Nothing beats a hot shower.

The first scalding drops cascaded down my back, the steam curling around me, cloaking the space in a heavy fog. My tense muscles slowly began to unravel, the heat working its way into my bones. But even as the water soothed my body, my mind refused to let go of him.

His touch. His lips. His piercing gaze.

It was maddening how vivid it all felt, how his presence clung to me, refusing to fade. The memory of his confidence, the way he so effortlessly took care of me, wrapped itself around my chest, bringing a warmth that even this blistering water couldn't replicate.

He had no reason—no right—to care for me the way he did, yet he did.

The way he held me through my storm, through my tears, without flinching, without judgment, was something I didn't realize I needed until it was over.

In that moment, he had given me what I'd denied myself for years: validation. Assurance.

A quiet reminder that I didn't have to shoulder everything alone. I've spent so long pretending I don't care, feigning indifference, avoiding my own vulnerability like it's a weakness. But standing there under the water, I realize how much that mask has cost me.

Even now, the warmth of his embrace lingers, searing hotter than the water streaming down my skin. It's visceral, consuming.

And his lips...

The way he kissed me, with a fervor that made me feel alive, seen. I don't understand why I reached for him the way I did.

Maybe it was desperation, the need to feel wanted, to claw my way out of the humiliation that had suffocated me for so long. I'd been nothing but a vessel for suffering, a puppet for other people's cruelties, and in that moment, I needed to feel like I was more.

That I could be more.

I was terrified he'd push me away, that he'd react like the untouchable, aloof "Royal Highness" he pretends to be. But he didn't.

And now? The things he says—the so-called threats to keep me entirely his—they should frighten me. I should feel trapped, outraged, anything but this strange, twisted thrill that courses through me. There's nothing healthy about these feelings, I know that. But the truth is, I don't care.

I can still feel him everywhere, every inch of him imprinted on me. The mere thought makes my body react in ways I can't control, the need for him clawing at the edges of my sanity.

My fingers, almost on instinct, trace the path he left on my skin. From the curve of my neck where his lips lingered, to my collarbone, to the swell of my chest. My breathing stutters, my pulse quickens.

I trail my hand down to my stomach, the memory of his grip on me still so vivid it's as if he's here. The way his arms locked around me, unyielding, possessive—it sends a shiver down my spine.

My fingers continue their slow descent, my touch melting into my skin, lingering where desire starts to bloom, a flame threatening to consume. The ache is unbearable, and the temptation to give in almost suffocates me.

But the water suddenly runs cold, snapping me out of the haze.

What was I thinking? Gosh. I step out of the shower, droplets still clinging to my skin as I wrap a soft bathrobe around me. My fingers tighten the sash as I pad out toward the closet, already imagining the comfort of my nightwear. But before I can grab it, a sudden, loud thud breaks the silence.

I freeze.

What was that?

It's 10 p.m. Nobody is supposed to be around the student quarters this late, not without a permission card. Hell, even the faculty would need authorization to move around at this hour.

My stomach twists, and a wave of unease washes over me. Is this it? Is this the moment I meet my first ghost? Of all the nights, why now?

Or maybe this isn't paranormal. Maybe this is just life, which lately feels less like reality and more like a really bad simulation—like I accidentally signed up for the Hunger Games without knowing it.

Shaking off the ridiculous thought, I force myself to act. I muster every ounce of courage, inhaling sharply as I flick on the main light. Goodbye mood lighting, hello safety.

The sound definitely came from downstairs. I'm sure of it. But now I'm faced with a choice: should I go investigate like the classic dumb protagonist, basically volunteering to play KBC with a possible murderer? Or should I use my brain, lock my door, jump under the covers, and pray until morning?

"Mujhe toh Hanuman Chalisa bhi aadhi aati hai," I mutter to myself, "ho jaenge Hanumanji convince?"

("I barely know half of the Hanuman Chalisa," I mutter to myself. "Will Hanumanji still be convinced?")  [check comments]

Despite my internal protest, my feet betray me. Shaking, I step out of my room and descend the stairs slowly, my heart hammering louder than my footsteps.

Halfway down, I stop.

The floor-length window in the living room is wide open, its curtain billowing madly in the wind like it's trying to escape. But I know for a fact I locked everything before coming upstairs. Every damn thing.

Except...that window. Its lock is finicky. I'd always dismissed it as a minor annoyance, but now my mind spirals. Did someone figure out how to unlock it from outside? If so, that means...

