The door clicked shut behind her. Not the soft, apologetic click of someone leaving a room, but a deliberate sound—the kind a person makes when they want you to know they've arrived, when they're closing a door on one version of the evening and opening another.

Saan's thumb paused on the laptop's trackpad. The movie kept playing—some forgotten thriller, all muted gunfire and shadowed corridors—but he wasn't watching it. He was watching her, the way the laptop's blue glow found the shape of her in the doorway. Tarannum stood with her weight on one hip, her nightie thin enough that the light passed through it in places, the fabric clinging to the curve of her waist and the heavy line of her breasts. Her hair was loose, falling past her shoulders in waves she hadn't pinned up. She never pinned it up when Nazir was on night shift.

"You're still awake," she said.

"Couldn't sleep." He shifted onto his back, the blanket pooling at his chest. "The movie's not even good."

She laughed—that low, easy laugh he'd come to know over the past three weeks, the one that filled the kitchen when they cooked together and the living room when Nazir was gone. But tonight it had a different edge to it, like a door left slightly ajar. "Then why are you watching it?"

"Habit." He shrugged, and the blanket slipped another inch. "Something to look at."

Her eyes moved over him then—not quickly, not with the polite flick of a glance. She looked at him the way a person reads a page they intend to remember. His bare shoulders above the blanket. The dark hair, still damp from his shower, curling slightly at his temples. His face in the blue light.

"It's cold tonight," she said. "The radiator's been ticking all evening."

"It's warm enough under here."

She took a step into the room. Then another. Her feet were bare on the floor, and he heard the soft press of each step—the floorboards barely registering her weight. She stopped at the edge of the bed, close enough that he could smell her: soap and something warmer underneath, the scent of skin that had been under a blanket all evening.

"I couldn't sleep either," she said. "Nazir's shift doesn't end till six."

"I know."

The words sat between them. She looked at the blanket, then at him, and something passed across her face—a question she wasn't asking out loud, a permission she was waiting to be given or refused. Saan's throat went dry. He lifted the edge of the blanket.

"You can—if you want." His voice came out steadier than he expected. "There's room."

She didn't hesitate. She slid in beside him with a fluidity that made the mattress dip and settle, her body fitting into the space he made without touching him. Not yet. The blanket came down over both of them, sealing them into that small warm cave of cotton and blue light, and the movie played on, forgotten.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Saan lay on his back, staring at the ceiling of the blanket, aware of every inch of her beside him—the heat of her arm not quite against his, the rise and fall of her breathing, the faint rustle of her nightie as she settled. The radiator ticked. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned. The laptop fan hummed.

Then her hand found his.

It happened so gradually that he couldn't have said when it started—her fingers brushing the back of his hand where it rested on his stomach, light enough to be accidental. Then again. Then her fingertips tracing the ridges of his knuckles, one by one, like she was memorizing the shape of his hand in the dark.

Saan's breath caught. He didn't move his hand away. He didn't move it closer either. He lay perfectly still, his heart hammering against his ribs, while her fingers continued their slow exploration—the line of his thumb, the soft web between his fingers, the pulse point at his wrist. She found that last one and pressed down gently, feeling it beat.

"Your heart's racing," she murmured.

"Is it?"

She didn't answer. Her fingers curled around his, and he felt her shift beside him—turning onto her side to face him, her body a line of warmth along his arm. The blanket moved with her, and the laptop's glow caught her face: the dark eyes, the full mouth, the small crease between her brows that hadn't been there a moment ago.

Saan turned his head. Just a little. Just enough.

Their eyes met in the blue light, and neither of them looked away. The air under the blanket grew thick, charged, the kind of silence that comes before something breaks. He could feel her breath on his cheek—warm, shallow, quickening. Her fingers tightened around his.

"Saan."

His name in her mouth. Not a question. Not a warning. Just his name, spoken like she was trying it on for size.

"Yeah?"

She moved first. Or he did. Later, he wouldn't be able to remember which—only that one moment there was distance between them and the next there wasn't, her mouth finding his in the dark, soft and uncertain. A question, not a demand. Her lips parted slightly, and he felt the warmth of her breath, the faint taste of the chai they'd drunk after dinner, the impossible softness of her mouth against his.

He didn't pull away.

Neither did she.

The kiss deepened by degrees—neither of them rushing, both of them testing. Her hand released his and came up to his face, her palm settling against his jaw, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. He felt the weight of her, the reality of her, and something in his chest cracked open.

He kissed her back.

