The tension between them was no longer a melody; it was a physical force. Aryan stopped playing. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the kind of energy that precedes a lightning strike.
He could see the pulse in her neck. He could see the way her eyes dropped to his lips and then back to his eyes.
"Meher..." he breathed.
"Don't talk," she whispered. "Just be here."
She reached up, her hand cupping his jaw. Her thumb traced his lower lip, a slow, agonizing movement that made his breath hitch. Aryan leaned in, his hand finding the small of her back, pulling her closer until there was no air left between them.
When their lips finally met, it wasn't like the movies. It was desperate. It was a collision of two souls who had spent a lifetime searching for the same frequency. It tasted like cinnamon and felt like coming home. The world outside—the rain, the city, the looming shadow of the M.K.F. diary—all of it ceased to exist.
At that moment, they were the only two people in the universe.