A Night of Appearances
The rooftop lounge shimmered under a canopy of chandeliers and city stars. Glass walls reflected sequins and secrets, while the hum of clinking glasses wrapped around low murmurs and hidden envy.
Abir arrived with Maholi at his side.
He didn't hold her hand — but he didn't need to.Their closeness spoke louder than any touch.He walked just slightly behind her, as if framing her presence — letting the world know she wasn't just a colleaguetonight.
Maholi wore a sleek black dress — smooth as ink, hugging her curves without begging for eyes. Her hair flowed in soft, untamed waves. No bold jewelry. No loud makeup.
She didn't try to outshine anyone.
But she did.
When she walked, conversations paused for a beat too long.When she smiled, it felt like she didn't owe the world anything — not even her explanation.
Ruchika saw them.From across the lounge, crystal flute in hand.
Her smile was small. Too still.Her knuckles whitened around the stem of her glass.
Later, during polite small talk and practiced smiles, someone leaned closer to Maholi and asked the question.
"Are you two… dating?"
She tilted her head, her voice even, lips curved just enough.
"I'm still figuring out where I stand."
Abir choked slightly on his drink.Maholi didn't look at him.But the corners of her mouth deepened.
Ruchika's Move
Hours into the evening, Abir stepped out onto the balcony to take a call.
Ruchika followed — perfume trailing behind her like smoke.
"You used to tell me everything," she murmured, her manicured hand brushing his sleeve.
Abir didn't meet her gaze.
"That was a long time ago," he said flatly.
She moved closer.
He didn't notice the flick of her wrist. The way her ringed fingers slipped something — clear, subtle — into his glass.Not poison. Not pain.
Just confusion.Control.
He drank it absentmindedly. His body heavy within minutes. Thoughts muddled. Limbs thick with silence.
"Come rest for a while," Ruchika coaxed, guiding him toward the guest suite tucked inside the lounge.
His instincts, dulled but not broken, screamed from somewhere beneath the fog.This wasn't exhaustion.This wasn't wine.
It was wrong.
He fought it.
Clawed his way out of the velvet grip of whatever clouded him.His breath uneven, his body trembling.
And in the haze — only one name pulsed clear and sharp in his mind.
Maholi.
The Drive Home
Maholi had just stepped outside to call her brother when the car screeched in front of her.
The backdoor flung open.
Abir sat inside — pale, shirt slightly undone, eyes wild with fevered confusion.
"Get in."
"Abir, what—"
"Please. Just get in."
His voice wasn't cold.It was shaken. Stripped.
She slid in without another word.
As soon as the door shut, he reached for her — not with seduction, but desperation.He buried his face in her shoulder, inhaling her like oxygen.
"Someone tried to— I don't know— I just… I needed to see you—"
Her arms folded around him, cradling his shivering body.
No questions.
The driver didn't ask either. He just drove.
The Calm and the Fire
At home, he stumbled through the doorway, half-collapsing against the wall.
Maholi caught him, held him, led him to the bathroom.
She turned on the cold shower, rolled up her sleeves, wet a towel, and pressed it to his neck.
"You need to sit—"
"No," he rasped. "Just… stay close. I need you."
Her breath caught. She looked into his eyes — now clearing, the drug wearing off.
He wasn't drunk. He wasn't out of control.
He was raw.
His fingers found the back of her dress — not grabbing, not groping — just clinging, like anchoring himself to something real.
"Why me?" she whispered.
He looked at her like the answer hurt.
"Because when I was losing control... your name was all I had."
That was all it took.
Her heart shattered and rearranged itself in the same moment.She didn't think.She kissed him.
Fiercely. Softly. Completely.
Their lips met like exhale and flame — desperate, seeking, half-broken.His hands slid to her waist, then up her back, pressing her against him, feeling if she was real — if this wasn't another dream he'd fall out of.
Her hands slid into his hair.She kissed him deeper, more slowly this time — as if pouring every ache, every breath she hadn't allowed herself to take.
"Maholi…" he whispered between kisses, forehead resting against hers.
"Don't stop," she breathed.
He lifted her — slowly, deliberately — his arms strong but reverent.
Their eyes met as he carried her to the bed.
No rush.No spoken promises.
Just the sacred silence that follows truth.
He laid her down gently, like she was something to worship. His fingers brushed her cheek, her collarbone, tracing fire without force. Her dress slipped from her shoulders. His shirt fell away.
Bare skin met skin — not lustfully, but like two souls recognizing each other in the dark.
His kisses trailed along her throat, her shoulder, her chest — tender, trembling, reverent.
And she opened to him — with trust, with ache, with hunger.Her hands guided him. Her lips found him. Their bodies aligned — not just in desire, but in surrender.
Breath tangled.Backs arched.Fingers clenched.Names whispered like prayers.
No pretending.
No hiding behind sarcasm or silence.
Just two broken hearts… finding their rhythm in the fire.