The sixth floor was quiet.
After the chaos, the blood, the burning cold—silence now wrapped the apartment like a soft blanket. Priya stepped in first, her eyes landing immediately on something unexpected—a lift shaft built beside the stairs, its doors shut and coated with frost. The red emergency light above it had long died out.
There were only two rooms up here.
The first room was cramped but overflowing with supplies. Boxes were stacked to the ceiling, labeled in fading marker—Atta, Rice, Biscuits, Maggi, Batteries, Sanitary. The air was thick with the earthy scent of grains and the sharp tang of plastic packaging, like the backroom of a grocery store. With no windows, the space was cloaked in dimness.
The second room was a different world altogether—warmer, quieter, almost… lived in. Clearly the master suite. It opened into three smaller areas—a modest bedroom, a side washroom, and a tiny kitchen with a two-person dining table. Left of the bed stood a wardrobe with a steel-framed mirror. Beside it, a door opened to a balcony, though the glass was boarded with steel sheets and layered with cotton blankets to keep the cold and light out. Two windows had been sealed shut with bolted steel sheets, and thick cotton blankets were tightly wrapped around the inside frames to trap warmth. It worked. The chill that haunted the lower floors had softened here, turning into a tolerable, almost cozy stillness.
This wasn't home. But for now, it was shelter—and that was more than most could ask for.
Priya offered a small smile. "It's… warm. And quiet."
She didn't linger. Without hesitation, she told Ron she would go downstairs to help Puja and the girls clean up the fifth floor. Ron nodded and stayed behind, alone in the supply room. The silence returned. He began opening crates.
Ron pulled the lid off the first supply crate, his fingers stinging from the cold. Inside were stacks of food—packets of instant noodles, bags of rice, flour, lentils, biscuits, and bottled water. Another box revealed winter clothes—thick jackets, thermal underlayers, beanies, socks. Some were clearly for women, others for men. They'd be okay for a while.
He wasted no time. Scooping a kettle full of snow, he placed it over a small makeshift gas stove. Minutes later, steam rose into the room, soft and inviting. He poured the warm water into a large basin and stepped into the washroom.
It was the first real bath he'd had in weeks.
He stood under the slow trickle, eyes closed, letting the warmth soak into his bones. It washed away the blood, the grime, and something deeper—the weight of constant alertness. He wasn't clean, not really, but for a moment, he felt human again.
Not long after, he heard soft footsteps. Priya had returned.
She entered, cheeks red from the cold and effort. Ron offered her a nod and gestured to the hot water. "It's still warm."
She took it without a word, disappearing into the washroom with a bundle of fresh clothes.
Ron sat at the dining table, quietly boiling more water. When she stepped out of the washroom, his gaze lifted—and stilled.
Priya stood in front of the wardrobe mirror, a wooden comb in hand, gently untangling her wet, ink-black hair. It clung to her back and shoulders like a silk curtain, freshly damp, glistening under the weak light. She wore a light grey turtleneck pullover sweater, soft and snug against her frame. The sleeves hung long around her wrists, and her black leggings outlined her slender legs.
As she moved, her reflection shifted. The high collar of the sweater hugged her throat, but just below it, the edge of her delicate collarbone peeked through the cling of damp fabric. Her skin—tender, pale with a hint of warmth—seemed impossibly soft. Ron couldn't look away.
She caught him watching in the mirror and gave a soft smile, then returned to combing her hair.
Ron stirred two bowls of Maggi in a steel pot. When they sat together, eating from steaming bowls of instant Maggi at the tiny table, knees touching under the wooden surface. There was a new warmth between them.
Just as they finished, a knock came at the door.
Priya, who had been sitting with Ron at the table, looked up, a slight furrow in her brow. Ron nodded. She pushed back her chair and moved toward the door, opening it cautiously.
Jiya stood there, bundled in a makeshift woolen shawl. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, and her breath misted faintly in the air between them.
"What happened?" Priya asked gently.
Before Jiya could speak, Ron appeared behind Priya, pulling on his jacket.
Jiya's eyes shifted to him with visible relief. "We've finally cleaned the fifth floor. All the bodies… we threw them off the balcony. It's done."
Ron's jaw tightened. He remembered the broken tiles, the gaping wounds in the walls, and the bloodstains that battle had left behind.
"But…" Jiya continued, "almost every room is too damaged to use. Cracked ceilings, shattered floors. Only one room is intact—but the window's broken. The cold wind's coming straight through it. We… we don't know how long we'll last like that."
