The bike's engine sputtered to silence as it rolled up to the picket fence door at the end of the gravel path. The low rumble dissolved into the stillness of the night, leaving only the faint whisper of the wind and the crunch of gravel beneath his tires.

My breath hitched. The air was heavy, sharp with the scent of wet earth and the faint, acrid tang of gasoline.

The rider dismounted, his figure dark and commanding under the pale light of the crescent moon. He was clad entirely in black leather, his presence almost predatory—like a wolf stepping out of shadow.

The jacket hugged his frame with an effortless arrogance, glinting faintly under the moonlight, while his gloved hands moved with deliberate precision as he unbuckled his helmet.

And then he removed it.

The glossy helmet slid off, revealing a mess of disheveled black hair that caught the faint silver sheen of the night. His face came into view—sharp, stoic, and achingly familiar.

Rudra.

I felt my knees weaken, the tension that had coiled in my chest loosening just enough for a shaky sigh to escape me. Relief flooded my veins, warm and overwhelming.

Never in my life had I thought I'd feel this grateful to see him. He wasn't a hero, and yet, in this moment, I could've sworn he was the closest thing to salvation.

My focus shifted entirely to him, and Tarun faded to the periphery of my mind. I no longer cared about his venomous words or vile insinuations. I knew he wouldn't dare try anything now. Not with Rudra here.

Rudra stepped through the picket fence gate, his movements fluid and deliberate. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, pushing it back as his helmet dangled loosely from the other.

Each step he took was announced by the crunch of gravel beneath his boots, a steady, rhythmic sound that echoed ominously in the quiet night.

"Oh, the new boy toy is here, huh?" Tarun's voice cut through the air, dripping with malice. It snapped me out of my trance.

I turned to him with a deadpan expression, my patience thinning like a frayed thread. "You know I can book you under the POSH Act?" I said, the words tumbling out with a confidence that felt foreign even to me.

His smirk faltered for the briefest of moments. He knew it. I knew it. He was cornered.

The moment was thick with unspoken tension, the kind that wrapped itself around your throat and tightened. The distant hum of cicadas and the occasional rustle of leaves only heightened the oppressive silence between us.

And then the doorbell rang.

The sharp ding-dong broke through the stalemate, loud and insistent. Before I knew it, my legs moved on their own, a sudden surge of energy propelling me halfway across the living room.

The bell rang again. And again. Then came the heavy thud of a fist banging against the door.

Tarun's presence loomed in the corner of my eye as I reached the door. He hadn't moved, clearly caught in an internal battle, calculating whether to stay or slink away. For the first time tonight, I saw doubt etched into his features.

I opened the door to a gust of bone-chilling wind, sharp and biting against my exposed skin. It whipped past me, but all I could focus on were the red, angry eyes staring back at me.

His jaw was clenched tight, muscles flexing as though barely restrained, and his hand remained mid-motion, frozen in the act of banging on the door again.

"Rudra." His name left my lips in a hushed whisper, more prayer than greeting.

He took in my appearance in one sweeping glance—still wrapped in a bathrobe, hair haphazardly twisted into a bun, and visibly shivering from the cold. Without a word, he stepped forward, his presence blocking the relentless wind as he pushed the door shut behind him.

But then his eyes shifted, landing on something—or other someone—behind me.

Tarun.

The faint softening in his gaze vanished in an instant. His features hardened, his expression darkening like a thundercloud about to break. The sharp edge of his fury was almost palpable, an invisible current that made the air around us feel heavy.

He wasn't just angry. He was seething.

His eyes snapped back to my face, and I froze under his piercing gaze. Words caught in my throat. I didn't know where to start or how to explain what was happening. I was still trying to make sense of it myself. Why was he here?

I didn't know my place had turned into a hangout spot, my nerves fraying under the weight of the moment.Did I miss the memo?

"Phone kaha hai tumhara?" His words cut through the silence, low and controlled, but with an unmistakable edge.

("Where's your phone?")

I blinked, stunned, unsure if I'd heard him right. "Huh?" The word slipped out before I could stop it, my voice barely above a whisper.

His tone didn't change, but his gaze flickered back to Tarun, who had shifted uncomfortably in the corner.

