"You'll get used to it."

The moment the words leave my lips, I watch her body betray her. A flicker of resistance rises, barely there, like the faintest flame against a storm, but her eyes... her eyes already hold the answer.

Submission.

Her shoulders ease, her breaths uneven but slowing, still recovering from the whirlwind we just endured. I breathe her in—her sweet scent, her warmth, her presence. Every inhale feels like silent communion, a language that transcends the chaos in my head.

"This can't happen," she whispers, the protest weak, trembling, laced with hesitation. Her voice is so fragile it could shatter under the weight of her own words.

Why can't she listen to her body for once? It's practically screaming at her, and yet she's blind to it, stubborn in her defiance, choosing ignorance over truth.

Even her defiance comes cloaked in uncertainty. She doesn't believe it, not really. You know what you're doing, my sweet girl. And so do I. But you're determined to make this a fight neither of us can win unscathed.

Her wide eyes meet mine—still damp from earlier tears, cheeks flushed a soft, feverish red, and her skin... warm as sunshine beneath my touch. Those lips, still sweet with the taste of nectar, haunt me. She doesn't even realize what she does to me, this maddening juxtaposition of innocence and unawareness.

It infuriates me, her defiance, but the anger twists into something darker, sharper.

Desire.

She kissed me like her life depended on it, and I'd let her strip me bare in that moment. It was too much, too consuming, and by the time I regained control, she'd already started slipping away.

The image of her at the door—frazzled, disheveled, caught in her own storm—ignited something primal in me. It was as if she'd set the rules of a game I wasn't prepared to play but couldn't back out of.

Every ounce of restraint I'd been taught—every teaching by Raj Guru, every whispered lesson on self-control, every mantra invoking Shiva's name—all of it was tested in that one moment.

Vairagya. Detachment.

That's what they called it. That single, elusive thread of clarity had snapped in her presence.

This girl, so small, so breakable, had become the hardest test of my devotion. Her proximity, her warmth, her sweetness... it was all dangerous, pulling me closer to a precipice I couldn't afford to fall from.

Not yet.

I want to fall.

Hell, I want to dive headfirst into everything she is, but not like this. Not now. I want to unravel her slowly, learn every secret she doesn't realize she's keeping. To know her is to own her, and I will. Eventually.

I watch her in silence, feeling the shift between us. The air grows colder, heavier, and she freezes under the weight of it. Her lips part, but no sound comes. She's waiting for something—for me, perhaps, to shatter this moment.

Her eyes are heavy now. Exhausted. I can see it in the droop of her lashes, the faint puffiness from crying, the slight tremor in her frame. I reach out and caress her cheek again, the warmth of her skin grounding me.

"Let me get you some water," I murmur, pulling back. My hand leaves her waist, her hair, and I rise. She doesn't stop me, doesn't say anything, just watches as I lift her effortlessly and settle her into the armchair. She's so light. Too light.
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In the kitchen, I'm struck by the sight of snow through the window. The wind is picking up, a storm brewing outside to mirror the one in my chest. I grab a glass and reach for the warm water, my mind circling back to her.

She never eats. Not properly. I've noticed it before—the way she flits through the cafeteria like a ghost, coffee her only companion. A thought gnaws at me. When was the last time she had a real meal? I should've made her coffee, but no, she doesn't need caffeine keeping her awake. She needs rest.

When I return, she's gathering her things, her movements dazed and mechanical. She hasn't noticed me yet, too lost in her own head. It's a habit of hers, retreating into herself when she thinks no one's looking.

"It's starting to snow outside," I announce, and she jumps, startled. Always so easily startled. It's endearing, infuriating, impossible not to notice.

I walk to her, lowering myself to extend the glass. She looks up at me from the floor, those wide eyes full of hesitation, like a deer unsure if it's safe to trust the hunter.

"Drink," I command, and for once, she obeys.

Her small hand wraps around the glass, trembling slightly, and I guide it to her lips. She drinks it all, the faintest color returning to her pale cheeks.

Dehydrated. Of course.

When she places the glass on the table, she speaks, her voice soft and uncertain. "I'll leave before it gets too bad outside." She's shoving her MacBook into her bag, trying to distract herself, trying to escape.

Not so confrontational now, are we?

She stands too quickly, and I see it before it happens. The way her body sways, the color draining from her face.

I catch her before she falls, my hands steadying her arms as she clutches at me.

"When was the last time you ate?" I ask, my voice low, deliberate.

Her eyes dart away, and I see the lie forming before it reaches her lips. "I have to go," she whispers, pulling back, but I don't let go.

"Kuch pucha maine," I repeat, firmer this time.

("I asked you something")

She falters, her gaze dropping. "Before coming here," she says slowly, reluctantly.

"Specify before," I demand, the truth unraveling with every hesitation.

"Breakfast," she finally admits, and I feel the words hit me like a punch. Breakfast. It's 7 p.m. We're looking at a 12-14hrs interval. Fourteen hours.

"You're staying for dinner," I declare, cutting off whatever weak protest she's about to form. Her lips part, but no sound comes.

Good.

Her silence is a victory, though it tastes bittersweet. I shouldn't feel satisfaction in her obedience, but the part of me that craves control can't help but revel in it.

I guide her back to the armchair, my hand firm on her arm as she tries to resist, half-heartedly. She stumbles slightly, and I grip her tighter, steadying her as I lower her into the chair. Her body is warm against my hand, her pulse fluttering beneath my fingertips like the wings of a trapped bird.

"You don't have to do this," she whispers, her voice barely audible, and I almost laugh. Do what, Sugar? Feed you? Keep you from collapsing? Save you from your own ignorance?

