The rain had started quietly—just a soft whisper on the windowpane—but now it poured with a wild rhythm, drumming against the glass like a secret trying to break free.
Rima tucked her legs beneath her on the velvet couch, the dim glow of the lamp casting honeyed shadows across her skin. Her silk robe clung to her curves with every movement, teasing the air around her. The room smelled faintly of jasmine and old books, grounding yet intoxicating. She didn’t look up when the door creaked.
“You’re late,” she said, without turning.
Abinash stood in the doorway, rain dripping from the edge of his hair, jacket clutched in one hand, eyes fixed on her. There was something dangerous in the way he looked at her—like a man who knew the rules but had no interest in following them.
“I got caught in the storm,” he said, voice low, rich, and far too calm.
Rima finally turned her head, her lips curling. “Or maybe you just needed time to decide if you were brave enough to come.”
Abinash stepped in, shutting the door behind him. The click echoed like a challenge. He crossed the room slowly, his presence filling every inch of the space between them.
“I’ve never been afraid of you, Rima,” he murmured.
“Maybe that’s your mistake,” she replied, letting her fingers glide lazily along the rim of her wine glass. Her gaze didn’t leave his.
He stopped a breath away, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. The air between them crackled—not quite touch, but more than mere nearness.
“You invited me,” he said. “And yet, you’re acting like I crashed the gates.”
Rima tilted her head. “I did invite you. But I never said I’d make it easy.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “I never asked for easy.”
The pause between them stretched, the tension curling and coiling like smoke. Outside, thunder rolled through the sky, but inside, it was their silence that held the storm.
Without another word, Abinash reached down and brushed a stray curl from her cheek. His fingers lingered—just long enough to say everything they hadn’t yet dared to voice.
She closed her eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of him—earth, rain, and something else entirely… something undeniably male.
“I thought you were done playing these games,” he whispered, voice a thread of warmth against her skin.
“Maybe I was waiting to see if you remembered how to play,” she countered, her hand sliding slowly to rest against his chest, right above the steady beat of his heart.
His breath caught for a second. Just a second. But she noticed.
“Rima…” he said, her name a plea, a warning, and a promise all at once.
“Yes?” she replied sweetly, pretending not to notice how her robe had slipped just slightly off her shoulder, revealing a sliver of smooth skin.
He leaned in, lips barely an inch from hers. “You drive me insane.”
“Good,” she said. “I’d hate to be forgettable.”
Their lips met—not in a frenzy, but with a slow-burning hunger, like a match striking in the dark. He kissed her as if trying to memorize the shape of her mouth, and she responded with the kind of heat that made time feel irrelevant.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing unevenly.
“I should go,” he murmured, but his hands didn’t move from her waist.
“You won’t,” she said simply.
He looked at her—really looked at her—and something shifted behind his eyes. A wall, long-guarded, cracked. And in that crack, desire poured through like fire.
“No,” he said. “I won’t.”
She stood, letting the robe slide open just enough to make his mouth go dry. Not explicit. Not obvious. But enough to make him wonder what was real and what he only imagined.
“Come,” she said, walking toward the hallway. “Let’s see if you still remember how to follow where I lead.”
Abinash hesitated only a heartbeat before trailing after her, the scent of jasmine growing stronger, the storm outside roaring its approval.
The night was long, the silence filled with unsaid words and unspoken cravings. And somewhere between the shadows and the whispers, Abinash realized—he hadn’t just walked into her home.
He’d walked into her spell.