The city hummed quietly beneath the veil of night, its noise muted by the late hour. In the soft amber glow of Mahi’s apartment, everything felt slower… heavier… like the world had decided to take a breath and watch what happened next.
Mahi stood by the window, her silhouette outlined by the moonlight filtering through gauzy curtains. She wore his shirt—oversized, unbuttoned just enough to tempt curiosity—and the hem kissed the tops of her thighs with every movement. Barefoot, thoughtful, and devastating without trying.
Arman leaned against the doorway, watching her with a half-smile that bordered on wicked.
“You always steal my clothes,” he murmured, voice low and rough from the late hour.
She turned slightly, her dark eyes gleaming as they met his. “You always leave them lying around.”
“That shirt’s trouble,” he said, walking toward her, slowly.
“Then maybe,” she teased, “you should stop bringing trouble into my apartment.”
He chuckled, the sound deep and delicious. “You didn’t seem to mind it last night.”
Mahi’s lips curled. “Last night, I lost my mind.”
Arman was close now—close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from him, even without a touch. He raised a hand, fingers gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb lingered at her jaw, just long enough to make her skin hum.
“And tonight?” he asked.
She held his gaze, playful but unreadable. “Tonight, I’m trying to be good.”
“Liar,” he whispered.
She laughed, quiet and sultry, then turned back to the window. Outside, the world went on—cars passing, neon lights flickering, lovers perhaps tangled behind other windows. But here, in this room, time had its own rhythm.
“You always come at the worst time,” she said, arms folding under her chest.
“And yet,” he said, moving closer, “you always let me in.”
“I don’t let you in,” she corrected, “you just… know how to open locked doors.”
His breath touched her shoulder before his lips did, a gentle brush that made her shiver. She didn’t stop him.
“I like your walls,” he said softly, pressing a slow kiss just below her ear. “But I like tearing them down more.”
She turned to face him again, eyes narrowing. “You always talk like you’re writing poetry in bed.”
“I talk like a man who knows what he wants,” he replied.
Mahi tilted her head. “And what is it that you want right now, Arman?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for her hand, lifting it to his chest, letting her feel the thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm.
“You.”
The word was simple. Heavy. Dangerous.
And it landed deep in her.
But Mahi wasn’t the type to fall without a fight. Her fingers slid up his chest, resting at his collar, tugging lightly at the fabric. “You say that,” she whispered, “but you disappear for weeks.”
“I come back,” he said, catching her waist, pulling her closer. “I always come back.”
Her lips hovered near his, not touching. “And when you do, you look at me like you never left.”
“That’s because I never do—here.” He took her hand again, pressing it against his chest. “This is always yours, even when the rest of me is off chasing shadows.”
She hated how easily those words disarmed her. Hated how he could find all her soft spots in the dark. But more than that, she hated how much she wanted him to stay.
“You’re trouble, Arman,” she whispered, breath brushing his lips.
He smiled. “So are you.”
The kiss wasn’t rushed. It never was with them. It began as a whisper, a tease, the kind of kiss that spoke in unfinished thoughts and lingering promises. His hands explored the shape of her spine, her waist, learning her again like a favorite book reread under candlelight.
Her fingers tangled in his hair as his lips moved with a slowness that made her ache. Each movement was deliberate. Suggestive. A dance of restraint and temptation.
He backed her slowly toward the couch, their bodies grazing, never fully colliding. Her back hit the edge, and she paused, eyes daring.
“You going to wreck my living room too?” she asked, breathless.
Arman grinned, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Only if you ask nicely.”
She laughed, pushing him back gently, enough to catch her breath.
“Wait,” she said, voice softer now. “Why are you really here tonight?”
He brushed a knuckle along her jaw. “Because it’s been 17 days since I last saw you, and in every single one of them, I’ve wanted this—us—more than I wanted anything else.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was loaded. Mahi’s heart stuttered as she looked at him—not just the way his shirt clung to his frame or how his voice made her legs feel unsteady—but *him*. The man who could have anyone, yet came back to her. Again. And again.
“You really should stop saying things like that,” she whispered.
“Why?”
“Because I might start believing you.”
He stepped closer, his forehead resting against hers.
“Then believe me.”
And just like that, the walls she’d rebuilt began to crumble again—one whispered touch at a time.
Outside, the night carried on.
Inside, two hearts tangled in the kind of silence that only comes when words are no longer needed.