The river shimmered like a sheet of silver glass, moonlight quivering with every ripple. Karma sat beside you on the stone edge, knees brushing yours, pretending he wasn’t watching you more than the water. “You ever notice,” he murmured, “how the moon looks like it’s scared to touch the river?”

He glanced at you — that sharp, unreadable look that turned gentle only for you. His fingers skimmed the surface, breaking the moon into trembling fragments. “I don’t want to be afraid of wanting you,” he said quietly. The ripples steadied. The moon reformed. And Karma’s hand found yours beneath the cool glow. Gentle, hesitant, reverent — as if touch itself might dissolve if he held too tightly.