The rooftop had quieted.

The party buzz had thinned, fading into muffled bass and laughter from downstairs. The fairy lights above swayed gently in the monsoon breeze, casting long gold shadows across the concrete terrace.

You’d stepped away for some air. For space. For distance—from him.

Aryan Sehgal.

Black shirt rolled at the sleeves, dark watch on his wrist, silver ring catching the moonlight every time he ran his thumb across his jaw.

He was the kind of man people didn’t just look at—they watched. Quietly. Carefully. Because when Aryan moved, it was always like something might break. A rule. A heart. A promise.

You’d spent all night trying not to meet his gaze.

And now, he was behind you.

“I thought you were done staring,” you say, not turning.

“I thought you were done pretending,” he replies, walking closer, slow, deliberate.

Your back hits the wall near the stairwell before you even realize he’s herded you there. His arm comes up beside your head, palm pressed against the cold cement.

“Say it,” he murmurs. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You swallow hard. “I wasn’t looking for you to begin with.”

He lets out a low laugh. Dangerous. Mocking.

“You weren’t looking. But you saw me. Every damn time.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t move. He’s close now—too close. The scent of cologne, sandalwood and heat, curling around your throat. His eyes scan your face like he’s trying to find the version of you only he can see.

“You walk in,” he mutters, “in that damn saree, all soft smiles and loud silence—and I forget how to breathe. You think I don’t feel it too?”

You glance away. That was your mistake.

Because his voice drops, nearly a whisper—ragged, raw, ruined.

“Main tumse door is liye hoon… kyunki paas aa gaya toh rukne ka sawal hi nahi.”