Her tongue touched his lower lip—a small, deliberate stroke that sent a shock straight down his spine. He opened for her without thinking, and she slid inside, tasting him, learning him. The kiss turned wet, slow, hungry. Her fingers curled into his hair, and his hand—almost of its own accord—found her waist, the fabric of her nightie thin and warm under his palm.

She made a sound against his mouth. Not quite a moan. Something softer, deeper—a sound of relief, like she'd been holding her breath for a very long time and had finally let it go.

They broke apart just long enough to breathe. Her forehead rested against his, her breath coming fast, her eyes still closed. In the blue light, he could see the flush climbing her throat, the way her lips had gone fuller, darker.

"We shouldn't," she whispered.

"No."

"Nazir—"

"I know."

But her hand was still in his hair. Her body was still pressed against his side, warm and real and trembling slightly. And when he tilted his head and kissed her again, she met him halfway—harder this time, her mouth opening under his, her tongue finding his with a hunger that answered his own.

His hand moved up her waist. Slowly, giving her every chance to stop him. Past the curve of her ribs, feeling the softness of her flesh beneath the cotton. She arched into his touch, a small involuntary movement that pressed her breast against his palm, and he felt the shape of her through the fabric—full, heavy, the nipple already hard.

She gasped into his mouth.

He cupped her, his thumb brushing across the peak, and she shuddered against him. Her hand left his hair and found his wrist, not to pull him away but to press him closer, to hold him there.

"Saan," she breathed. "Saan."

Just his name. Over and over, like a prayer or a plea. He kissed her throat, the soft skin beneath her jaw, and she tilted her head back to give him more room, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The blanket had fallen away from her shoulders, and the laptop light caught the curve of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, the place where her pulse beat fast and visible.

His hand slid down her body. Over the swell of her hip, the generous curve of her thigh—and there, at the hem of her nightie, he found it already ridden high, bunched up around her waist. His fingers brushed the bare skin of her upper thigh, and she made that sound again, the one that wasn't quite a moan.

She was so warm. So soft. Her skin under his hand felt like something he'd been waiting his whole life to touch without knowing it.

He moved his hand higher. Slow. Deliberate. Giving her time to stop him.

She didn't.

Instead, she turned her body into his, one leg sliding over his thigh, pressing herself against him until there was no space left between them. Her hand left his wrist and traveled down his chest, over his stomach, her fingers finding the waistband of his shorts. She didn't go further. Not yet. She just rested her hand there, a promise and a question at once.

Their mouths met again. Deeper now. Messier. Her tongue stroking his, her teeth catching his lower lip, her breath hot and fast against his cheek. He felt her hips shift against his thigh—a small, restless movement—and the wet heat of her through the thin fabric of her panties, and his cock hardened so fast it ached.

She felt it. Of course she felt it—pressed against her thigh the way it was, the shape of him unmistakable. Her hand moved, just slightly, her fingers brushing the outline of him through his shorts.

Saan groaned against her mouth.

"Tarannum—"

"Shh." She kissed him again, softer now, almost tender. "We have until morning."

The words hung in the blue-lit dark. A statement of fact. A permission. A door opening wider.

His hand slid higher under her nightie, over the curve of her hip, along the dip of her waist. Her skin was warm and smooth, and she shivered under his touch, her fingers tightening on his shorts. The movie had ended at some point—the screen had gone dark, leaving only the faint glow of the menu, but neither of them noticed. The world had shrunk to the size of the blanket, to the heat of their bodies, to the sound of their breathing.

She pulled back just far enough to look at him. Her eyes were dark, her lips parted, her hair a tangled mess around her face. She looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time—really seeing him—and something in her expression shifted. The uncertainty was gone. In its place was something hungrier, something that had been waiting a long time to be let out.

"Tell me you want this," she said.

"I want this."

"Tell me you want me."

"I want you."

She kissed him again, and this time there was nothing tentative about it. Her hand moved under his shorts, her fingers wrapping around him, and he felt her breath catch as she found him hard and hot and ready. She stroked him once, slowly, her thumb sliding over the slick head, and Saan's hips jerked involuntarily.

"Fuck," he breathed.

She smiled against his mouth. "Quiet. The neighbors."

But her hand kept moving, slow and sure, and he couldn't have been quiet if his life depended on it. He buried his face in her neck, breathing her in—soap and skin and something darker underneath—while she touched him like she'd been thinking about it for weeks. Maybe she had. Maybe they both had.

His hand moved between her legs.

She was wet. So wet he could feel it through the thin cotton of her panties, the fabric soaked and clinging to her. He pressed his fingers against her, feeling the heat of her, the shape of her beneath the cloth, and she gasped and bucked against his hand.

