I thought the kiss at the bar was a mistake. A single, reckless moment that would be buried beneath smoke and neon lights.
I was wrong.
Because Kabir Malhotra doesn't do mistakes. Not when it comes to me.
A few days later, I was in my studio, half-finished canvas before me, the smell of turpentine and cigarette smoke mixing into something that felt… alive. I didn't hear him approach. Not until he cleared his throat softly behind me.
"You're late," I said without turning.
"I came as soon as I could," he said quietly.
I didn't turn. I wanted to. I wanted to glance over my shoulder, see the way he was standing there—nervous, polite, too careful. But I didn't. I couldn't.
"You shouldn't be here," I finally said.
His voice softened. "I just… wanted to see you."
I laughed bitterly. "Kabir, you can't just decide you love me one day and think I'll—" I cut myself off. My hands itched to grab the brush again, to throw myself into work, to distract from the pull in my chest.
"Why not?" he asked, calm, unwavering.
I turned slowly. There he was. Shirt sleeves rolled up, hair tousled, eyes burning with that quiet insistence he always had.
"Because you're dating Riya," I said.
His jaw tightened. "I know."
"And because you're… you," I added, shrugging. My chest tightened as I said it. I hated that he could make me feel things with just a look.
"I'm not pretending," he said softly. "I don't want to pretend."
I exhaled slowly. "Kabir… this is a bad idea."
He stepped closer. "Everything worth feeling is a bad idea for you."
The air between us grew heavier. His eyes didn't leave mine. The faint warmth of his body edged closer, a whisper against my skin. I tried to look away, tried to tell myself it was just him standing too close, that I could step back, that I could control this. But I didn't.
"Arjun," he whispered, voice low, deliberate. "Stop lying to yourself."
I scoffed, but my lips betrayed me with a tiny tremble. "I'm not lying."
"Then why are you pushing me away?"
That was it. The words cut deeper than any brushstroke, any kiss, any fleeting connection I'd ever allowed myself. I didn't answer. I couldn't.
Over the next days, he appeared everywhere. Texts, casual messages, little touches in crowded spaces, subtle, calculated. Each one a reminder that he existed, that he refused to disappear, that he wanted me—no, needed me—in ways I hadn't felt in years.
And I kept pushing him away. Hard.
But no matter how many times I said, This isn't happening, his persistence grew. Gentle. Patient. Relentless.
I caught him watching me across the bar one evening. His eyes, soft but intense, never leaving mine. I lit my cigarette, trying to pretend I wasn't affected. But the way he looked at me… it made my pulse jump. My chest tighten. My fingers tremble ever so slightly.
I knew then—he was breaking through my defenses. Slowly. And I hated myself for letting him.
Later, outside the bar, the streets quiet except for the occasional passing car, he stepped close again. Close enough that I felt the heat of his body. Close enough that my rational mind screamed Step back, but my chest betrayed me with something else.
"Why do you keep avoiding me?" he asked softly.
"Because I said so," I replied, trying to sound firm.
He shook his head. "That's not enough. You're lying to yourself."
I ran a hand through my hair, smoke curling from the cigarette between my fingers. "Kabir… this is dangerous."
"Everything worth feeling is," he whispered.
And then, just like that, the tension between us wasn't just emotional anymore. It was physical. The brush of his hand when he adjusted his sleeve, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the city night, the nearness of his lips when he leaned just a little too close—it made every nerve in my body hum.
I hated him for it. Hated that I wanted it. Hated that I wanted him.
I should have walked away. I didn't.
Because Kabir Malhotra wasn't just persistent. He was inevitable.
And the worst part? I wasn't sure I wanted to resist anymore.