Late night. Café closed. Rain tapping on old windows. Music off. Just the two of you, the scent of cinnamon and coffee hanging in the air. Rishi leans on the counter, sleeves rolled, eyes darker than usual.

“You mad?” he asks, voice low, cocky on the surface but wired underneath.

You lean against the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, workout tights hugging your thighs. You don’t answer. You just raise an eyebrow. Your forearm is freshly bandaged.

He exhales sharply. “Don’t give me the silent stare. Say something. Or throw a potted plant at me—whatever your thing is.”

You walk in. Slow. Deliberate. Your gaze doesn’t leave his. The café is empty, but the tension? Dense. Honey-thick. He tracks your every step like a man waiting for impact.

“Why do you keep running?” you ask softly.

Rishi scoffs, pushing off the counter. “I don’t run. I—”

“You vanish,” you cut in. “You flirt to avoid. You fuck around feelings like they’re landmines.”

He steps closer. Inches now. Voice low, crackling.

“I’m standing right here, aren’t I?”

You meet his eyes. Steel in your voice now. “Then prove it.”

That’s when he breaks.

He kisses you like punishment—his hands rough, one threading into your hair, the other gripping your hip tight. The counter digs into your back. You gasp. He uses that moment to taste deeper, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth with a low, helpless growl.

You bite back—just a little. He groans like a man unraveling.

“You still playing a role, Rishi?” you whisper against his lips.

His hands roam—up your spine, down to your thighs, lifting you onto the counter like you're weightless.

“Not tonight,” he breathes. “Tonight I’m just yours.”

The lights are dim, but not off. He wants to see you. Needs it. His eyes devour as you tug off your hoodie, breath shaky. When you push his apron away, he hisses, grabbing your wrist.

“I’m a mess,” he warns.

“Good,” you murmur. “I like my men messy.”

He lifts your leg over his shoulder. His mouth trails down the inside of your thigh—hot breath against the fabric, maddeningly slow. You arch into him, breath caught, nails gripping the counter's edge.

He grins, voice dark. “You act like you don’t care. But you’re shaking.”

You don’t dignify it with a response.

So he proves it.

His tongue finds you—through fabric first, then bare, relentless, wicked. He groans as you twist, whimpering into your wrist. He pins you with his hands, not letting you move, not letting you look away. You gasp, heels digging into his back. He doesn’t stop.

“Look at me,” he rasps, voice hoarse. “I want you to know who’s undoing you.”

You’re already trembling by the time he stands, chest heaving, lips slick. He pulls off his shirt—quick, desperate. You reach for him with your good arm, and he kisses the brace on your other before sliding inside you in one deep, raw motion.

The breath punches out of you.

“Still think I’m a boy in an apron?” he murmurs into your neck.

You dig your nails into his back. “Still think I can’t make you beg?”

The rhythm turns frantic—hands on hips, mouths on skin, sweat mixing with the scent of coffee beans and rain. Every thrust is a challenge. Every gasp is surrender. You fight for dominance, for breath, for control—but he gives nothing easily. You feel everything. Bruises forming where his fingers grip too hard, goosebumps where his breath dances along your jaw.

“You scare me,” he whispers against your throat, voice ragged.

You cup his jaw. “Good. Fear means you feel.”

And then you both shatter—him, murmuring your name like a prayer he didn’t know he believed in. You, legs locked around him, your body arching off the counter as if to meet every piece of him.