“I know now.”

The voice wasn’t Priya’s. But it was one she knew.

Manvi’s heart stalled like she’d just been caught stealing instead of whispering about an almost-kiss.

The screen hadn’t frozen, the call wasn’t muted. Another line had joined.

And there it was—flashing across the top of her screen.

Mehul. Listening.

Classic.

Manvi’s brain? Gone. Checked out. Packed its bags and left the country.

"That's my cue to leave" Priya chuckled - and she was gone. Just like that. Best friend of the year. Tossed her to the wolves, and not even the polite kind.

Manvi was still staring at her screen, stomach twisting like it was auditioning for Victoria's Secrets. For one wild second she considered throwing the phone under her pillow and pretending to be asleep. Bold Strategy.

“Mehul?” Her voice came out half-groggy, half-accusing. “It’s almost midnight. Why are you calling?”

And there it was—that low, lazy laugh. He could weaponize that thing.

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d check in on you. Or should I say… on your secrets?”

Her spine went rigid. “W-what secrets?” Manvi felt as if her ears were on fire. She thanked her stars that Mehul was on audio and not on video call.

“I don’t know…” he drawled, the smirk practically dripping out of the phone.

Manvi sat bolt upright, clutching the pillow as if it could save her. “You—! You didn’t hear anything, did you?”

He let it hang, just long enough for her pulse to sprint a marathon. Then his voice, velvet and wicked: “Should I have?”

Game, set, match. The heat was catching up. Even her cheeks were hot and red now. She buried her face in the pillow and groaned. “Mehul!”

He chuckled, the sound warm and maddening. “Relax. Your line dropped before I caught anything scandalous. But the way you just panicked…” He let the silence stretch, then added, softer, “…maybe I should be curious.”

“I hate you,” she muttered into the cotton.

“No, you don’t,” he said easily. “You’re already planning my movie marathon snacks.”

“Only because you’re annoying,” she mumbled, too flustered to manage anything sharper.

“Goodnight, heroine.” His voice softened, playful edge giving way to something steadier. “Don’t lose sleep over… whatever it is you didn’t say.”

The line clicked off, leaving her wide awake and burning under her sheets.

Nope. Not thinking about it. Didn’t happen. He didn’t hear. Maybe the Wi-Fi glitched. She repeated it like a mantra. But pushing away thoughts of the call only made room for other thoughts - dangerous thoughts - the almost kisses. Would there be kiss tomorrow? She felt tingling on her lips as if his lips were still just an inch away. Her breathing slowed because of exhaustion or frenzy she was unsure. Finally exhaustion pulled her under.

But denial only carried her so far—by morning, the memory still burned. She got out of bed with a plan. If Mehul was going to make her squirm with his almost-touches and lingering looks, she could play that game too.  So she did the only thing left: put on her sharpest dress, armour against humiliation.

She chose a black mini skirt that hugged her curves and a soft pink blouse tucked in to show off her waist. When she looked in the mirror, she smiled with satisfaction. When she stepped out, Mehul’s low whistle sealed the verdict. Effective.

She didn’t break eye contact as she moved closer. Bold choice. He was smiling, but she kept her face smug, because somebody had to win this round. And then she walked to the bike like she’d just been signed by Victoria’s Secret. Spoiler: the man’s jaw actually dropped. Subtlety? Not his strong suit.

"Good morning" he managed.

She didn’t reply. Silence is a power move, and she knew it. She took her sweet time settling onto his bike, letting her bare legs brush his. Hugged him like it was nothing.

It wasn't nothing. He cleared his throat. Rough. Promising. She rolled her eyes like it bored her—but inside, yeah, she was throwing a party.

“You challenged me for a movie marathon,” she reminded him. “I had to show up.”

“Are we going for the movie or…” She let the sentence trail, the kind of unfinished that keeps men awake at night.

“Yes,” he blurted, fumbling. Bike on. Game on.

She pressed her legs tighter. He shifted. She laughed. And for ten whole minutes on that ride, she tortured him without mercy. Olympic level.

They reached twenty minutes early. It was 8:10 am, so early the guard wasn’t even in uniform yet. Manvi looked around the deserted place, just two cars and a few bikes here and there. It looked huge and smelled of some lime cleaning agent.

And then—without warning—his hand at her waist. Just one hand. But the thin fabric of her blouse? It made it feel like ten. Her breath stuttered. Her throat went dry.

“Let’s go,” he said, pushing her forward softly. Except to her, it didn’t feel soft. It felt like the kind of touch you don’t shake off.

She cursed the blouse. Out loud? No. In her head? Loudly.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and here’s the kicker—he actually looked concerned. Genuine.

She turned, met his eyes, drew a breath. He wanted honesty. She gave strategy.

“Let’s go,” she said.

The first movie kicked off at 8:30 AM—anime, her pick. And honestly? Brilliant choice. Because the theatre was practically a ghost town. Just a few kids in the back row, a couple tucked into the corner, and that was it. Which meant no distractions, no noise… just the two of them.

And here’s the thing—Manvi noticed pretty quickly that Mehul wasn’t watching the screen. Not really. His eyes kept drifting to her. More than once. More than twice. It wasn’t subtle.

So what does a smart woman do when a man looks at her like she’s the main feature instead of the film? She gives him a show worth the ticket price.

She crossed her legs. And not the polite, girl-next-door cross either. No. This was the boss move—deliberate, commanding, unapologetic. The kind of cross that says, I know exactly what I’m doing. Her skirt slid up just enough—not scandalous, but oh, it burned.

Dark or not, his reaction was clear as daylight. Jaw tightening, shoulders shifting, that faint exhale he probably didn’t realize he’d let slip.

For the next hour and a half, Manvi didn’t just enjoy the anime. She enjoyed the bonus feature: Mehul squirming, that show was worth the price of admission.

