Aarav
In surgery, every movement is measured. Every decision backed by anatomy, instinct, and repetition. You cut, clamp, stitch. You never improvise unless you have to.
But nothing about this moment — about her — followed any known blueprint.
Meera stood beside me at the edge of the rooftop like the skyline was hers to command. The air was cool, but her presence felt hot, charged, volatile.
She didn't belong to this world of hedge funds and backroom deals any more than I did. Not really. She'd outgrown it. Outclassed it. And yet, she wore it like second skin.
I couldn't stop looking.
"You don't make this easy," she said.
"I'm not here to be easy," I replied, watching the corners of her mouth twitch. Not into a smile. Something smaller. Something real.
She turned to face me fully then. Arms folded across her chest, like she needed something to do with them. Like stillness made her feel exposed.
"Then what are you here for, Dr. Malhotra?"
I could've made a joke. Deflected. But I was too tired to pretend. Too pulled into her orbit to play it safe.
"I'm here," I said, "because every time I walk away from you, I want to turn back."
Her throat moved in a swallow. She didn't speak. Just held my gaze like it might unravel her if she didn't anchor herself to something.
And I knew that feeling. That ache of wanting to be seen and terrified of what someone might see.
Finally, she whispered, "You don't even know me."
"I know enough."
"You know the version of me people see in meetings or cafés. Polished. On brand. Impossible to shake."
"And yet here you are. No armor. Just you."
Her eyes flickered, like something behind them cracked — quietly, beautifully.
"I was raised to be admired, not known," she said, softer now. "My parents… they have this empire of cameras and guest lists and promises. I was born into expectation. Trained for it. But never really... allowed to feel anything real."
She didn't say it dramatically. She didn't look at me while she said it.
And that somehow made it all the more devastating.
"I don't know how to be soft without feeling like I'm failing," she said, finally meeting my eyes.
I took a breath. Stepped closer.
"You're not failing."
Her lashes dropped.
"You're not weak for being vulnerable," I continued. "You're strong for surviving a world that didn't ask how you were — just what you were worth."
For a second, she looked like she might cry.
She didn't.
But she looked at me like she didn't know what the hell to do next.
So I did.
I reached out, slowly, and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. Her breath caught, but she didn't flinch. She tilted her chin up — just barely — and our faces were so close I could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes.
"Tell me to back off," I murmured.
She didn't.
Instead, she whispered, "Don't."
And then I kissed her.
Not like a man stealing something. Not like I was conquering her.
Like I was asking for permission.
It was soft, tentative, electric. A question more than an answer.
She kissed me back.
And everything else—this rooftop, the party, the noise—faded into nothing.
I cupped the side of her face, grounding us both. Her fingers found my chest, like she needed proof I was solid. There was nothing rushed about it. No hunger for the sake of it. Just heat. And tension. And something that felt like surrender.
When we finally broke apart, her lips were parted, and her forehead rested lightly against mine.
"This is a bad idea," she breathed.
"Probably."
"We shouldn't…"
"I know."
Neither of us moved.