Her voice faltered slightly.
Priya looked at Ron, concern in her eyes.
Jiya lowered her head. "We can't go to the lower floors. They're destroyed. It's just… the fifth and sixth left. Please…"
Ron nodded once. "I'll fix it."
The stairwell groaned beneath Ron's boots as he descended to the fourth floor, then the third. Everything below was half-frozen and stripped bare, but a few wooden doors still hung intact on rusted hinges. He chose the sturdiest ones, breaking them free with controlled strikes of his hammer. The sound echoed through the cold emptiness like distant thunder.
One by one, he hauled the doors up the stairs to the fifth floor.
Jiya and Shreya watched in quiet awe as he lifted the heavy panels into the damaged room. He studied the broken window—glass shattered, frame bent inward like a wound left open to the winter.
Using old nails, salvaged wires, and a bent prybar as a makeshift lever, Ron mounted the four doors across the frame like heavy wooden shutters. He nailed them in place, two across the width, two stacked to cover the height. Then he draped every blanket and curtain they could spare over the new wall, sealing off the wind.
The room grew still. Warmer. Livable.
Priya arrived minutes later with a cloth bag filled with food—biscuits, dry fruits, and some heat-sealed meal packets. She placed them gently on the small table.
"Thank you… for saving my daughter," she said quietly. Her voice cracked on the last word. "For giving us a place. For food. For everything. We… we'll never forget this."
Ron didn't respond with words, just gave a small nod. But something in his face softened.
Puja bowed her head. "We're with you. No matter what comes."
Later That Night
Snow had swallowed the world outside. The first floor of the building was now completely buried beneath a crust of white. Ice had formed in the corners of windows, creeping like veins.
Inside, the sixth floor glowed faintly in the dark.
Ron had crafted a makeshift fireplace from an old oil tin and a few bricks. The fire inside flickered quietly, warming the room and casting dancing shadows along the wall.
Priya sat in front of it, wrapped in the thick white blanket they'd found in the storeroom. Her hair was damp from a quick wash, combed neatly, falling in wet black strands across her shoulders. A few locks clung to her neck where the edge of her turtleneck sweater dipped slightly, revealing smooth, delicate skin that caught the firelight like polished marble.
Ron sat behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, her head resting gently against his chest. The fire crackled. Outside, the wind howled like a distant ghost—but here, inside, it felt like a different world.
She stirred slightly. "Ron?"
"Hmm?"
"You never told me about your past."
Ron was silent for a long moment.
"I told you mine," she whispered. "Everything."
He sighed. Then, quietly, he began.
"I'm from the Northeast," Ron said, his eyes fixed on the flickering flame. "Guwahati. The so-called heart of Assam. Big city, small dreams."
He let out a breath that was half a sigh, half a scoff.
"My grandfather raised me. Said my parents got divorced right after I was born. Both went off, started their shiny new lives with shiny new families. Left me with him, like an unwanted parcel. But you know what? I've always had my doubts. I think I was just some orphan Grandpa picked up because he couldn't stand the silence in his old bones."
He gave a dry chuckle. "We lived in this tiny rented room with walls so thin you could hear your neighbor cough in stereo. I studied till class nine. Almost made it through tenth, but Grandpa died right before my board exams. I missed one paper—just one—and boom, failed the whole year. Even though the rest of my marks weren't too bad."
Priya stirred slightly beside him, watching him, but said nothing.
"After that, there was no reason to stay. No one left. So I took a ₹400 ticket on the Northeast Express, one-way to Delhi. Fresh start, right?"
He shook his head, smirking bitterly.
"Yeah, no. I had no plan, no contacts, no clue. Slept at the railway station for a week, cuddled up with stray dogs for warmth. Then I found work washing dishes at some dingy hotel. Twelve hours scrubbing greasy plates. Nights on station benches. Eventually scraped enough to rent a room in the slums."
He shrugged.
"Then came the parade of odd jobs—newspapers at dawn, unloading trucks at noon, and diving into gutters by dusk. I was a one-man orchestra of desperation."
His arms tightened slightly around her, the firelight catching the edge of his profile.
"Then one day, on a construction site, I met Nokul. He was an electrician. His usual helper—Raj, yeah, that Raj—had skipped work, probably stealing someone's shoes or soul. I filled in, and Nokul actually paid me. Like, real money. Just for being decent."
