Ayaan swallowed hard, forcing a shaky smile even though Rudra's back was still turned.
"Um… I should probably go," he said softly, trying to keep his voice light. "It's late anyway."
Rudra froze mid-sip. The words hit him like ice, but his throat was too tight to answer. He set the glass down slowly, staring at the water as if it could explain why his chest ached all of a sudden.
Ayaan mistook the silence for agreement.
He moved quietly, picking up his bag from the couch. His hands fumbled with the strap, but he managed to sling it over his shoulder, avoiding looking at Rudra's stiff figure in the kitchen.
"Goodnight," Ayaan murmured.
It was too soft, too careful.
Then he walked toward the door, his steps small and hesitant, every one of them heavy with the thought that maybe he had crossed a line he couldn't uncross.
Rudra's fingers twitched against the counter. His heart screamed to call out—to stop him, to say no, stay. But his pride, his embarrassment, his lack of words—all of it chained him still.
The door clicked shut.
And Rudra was left standing in his kitchen, cheeks still burning, the ghost of that clumsy peck still alive on his lips.
For the first time in years, Rudra Malhotra hated his own silence.
To be continued....