The rooftop wind carried the faint smell of wet concrete and distant cigarette smoke. Delhi at midnight always felt like a city holding its breath—waiting for something to break.
Naira leaned against the cold metal railing, arms wrapped around herself. The kiss still burned on her lips. She could feel the ghost of his hands on her waist, the way his fingers had dug in just enough to say I still remember every inch of you. She hated how much she wanted more.
Footsteps behind her.
She didn't turn.
"You shouldn't have done that," she said quietly.
Aarav stopped a few feet away. "I know."
"Then why did you?"
He exhaled. Long. Tired. "Because seven years is a long time to pretend I don't feel anything."
She finally looked at him. The city lights painted half his face gold, the other half shadow. He looked older in this light. Not just in years—something deeper. Like life had carved lines into him that weren't there when they were nineteen.
"You have a girlfriend downstairs, Aarav."
"I know."
"Then go be with her."
"I tried." His voice cracked just a little. "I tried for two years to convince myself that what we had was just… young love. First love. Something you outgrow."
Naira laughed. Short. Bitter. "And did you?"
"No." He stepped closer. "I outgrew everything else. But not you."
Silence stretched between them like a tightrope.
She turned away again, staring at the skyline. "You left, Aarav. No goodbye. No explanation. Just… silence. One day you were texting me good morning, the next you were gone to Bangalore and I was left staring at a 'seen' that never turned into a reply."
"I was scared."
"Of what?"
"Of ruining you." He moved beside her now, elbows on the railing, close enough that their arms almost touched. "You were always the one with dreams. Big ones. Writing. Designing. Leaving this city someday. I was just… the guy who fixed phones and wrote half-finished songs. I thought if I stayed, I'd drag you down."
She turned sharply. "So you decided for both of us?"
"I was twenty-three. Stupid. And in love with you so much it terrified me."
Naira felt tears prick her eyes. She refused to let them fall.
"You didn't even give me the chance to choose."
"I know."
"And now?" she asked. "Now you're back, kissing me on a rooftop while your perfect girlfriend is downstairs making small talk with our old friends. What is this, Aarav? Nostalgia? Guilt sex? A last hurrah before you go back to your stable life?"
He looked at her like she'd slapped him.
"This isn't guilt," he said softly. "This is me finally admitting I never stopped loving you."
The words landed like stones in still water.
Naira closed her eyes. "Don't say that."
"Why not?"
"Because it hurts more when you lie."
"I'm not lying."
She opened her eyes. "Then prove it."
He didn't hesitate.
He kissed her again.
This time slower. Deeper. Like he had all the time in the world and none of it at the same time.
His hands cupped her face. Thumbs brushing her cheekbones. She tasted salt—hers, maybe his. She didn't know. Didn't care.
When he pulled back, their foreheads rested together.
"I still remember the first time we did this," he whispered. "In my car. Yamuna khadar. Windows fogged. You were shaking."
"I was nervous."
"You were beautiful."
She swallowed. "We were kids."
"We're not kids anymore."
His hand slid down her neck, slow. Deliberate. Fingers tracing the line of her collarbone under the thin fabric of her kurti. Her breath hitched.
"Aarav…"
"Tell me to stop," he said, voice rough. "And I will."
She didn't.
Instead she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him back.
This kiss was hungrier. Less careful. Teeth. Tongues. Hands roaming like they were mapping territory they once owned.
He backed her against the low wall, one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding under the hem of her kurti. Skin on skin. Warm. Familiar. Electric.
She gasped into his mouth when his palm flattened against her stomach.
"Still ticklish here," he murmured against her lips.
"Shut up."
He smiled into the kiss. Then his hand moved higher. Slow. Asking permission with every inch.
She arched into him.
Yes.
His thumb brushed the underside of her breast. She moaned softly—quiet enough that only he could hear.
He broke the kiss to trail his mouth down her neck. Open-mouthed. Hot. Worshipful.
"I missed this," he breathed against her skin. "Missed the way you sound when I touch you."
Her fingers dug into his shoulders. "Then don't stop."
He didn't.
He pushed her kurti up just enough. Kissed the valley between her breasts. Tongue tracing slow circles. She tipped her head back, eyes closed, rain starting to fall again—light at first, then heavier.
Water slid down their faces. Mixed with sweat. With want.
His hand slipped lower. Fingers teasing the waistband of her jeans.
She caught his wrist.
"Not here," she whispered. "Not like this."
He froze. Looked up at her. Eyes dark. Questioning.
She touched his face. "I want you. God, I want you. But not on a rooftop like some dirty secret."
He exhaled shakily. Nodded.
"Okay."
They stood there. Breathing hard. Soaked. Hearts hammering.
Then he pressed one last soft kiss to her forehead.
"I'll wait," he said. "As long as you need."
She almost laughed. "You've waited seven years."
"Seven more wouldn't kill me."
But they both knew it might.
They walked back downstairs separately.
She went to her room. He went to his.
But sleep didn't come for either of them.
Flashback. 2015. Their last summer together.
They'd snuck away to Neemrana Fort Palace for a weekend. Pretended they were rich. Ordered room service they couldn't afford. Laughed until they cried.
That night, in the heritage room with its four-poster bed and arched windows, they'd made love slowly.
No rush.
Just them.
Him above her, moving like he had forever. Her legs wrapped around him. Nails in his back. Whispering each other's names like prayers.
Afterward, they lay tangled. His head on her chest. Her fingers in his hair.
"I want to marry you someday," he'd said.
She'd smiled into the dark. "Someday."
They never got that someday.
Morning came too fast.
Naira woke with swollen eyes and a headache that had nothing to do with alcohol.
She checked her phone.
One message. From Aarav.
Coffee? Just coffee. I promise.
She stared at it for ten full minutes.
Then typed back.
Meet me at the garden café. 11.
She showered. Dressed in a simple white kurta and palazzo. Kept her hair loose. Didn't bother with makeup. What was the point of pretending?
When she reached the garden café, he was already there.
Black t-shirt. Jeans. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair.
He stood when she approached.
"You came."
"I said I would."
They sat.
Ordered coffee. Black for him. Cappuccino for her.
Silence for a while.
Then he spoke.
"I broke up with Rhea this morning."
Naira's cup froze halfway to her lips.
"What?"
"I told her the truth. That I'm still in love with someone else. That I've been lying to both of us for too long."
She set the cup down. Hands shaking.
"Aarav…"
"She cried. A lot. But she said she knew. She said she could feel it every time I looked at old photos. Every time I played that one playlist."
Naira's throat closed.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry I hurt her. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I waited so long to be honest."
She looked at him.
Really looked.
And for the first time in years, she saw the boy she'd loved. Not the ghost. Not the memory. The man.
Scars and all.
"I don't know if I can trust you," she said quietly.
"I know."
"I don't know if I can forgive you."
"I know."
"But I also don't know how to walk away again."
He reached across the table. Palm up.
She stared at his hand.
Then slowly, slowly, she placed hers in his.
Fingers intertwined.
Just like before.
But different.
Because now they both knew:
Love was the easy part.
The rest?
The rest was going to be hell.