The sheets were tangled proof of the night they couldn't take back. Her skin still hummed, every inch alive where his hands had claimed her hours ago.
Ananya blinked awake to find Riyan watching her, his head propped on one arm, eyes dark and unyielding. He didn't look away, didn't even pretend he hadn't been staring.
"You're dangerous," she whispered, her voice scratchy with sleep.
His mouth curved—half smirk, half something she couldn't name. "And you're still here."
Heat rushed up her throat. She should've moved, should've pulled the sheet tighter around her, but instead she let him tug it lower, exposing the curve of her shoulder. His lips followed, slow and reverent this time, not the fire of the night before but something deeper, claiming.
Her fingers fisted in the sheets, then in him, dragging him closer. "Riyan…" It was a plea, it was surrender.
He hovered above her, breath mingling with hers. "Say it again."
Her heart stuttered. He wanted to hear his name like it anchored him, like he needed her to keep him from unraveling. So she did—soft, trembling, but steady enough to make his eyes shut, as though the sound branded him.
The kiss that followed wasn't wild. It was worse. Slow, torturous, the kind that burned all the way down. His hand slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she felt the tension in him—restrained, careful, when she knew he wasn't careful at all. Not with her. Not last night.
She broke the kiss only to press her forehead against his, gasping. "We can't…"
"We already did," he cut in, voice low, fierce. His thumb traced her lower lip, swollen from him. "And I'm not sorry."
Neither was she. That was the problem.
She should've feared the morning light. Feared what waited outside—the gossip, Aarav's eyes, her family's weight. Instead, she dragged him back down to her, choosing one more stolen moment, one more lie wrapped in warmth and skin and breath.
For now, the world could wait.