Rudra should have stayed in the kitchen.
He knew he should have. His mind reminded him of control, composure, distance—everything that had kept him untouchable for years.
But his body betrayed him. His steps moved on their own, silent across the polished floor.
And then his voice—lower, quieter than he meant—escaped before he could stop it.
"…Ayaan."
The name tasted unfamiliar on his lips when spoken like that. Not clipped. Not formal. Just soft.
Ayaan froze. He didn't turn. He sat stiffly on the couch, glass of water halfway raised, knuckles white around it.
Rudra stopped just a step behind him, staring at the way Ayaan's shoulders rose and fell too quickly. The distance between them felt fragile—like one wrong move would shatter something neither of them dared to name.
For a long moment, silence stretched.
Finally, Ayaan lowered the glass, setting it carefully on the table. "…Yes?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Rudra's throat tightened. He wasn't used to this—wasn't used to chasing after anyone, wasn't used to wanting like this. He clenched his fists to stop himself from reaching out.
He should've let it go. He should've walked away.
But instead—
"…Don't," Rudra said softly, almost strained.
Ayaan's head tilted, confused. "Don't what?"
"Don't… pull away."
The words shocked even him. He hadn't meant to say them aloud. But now they hung heavy in the room, undeniable, impossible to take back.
Ayaan finally turned his head, wide eyes meeting Rudra's for the first time since the kitchen. His lips parted, a faint flush painting his cheeks.
For the first time, it was Ayaan who didn't know how to respond.
And Rudra—terrifying, untouchable Rudra Malhotra—stood there, utterly undone by his own words.
To be continued.....