The sky had been brooding all evening, clouds swelling with the kind of promise that could only end in thunder. The first drops began falling just as Priya stepped onto the balcony of her quiet Goa rental. She welcomed them, palms outstretched, head tilted up, eyes closed. Rain had a way of making her feel… free.
Behind her, the sliding door whispered open.
“Did you miss the weather report?” a deep voice asked, low and teasing.
Priya turned, not surprised. “Since when do you care about forecasts, Rahul?”
He stood there, tall and disarming in a soaked black t-shirt that clung to his chest like it had missed her more than he did. His dark eyes scanned her, lingering just a second too long at her lips. She didn’t look away.
“I came to return your book,” he said, lifting a well-worn copy of *Wuthering Heights*. “Figured the storm matched your taste.”
She smirked, stepping closer to the glass doorway, but not moving inside. “You’re three months late.”
“I prefer slow burns,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling.
She held his gaze for a beat longer than she should have. He always had this effect on her—like an unsolved poem, one she’d sworn never to reread, yet found herself quoting in quiet moments.
“Are you going to just stand there dripping on my floor?” she asked, arms crossed, hip leaning against the doorframe.
“Depends,” Rahul replied. “Are you going to invite me in?”
Her breath caught—just slightly. There had always been something between them, something they never quite named. A pull that hovered in stolen glances, in lingering silences, in almosts. Tonight, the air was thick with it.
She stepped aside wordlessly.
Rahul entered, shaking water from his hair, leaving little puddles in his wake. He placed the book gently on the counter, fingers trailing the spine like he didn’t want to let go.
“Still your favorite?” he asked, voice softer now.
Priya nodded. “Still yours?”
“Only when I miss you.”
The confession landed between them like a thunderclap.
Her heart thudded once—loud, uninvited. She tried to mask it with sarcasm. “You say that to all the girls you return books to?”
He chuckled, moving closer. “No. Only the ones who leave their scent on the pages.”
Her smile faltered. She could feel the tension now—like static clinging to skin. The rain outside had grown louder, beating against the windows with desperate rhythm. Inside, the world felt quieter, more focused. Like it had shrunk down to just the space between them.
She turned to the kitchen, reaching for a bottle of wine, needing to ground herself. “Glass?”
“Only if you join me.”
She poured two, fingers trembling just enough to notice. Rahul took his, their fingers brushing for the briefest second—heat blooming from that simple touch.
“To unsaid things,” he murmured.
She looked up. “To things we can’t unsay.”
They drank. Slowly. Watching each other over the rim of their glasses like two chess players, waiting for the other to make a move that couldn’t be taken back.
“You’ve changed,” he said after a moment.
She raised a brow. “Better or worse?”
“More… sure of yourself. Dangerous, even.”
“Dangerous?” she repeated with a coy smile.
Rahul leaned in, not touching, but close enough to steal her breath. “Yes. The kind of danger a man dreams of at midnight, and wakes up craving.”
Her laugh was quiet, breathy. “That line works better when you’re not soaked.”
He reached for her hand, threading their fingers together without asking. “I’ll dry, Priya. But some things… they’ve been wet for a long time.”
She stared at him, pulse racing. “What are you doing?”
“Something I should’ve done the night before you left for Mumbai.”
The words hit her like a memory she’d buried too deep. That night. That moment. The rain. The almost.
And now, the same rain—years later—beckoning them back.
She stepped even closer, her free hand resting lightly against his chest. His heart was racing. Good. Hers too.
“You really think we can just pick up where we left off?” she whispered, her lips dangerously close to his.
“No,” he said, eyes flicking to her mouth. “I think we need to start from where we should’ve begun.”
The kiss didn’t come immediately. It hovered—heavy and electric—as if the air itself was holding its breath. And when it finally happened, it wasn’t explosive. It was slow. Intentional. Like rediscovering a song you used to love, letting it wrap around you until you remember all the words.
Their bodies pressed together, not rushed, but aching with a hunger both familiar and foreign.
When they finally pulled apart, foreheads resting, breaths mingling, Priya whispered, “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
Rahul smiled. “But we already are.”
Outside, the rain poured harder.
Inside, time stood still.