The monsoon had arrived in the city like a long-lost lover—sudden, wild, and irresistible. The rain painted the streets in glistening black, the scent of wet earth filling the air like a whispered promise.
Afreen stood by the tall French window of Shahil’s studio apartment, her silhouette outlined by the lightning flickering beyond the glass. Her damp dupatta clung to her shoulders, translucent in places, revealing more than it hid. Her eyes, lined with defiance and curiosity, didn’t meet Shahil’s. She wasn’t ready to surrender just yet—not entirely.
Shahil, lounging on the deep brown leather couch, didn’t say a word. He sipped his black coffee slowly, the steam fogging the rim of his glasses. He’d been watching her since she walked in, soaked to the bone, lips trembling—not from cold, but from something far more dangerous.
“Rain always finds you,” he said at last, his voice low and textured like velvet. “Even when you try to outrun it.”
Afreen finally turned, the faintest smile playing on her lips. “Maybe I like being chased.”
He stood, moving toward her with the patience of a predator who knew his prey wouldn’t run—not really. Their silence wasn’t empty. It thrummed with an old rhythm, something unfinished yet inevitable.
“You didn’t call,” she whispered, eyes scanning his jawline, the curve of his throat, the way his shirt clung to his chest. “For weeks.”
“And you didn’t stop thinking about me,” he countered smoothly, standing inches away now. The scent of her—jasmine, rain, and something entirely Afreen—wrapped around him like silk.
She should’ve walked away when she stepped in that door. She knew better than to come here again. But logic never stood a chance against Shahil.
Their chemistry had always been reckless. From the moment they met at that gallery opening last fall—him in dark linen and charm, her in ivory and fire—they’d been circling each other like a match and a fuse.
“I came to get my sketchbook,” she said, though neither of them looked at it lying by the coffee table.
He tilted his head. “You left that two months ago. Why now?”
Afreen bit her bottom lip. “Maybe I missed the way your walls look when they pretend not to watch me.”
Shahil’s breath caught. She always knew how to play with words like strings of a sitar—soft, but capable of making you ache. He reached out and traced a drop of water trailing down her jaw, catching it with his thumb.
“You’re still trouble,” he murmured.
“And you still like trouble,” she shot back.
His hand didn’t drop. Neither did her gaze. The silence grew heavier, charged like the sky before thunder.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Shahil stepped behind her, their bodies close but not touching. His breath warmed her ear as he whispered, “Do you know what I think about when it rains like this?”
Afreen closed her eyes. “Tell me.”
“You. The way you shiver when the first drop hits. The way your eyes darken when you’re pretending to be angry. The way your skin smells of secrets.”
Her chest rose and fell, each breath shallower than the last. “You always talk like you’re painting a scene.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe you’re my favorite canvas.”
The words slid over her skin, awakening something she’d tried too hard to silence. She turned toward him, slowly, letting their eyes meet again.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, though she made no move to leave.
“That’s why you’re here,” he said, lifting her hand and brushing a kiss against her wrist. “Because everything about this is wrong… but it still feels like home.”
The thunder rolled overhead like applause. Somewhere beyond those tall windows, the world kept spinning. But here, inside this dim-lit studio, time held its breath.
Afreen’s fingers brushed his collar, tugging it lightly, as if testing whether the tension would snap or hold. “You’re dangerous,” she murmured.
Shahil’s grin was lazy and lethal. “You knew that the first night you kissed me and still didn’t stop.”
“You kissed me.”
“You didn’t stop me.”
They both laughed—soft, breathless, and laced with memories. Her laugh turned into a sigh as his hand slid up her back, warm and confident, drawing her just a fraction closer.
“I should go,” she whispered again, but her eyes betrayed her. They weren’t looking at the door. They were tracing his lips.
“Then go,” he said, voice dark with invitation. “But stay if you want to know what happens next.”
A long beat passed.
Afreen leaned in, her forehead resting against his. She closed her eyes, their noses brushing, their mouths dangerously close—intimate without the release.
“Still painting?” she asked, barely audible.
“Only you,” he whispered, and finally—finally—he kissed her. Not like before. This was slower. Deeper. Like something that had waited through seasons to happen.
The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the glass, a soundtrack to everything unspoken between them.
And just like that, the lines blurred again. Between past and present. Between desire and surrender. Between leaving—and staying.