Rudra's apartment was silent that night, the kind of silence that stretched after a long, exhausting day. He had loosened his tie, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and was standing near the window, city lights glittering below him like distant stars.
His phone buzzed. A simple text.
— I'm outside.
Rudra frowned. Before he could even reply, the doorbell rang.
When he opened it, there was Ayaan—holding a small paper bag from his café, smiling nervously but brightly.
"Surprise."
Rudra blinked, utterly unprepared for this. "It's… late."
"I know," Ayaan said softly, stepping in when Rudra moved aside. "But you sounded… tired earlier. And I thought… maybe you shouldn't be alone tonight."
The words landed heavy in Rudra's chest, and for once, he didn't argue. He let Ayaan in.
They sat together on the couch. Ayaan unpacked the bag: a slice of soft sponge cake, a flask of warm herbal tea. "This helps with stress," he said earnestly, pouring a cup.
Rudra stared at him, half-exasperated, half… touched. "You came all this way… for this?"
"And for you," Ayaan added, almost shyly, looking at him with those warm eyes.
Rudra's throat tightened. He wasn't used to this kind of care. Not from anyone. His family never offered it. His employees feared him. His world was a battlefield of numbers, politics, and power. And yet here was Ayaan—offering tea, cake, and quiet company as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
They talked. About small things at first—café orders, a funny customer, random bits of news. Then deeper, without realizing it—Rudra vented about the endless weight of decisions, Ayaan listened, grounding him with patient nods and small, reassuring smiles.
And then, in the middle of Rudra's sentence—
Ayaan leaned over.
Softly. Quickly. Without thinking too hard.
Pressed a kiss to Rudra's cheek.
Rudra froze. His words cut off mid-syllable. His eyes widened, his whole body stiff, like someone had just struck lightning through his veins.
Ayaan's face went crimson instantly. "I—I just—sorry—" he stammered, hands fidgeting with the edge of his shirt, voice breaking into nervous laughter.
But Rudra… didn't move. His fingers brushed the spot on his cheek slowly, like he couldn't quite believe it.
"…Why?" he finally asked, his voice lower, softer than he intended.
Ayaan swallowed hard, eyes darting away. "…Because you looked like you needed it."
The silence stretched. Rudra's chest rose and fell once, deeply. Then, in a voice quieter than the city lights below, he said,
"…Thank you."
And though his expression didn't change much, his eyes—dark and sharp, always cold—shone with something else. Something only Ayaan could draw out of him.
To be continued...