner gone, the ceiling fan stilled. The only sound was the soft pitter-patter of rain brushing against the windows.
She sighed, peering into the mirror as steam curled around her. Flickers of candlelight danced behind her—Arjun must’ve lit one in the living room. Always prepared, always calm. Even now.
She stepped into the hallway, damp hair clinging to her shoulders. The scent of sandalwood drifted through the air. And then she saw him.
Arjun stood near the open window, shirtless, sipping what looked like rum from a glass, his gaze fixed on the rain-soaked skyline of the city. Lightning traced silver veins across the night sky, briefly illuminating his silhouette—the broad shoulders, the curve of his spine, the quiet tension in his stance.
He didn’t turn. “You always shower when it storms?”
“Helps me think,” she said, her voice soft, teasing. “Or maybe I just like the sound of rain on wet skin.”
This time, he did turn. Slowly. His eyes met hers and didn’t move away.
“You say things like that on purpose, don’t you?”
She smiled, walking over, letting the towel shift just slightly with every step. “Only when I’m not sure if I have your full attention.”
“You always do.”
It was the way he said it—steady, low, like a vow whispered in the dark. Her heart stuttered, and for a second, she considered retreating. But she didn’t. Not tonight.
She stopped beside him, so close that their arms almost brushed. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” she murmured. “How quiet everything becomes when the lights go out.”
“Not everything,” Arjun replied. “Some things get louder.”
She glanced up. “Like what?”
“Like this,” he said, barely moving, “whatever it is we’re always trying not to say.”
The air between them tightened. Heavy with suggestion. Months of stolen glances, shared silences, lingering touches—all of it spiraling toward this moment.
She didn’t speak. Neither did he.
The candle’s flame flickered wildly as another gust of wind curled through the window. Puja shivered—not from the cold, but from the way Arjun’s gaze traveled down her bare shoulders, lingering at her collarbone.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“I’m wondering how long I can pretend I’m not.”
She tilted her head, playful. “And?”
“I stopped pretending ten minutes ago.”
Her breath caught. Arjun placed his glass down on the window ledge with a deliberate calm, then slowly reached up and tucked a strand of her damp hair behind her ear, fingers brushing her cheek. His touch was feather-light, reverent.
“You’re not wearing perfume,” he said quietly.
“No. Just soap and rain.”
“It suits you.”
Her skin tingled where he touched her. She could feel the warmth radiating off his body, could smell the faint spice of him—rum and something darker, unmistakably Arjun.
“You know,” she said, voice lower now, “we’ll blame the blackout for whatever happens next.”
He chuckled, soft and deep. “Then let’s make the most of it.”
He took a step forward, closing the space between them until there was nowhere to retreat. She didn’t try. Her towel slipped a little lower on her shoulder. His eyes flicked downward, then back to hers.
“I’ve thought about this,” he said, his tone confessional.
“This?”
“You. Me. Us. Like this. Alone. No excuses left.”
Her hand found his chest, fingertips drawing lazy circles against his skin. His breath hitched.
“And what happens next, Arjun?” she whispered.
He leaned in, lips brushing the curve of her ear. “You tell me to stop, or you stop me.”
She didn’t.
Instead, she leaned into him, pressing her body to his, her breath mingling with his as their mouths met—not forcefully, but hungrily. Like a dam breaking, slow and inevitable.
The kiss deepened, tasting of rain and rum, and all the moments they’d held back. His hands found her waist, firm but patient, as though memorizing every inch. Her towel loosened slightly beneath his fingers, but he didn’t rush. He just kissed her—slow, maddening, like they had all night.
The thunder rolled again, distant but resonant.
“Still thinking about the storm?” he asked, brushing his lips down her neck.
“No,” she whispered, barely audible. “Just you.”
They stood there, wrapped in each other and in shadows, the city soaked in moonlight beyond the window. The air, the room, the silence—everything buzzed with restrained intensity.
And when the lights flickered back on, the world returned with a start. But Puja didn’t pull away.
Neither did Arjun.
Whatever had been waiting between them was no longer waiting.