It hit Ayaan all at once.
The sharp winter air. The frosted breath between them. The thin loungewear clinging to Rudra's frame. And his hands—when Ayaan grabbed them—they were freezing.
"Rudra!" Ayaan almost yelped, clutching his icy fingers tight. His eyes widened with pure panic. "Are you out of your mind? You're not even wearing a jacket! You'll get sick!"
Rudra blinked, momentarily thrown by the flood of worry. His lips curved—just slightly, almost invisible—but it was there. The hint of a smile.
"Really…?" he murmured, voice low, soft, as he let Ayaan fuss over him. "You're panicking over that?"
"Yes!" Ayaan snapped, tugging at his arms as if trying to pull him closer to shield him from the cold. "Your hands are like ice! You're shivering and—you're impossible! What were you thinking, running out here like—like this?"
Rudra's chest tightened, but not from the cold.
Because Ayaan's voice shook. Because his warmth was all around him, seeping into his frozen fingers. Because no one had ever panicked for him like this before.
Rudra looked down at their joined hands, then back at Ayaan's flushed, worried face. And that almost-smile flickered again, softer this time.
"Ayaan…" he said quietly, almost fondly. "You're… ridiculous."
But his eyes, warm despite the winter chill, betrayed the truth:
No one has ever cared like this. And I could get used to it.
To be continued....