After the movie, they ended up at a small bistro. Quiet, intimate. Too intimate.

Because, just like before, Mehul didn’t waste time. Under the table, his leg found hers, captured it, pinned it.

And damn—her outfit had turned into her worst enemy. That black mini skirt that felt like armor in the morning? Right now, it was betrayal stitched in fabric. Every inch of her skin was hypersensitive, alive, burning from the simple pressure of him.

The thought crossed her mind—press back. Just once. Make him feel it too. Should she? Should she not?

Her gaze lifted. Not to his eyes. To his lips. Slightly parted, gleaming when his tongue darted out—oh, not his tongue, hers.

Why the restraint, Mehul? Why play this game when he could just grab her, crush her, and end it? Heat pooled low in her stomach. She caught herself sucking on her own bottom lip before she realized it. Reflex. Weakness. And she hated herself for it.

Because the moment she did, his eyes locked onto the movement. Like a predator who’d just spotted his prey.

He ordered for both of them, like always. She nodded, like always. Except this time, she wasn’t hearing a word. Her eyes stayed glued to the menu, pretending to study it as if the alphabet were brand new. Anything—anything—to ignore the inferno spreading under the table.

She shifted, about to cross her legs. Small, innocent. But his hold only tightened. Trapped. She tugged back. Mistake. Because he pressed closer, harder. The friction shot sparks up her thigh, molten, electric.

One quick glance at him—stoic, unreadable, calmly studying the menu. As though nothing at all was happening.

Infuriating. Maddening. Delicious.

She yanked harder. Her leg slipped free—finally. Victory lasted all of half a second. Because in her rush to reclaim composure, she miscalculated. Her right leg landed squarely across his thigh.

Her eyes widened. Heat roared through her body in one furious rush.

Not decent.

Not proper.

Not survivable.

She snapped the menu up, flimsy cardboard masquerading as a shield against the fire crawling up her skin.

Careful, slow, she tried to lift her leg away. Discreet. Invisible.

Except he noticed.

Of course, he noticed.

And then his hand was there. Warm. Strong. Fingers curling around her ankle, claiming it, anchoring her exactly where she had no business being.

Manvi’s eyes fell shut behind the curtain of the menu. Breathing? Overrated. Impossible.

She hated that skirt. Hated the way it betrayed her, leaving her bare, vulnerable, exposed to every single spark of his touch.

But what she hated more—was how much she didn’t want him to let go.

The menu trembled in her grip. She considered lowering it, stealing a look. But courage? It had deserted her. He stayed silent. So did she. The space between them thickened, charged, molten with everything unsaid.

Finally, desperate, she peeked from the side.

And there he was—brows furrowed, pretending to study the menu too, feigning calm while his hand branded her ankle, refusing to let go.

Two minutes ago, she wanted him to grab her. To claim her. To shatter her calm.

Now that he had—why this trembling? Why this sudden collapse of all that boldness she’d been so proud of?

She prayed. To anyone listening. For courage. For strength. For something to break this unbearable, delicious torment.

And then—the waiter arrived.

Two steaming coffees.

A plate of sandwiches.

The heavenly scent of butter and melted cheese filling the air like divine intervention.

It was like God had granted her wish. Except… she hadn’t realized she’d put the menu down. Her flimsy shield was gone.

And her ankle? Still firmly, possessively, in his grip.

 The second movie started at 1 PM. An action thriller. His pick. Of course.

Now, Manvi, sweet, unsuspecting Manvi — she crosses her legs. Out of habit. Nothing new. Except, apparently, it is new. Because Mehul’s hand? It doesn’t ask for permission. It doesn’t hesitate. It just slides over her ankle like it owns real estate there. Instinct. Reflex. Call it whatever you want. The man’s hand clearly didn’t get the memo about boundaries.

She almost gasps. Almost. But then comes the smile. Oh, the smile. The kind you try to smother because you know it betrays you, but there it is anyway, glowing like a neon sign in the dark. “Hi, yes, I’m totally fine, no one’s touching my ankle at this exact moment. Carry on.” Please.

And what does Mehul do? Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a glance. His eyes are all about the screen, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, lashes catching the light like some leading man in a cologne ad. Meanwhile, that hand? That hand is telling a whole damn novella.

Chase scene? Grip tightens. Translation: you’re mine, don’t move.

Fight sequence? Fingers dig in. Translation: and I mean it.

Boring exposition? Oh, look — thumb stroking arcs over her skin, doodling little fires just to watch her squirm.

By the credits? He’s drawing circles. Casual. Lazy. As if her ankle is a sketchpad and her nerve endings are his personal audience.

The plot of the movie? Lost forever. Couldn’t tell you a thing. Villain? Hero? Who cares. This wasn’t a film, it was a masterclass in ankle warfare. Torture, plain and simple.

And then — the kicker. He knows. Of course he knows. That tiny, smug curve of his mouth in the flickering light? It might as well have been a signed confession.

Now, Manvi’s telling herself two could play this game. Sure. But right now? With her pulse doing Olympic gymnastics and her ankle still buzzing like it’s been plugged into an outlet? Yeah, no. Hate to break it to her, but the scoreboard’s clear.

Mehul: 1.

Manvi: 1 but utterly wrecked.

And the verdict?

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

As the house lights flickered on and the crowd shuffled to its feet, Manvi bent to collect her bag, determined to compose herself before he could say anything smug. But the moment she straightened, she felt it—his breath, warm against the shell of her ear, close enough to scatter every coherent thought.

“Next movie in ten. We’ll eat whatever we get with popcorn,” he declared.

Manvi nodded and turned

“Round three’s also mine,” Mehul murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

Her pulse spiked.
Round three?