The rain had been relentless for hours, drumming softly against the old roof tiles of Mahira’s ancestral home in the hills. The monsoon had painted everything in shades of green and grey, turning the air damp, warm, and oddly electric. She stood by the window, cradling a cup of cardamom chai, the steam rising in soft curls that matched the thoughts in her mind—unsettled, teasing, and a little dangerous.
The knock came just as thunder cracked across the sky.
When she opened the door, he was soaked to the bone, his black shirt clinging to him like second skin. Kuldeep. Her brother’s best friend. Her teenage crush. Her uninvited monsoon guest.
“Still can’t check the weather before heading up here?” she teased, eyes flicking to his damp hair and the droplets sliding down his jaw.
Kuldeep chuckled, voice warm and low. “What’s the point of a storm if it doesn’t take you somewhere unexpected?”
That somewhere, evidently, was her doorstep.
Mahira stepped aside, letting him in with a slow smile. He brushed past her, smelling of rain and something darker, something she’d almost forgotten. Or tried to.
They hadn’t seen each other in two years. The last time, at a wedding, he’d caught her dancing barefoot in the garden. Their eyes had locked for a second too long, her dress swirling like temptation. But nothing had happened. Nothing *could* happen, back then.
Now, though…
“You kept the house just the way I remember,” he said, glancing around, shrugging out of his wet shirt. She caught the motion from the corner of her eye. Smooth skin. Lean muscle. A body that knew work — and how to rest like sin.
She didn’t turn. “It still creaks in all the right places.”
Kuldeep let out a low laugh, catching the innuendo, and moved toward the fireplace. “And still no one up here but you?”
“Just me,” she said, her voice light but slow, deliberate. “The mountains. The rain. And now… you.”
He met her gaze across the room, something unspoken flickering between them. Familiar. Dangerous. Delicious.
“I’ll change,” he said. “Unless you prefer I stay like this.”
“Wet and half-naked?” she said, sipping her tea, her eyes dancing. “I wouldn’t complain.”
He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t answer. Just walked past her, close enough that the heat of his skin brushed against her arm. She didn’t move away.
—
The fire crackled. The storm outside showed no signs of mercy.
Mahira had changed too—into a soft cotton kurta that clung in just the right places, her damp hair left loose, cascading over her shoulders. Kuldeep sat on the rug now, shirtless, nursing a drink, legs stretched out toward the fire.
She joined him in silence, lowering herself beside him. Their shoulders brushed. He didn’t shift. Neither did she.
“This place always felt like a secret,” he said, eyes on the flames. “Like it existed outside the world.”
“Maybe that’s why you’re here,” she murmured. “Some secrets wait for the storm.”
Kuldeep looked at her then—really looked. “And what do they do when it arrives?”
She tilted her head, her lips close to a smile. “They surrender.”
The space between them tightened, the air heavy with something unsaid. His hand was resting on the floor beside her, fingers brushing hers. She didn’t pull away. Instead, her thumb slowly traced over his knuckles, back and forth—lazy, intentional.
His voice was a whisper. “You’re playing with fire, Mahira.”
She turned toward him, her face just inches away. “Maybe I’ve waited long enough to stop pretending I don’t want to burn.”
There was a pause, the kind that stretched with anticipation, pulsing with the question *what now?*
Kuldeep didn’t kiss her. Not yet. He just leaned in, breath grazing her skin, lips stopping just short of her ear.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.
She closed her eyes, pulse racing, heart hammering like the rain outside. “What if I don’t want to?”
His fingers found her wrist, slow and sure, tracing a path upward. Not rushed. Not reckless. Just… charged. His touch left heat in its wake.
The fire crackled again.
Outside, the rain roared louder. But inside, the world had narrowed to one look, one breath, one heartbeat between them.
He cupped her cheek, thumb brushing her lower lip.
“Mahira…” he whispered.
She didn’t let him finish. She leaned in, lips grazing his with a bold softness that spoke of years held back. The kiss wasn’t urgent. It was a question—and an answer. A promise unspoken. A line finally, irrevocably crossed.
And when they pulled apart, breathless, she smiled.
“Still think I’m playing with fire?”
Kuldeep grinned, pulling her into him, their foreheads touching.
“No,” he said, voice rough with want. “I think we’re the storm now.”