The walls of Ananya's house were meant to keep her safe—or so her parents believed. To her, they were suffocating. Every glance was scrutinized, every word weighed, every breath accounted for. But the tighter they pulled the reins, the more her pulse throbbed with defiance. And always, at the center of that defiance, was Riyan.
The slip of paper had come like contraband, slipped between the pages of her history book when no one was looking. His handwriting—restless, bold, impatient—made her chest ache with longing.
"Midnight. The old library wall. Don't make me wait."
She read it a dozen times that day, each glance setting her heart alight with both terror and hope. Reckless. Stupid. Impossible. But not going felt like death.
So at midnight, shawl pulled tight, she stole through the dark streets, every step hammering with the fear of discovery. And there he was—leaning against his bike in the shadow of the wall, flicking his lighter open and shut. The flame winked like a secret heartbeat before vanishing again.
"You're insane," she whispered when she reached him, her voice sharp with nerves but soft with relief.
"Maybe," he murmured, stepping closer, the smirk curling at his lips. "But only for you."
She wanted to argue, to scold him, but the heat in his eyes swallowed her words. His hand brushed hers, slipping a folded note into her palm. The touch was meant to be fleeting, but neither of them let go.
The world tilted.
Ananya's breath caught, and before she could think, before she could remind herself of the walls, the locks, the endless eyes waiting back home—Riyan pulled her to him.
His mouth crashed against hers, reckless, desperate, hungry. It wasn't gentle, it wasn't cautious. It was the kind of kiss born from weeks of suffocation, from stolen glances and aching restraint. Her shawl slipped, her fingers tangled in his shirt, dragging him closer as though she could melt into him.
Every warning in her blood screamed danger. If anyone saw, if anyone found out—her life would be over. But every part of her soul whispered yes.
The kiss deepened, wild and unrestrained, until finally they broke apart, gasping in the night air, their foreheads pressed together.
"Ananya…" his voice was hoarse, like he'd burned his throat on her name.
"We shouldn't…" she whispered, though her trembling lips betrayed how badly she wanted more.
"Then stop me," he challenged softly, brushing his thumb over her cheek.
But she didn't stop him. She couldn't.
And in that single stolen moment, the risk of fire became their only oxygen.