Without warning, Rudra stepped forward, his broad shoulders blocking me entirely from view as if shielding me from the filth standing in my own space.

"What are you doing here?" The question was directed at Tarun, and his voice was deadly calm, each word laced with a cold authority that sent chills down my spine.

Tarun straightened, clearly trying to puff himself up, attempting to hold onto some semblance of power. "I could ask you the same question. Why are you here?"

Rudra took a measured step forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous calm.

"Breaking curfew. Unauthorized entry into the girls' dormitory. Harassment." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Shall I continue, or would you like to cut your losses and leave while you still can?"

Tarun's smirk faltered entirely. He raised his hands in mock surrender, muttered something unintelligible, and scrambled out the same window he'd slithered through earlier.

The room felt lighter instantly, but the tension Rudra carried with him didn't dissipate.

He released a breath, glanced at his hand as though shaking off some invisible grime, and then walked up to the window.

He slammed it shut, locked it firmly, and drew the curtains with meticulous precision. Finally, he turned on the lamp, its warm glow chasing away the oppressive darkness in the room.

"Change," he said, his voice curt but not unkind. "Thand lag jaegi."

("You'll catch a cold.")

The abruptness of his command made me blink. What did I do to deserve his coldness? I swallowed down my irritation and mustered the courage to ask, "Aap yaha kya kar rahe hain?"

("What are you doing here?")

He didn't even look at me. "Haan, sawal kar lo," he muttered, his tone clipped as his eyes scanned the room. "Kaanp rahi ho thand se."

("Yeah, go ahead, ask your questions,"

"You're shivering from the cold.")

Bohot badtameez hai ye insaan. My irritation flared as I turned on my heel, huffing toward my room. But he was right—I was cold.

(This person is unbelievably rude.)

Just as I reached the stairs, his voice rang out again, laced with dry sarcasm. "Aur haan, jab calls aaye toh receive icon pe click karna hota hai. In case you're unsure how to pick up a call."

("And yes, and just so you know, when a call comes in, you're supposed to tap the receive icon...)

I froze, spinning back to face him. "Toh aap mujhe call kar rahe the? Kyu?"

("So... you were calling me? Why?")

"Galti kar di," he said, leaning against the wall with an infuriatingly casual air. "Agli baar kabootar bhejunga."

("My mistake," he said, leaning against the wall with infuriating ease. "Next time, I'll send a pigeon.")

I glared at him, my annoyance bubbling to the surface. "Seedha jawab dena aata hai?"

("Do you know how to give a straight answer?")

"Seedha sawal puchna aata hai?" he shot back, one brow arched in mock challenge.

("Do you know how to ask a straight question?")

Before I could retaliate, he straightened and spoke with an authority that left no room for argument. "Wear something fit for a hike. We're leaving."

"What?" I started, my indignation rising.

He didn't give me the chance to finish. His eyes pinned me in place, sharp and unyielding. "Ek aur sawal, Mukti, aur hum tape lagaenge apke muh par."

("One more question, Mukti, and I'm putting tape over your mouth.")

The words were delivered with such calm finality that I found myself shutting up instantly. Without another word, I spun on my heel and hurried upstairs.

I change into warm jeans and layer a soft cashmere sweater under my baseball jacket. Tugging on my Chelsea boots, I try to focus on each small movement. One step at a time, Mukti. It's over.

But the tremor in my hands betrays the façade.

I pick up my phone from the bed, noticing nine missed calls from an unknown number. My heart skips. There are texts from him too.

Why was he so desperate to reach me?

When I descend the stairs, he's standing near the slider window, fiddling with the lock as if fixing the world's most complex mechanism. His broad shoulders seem to carry an invisible weight, his stance rigid yet commanding.

"Your lock works the opposite way," he says without looking at me. "Push it up instead of down."

His voice is calm, instructive, but there's something clipped about it. He's serious. The living room, now properly lit, feels different—lighter, warmer—but there's a heaviness in the air I can't shake off.

I stop midway, my footsteps faltering under his penetrating gaze. He looks at me as though he can see through the polished exterior I've so carefully constructed, straight into the vulnerable mess underneath.

He starts walking toward me, his presence overwhelming, making me want to retreat into a shell.