Ron's voice softened.
"We became friends. He offered me a proper job. And when Raj got caught swapping new parts for busted ones, Nokul fired him without blinking. Made me the store manager instead. For once, I felt… I don't know. Trusted."
There was a long pause. The fire crackled quietly.
"When the world went to hell... we were in the shop. A zombie got him. Just a scratch on his leg, but he knew what it meant. He didn't run. He stayed back. Lured the others away so I could escape."
He fell quiet.
After a while, he added, almost to himself, "The guy who gave me a chance… ended up buying me one last time to live."
Priya didn't speak right away. She just watched him, her eyes shimmering in the firelight—wide, wet, and full of something between awe and sorrow.
"You really went through all that?" she whispered, her voice catching.
Ron gave a half-smile, tired and crooked. "Yeah. Hell of a resume, huh? Orphan, dropout, part-time dishwasher, full-time survivor."
Priya leaned closer, her hand sliding over his chest, then resting gently near his heart. "And still… you saved me. You helped Puja and her girls. You give and give, like it's nothing."
"It's not nothing," he said, softer now. "It's just… I know what it's like to be left behind. To have no one. Maybe that's why I can't leave anyone else to rot."
She blinked fast, as if trying to hide her tears, then gave up and let them fall. "Ron… I don't think I've ever met anyone like you."
He met her gaze, eyes steady but gentle. "That's 'cause most people don't make it out of rock bottom. I guess I just got really stubborn."
Priya gave a watery laugh and curled into him, her head resting on his shoulder. "You didn't just survive. You held on to your soul through all of it. That's what amazes me."
There was silence for a while, soft and warm between them.
Then, slowly, she pulled back to look at him again. "Come on. Let's get some sleep. You've earned more than just a fire and a story tonight."
Ron smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "With you beside me? Might actually be the first good night's sleep I've had in years."
She stood, and he followed, lifting her gently in his arms steady, blanket wrapped around both their bodies like a fragile shield against the bitter world outside. The fire crackled behind them, casting a soft orange glow on the bed—a simple mattress, but to them, it might as well have been heaven.
He gently laid her down, careful as if she were something sacred. She reached up, brushing a finger along his jaw. "You're really not going to vanish in the morning, right?" she asked, voice low.
He smiled. "I'm too damn tired to run anymore."
Priya gave a small laugh, breath catching as Ron leaned closer, his weight resting gently beside her. His hand slid up her side, over the thick fabric of her turtleneck, then under it, just far enough to rest against the warm skin of her waist. She shivered—not from cold, but from the electric weight of his touch.
She reached up, fingers slipping into his hair, still damp from melted snow. He kissed her collarbone first, a soft, reverent press of his lips just where her neck met her shoulder. Her breath hitched again, her chest rising against him. Then he kissed her again, higher now—just beneath her jaw—and again, slower, on her lips.
Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer as if trying to erase the distance the world had once forced between them. The kiss deepened—warm, hungry, but full of something older than desire: relief. Gratitude. Ached longing finally finding home.
His fingers explored gently, tracing the curve of her spine, the dip of her lower back. She didn't stop him. Her sweater bunched slightly as he shifted, their legs tangling under the blanket. She felt safe beneath him, even as her pulse quickened, even as her breath grew shallow.
Priya slid her hands beneath his shirt, feeling the lines of his muscles, the heat of his skin. There were scars there. Old ones, forgotten ones. She ran her fingertips across each one like reading braille, like memorizing every hardship he'd endured.
Ron kissed her again—slower this time, as if savoring her. As if he wasn't sure how long this moment would last, but he wanted to burn it into memory. Their bodies pressed closer, warmth building between them as the cold outside howled unnoticed.
He peeled her sweater back only halfway, enough to kiss her shoulder, her neck, her chest. She tilted her head, allowing him more, her hands grasping the back of his neck. "Ron," she whispered. That was all—just his name. But it carried every piece of her heart with it.
They moved in sync, like two waves folding into each other, not rushed, not frantic. Just close. Intimate. Real. Their pasts faded—orphans, outcasts, broken survivors. All that remained was this room, this bed, this breathless, aching closeness.
Later, tangled in warmth and silence, Priya rested against his bare chest, fingers drawing soft lines on his skin. The fire had dimmed to embers.
"You're mine now, right?" she murmured.
Ron smiled against her hair. "Since the day you come to my room to stay with me."