sun didn't rise. It pierced.
Light sliced through the blinds, stabbing at Aryan's eyes. He groaned, the sound catching in a throat tight with the usual morning anxiety.
The digital clock hummed. 7:00 AM.
He didn't move. He stayed under the sheets, a sanctuary of cotton and sweat. Outside that door lay the world. People. Eyes. Judgments.
Especially her eyes.
Aryan was eighteen, a masterpiece of social failure. Four years of high school had passed without a single girl knowing his voice. He wasn't ugly. He was just... invisible. A ghost in his own skin.
He dragged himself out. Showered. Dressed in a hoodie two sizes too big—his armor against the gaze of others.
He descended the stairs. The smell of frying bacon hit him, but it was the silence that felt heavy.
Then he saw her.
Kiran. His mother.
She was on the floor, twisted into a pose that defied the laws of comfort. Her yoga gear was a second skin, midnight blue and dangerously thin. Every curve of her athletic frame was mapped out by the morning light.
She wasn't just his mother. She was a woman who stopped hearts in the supermarket. And she knew it.
"You're late, little bird," Kiran said.
She transitioned. Downward dog.
Aryan's throat went dry. He looked at the floor, the ceiling, the toaster—anywhere but the arch of her back and the way the fabric strained across her hips.
"Morning," he muttered.
"Is that all? No hug for the woman who carried you for nine months?"
She stood up. Fluid. Like a predator. Before he could retreat, she was there.
She didn't just hug him. She engulfed him.
Her skin was warm, smelling of vanilla and sweat. She pulled his head against her shoulder, burying his face in the curve of her neck. Aryan stiffened. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"Still so shy," she whispered. Her breath tickled his ear. "We need to fix that, don't we?"
She pulled back just an inch. Her eyes—sharp, emerald, and knowing—searched his.
"Dad's waiting," Aryan stammered, his face a violent shade of red.
"Let him wait," she laughed. It was a low, melodic sound. "He's busy with his papers. But you... you look like you haven't slept. Thinking about something?"
"No."
"Liar." She pinched his cheek, hard enough to sting. "Go. Eat. We leave for the coast in an hour."
Aryan fled to the kitchen.
His father, Vikram, sat at the head of the table. He didn't look up from his tablet. He was a man of steel and logic—the CEO of a firm that broke competitors for breakfast.
"Bags packed?" Vikram's voice was a tectonic plate shifting.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. This trip isn't just a vacation, Aryan. It's an intervention."
Aryan paused, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. "What do you mean?"
Vikram finally looked up. His eyes were identical to Aryan's, but filled with a confidence the boy lacked.
"You're a man now. But you act like a shadow. Your mother and I have reached an agreement. By the time we return from this resort, you won't be the same boy who left."
Behind him, Kiran walked in. She leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed under her chest, accentuating a silhouette that made Aryan's pulse spike.
"We're going to help you, sweetie," Kiran added, her smile widening into something predatory. "In ways you can't even imagine."
Aryan felt a chill crawl down his spine.
This wasn't a family trip.
It was a hunt.
And he was the only prey.
The SUV was a tank disguised as luxury. Black leather, tinted windows, soundproofed against reality.
Aryan grabbed the handle for the rear door. Safety. Solitude.
"Hold on." Vikram's voice stopped him cold.
The older man stood by the driver's side, keys dangling. He tossed them. Aryan caught them by reflex.
"You drive," Vikram said. "I have calls to make. I'll take the passenger seat."
"But—"
"No buts. Control the vehicle, control your life. Get in."
Aryan swallowed hard. Driving wasn't the issue. The seating arrangement was.
If Vikram was in the front passenger seat... that left the back for Kiran.
Alone.
"Problem, sweetie?" Kiran purred, sliding into the rear seat directly behind the driver. "Or are you afraid I'll bite?"
Aryan got behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, a beast waking up. He gripped the leather steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.
They merged onto the highway. The city blurred into grey streaks.
For ten minutes, silence reigned. Just the hum of the AC and Vikram's low murmurs into his phone.
Then, a hand.
It slid over Aryan's shoulder. Manicured red nails lightly scratched the fabric of his hoodie.
