2:03 a.m.
The first knock was soft. Like a warning.
The second, harder. Like she knew he was awake.
The third? That one wasn't asking. It was claiming.
Ashray Singh exhaled like he hadn't in days. He always told himself he wouldn't answer this time. That this week he'd let the silence do the talking. Let her leave. Let her feel what it's like to want and be denied.
But she knew.
She always knew.
He unlocked the door without checking the peephole. He didn't need to. She smelled like sandalwood and secrets—soft but impossible to ignore. Her hair was tied, but messily, like she'd undone it and redone it five times on the way up. She wore a black saree, no bindi, heels in her hand. Her toes were painted maroon.
Ira.
She didn't say hi. She didn't smile.
She walked in like the apartment was hers and dropped the heels next to his laptop charger on the floor.
Ashray followed, shirtless, heart pounding—but not like love. Like a gamble. Like a man counting chips and knowing he's going all in.
"You're late," he said.
"I had to lie twice and fake a headache," she replied, unpinning her saree. "Be grateful. I'm here."
There was a silence then. The kind that would've been awkward with anyone else. But with her, it felt like foreplay.
She turned and looked at him—not the way lovers do, but like someone deciding whether to devour a meal or just taste it. "You're growing a beard," she said.
"You said I looked too soft last time."
"I lied," she murmured, stepping closer.
Her fingers touched his jaw, lightly. Then his chest.
Then lower.
And just like that, the tension between them stopped pretending to be emotional.
But five floors below, a man sat in a parked car with the engine off.
He didn't blink.
Didn't move.
He was watching that exact window.
And he knew exactly what was happening inside.