I have an intruder.

My heart thuds painfully in my chest, my mind spinning with a million scenarios, none of them good. But instead of running back upstairs like any sane person, I keep walking down, each step slower and heavier than the last.

And that's when I see it.

On the sofa, slouched as if it's his house, is a figure.

I narrow my eyes, my fear momentarily giving way to irritation. If this is Rudra pulling one of his stupid stunts, I swear I'll break the glass jug in my hand right over his thick skull.

But just as I relax, my false confidence ready to hurl an insult, the figure shifts. It stands.

And I freeze.

"Tarun?"

The name escapes me in a whisper, barely audible over the rushing of blood in my ears.

The blood in my body runs cold, every drop freezing in its veins.

"Hi, baby," he says, and I feel my heart plummet straight into my stomach. My entire body tenses, every nerve firing on high alert. The room feels colder, smaller, and all I can hear is the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears. Fight or flight, my instincts scream, though I can't seem to move either way.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" I stammer, my voice betraying the tremor of fear crawling up my spine. He shouldn't be here. God, I wish it was a ghost. A ghost might've been kinder.

Tarun tilts his head, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. "Hmm... good question. But tell me," his voice drops, casual but sharp, "did you get ready for me?"

My stomach churns. There's something in the way he says it, the way his eyes sweep over me, taking their time. His amusement is unnerving, laced with an eerie darkness that feels so out of place in this room.

I instinctively wrap the bathrobe tighter around me, wishing I could disappear under it entirely. My skin prickles, and I know my face has gone pale.

"Tarun, please leave. It's way past curfew," I say, trying to keep my voice firm, though it wavers just slightly. My only goal is to get him out of here and myself to safety. But my phone is upstairs, and the intercom is behind him. The lights are out. No one can see us.

He chuckles—a sound that sends chills crawling down my spine—and takes a deliberate step forward. I step back instinctively, though there's still distance between us. It's not enough.

"Come on, Mukti. Are you mad about what you saw in the forest?" His tone is casual, like we're old friends laughing over a shared memory.

I freeze. Was he for real?

"That was just for fun," he continues, his lips curving into a sick grin. "Come on, wasn't that sexy?"

His nonchalance ignites something hot and fiery inside me—anger, pure and raw. My hands tremble as I clench them into fists at my sides. I close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe, to not let him see how much he's unraveling me.

"Get. Out," I say, each word deliberate, cutting through the air.

His face shifts, the mask of charm slipping to reveal something far more sinister. "Why?" he sneers, his tone venomous now. "Is there another car expected to pick you up?"

Who does he think he is? My anger surges. "None of your goddamn business," I snap. "Leave before I raise the security alarm."

But he doesn't budge. Instead, his smile twists into something vile. "Oh, was it good?" he asks, and the insinuation in his tone makes bile rise in my throat.

The air in the room grows suffocating as his words hit me. "Are you still that boring, or has he unlocked some new flavors?"

Something inside me snaps. The dam I've carefully constructed around my anger, shame, and fear bursts wide open. Every vile memory of what he put me through comes flooding back, washing over me in suffocating waves.

I feel my vision blur as he stands there, shameless, mocking me—slut-shaming me after everything. My chest tightens. The audacity.

I cry internally, desperate to hold back tears. He doesn't get to see them. He doesn't get to twist this on me.

I take a deep breath, forcing my trembling legs to move. Slowly, deliberately, I walk to the other end of the living room, toward the intercom. Every step feels like a gamble—what if he attacks me? What if I don't make it? But standing still, waiting for it to happen, is worse.

He watches me, his expression shifting to confusion as I step away. But then he resorts to his favorite weapon: gaslighting. "You could've come to me, Mukti," he says, his voice deceptively calm. "But you being you, you ran the moment things got difficult."

I stop in my tracks, the shock of his audacity freezing me for a moment. Is he seriously trying to blame me right now?

The intercom is so close, just a few more steps. My eyes flick toward the open window, and suddenly, I see it—a flash of headlights slicing through the dark.

A bike pulls up by the fenced door and Tarun, stiffens. He knows he's not supposed to be here, and anyone finds out, he's finished.

I watch as the rider steps down. My heart hammers in my chest as I strain to make out the figure. His face hidden under the helmet.

And then I see him.

A silent sigh of relief escapes me, my tense shoulders falling slightly.