The rain had come without warning.
It fell in thick, urgent sheets against the windows of the old colonial cottage, the sky bruised and moody. Inside, the power had flickered, then gone completely, leaving only the low hum of the storm and the occasional crack of thunder rolling through the hills.
Biswajit stood near the open window, his silhouette outlined by the lightning. His shirt was damp, clinging to the curve of his shoulders, the edge of his jaw set in a way that made Rose forget about the storm entirely.
“I told you we shouldn’t have taken that forest route,” she said, half-smiling, arms folded.
He turned slowly, eyes narrowing just enough to make her stomach twist. “And miss the thrill of being stranded in the middle of nowhere with you? Never.”
Rose laughed, though her breath caught a little in her throat. She leaned against the doorframe, barefoot, the hem of her long dress brushing the floor. It was summer-thin, nearly translucent now from the humidity, and Biswajit noticed — not with a gaze that lingered, but with one that seared.
They were supposed to be here for one night. A weekend writing retreat, she said. A chance to escape the city. They hadn’t planned for the rain, or for the generator to sputter out like a dying candle. And she certainly hadn’t planned for how being alone with him, soaked in this soft golden dusk of flickering candlelight and stormlight, would feel like dancing on a wire.
He moved toward her, slow, deliberate. She didn’t move — couldn’t, perhaps. There was something in the air, crackling. Not just the electricity.
“You’re not cold, are you?” he asked, stopping inches away. His voice was low, velvet-soft.
“I’m fine,” she murmured. “Just a little… damp.”
He raised a brow. “Is that a complaint?”
“No. Just… an observation.”
She tilted her chin slightly, challenging, but her breath gave her away. It was shallow, quick. He reached past her, slowly, deliberately, and she felt the brush of his hand near her shoulder as he lit another candle on the small table behind her.
The moment stretched.
His presence was heat and tension, wrapped in the scent of rain and something distinctly him — sandalwood, maybe, or sin. She wasn’t sure anymore.
“You always do that,” she said.
He looked at her, lips tilted. “Do what?”
“Stand too close. Like you’re waiting for something.”
“Maybe I am.”
Her breath caught again — audible this time. “And what exactly are you waiting for?”
Biswajit didn’t answer. He reached up, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering at her jaw. Not possessive — just… aware. The way a flame notices a spark.
Rose swallowed.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.
She should have. Should have made some clever remark, stepped away, laughed it off. But the air between them had turned molten, and every inch of her skin felt awake, alert, alive.
Instead, she said softly, “I’d rather you didn’t.”
The kiss didn’t come quickly. It came slowly, dangerously, like a match drawn along the edge of a box — deliberate, teasing. His fingers brushed the side of her neck as he leaned in, pausing just before their mouths met.
And when it finally happened — when lips touched lips — it was less of an explosion and more of a question: *Is this what we’ve been circling all this time?*
The answer was yes. Every almost-touch. Every flirty glance at meetings. Every quiet car ride where their fingers nearly brushed on the gearshift. It had always been leading here.
She sighed into the kiss, rising onto her toes, her hands slipping around his neck. He pulled her closer, one arm at her waist, the other gently tracing the curve of her back.
Thunder boomed again outside, and neither of them flinched.
They weren’t in the storm anymore. They *were* the storm.
Biswajit kissed her like he was discovering her, like he’d waited years — lifetimes — to feel the warmth of her lips, the softness of her body pressed against his. And she kissed him like he was the answer to a question she hadn’t dared ask aloud.
When they finally broke apart, just an inch, their foreheads resting together, she whispered, “Well. That escalated.”
He laughed under his breath. “Do you regret it?”
“Not yet,” she said, eyes twinkling. “But it’s still early.”
The rain continued, a lullaby against the cottage roof. The power didn’t return. The world outside remained blurred and wet and forgotten.
But inside the monsoon room, where shadows flickered and skin hummed with anticipation, Rose and Biswajit had found something far more electric.
And neither of them was in a rush to turn the lights back on.