You weren’t expecting him.

You were expecting your Blinkit order—pads, chocolate, and maybe a little dignity—but definitely not Rashiv, your ex, standing in the rain with your period supplies in hand like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Your jaw dropped. He blinked, just as shocked. “Oh.”

You stared. “Seriously?”

He glanced at the bag. “You ordered… uh… comfort.”

“You’re the delivery guy now?” you snapped, grabbing the bag.

He raised a brow. “You’re still dramatic when you’re bleeding.”

Before you could slam the door, thunder cracked, and the sky opened up. He flinched as rain poured harder.

He looked at you. You looked at the storm. You groaned. “You have five minutes. Don’t talk.”

He stepped in, dripping wet, and smiled like trouble.

You shouldn’t have let him in.

The second he stepped out of those soggy shoes, that old scent of his—rain, heat, and danger—wrapped around you like a curse. His jaw was sharper, arms broader, hair messier. You didn’t ask, but your body noticed.

“No. Don’t you dare be attracted,” you muttered to yourself under your breath, clutching the Blinkit bag like a weapon. “He’s your ex. He ditched you. You cried over this man while watching FRIENDS reruns, have you forgotten??”

But your thighs pressed together instinctively as he rolled up his sleeves and glanced at you like he still owned your breath.

You hated him. You really did. So why the hell were you getting wet in more ways than one?