The room carried a fresh, soothing calm. A faint trace of lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the gentle sunlight—a quiet promise of warmth.
Ayan stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling behind him in lazy swirls. Fresh clothes clung lightly to his frame, the subtle fragrance of his cologne blending into the stillness.
Running a hand through his damp hair, he glanced around the serene space, unaware that his morning was about to change.
A knock broke the silence.
He turned, fingers still tangled in his hair, and opened the door.
Aarav stood there.
For a moment, neither moved. Aarav's gaze lingered—on the way the light brushed over Ayan's face, the glint of water in his hair, the softness of his lips. Something unspoken tightened in his chest.
"Good morning…" His voice was careful, but warmth threaded through it. "Did you sleep well?"
Ayan's lips curved, quiet happiness blooming at the sight of him—the first person he'd seen that day.
"Senior…" he murmured softly. "It feels like I've really become a part of your family."
Something flickered in Aarav's eyes. Before Ayan could say more, Aarav's hand lifted, brushing against his cheek—a deliberate, almost reverent touch.
Ayan stilled, breath catching.
Aarav stepped forward. Ayan stepped back—not in retreat, but in welcome.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Aarav's eyes swept over him, lingering on his lips. His breath grew shallow. With an exhale heavy with unsaid feelings, he leaned in.
Their lips met.
The kiss was soft. Intentional. A meeting of unspoken longing neither had dared to voice.
Ayan's fingers curled into Aarav's arm, grounding himself. His eyes fluttered shut, surrendering to the quiet fire blooming between them.
But—he drew back slightly.
They parted slowly, breaths uneven. A blush warmed Ayan's cheeks.
"Uncle Aadi?" he whispered.
"Papa went to the office."
Before Ayan could respond, Aarav's lips found his again, coaxing him back into the kiss. Step by step, he guided Ayan toward the bed.
When the back of Ayan's legs touched the mattress, he pushed Aarav back just enough to stop him.
Aarav's brows lifted, tension flickering. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"
Ayan lowered his gaze shyly, teeth grazing his lower lip. "We should lock the door first."
Aarav's chuckle was soft, his breath brushing Ayan's temple. Then he reached back without looking away, turning the lock.
"Better?" His voice was low, almost teasing.
Ayan looked up—shy, but steady. He nodded, blush deepening.
Aarav closed the distance again.
For a moment, they simply breathed together, hearts falling into the same rhythm. His thumb traced the heat in Ayan's cheek, slow enough for Ayan to feel the faint tremor in his touch.
"You have no idea… how long I've wanted this."
Ayan's lips parted, but no words came. His fingers curled into Aarav's shirt, holding on like the moment might slip away.
The next kiss was deeper—still unhurried, but laced with a tenderness that sent Ayan's pulse racing.
They lay down.
One of Aarav's hands slid beneath Ayan's clothes, warm and careful. The other cupped his cheek, keeping him close.
Ayan's hands found Aarav's shoulders. Feeling his lips.
Aarav pulled his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion.
Ayan's gaze lingered for only a heartbeat before dropping, embarrassment softening his features.
Smiling, Aarav reached for his clothes, sliding them upward with deliberate care.
His gaze softened—like he was seeing something rare and precious.
He lowered his head, pressing tender kisses to Ayan's bare skin, as though memorizing it with his lips.
Ayan kept his eyes closed, letting the warmth seep in. His breathing grew slow yet intense.
A knock shattered the warmth.
"Mr. Ayan, breakfast is ready," came the maid's voice through the door.
They both froze.
With a faint sigh, Aarav pulled back just enough to see Ayan's face. His thumb brushed once more along his cheek, reluctant to let go.
Ayan's gaze met his, warm but steady. "We… should go."
---
[Meanwhile—Singh's Mansion]
Arun stirred, mind caught between sleep and waking. Warm fragments of a kiss lingered in his memory, painting a faint flush across his usually stern cheeks.
"I'm dreaming again?" His own murmur filled the still air, disappointment threading through his tone before silence reclaimed the room.
Steeling himself, he pushed away the haze, swung his long legs off the bed, and rose with measured composure.
…
Freshly bathed, the scent of cool soap still clinging to him, Arun adjusted the cuffs of his crisp white shirt as he strode down the polished corridor. His hair, still damp, fell neatly to the side, complementing the steel in his expression.
At Abhi's door, he rapped twice. Silence.
Another knock. His voice was firm this time. "I'm coming in."
The door opened to reveal—nothing. The room was immaculate, the bed untouched, books stacked neatly on the desk. Not a trace of its occupant.
Confusion flickered across Arun's sharp features.
"Good morning, sir."
A soft voice broke in. A maid, young, eyes lowered, stood a respectful distance away, hands folded.
"Mr. Abhi already left for university. He said he has extra practice sessions during breaks."
Arun's jaw tightened, though he only gave a curt nod in dismissal. His gaze lingered on the empty bed. Lately, Abhi's schedule had been a ghost slipping past him, never aligning. Coincidence—or avoidance?
The sharp chime of his phone sliced through his thoughts. Annaya's name flashed on the screen.
"Yes?"
"I can't guarantee how long I'll be able to control myself," her voice came, calm but edged with dangerous restraint.
Arun's lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile. "I'm coming. Just don't kill them."
"Half an hour," she replied, and the line went dead.
---
[Later — Annaya's House]
The air was thick with copper and iron, the metallic reek of blood suffocating. Shadows of armed men stood against the walls, their black-clad frames rigid, rifles slung across their chests.
Annaya sat at the center of the carnage, legs crossed, phone in hand as if she were lounging in a café instead of a battlefield. Strands of her dark hair fell over her face, streaked faintly with someone else's blood. Her fingers, stained crimson, tapped lazily at the screen.
Across from her, four men were strewn in a corner, their bodies broken. Bruised faces swollen beyond recognition, shirts soaked and clinging to their skin. Blood dripped sluggishly to the floor, pooling beneath them.
Annaya tilted her head, voice flat, cold, almost bored.
"I haven't even reached the peak yet, and you're already dying."
A heavy thud echoed—air shifted as the door burst open.
Arun stepped in. His tall frame carried a weight of command, shoulders squared, presence cutting through the chaos like ice through fire. The room itself seemed to pause, shadows retreating before him.
"Uncle Raj would be upset if he knew his daughter was handling things like this," he said, his voice calm, low, dangerous.
Annaya finally lifted her gaze, dark eyes flashing with a spark of defiance.
"As if you told me not to," she muttered, gesturing with her bloodstained hand at the groaning heap of men. "There. Alive. Barely."
Without responding, Arun dragged a chair forward. It screeched against the floor, harsh, deliberate. He sat down directly in front of the broken men, the chill in his expression enough to suffocate.
"Who sent you?" His tone was steady, precise—no space for lies.
Silence. Only the wheeze of shallow breaths answered.
The metallic click of his gun chamber being drawn back shattered the stillness.
One man, lips trembling, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth, rasped with the last of his strength—"Mr. Mayank… Mayank Mekham."
The room froze.
Arun's eyes narrowed to slits. Annaya's fingers stilled mid-scroll, her mask of amusement falling away.
Mekham. The name returned—no longer a whisper, but a storm carrying the stench of revenge.