The pan hissed on the stove, forgotten.
Rudra's hand gripped the wooden spoon so tightly his knuckles turned pale. He could feel Ayaan behind him—still, silent, close enough that every breath Ayaan took felt like it brushed against Rudra's skin.
The quiet dragged on, pressing into his chest like a weight.
And then—soft. Barely a breath.
"I love you…"
Rudra froze.
The spoon slipped from his hand, clattering against the stove. The sound echoed, sharp against the fragile silence.
His entire body went rigid. His throat tightened painfully, his pulse hammering so hard he thought Ayaan might hear it.
For a man who ruled boardrooms, who silenced politicians, who destroyed rivals without blinking—those three words hit harder than anything ever had.
Slowly, mechanically, Rudra turned.
Ayaan stood there, eyes wide, cheeks red but steady. He didn't look away. His voice shook, but his gaze was unwavering.
"I love you," he repeated, firmer this time.
Rudra's lips parted, but no words came. His chest ached, torn between the instinct to retreat, to lock himself down again… and the raw, terrifying urge to step forward.
His ears burned. His face felt hot. For the first time in his life, Rudra Malhotra—the man feared by all—was a blushing mess, undone by a single confession.
"…Ayaan…" he managed, his voice rough, strained.
But Ayaan only smiled faintly, shy and gentle, as though he hadn't just torn down every wall Rudra had ever built.
The kitchen was still. The faint hiss of the stove was the only sound, but Rudra hardly noticed. His chest was tight, his breath uneven. His hands trembled, still gripping the counter for balance, though he knew it wouldn't help.
Ayaan stepped closer, careful not to touch, yet impossible to ignore. Their heights were almost the same—Rudra at 6'5", Ayaan at 6'2"—so their faces were only inches apart.
"I love you," Ayaan whispered again, softer this time, but his eyes never wavered from Rudra's.
Then, barely audible, almost breaking, Ayaan added:
"I love you so much… that it hurts, Rudra."
Rudra's entire world went still. His hands dropped from the counter, his knees nearly buckled.
"…Aayan…" he croaked, voice raw and strangled. He wanted to speak, to tell him he felt the same, to fight back the heat in his chest—but nothing came out.
Ayaan reached forward then, tentative, trembling slightly, and lifted a hand. His fingers brushed against Rudra's jawline—light, almost reverent. The touch sent sparks up Rudra's spine.
Rudra's arms itched to respond, to pull him closer, to stop pretending he could be composed in the same room.
And then—he did.
Without thinking, he leaned in and pressed a soft, trembling kiss to Ayaan's lips. Not hurried, not aggressive—just desperate, messy, full of all the words Rudra couldn't say.
Ayaan froze for a heartbeat, then melted into the kiss, hands finding Rudra's chest as if anchoring himself.
The kitchen—the cold tiles, the half-burnt pan, the faint scent of spices—vanished. All that existed was the warmth between them, the raw confession, and the quiet certainty that they couldn't, and wouldn't, let go.
Rudra finally pulled back slightly, forehead resting against Ayaan's, breath mingling. His voice was a low, broken whisper:
"…I… love you too."
And in that moment, the world outside could have ended. He didn't care. He didn't fear anyone. Not the boardrooms, not rivals, not even his own family.
Because right here, in this kitchen, Ayaan was all that mattered.
To b continued....