She doesn't realize how much she asks of me simply by existing in my space. How much effort it takes to not cross the line I've drawn for myself.

I lean down, close enough that her breath hitches, and my fingers linger at the curve of her jaw. "I don't want to hear another word of protest," I say, my voice low, commanding.

Her eyes widen again, those wide, doe-like eyes that haunt me in the quietest hours of the night. I see the defiance flicker for a moment, but it's snuffed out by something deeper, something she doesn't even understand yet.

Her gaze drops, and I know I've won, but the victory is hollow. She doesn't fight me, but the resignation in her posture twists something in my chest. It shouldn't matter. I shouldn't care.

I straighten, forcing space between us because every second too close to her feels like a test I'm bound to fail. "Stay here," I command, and when she doesn't move, I turn to the kitchen without another word.

The act of preparing food—something so simple, so mundane—grounds me. I move with purpose, every movement precise, controlled, as if order in the kitchen might restore order to my thoughts. I slice bread, heat a pot of soup, all the while replaying every moment since she walked through my door.

The way her lips trembled when she spoke. The way her body softened under my touch, even as her words defied me. The way her kiss ignited something in me that no amount of restraint can extinguish.

I return to the living room with a tray, setting it on the coffee table. She looks up at me, startled again, and I can't help the smirk that tugs at my lips. "Eat," I say simply, my tone leaving no room for argument.

She hesitates, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and I can see the internal war playing out in her head. It's maddening how much power she holds over me without even realizing it. Her defiance, her innocence—they're weapons she doesn't know how to wield, but they cut just the same.

When she finally reaches for the spoon, my eyes remain fixed on her, watching every small movement, every fleeting expression. She takes a tentative sip, her lips parting to blow gently on the steaming broth, and my restraint frays further.

The room feels too small, the air too thick, and I wonder if she feels it too—the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us.

"You're watching me," she says softly, her voice hesitant but not accusatory.

I don't deny it. "I want to make sure you finish."

She narrows her eyes, a flicker of defiance sparking again, and for a moment, I think she'll argue. But instead, she sighs and continues eating, though her movements are slow and reluctant.

The sight of her eating, though painfully insufficient to ease my worries, soothes something primal in me. She looks smaller now, her frame curled into the chair, the firelight casting a warm glow over her flushed cheeks.

Her innocence is maddening, and yet it's the very thing that holds me back.

When she's finished, she sets the spoon down carefully, her hands trembling slightly. I take the tray without a word and return it to the kitchen, needing the distance to regain my composure.

When I come back, she's standing by the window, her arms wrapped around herself as she stares out at the snowstorm. She looks fragile, like she might shatter if the wind outside grew strong enough to reach her.

"You can't leave tonight," I say, and my voice startles her. She turns to me, her eyes wide, lips parting in protest, but I cut her off before she can speak.

"It's too dangerous," I add, softer this time, though the authority in my tone remains.

"You'll sleep in the guest room," I say, my voice firm but even, as if commanding her into safety will somehow calm the storm raging inside me. She looks up at me, confusion flickering across her face.

"Guest room?" she echoes, her voice soft, unsure.

"Yes," I reply, already turning towards the hall. "Follow me."

The mansion feels vast tonight, the quiet amplified by the absence of the staff. They've all gone home for the evening, leaving only the howling winds and the creak of old wood under our steps. I walk ahead of her, every sound in the silent house magnified—the soft scuff of her feet against the polished floor, her hesitant breathing, the faint rattle of the windows as the storm picks up outside.

She lingers behind me, her presence a weight on my senses. I tell myself it's for the best—this distance, this control—but the temptation of looking back at her, of closing that gap, gnaws at me.

When we reach the guest room at the far end of the house, I push the heavy oak door open and step aside to let her in. She pauses in the doorway, her small frame illuminated by the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Her eyes flicker around the room, taking in the understated elegance—the plush bedding, the heavy curtains, the antique furniture that somehow manages to feel both grand and intimate.

"You'll be comfortable here," I say, keeping my tone clipped, detached.

She doesn't respond, just nods slightly before stepping inside. I remain at the door, gripping the edge of the frame as I watch her set her bag on the chair and run her fingers over the embroidered quilt. She looks so out of place in this house, in this room, in my life, and yet so perfectly at home that it unnerves me.

"I'll bring you an extra blanket," I add, though the room is already warm, the fire in the hearth crackling softly. I need the excuse to step away, even if only for a moment.

Her eyes meet mine, wide and searching, and I feel the familiar pull, the magnetic force that threatens to undo me every time she looks at me like that. "Thank you," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

I nod sharply and retreat down the hall, my footsteps quicker now, driven by the need to put distance between us. I can't stay near her. Not tonight. Not when every instinct in me screams to close the gap, to claim what I've forced myself to leave untouched.

When I reach my room, I shut the door behind me and lean against it, my breath escaping in a harsh exhale. The fire in my room is unlit, the cold seeping through the walls, but it does nothing to cool the heat coursing through me.

I run a hand through my hair, the tension in my body unbearable. She's too close, and yet not close enough. The memory of her touch, her scent, the way her lips tasted, all of it lingers, taunting me.

The thought of her, just down the hall, lying alone in that bed, sends a shiver down my spine—not from the cold, but from the sheer force of my restraint. My fingers twitch at my sides, aching to hold her again, to pull her against me and—

No.

I drag myself away from the door, my movements stiff and deliberate. The in-suite bathroom beckons, a sanctuary and a punishment all at once. The storm outside mirrors the chaos inside me, the wind howling as I strip off my clothes and step under the freezing stream of the shower.

A cold shower in the middle of a snowstorm—there's no other way to fix this now.