Ayan didn't sleep that night.
The rain hadn't stopped; it whispered against the glass like a secret he didn't want to hear.
His wrist still burned where Kairo had grabbed him — not from pain, but from memory.
That look. That voice. That heat.
He told himself it didn't matter. He told himself he didn't care.
But his pulse had other plans.
He paced the narrow stretch of his room, trying to breathe past the storm crawling beneath his skin.
Every word replayed — Say it. Say what you're hiding.
If only he could.
Instead, he looked at his phone, thumb hovering over Kairo's name.
He didn't call. Didn't text.
He just stared — until the screen dimmed, and the silence felt like punishment.
Across the city, Kairo sat in his car, the engine off, the rain fogging the windows.
He hadn't driven home yet. Couldn't.
His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, restless, sharp — the echo of that moment still alive in his veins.
The way Ayan's voice didn't tremble. The way his eyes did.
"Wouldn't survive the truth," Ayan had said.
The words gnawed at him.
He'd never been afraid of a fight, but something about this — about him — felt like a war he wasn't sure he wanted to win.
When the rain finally stopped, Kairo leaned back, exhaling a breath that shook more than it should have.
He closed his eyes. And for the first time, he didn't see the rivalry.
He saw Ayan.
Not cold. Not distant.
Just… unreadable. And that was worse.
The storm outside had ended.
But inside both of them — it was only getting started.
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