Sleep didn't come easily.
Ansh lay there, staring at the ceiling, heart still drumming to the rhythm of her whispered breath. The scent of her shawl lingered in the air—faint jasmine, warmed silk, something deeply her.
He closed his eyes.
And the dream took him.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't wild.
It was quiet. Intimate. Dangerous in its gentleness.
She was sitting at the edge of his bed, hair tumbling forward, lips parted slightly, one knee tucked beneath her. The room was dark but moonlit, her features half-illuminated like a portrait painted in secrets.
He sat up in the dream, and she reached for him.
Their hands met—slow, deliberate.
Fingers gliding across fingers, skin against skin, like reading each other's stories through touch alone.
No words.
Just breath.
Her hand moved to his face—tracing his jaw, his cheek, his mouth. The kind of touch that asks for permission and promises not to let go.
And then she leaned in.
Her lips grazed his—not a kiss, but something worse. Something better.
A taste.
A near miss.
A tease of a life they weren't allowed to live.
When their mouths finally met, it was like glass breaking. Shards of guilt and desire, soft moans swallowed by the night. Her fingers in his hair. His hands on her waist, feeling the curve of her body beneath the thin fabric.
He whispered her name like a prayer.
She answered with his, broken and wanting.
And then—
He woke up.
Chest heaving. Sheets tangled. Skin burning.
For a moment, he thought she was still there. The scent hadn't faded.
He sat up, swallowing the lump in his throat, trying to calm his pulse.
And that's when he saw it.
A folded note.
Right at the door. Barely visible under the early light.
He reached for it with trembling fingers, heart in his throat.
It was her handwriting.
> "We can't run from what we feel forever. But we also can't afford to fall. Not yet."
> – R
He stared at the words. Memorized them.
Read them again.
And again.
Outside, the morning sun began to rise.
But inside Ansh?
It was still midnight.
Still her.