Drenched Ep3

The amber fire Kabir had built was finally catching, crackling softly against the background noise of the storm.

 Mira stared at their reflections in the dark glass, acutely aware of how close he was standing.
Every breath he took felt echoed in her own lungs.

"You always did look beautiful in green," Kabir said, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate register he reserved only for her. "But I think I prefer you in my clothes."

Mira felt a flush creep up her neck. She took another slow sip of the rum, using the warmth of the alcohol to steady her voice. "Don't do that, Kabir."

"Do what?"

"Act like a year didn't happen," she said, finally turning around to face him. Her back pressed against the cool glass, providing a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from him. "Like you didn't just walk away when things got complicated."

Kabir’s expression darkened, the easy charm vanishing. He took a half-step closer, completely invading her personal space. The scent of him was overwhelming now, mixing with the sharp tang of the rum. "Is that what you told yourself? That I walked away?"

"You stopped calling. You buried yourself in the Delhi project."

"Because you told me we were a mistake, Mira," he said, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a year's worth of suppressed frustration. "You said my ambition was too much, that you couldn't handle the spotlight. I gave you the space you asked for."

"I wanted you to fight for me!" The words slipped out before she could filter them, raw and honest. Mira’s breath hitched, shocked by her own admission.

The silence that followed was deafening, save for the thunder rattling the windows. Kabir stared down at her, his dark eyes fiercely intense, searching her face. The anger in his posture melted into something far more dangerous—a profound, aching need.

He set his glass down on the ledge behind her without breaking eye contact.

"You wanted me to fight?" Kabir asked softly, stepping so close that his linen shirt brushed against the soft fabric of her hoodie. He reached up, his large, warm hand cupping the side of her jaw. His thumb traced her lower lip, his touch incredibly gentle despite the raw tension rolling off him.

Mira’s eyes fluttered shut at the sensation, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

"I never stopped fighting it, Mira," he whispered, leaning down. His breath fanned across her cheek, warm and intoxicating. "Every single day."