The monsoon had arrived in the city, draping everything in shades of grey and silver. Raindrops traced lazy patterns down the windows of Ritika’s apartment, the air thick with petrichor and something else—something unspoken.
Asish stood by the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled, shirt damp at the collar from his dash through the downpour. He smelled like the rain—clean, sharp, and electric. Ritika watched him from across the room, leaning on the edge of the sofa, wine glass in hand, her bare shoulder catching the glow of the lamp.
“You always bring the storm with you,” she teased, swirling her wine lazily.
He smirked. “And you always act like you didn’t invite it.”
Their eyes held for a moment too long.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been here like this—unannounced, wet from the rain, their conversations threading through playful banter and dangerous silences. But tonight, something had shifted. The air between them buzzed with tension, like the sky just before a clap of thunder.
She padded over to him, barefoot, her silk robe whispering secrets around her thighs.
“You’re dripping,” she said, setting her glass down and reaching for a towel.
“So are you,” he murmured, eyes dragging down the length of her with no apology.
She didn’t flinch.
She handed him the towel, their fingers grazing for a heartbeat. Heat bloomed between them like a secret. He dried his hair, though his gaze remained fixed on her mouth.
“You always stare like that?” she asked, folding her arms, though a sly smile tugged at her lips.
“Only when I’m not allowed to touch.”
Her breath caught, barely noticeable, but he saw it. He always noticed the smallest shift in her—the way her pupils dilated when he leaned too close, how her pulse ticked just beneath the skin of her neck.
Ritika turned and walked toward the window, rain falling in steady rhythms beyond the glass. Her reflection shimmered faintly in it, ghostlike.
“You ever think we’re playing with fire?” she asked, voice softer now, almost wistful.
Asish stepped closer, the scent of rain and sandalwood trailing behind him. “Only when you start running from the spark.”
She didn’t move as he came to stand behind her, their bodies not touching, but the space between them seemed to vibrate. Her breath fogged the window. His did too.
“You’re not like the others,” she whispered.
“Neither are you.”
He reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her neck, fingers grazing just enough to make her shiver. She leaned back, just slightly, just enough.
The thunder rolled in the distance.
“Say it,” she said.
“What?”
“That you want me.”
Asish turned her gently by the waist. She let him. Their faces were inches apart, close enough for breath to tangle.
“I want you,” he said, eyes heavy with everything he wasn’t saying. “I’ve wanted you since the first time you laughed at me.”
Her laugh now was softer, richer. “That was on purpose.”
“I know.”
He touched her jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her bottom lip. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”
“Good.”
They kissed—not hurried, not desperate. It was the kind of kiss that unraveled slowly, like silk sliding down bare skin. It said things their mouths hadn’t dared to speak. Her hands wound into his shirt, damp fabric clinging to muscle and heat. His lips found the corner of her jaw, the curve of her throat, like a man discovering poetry with his mouth.
The rain pressed harder against the windows.
“Stay,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t answer with words.
He guided her back toward the couch, their steps silent, tension between them drawn tight like a bowstring. Each brush of skin was a promise, each glance a confession.
She sank into the cushions, fingers still laced with his, pulling him down with her. Outside, the storm raged, but inside—inside, everything had finally quieted. Every moment of restraint, of lingering glances and wordless teasing, collapsed in the space between them.
Time unraveled. Nothing was rushed. No barriers, no doubts—just heat and a hunger that felt centuries old.
Later, the rain softened. The city breathed again.
Ritika lay tangled in the aftermath, fingers tracing patterns on Asish’s chest. He watched her with a half-smile, content and still smoldering.
“You always do that?” he asked.
“What?”
“Undo people with a look.”
She smirked. “Only the ones who don’t run.”
He leaned in, kissed her shoulder. “Then I guess I’m staying for the next storm too.”
She didn’t reply.
But she didn’t let go of his hand, either.