Aarav
It should've been exhaustion. After a fourteen-hour flight and nearly three weeks of surgeries in Lisbon, I should've been running on fumes. But the moment I walked into the restaurant and Meera turned—eyes widening, breath catching—I felt nothing but alive.
The surprise on everyone's face was worth every mile I'd crossed. But it was her, only her, that I saw.
The others welcomed me, offered drinks and updates. Karan raised a brow, subtly mouthing "planned?" when I sat beside her.
I didn't answer.
Instead, I watched her the entire dinner—how she tucked her hair behind her ear, smiled politely at jokes, but never quite relaxed. Especially after that phone call. Her shoulders had been stiff when she returned to the table, her smile dimmer.
When dessert arrived, she was barely touching her gulab jamun. I leaned in.
"Come with me."
She blinked. "Where?"
"My place."
It wasn't a request.
And Meera—she didn't argue.
Her breath hitched the second the penthouse door clicked shut behind us.
One step, then another, and I had her against the wall, lips crashing into hers like I needed her to breathe. Which I did. God, I did.
She tugged at my shirt, yanked it over my head. I peeled hers off with a groan, then unhooked her bra, letting it fall to the floor as my mouth moved from her lips to her throat, to her collarbone, to the swell of her breasts.
She gasped when I took one into my mouth, sucking gently, teasing with my tongue until she whimpered and arched into me.
"I've missed this," I breathed, voice rough. "Missed you."
"I need you, Aarav," she whispered, tugging me toward the bedroom.
We didn't make it under the covers right away.
The edge of the bed, the cool wall, the floor near the fireplace—we claimed them all.
Her legs wrapped around my waist as I pushed into her, slow and deep. She was hot and wet and perfect, her nails digging into my back as I drove harder, deeper, until her moans filled the room.
She whispered my name like it was the only word she knew.
We didn't stop.
Again, and again, we moved in sync, tangled and sweaty and desperate. She rode me with her head thrown back, breasts bouncing, her core gripping me so tight I almost lost it.
And when we finally collapsed, her on top of me, hearts racing, skin slick with heat—I knew. I would never get enough of her.
The Next Morning
The sun spilled across her bare skin like it worshipped her, too.
She was sprawled on her side, tangled in the duvet, face soft with sleep. My arm was slung over her waist. Her back pressed to my chest.
And then I saw it.
Just beneath her left collarbone, curling slightly toward the swell of her breast—a small, black-ink tattoo.
Delicate. A single word Reflection
It was so her.
Fierce independence inked into her skin.
I traced it lightly with a fingertip. She stirred, murmured, and turned toward me.
"Stop staring," she said, eyes still closed, voice deliciously hoarse.
"You have a tattoo."
Her lips curved. "Didn't peg me for the type?"
"I pegged you for a lot of things. This just makes it worse for me. I want you even more."
She opened one eye. "You're hopeless."
"And you're naked in my bed, Meera Shah."
She laughed and dragged me under the covers again.
Later That Day
We spent the whole day in bed.
We surfaced briefly for breakfast—cereal and fruit turned into feeding each other, which turned into me licking cream off her stomach.
She made coffee while wearing my shirt. I burned toast because I couldn't stop kissing her neck.
Eventually, I tried cooking something decent—chicken and vegetables in the oven.
As it roasted, I pulled her against the counter, pressing my hips into hers.
"You're insatiable," she murmured, lips brushing my jaw.
"You're addictive," I countered.
Our mouths met again—hungry, deep, filthy. She hopped onto the counter, legs wrapped around me, and I pushed her panties aside.
"Someone might smell the food burning," she teased between kisses.
"Worth it."
That Evening
Dinner was wine and candlelight, music in the background, the city shimmering outside the windows.
And then the elevator chimed.
I frowned. No one had buzzed. Only a few had access.
Meera glanced up, puzzled.
The doors slid open.
Dev Khanna.
Wearing a lazy grin and holding a bottle of champagne. "Surprise, lovebirds."
Meera blinked. "You're…?"
"In town. Heard my boy's back and thought I'd crash the party."
I raised a brow. "You really should text first."
"I like drama."
Later, while I cleared plates, Meera and Dev stepped out onto the balcony.
I couldn't hear them, but I saw their faces—hers unreadable, his far too casual.
Inside, she came back alone. Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
"What did he say?" I asked softly.
Meera met my gaze. "Nothing, just some talks about work. He and I met in India at the same school."
I exhaled. "That's nice."
She then continues, "Dev told me something I am not sure it entirely true, but you don't date personalities who are in constant public eyes"
She waited for my response. Dev has already left for the night.
"My parents were always on the hospital board, always in the press. I hated it. The scrutiny. The pressure. The fake smiles. It made me hate everything about the spotlight."
"That's a lot, Aarav."
I was starting to sense a shift in her energy, in her approach, as she wanted to tell me something but was holding back. I, on the other hand, was getting impatient about it. After a few moments she felt right back to my Meera.
She leaned in, kissing me slowly.
And in that moment, with her fingers laced in mine, I didn't feel afraid.
I just felt hers.