I told myself I was untouchable. That desire couldn't reach me. That no one could pierce the walls I'd built around my heart.
Then Kabir Malhotra arrived. Quiet, careful, patient. The kind of man who didn't just watch—you felt his gaze, like it was pressing against your skin.
I first noticed him at The Monkey Bar. He sat in the corner, pretending to scroll through his phone, but I caught him glancing at me more times than I could count. Not aggressively. Not urgently. Just… observing. Like he was studying a painting he didn't want to touch yet.
I ignored it. Of course I did. I had rules. Lines. Walls thicker than anything he could hope to break.
But he didn't stop.
A week later, I found him waiting outside my studio. The sun hadn't fully risen, spilling light across the street. I was leaning against the doorway, cigarette in hand, waiting for my mind to sort itself out before the day began.
He approached quietly, almost cautiously, like he wasn't sure if I would welcome him.
"Morning," he said softly.
"Morning," I replied, calm. Detached. Poker face firmly in place.
He didn't move. Just stood there. I could feel his eyes on me, soft but unrelenting. I wanted to tell him to leave. I wanted to push him away. But curiosity… no, something darker, made me linger.
"You shouldn't be here," I finally said.
"I just wanted to see you," he admitted. His voice trembled slightly, but there was no hesitation, no fear.
"I'm busy," I said. "Go home."
He didn't move.
And that's when I realized: Kabir wasn't someone who could be dismissed. Not with a word. Not with a glare. Not with the usual rules I used to keep people like him at bay.
Over the next few days, he kept appearing. A text here: Did you eat today? A message there: Your new painting looks incredible. And always, always, those lingering eyes whenever we met.
At first, I ignored him. Pretended it was nothing. Pretended I was indifferent.
But every time he showed up, a small, dangerous part of me softened. His presence… it stirred something I thought I had buried.
One evening, the bar was crowded. The music pulsed, loud and heavy, but the heat outside made the air feel thick, almost sticky. I stepped out onto the balcony for a cigarette, letting the cool night air brush against my skin.
I felt him before I saw him. His presence. Quiet, almost reverent. Watching.
"You know," he said softly, "I think you enjoy this attention."
I raised an eyebrow, letting the smoke curl lazily from my lips. "I don't."
"You're lying," he whispered.
I laughed under my breath. Sharp. Harsh. But my chest betrayed me with a slight tightness. A small tug I didn't want to acknowledge.
"Why are you here?" I asked, voice calm but low.
"Because I can't not be," he said. His words hit me differently than they should have. He stepped closer. The faint brush of his arm against mine made my pulse quicken.
I wanted to push him away. I wanted to remind myself of the rules. I wanted to keep control. But something in the way he watched me, like he understood me more than I understood myself, made me hesitate.
And that hesitation… that tiny, dangerous hesitation… was all he needed.
Kabir Malhotra had a way of making you feel exposed without touching you. His gaze was patient. His persistence steady. And I hated myself a little for thinking about what it would feel like if he did touch me.
I should have walked away. I should have returned to my corner and pretended none of this mattered.
But I didn't.
Because deep down, I already knew.
This was only the beginning.