"You're tense," Kiran whispered. She had leaned forward, her face inches from the gap between the headrest and the window. "Shoulders like rock. Relax, Aryan. We're on vacation."
"I'm fine, Mom," he croaked, eyes glued to the road.
"Are you?"
She shifted. Aryan glanced at the rearview mirror. Mistake.
Kiran had kicked off her heels. She stretched her legs out, resting her bare feet on the center console armrest, right next to his elbow.
"Vikram," she called out, ignoring her son's stiffening posture. "The boy needs music. Something with a pulse."
She didn't wait. She reached forward, her arm brushing against Aryan's neck, and tapped the screen on the dashboard. A heavy bass beat flooded the cabin.
The movement caused her blouse to dip. Aryan saw a flash of lace in his peripheral vision.
He swerved slightly. A horn blared from the next lane.
"Focus!" Vikram snapped, not looking up from his tablet.
"He's trying, dear," Kiran laughed. She didn't retreat. instead, she rested her chin on Aryan's shoulder. "He's just not used to a woman's presence. Are you, little bird?"
"Mom, please. I'm driving."
"And doing a terrible job." Her voice dropped an octave. Dangerous. "This is Lesson One, Aryan. Distractions exist. Women exist. If you panic every time a girl gets close, you'll never survive out there."
She blew gently on his ear.
Aryan shivered. The car drifted left again.
"Eyes on the road," she commanded, her tone shifting from playful to authoritative. "But mind on me. Learn to separate them. Multitask."
She reached out and ran a finger down his cheek. "Tell me, Aryan. What color are my eyes?"
"Green," he answered instantly.
"Good. What perfume am I wearing?"
"Vanilla. And... jasmine."
"Better." She withdrew, settling back into the leather seat. "You notice things. That's a predator's trait, even if you act like prey. We just need to flip the switch."
Vikram ended his call. He glanced at Aryan, then at Kiran in the back. A silent communication passed between the parents. A nod.
"Pull over at the next rest stop," Vikram ordered. "I'm driving the rest of the way."
Aryan exhaled. Sweet relief.
He took the exit, parking the massive SUV near a cluster of trees away from the main building. He killed the engine.
"Out," Vikram said.
They exited. The heat of the coast hit them—humid, salty, thick.
"Switch seats," Vikram pointed to the back. "You sit with your mother. I need to focus on the route to the villa. It's off-grid."
Aryan froze.
Sit next to her? For two hours?
"Don't look at me like I'm sending you to the gallows," Vikram grunted, opening the driver's door. "Get in."
Aryan walked to the back door. He opened it.
Kiran was waiting. She patted the empty leather seat beside her. The middle armrest was up. There was no barrier.
"Come on," she said, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. "Mommy's going to teach you how to hold a conversation."
He climbed in. The door slammed shut.
The lock clicked.
There was nowhere to run.
The road turned to gravel. The SUV bounced.
In the back seat, the world had shrunk to a few square feet of leather and tension. Aryan pressed himself against the door, trying to merge with the glass.Kiran sat in the middle.
She didn't stay on her side. Gravity—or intent—pulled her closer. Her thigh brushed against his denim jeans. A casual contact that felt like a branding iron.
"You're hyperventilating," she observed. Her voice was light, amused.
"I'm just hot," Aryan lied.
"The AC is on full blast." She turned, shifting her body so she faced him completely. "Look at me."
Aryan stared at the headrest in front of him. "I am."
"No. You're looking at the stitching. Look at me."
A hand reached out. Soft fingers gripped his chin, forcing his head around.
He met her gaze. Emerald fire.
"Lesson Two: Eye contact,
" Kiran said. "When a woman talks to you, you don't look at the floor. You don't look at the exit.
You lock on. It shows dominance. It shows you aren't afraid."
"I'm not afraid of you," Aryan whispered.
"Prove it."
She leaned in. The scent of jasmine overwhelmed the sterile smell of the car. Her face was inches from his. He could see the faint golden flecks in her irises.
"Don't blink," she commanded.
Aryan's eyes watered. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Every instinct screamed at him to look away, to hide.
He held it for three seconds. Four.
Then he broke. His gaze dropped.
"Failed," she sighed, releasing his chin. "You looked down. Do you know what that tells a woman?"
Hi, author here!
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