NOTE:- You will get till chapter 08 in AuthorRoza's wattpad id.

Author's POV Continued

Aira leaned back against the couch, pulling the blanket tighter, but it didn't help. Her skin was prickling—like she was crawling out of it.

"God," she muttered, voice tight. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

Ranveer didn't respond at first. He was still seated, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely in front of him, jaw tense.

She pushed the throw pillow aside and stood up suddenly, pacing.

"I'm Aira Malhotra," she snapped at the air. "I close deals in three countries. I've been on Forbes lists since I was twenty-three. And I'm spiraling—over a song?"

Her hands clenched at her sides.

"No. No, not even the song. Him. The way he looked without looking. The way he sings like he's bleeding and doesn't even care who's watching—"

She turned back, breath hitching.

Ranveer had stood too. He wasn't looking at her this time. He was staring out the glass window, arms folded, breathing hard.

"You're not spiraling over him," he said quietly. "You're spiraling because you're not in control."

That hit harder than she wanted to admit.

Her voice cracked. "Then why did you even let them in? Why did you say they were good?"

He turned slowly, his eyes meeting hers. No professional mask now. Just tired honesty.

"Because they are. But I didn't expect you to fall into their damn chorus like this."

Aira flinched. "I didn't fall—"

"Didn't you?" Ranveer stepped forward once. "You've been acting like you're watching a wildfire and don't understand why your hands are warm."

She swallowed, throat dry.

"It's not about him," she said again, quieter now. "It's not."

Ranveer's voice dropped to a murmur—controlled, bitter, breaking.

"That's what makes it worse."

Aira's shoulders slumped. Her hair had fallen from the clip, strands sticking to her cheek. She looked impossibly young for a moment. And tired.

"I don't even know what I want," she whispered.

Ranveer looked at her for a long moment. The kind of look that would've broken things if he wasn't holding everything back.

Then he sighed, stepped past her toward the kitchen.

"You want clarity. And you keep chasing people who speak in riddles."

She turned, her voice sharp again. "And what do you speak in, Ranveer?"

He paused with his back to her.

"Fluency."

And then—he disappeared into the kitchen without waiting for her response.

She followed him into the kitchen. The warm, quiet light bathed the space in gold. He moved with methodical purpose—pulling mugs from a shelf, filling the kettle with water, placing it back like muscle memory.

Aira stood at the edge of the counter, fingers tightening around the sleeves of her cardigan.

"You're mad at me.", Aira asked. 

Ranveer didn't look up.

"No."

She tilted her head. "You are."

"I'm not mad," he said, setting the mugs down a little too hard. "I'm tired."

He finally turned to face her.

"Of being your clarity when you won't even sit with your own chaos."

That silenced her.

"Every time something spins out of control, you come here. To me." His voice wasn't raised, but it was sharp. "And I hold it, Aira. I always hold it. But what am I supposed to do when the thing causing the chaos is you?"

She stepped back slightly, stunned.

"I didn't mean to—"

"I know you didn't," he said, softer now. "You never do."

The kettle hissed, slowly rising to a boil.

"You're not reckless, Aira. You're not dramatic. You're composed and terrifyingly brilliant. But when you break, you break in one direction."

He pointed gently toward himself.

"This direction."

Aira swallowed. Her voice was small now. "Is that wrong?"

He looked at her for a long moment. Then ran his hand over the back of his neck — the same gesture from earlier, but slower, wearier now.

"No. Not wrong." A pause. "Just hard."

The kettle clicked off.

He poured the water into the mugs and added the tea sachets without meeting her gaze.

She stepped beside him, reaching absently for the sugar — more out of habit than anything.

"I don't do this with anyone else," she said, almost defensively.

"I know," he murmured.

"I don't know how to feel things when I'm alone."

"I know."

She looked up at him now. "Why do you let me, then?"

He stirred his tea slowly, the clink of the spoon the only sound for a few seconds.

Then he said, quietly—

"Some things hurt less when you're the one choosing them."

Aira didn't respond. Not immediately.

That line sat between them, strange and loaded. She didn't fully understand it. Maybe he didn't either.

But something shifted.

The air. Her breath. The distance.

She stood still, mug in hand, heart unsure.

And like always, neither of them crossed the line.

Not yet.

Aira didn't move.

She stayed there beside him at the counter, fingers curled around the warm mug, eyes fixed on the steam rising. The silence between them was heavier now, but not uncomfortable. Just... full.

Outside, the rain had picked up—soft at first, then heavier, drumming against the glass like it had something urgent to say.

Ranveer finally exhaled, glanced sideways at her.

"You should stay."

She looked at him.

He didn't flinch under her gaze this time. Just set his own mug down and added, "It's coming down hard. And you look like sleep wouldn't find you anyway if you went home."

She opened her mouth, as if to argue, then stopped.

Instead, she nodded once.

He took a step back, ran a hand through his hair again, eyes already dimming into something quieter.

"Take the bed. It's clean. I'll crash here."

Aira frowned. "You don't have to—"

"Aira," he said, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. "Let me do one decent thing tonight without it being a conversation."

She stared at him a moment longer—his t-shirt slightly wrinkled, his eyes a little too open, a little too unreadable. Then she gave a tiny nod and turned toward the hallway.

Before she disappeared, she paused.

"Thank you," she said. It wasn't just for the bed.

He didn't answer right away. Just leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her go.

Then, softly—

"Always."

Later that night, as thunder rolled low over the city, Ranveer lay on the couch, eyes wide open, one arm folded behind his head.

The rain didn't stop. Neither did his thoughts.

And in the next room, Aira curled into the unfamiliar comfort of his sheets, staring at the ceiling, wondering why it always had to  him she ran to—especially when she didn't know what she was running from.