The stairwell had never felt this small.
Riyan's hand was still on her wrist, his body a wall of heat she couldn't step through, and his words—raw, sharp, dangerous—still hung between them like smoke.
Her pulse thundered in her throat. Too fast. Too loud. She knew he could feel it under his grip.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured. His voice had shifted—no longer edged in fury but rough with something deeper, something that trembled beneath control.
She couldn't. She wouldn't.
Her lips parted, a whisper of breath escaping, and his gaze dropped. Slowly. Deliberately.
To her mouth.
The world narrowed, tunneled, until it was just this—his breath mingling with hers, the steady thud of her heartbeat, the unbearable distance of inches.
Her back pressed into the cold wall. His palm slid closer, braced beside her head. His chest brushed hers when he leaned in—close enough that if she just tilted forward, if she just stopped fighting herself—
He was going to do it. He had fought it for weeks, built walls, swallowed fire, but here she was—shaking, wide-eyed, lips parted like a secret meant only for him.
He bent closer, his forehead nearly touching hers, their mouths barely a breath apart.
"Ananya…" Her name broke from him like a confession.
And then—
The stairwell door banged open.
Laughter spilled in, followed by footsteps and voices echoing down the hall. Two juniors stumbled past the landing, too wrapped in their gossip to notice the way Riyan jerked back, his jaw clenched tight, his chest heaving.
Ananya's face flushed crimson. She pressed her books tighter to her chest, eyes darting everywhere but him.
The moment was shattered. The silence returned, thicker than before.
Her knees were weak as she hurried down the steps, each footfall too loud. She didn't dare look back. Didn't dare see if he was watching.
But she felt it. His gaze, hot and unrelenting, burning into her spine as if to say—
This isn't over.
And deep down, trembling in places she didn't want to name, she knew he was right.