The brush of her lips against his cheek was so light it might have been a trick of the wind—but the heat it left behind was undeniable. Vihaan stood frozen on the stoop, the city's noise fading into a dull hum. His skin burned where she'd touched him, a brand seared into flesh he'd long thought numb.
For a man who'd spent years building walls, the simplicity of the gesture was disarming. No grand declaration, no demand—just warmth, fleeting and unasked for, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He lifted a hand, fingers hovering near his cheek as if afraid to smudge the imprint she'd left behind.
Who does that? he thought, half-irritated, half-dazed.
Who kisses a stranger?
But she hadn't felt like a stranger in that café. Not when her laughter had filled the quiet spaces between his words. Not when her fingers had brushed his, tentative but sure, as if she'd already decided he was worth the risk.He scowled, rubbing at the spot as if he could erase the memory.
But the ghost of her lingered—the scent of her shampoo (something floral, innocent), the way her breath had hitched just before she'd leaned in, as if she, too, had surprised herself.
His apartment was cold, the canvases blank and accusing. For the first time in years, he didn't pour a drink. Instead, he picked up a charcoal pencil and sketched blindly: the curve of a smile he'd only glimpsed, the dip of a collarbone beneath a café-light glow.
He didn't know her name.But for the first time in too long, he wanted to.
The charcoal trembled in his grip—an unfamiliar hesitation for hands trained to render the world with ruthless precision. The first stroke was too heavy, a jagged slash across the paper. He cursed under his breath, nearly smudging it away before pausing.
No.
He exhaled, forcing his fingers to loosen. The next line was lighter, a tentative curve that might become her jawline. Or perhaps her shoulder. He wasn't sure yet—couldn't be, when all he had to work from was the phantom press of her lips and the way her lashes had cast shadows on her cheeks when she laughed.
The paper drank in the charcoal, greedy for the shapes he couldn't quite name. He found himself tracing the memory of her touch instead: the way her fingers had brushed his in the café, the fleeting weight of her body as she'd risen onto her toes. His thumb dragged across the rough grain of the paper, smudging a line into something softer, more uncertain.
Who kisses a stranger?
The question coiled in his chest, tightening with each stroke. He should be irritated. Should be scoffing at the presumption of it, the unchecked affection of a woman who didn't yet know the pain he carried. But the graphite kept moving, as if his hands had decided to betray the rest of him.
A wisp of hair—he remembered that. The way a single strand had escaped her braid, curling against her neck. He shaded it in now, dark against the imagined pallor of her skin.
His apartment was too quiet. The usual rituals—the clink of glass, the burn of whiskey—had been abandoned for this: the whisper of charcoal, the creak of his chair as he leaned closer. The drawing was taking shape, a ghost made tangible.
And then, the knock at his door.
His head snapped up, heart pounding—ridiculous, as if she might somehow be on the other side, summoned by the weight of his thoughts.
The knock came again, sharper this time.
Vihaan stared at the half-formed sketch, at the smudged lines that might become her mouth.
He didn't know her name.
The third knock shattered the silence like a gunshot. Vihaan's charcoal pencil snapped between his fingers, leaving dark smudges across his palm—a stain that mirrored the one her lips had left on his cheek.
He stood so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor. The half-finished sketch stared up at him, her smile trapped in graphite limbo. Another knock. Harder now. Insistent.
It couldn't be her.
The rational part of his brain knew this. The city sprawled between her brownstone and his apartment like a living thing, and she had no reason—no right—to track him down. Yet his pulse hammered against his ribs as he crossed the room, each step measured against the sudden, terrifying hope rising in his throat.
He wrenched the door open—
To find Arv leaning against the doorframe, a bottle of whiskey dangling from one hand and a smirk plastered across his face. "You look like shit," his friend announced, pushing past him into the apartment. "Also, you're ignoring your phone."
The disappointment hit like a physical blow. Vihaan clenched his jaw, forcing air back into his lungs. "What do you want?"
Arv's gaze landed on the sketchpad, the fractured lines of a woman's face. His smirk deepened. "Oh ho. So that's why you've gone radio silent." He held up the bottle. "I brought therapy."
Vihaan snatched the whiskey, the glass cool against his still-tingling palm. "Not in the mood."
"Bullshit. You're always in the mood for self-destruction." Arv flopped onto the couch, eyeing the abandoned charcoal. "Who's the muse?"
"No one."
"Liar. You only draw when you're—" Arv's eyes widened. "Wait. Is this the girl from the alley? The one you—"
"Drop it."
But Arv was already grinning, the bastard. "You like her."
Vihaan took a savage swig from the bottle, letting the burn chase away the memory of floral shampoo. "I don't even know her name."
"And yet..." Arv gestured to the sketchpad, where her phantom smile lingered.
The charcoal dust on Vihaan's fingers itched. He should erase it. Should pour a drink and drown this foolishness. Instead, he found himself asking, "What kind of person kisses a stranger?"
Arv's laughter filled the apartment. "The kind who sees through your bullshit, apparently." He leaned forward, suddenly serious. "Call her."
Vihaan stared at the broken pencil in his hand. At the ghost on the paper. At the door he'd almost hoped would reveal her.
For the first time in too long, the whiskey tasted bitter.
He reached for his phone.