The rhythmic roar of the Arabian Sea acts as a steady bassline to the melody of your voice. You are perched on a jagged shelf of rock, the stone still holding the fading warmth of the afternoon sun, though the air has turned salt-sprayed and cool. In your hand, a rapidly melting cone of mango ice cream threatens to drip onto your fingers, but you’re too busy talking to notice.

You find yourself telling him everything. Not the grand tragedies or the milestones—he likely knows those from the letters and the gossip of the inner circles—but the small, inconsequential things. You tell him about the stray kitten that took up residence in the rosebushes three summers ago. You tell him about the way the light hits the stained glass in the library at noon, and how you tried to learn to bake bread during a particularly lonely monsoon, only to nearly set the kitchen on fire.

As you speak, you realize how much space you are taking up, how your words are filling the seven-year void like water rushing into a dry well. You glance at him, a sudden spike of self-consciousness tightening your throat. You wonder if he finds this trivial—this man who has spent years conquering boardrooms and navigating the cold, hard world of high-stakes legacy.

But when you look at Dhruv, he isn't looking at the sea. He isn't looking at his watch. He is looking at you.

He’s leaning back on his elbows, his expensive suit jacket discarded on the sand below, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that look like they were carved from teak. The moonlight catches the sharp line of his profile, softening only when his gaze meets yours. He looks as though he is memorizing the way your lips move, the way your eyes brighten when you laugh at your own clumsy stories.

His phone vibrates in his pocket again—the fifth time in the last twenty minutes. Your father, no doubt, demanding to know why his daughter isn't home three hours past her curfew.

Dhruv doesn't even reach for it. He doesn't even flinch. He simply reaches out, his thumb catching a stray drop of mango ice cream at the corner of your mouth before it can fall. His touch is light, but it sends a jolt through you that rivals the crashing waves.

"Don't stop," he murmurs, his voice a low, honeyed rasp that makes the hair on your arms stand up. "I want to hear about the library. I want to hear about the bread. I want to hear every single word I missed while I was away."

You gesture vaguely toward his pocket, your brow furrowing in a silent question about the time, about the trouble that surely awaits him at the front door of your family home. You know your father’s temper; you know the weight of the promises made.

Dhruv offers a slow, dangerous smile—the smile of a man who has already decided that the consequences are a bargain at twice the price.

"Let him ring," Dhruv says softly, his eyes darkening with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. "He’s had you for seven years. He can spare a few more hours of the night. I’ve spent twenty-six hundred days imagining the sound of your voice, and now that I finally have it... I’m not in any hurry to hear anything else."

He shifts closer, the scent of his cologne—something dark, woody, and expensive—wrapping around you. He reaches up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against the sensitive skin there.

"Tell me more," he whispers, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes. "Tell me everything until the sun comes up. I’m listening."