"Are you hurt?" His voice softens, the gentleness breaking through my defenses. It's the same tone he used that night when I was a shaking mess in his arms.

I shake my head, looking down. Stay in control, Mukti. You're fine. Nothing happened.

"You need to report him," he says, his words a mix of gentle guidance and quiet command.

"I know. I will." My voice is steady, but inside, I'm unraveling. I'm still terrified. The weight of what happened hasn't hit me fully yet, but I know it will, and when it does, I'll shatter. For now, I tuck it away, somewhere deep, somewhere inaccessible.

Abruptly, I change the topic. "Why were you calling me? Nine missed calls?"

His lips twitch, and the softness is replaced by a familiar smirk. "Oh, so you do know how to use a phone?"

"Kabh galti se seedha jawab mat de dena, kahi aapki height kam ho gyi tou?" I snap, crossing my arms, glaring at him.

("Never ever give a straight answer—what if it makes you shorter?")

"Haan? Upar tak awaaz nhi aa rhi." He's dead to me. I look at him, shocked at his audacity.

("What? Can't hear you from up here")

What is it with tall people and their pride in their height? What was their personal contribution to it? I'm never going to understand this flex.

I grit my teeth. Why is he like this? He shifts, leaning casually against the wall, as if this entire interaction is just another opportunity to amuse himself.

"Where are we going?" I finally ask, switching the topic before he can get on my nerves further.

"Mental hospital. Chalo," he says, turning me toward the door without missing a beat.

(... . Let's go")

He grabs the keys and helmet from the stand by the door, pushes me out, and locks the door himself.

When we step outside, his bike gleams under the soft glow of the streetlight. It's sleek, powerful, and intimidating, much like him. I don't know the first thing about bikes, but this one looks like it could swallow the road whole.

As he adjusts his helmet, he pulls out another one from under the seat and hands it to me.

I stare at it, trying to figure out the straps, fumbling awkwardly.

He watches, shakes his head, and in one swift motion, pulls me close. I crash into him, my breath catching as he quietly secures the helmet under my chin. His fingers brush my skin briefly before he steps back, his eyes locking with mine.

"Hold tight, hmm?" he murmurs.

I nod silently, still too stunned to speak.

I struggle to climb onto the bike, my movements stiff and awkward. Sensing my hesitation, he extends his hand, steadying me as I place one hand on his shoulder and swing my leg over.

Once I'm seated, he adjusts me into the center by stretching his arms back, almost protectively.

The bike rumbles to life beneath us, and the vibration makes my heart race. I grab his waist instinctively when he accelerates slightly, maneuvering us into position.

Suddenly, he brakes. Hard. My helmet crashes into his back, and I cling to him for dear life.

"Moron!" I mutter under my breath, but my cheeks flush as I feel the warmth of his body against mine.

We take off, and the wind rushes past, cold and biting, but exhilarating. My hair, loose under the helmet, dances wildly in the air. Trees blur as we pass them, their dark silhouettes backlit by the faint glow of the moon.

He turns sharply, taking an unfamiliar path that winds deeper into the forest. The streetlamps here are sparse but beautiful, casting a warm golden hue against the velvet darkness.

The hum of the bike fills the silence, steady and soothing. My nerves, frayed and hyperactive moments ago, begin to calm. There's something oddly liberating about the movement, the rhythm, the endless road ahead.

The bike takes another sharp curve, and I notice we're climbing uphill. The air grows colder, crisp and fresh, and my fingers tighten around his waist.

He slows slightly, his hand briefly brushing my thigh to reassure me. I glance down, startled, but he speaks over the roar of the wind.

"It's okay. You won't fall."

His voice is faint through the helmets and the wind, but it's steady and certain.

I let myself relax, closing my eyes for a moment. The world feels distant, and for once, I feel untethered from everything weighing me down.

We ride past glowing streetlamps, towering trees, and glimpses of the mountains. It's as if we're cutting through the heart of nature itself, heading toward the moonlit sky.

The road evens out, and I lean forward slightly, resting my cheek against his back. The heat from his body seeps into me, grounding me in a way I didn't think possible.

I close my eyes again, savoring the serenity, the intimacy of the moment. It feels like freedom, like a fleeting escape from the chaos in my heart.

I wish the ride would never end.