Ayaan sat frozen, the glass of water trembling faintly in his hand. His cheek still tingled where Rudra's lips had barely brushed. It was such a small thing—barely even a kiss. But to Ayaan, it felt like the world had tilted.
"…Drink your water," Rudra had said, turning away like nothing happened.
Ayaan's heart hammered painfully in his chest. His lips parted, then closed again. He wanted to say something—anything—but his throat refused.
The silence stretched.
Ýn."
The words hung in the air.
Rudra's lips parted slightly. He wanted to say it was nothing. He wanted to claim control again, to shut the moment down before it could unravel him further. But his chest felt heavy, his throat dry.
Instead, he said nothing.
Ayaan placed the glass of water down on the table with shaky fingers. Then he stood. He wasn't as tall as Rudra, but close enough that when he stepped forward, they stood almost eye to eye.
His voice was small but certain this time:
"If you can do it… then I can too."
Rudra's breath hitched. "Ayaan—"
But before he could finish, Ayaan leaned in.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't clumsy. It was quick, soft, and trembling with nervous courage—Ayaan's lips pressed against Rudra's cheek, right near the corner of his mouth.
Warmth spread like fire through Rudra's veins.
Ayaan pulled back immediately, face red to his ears, eyes wide with panic. "I—uh—goodnight!" he blurted, stepping back toward the couch as if retreating.
But Rudra just stood there, stunned, his cheek burning with a heat he couldn't smother.
For the first time in his life, someone had taken a step toward him, instead of away.
And it left him utterly undone
Rudra had retreated to the kitchen.
Cooking. That was safe. That was controlled. He could measure things, chop them, stir them—simple, mechanical tasks that didn't demand his heart.
Except his hands were trembling.
He dropped the spoon once. Burned his fingers twice. And the pot on the stove was slowly becoming an unidentifiable disaster.
His mind, usually razor sharp, kept replaying the same image:
Ayaan, eyes red, leaning in—kissing his cheek.
Rudra Malhotra, the man who reduced politicians to silence, was now standing over a half-burnt pan of vegetables, blushing like a boy caught stealing sweets.
He muttered under his breath. "Ridiculous…"
But then—footsteps. Soft, careful.
Ayaan.
Rudra's shoulders tensed immediately, but he didn't turn. He couldn't. He focused on the sizzling pan, pretending he was in control. Pretending his pulse wasn't betraying him.
Ayaan didn't say anything. He just walked into the kitchen and stopped behind him.
Close. Too close.
Rudra could feel the warmth of his presence, the way the silence filled every inch of space between them. His hand on the pan handle froze.
"…Aayan," Rudra finally said, his voice lower than he intended.
But Ayaan didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, the quiet pressing tighter, almost unbearable.
Rudra's breath caught. He wanted to turn around. He wanted to look at him. But his body locked in place, caught between his instinct for control and the pull of something far more dangerous.
And in that tiny, domestic kitchen, surrounded by the faint scent of burnt food and Ayaan's quiet warmth… Rudra Malhotra realized something terrifying.
For the first time in his life, he was more afraid of silence than words.