Startled, Gara stood up at once. To avoid an awkward silence, he walked over to set down his own barely-touched cup.
But after that, his steps faltered.
Madha's eyes held a quiet, mischievous smile, almost as if saying, 'You don't have much choice but to sit beside me.'
They say people can't think straight when they're nervous.
That saying couldn't be more accurate for Gara right now. He moved slowly, hesitantly, and sat beside him on the wooden stool like a rabbit bracing for a predator's pounce.
Even though, he could've chosen to sit on the bed instead—Madha wouldn't be able to, not in wet pants.
Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, silence thickened.
Then, suddenly, Madha reached out and took Gara's wrist in his hand. His skin was as pale as snow, a stark contrast to his darker, scarred fingers.
His wrist was soft—so soft that without realizing it, Madha began gently rubbing his thumb across his skin, feeling the delicate texture.