"Saan—"

"Show me," he said, and the words came out rougher than he meant. "Show me what you like."

She took his hand and pushed it past the waistband of her panties, pressing his fingers against bare, slick flesh. She was so hot, so wet, and when he found her clit, she made a sound that was half gasp, half moan.

"There," she whispered. "Right there."

He circled it slowly, learning the rhythm she wanted from the way her hips moved, the way her breath came faster, the way her hand tightened around his cock. She was close—he could feel it in the tension of her thighs, the flutter of her cunt against his fingers—and he wanted to take her there, wanted to feel her come apart under his hand.

But she stopped him.

Her hand closed around his wrist, stilling him. Her chest was heaving, her face flushed, her eyes bright in the dim light. "Not yet," she said. "Not like this."

She pushed him back against the mattress, and he went willingly, his heart pounding. She rose above him, the blanket falling away, her nightie rucked up around her waist, and in the faint light from the laptop she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen—full breasts swaying, dark hair wild, lips swollen from his kisses.

She straddled him.

Her cunt pressed against the length of his cock through his shorts, hot and wet, and they both groaned at the contact. She rocked against him once, twice, her eyes locked on his, and he watched her face as she took her pleasure from the friction—the way her lips parted, the way her brows drew together, the way her breath caught in her throat.

"I've thought about this," she whispered. "Every night. Every time he goes to work."

Saan's hands found her hips, gripping the soft flesh, holding her steady as she moved against him. "Me too," he admitted. "God, me too."

She leaned down and kissed him, her hair falling around them like a curtain, and he felt her hand slide between their bodies—not touching him, not yet, just reaching for the waistband of his shorts. She pulled them down over his hips, and he lifted to help her, and then there was nothing between them but the thin cotton of her panties and the slick heat of her.

She positioned herself over him. He felt the head of his cock press against the wet fabric, felt the heat of her through the last barrier, and his whole body shuddered with the effort of not thrusting up into her.

"Do it," he said. "Please."

She reached down and pulled her panties aside—just enough—and then she was sinking onto him, slow and tight and wet, and Saan's mind went white with the feeling of her. She was so hot, so tight, her cunt gripping him like a fist, and he could feel every inch of the slide as she took him deeper.

She stopped when he was fully inside her, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her hands braced on his chest. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, and she looked like she was praying.

"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck, Saan."

He couldn't speak. He could only feel—the wet clutch of her, the pulse of her around him, the way her hips began to move in small, desperate circles. She was so warm, so real, and she was moving on him now, riding him slow and deep, and he was never going to be able to forget this.

Never.

He reached up and cupped her breasts through the nightie, feeling them sway with her movements, and she moaned and arched into his hands. Her rhythm quickened, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and he felt the first flutter of her climax building—the way her cunt tightened around him, the way her movements grew more desperate.

"Don't stop," she gasped. "Don't you dare stop."

He didn't. He gripped her hips and thrust up into her, meeting her movements, and the sound of their bodies coming together filled the small room—wet and rhythmic and obscene. She threw her head back, her hair falling over her shoulders, and rode him harder, her breasts bouncing with every thrust.

She came with a cry she tried to muffle against her own hand—her cunt clenching around him in waves, her thighs trembling, her whole body shuddering. And Saan watched her face as she came apart, watched the pleasure break over her, and felt something shift inside him—something that had nothing to do with his body and everything to do with hers.

When she finally stilled, she collapsed onto his chest, her breath hot against his neck, her heart pounding against his. He wrapped his arms around her and held her there, still buried inside her, still hard, still wanting.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The radiator ticked. The laptop screen glowed its soft blue glow. Somewhere outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping briefly across the ceiling.

Then she lifted her head and looked at him. Her face was soft, sated, but there was something else in her eyes—a question, a fear, a hope. She traced her finger along his jaw and didn't say anything.

He didn't either. What was there to say?

She kissed him—gently this time, almost chastely—and then she shifted off him, settling onto the mattress beside him under the blanket. The cold air rushed in where her body had been, and he felt the absence of her like a wound.

But then she reached for him. Her hand found his under the blanket, just like before—fingers tracing his knuckles, the line of his thumb, the pulse at his wrist. Her head rested on his shoulder, her hair spread across his chest, and she let out a long, slow breath.

"We'll figure it out," she said quietly. "In the morning."

Saan stared at the ceiling, his heart still racing, his body still aching for her. The laptop had gone dark. The blanket smelled like both of them now—like sex and soap and something else, something he couldn't name.

Her body tensed slightly beneath his arm. He wondered what she would do next—yield, or pull away. He wondered what he would do.

He didn't have to wait long to find out.