She stepped inside, still in her white cotton shirt. The water began soaking through, turning the fabric translucent. Arjun pulled her gently under the rain shower.

“Do you remember our first trip?” she asked, without turning around.

“I don’t want to lose us,” she said against his mouth.

One evening, the monsoon broke early. The sky turned the color of bruised plums, and rain hammered against their cottage’s tin roof. Arjun was in the living room, scrolling aimlessly. Maya stood by the window, watching water race down the glass.

He kissed her shoulder, then her collarbone, then her lips — salt from tears or rain, neither could tell.

No words for a long moment — just the rhythmic drumming of water, the flicker of candlelight on wet skin, and the sound of their breathing syncing.

“Let them try,” he kissed her forehead. “This scene is ours.”

She placed a finger on his lips. “Don’t. Just be here.”

“Then come in,” he said quietly.

“You won’t,” he replied. “We just forgot to get wet together.” Later, wrapped in a single oversized towel, they sat by the open window as the rain softened to a drizzle. Steam still rose from the bathroom behind them. The candles had burned low.

He laughed — a real one, after weeks of polite smiles.

They washed each other’s hair — slowly, reverently. His fingers untangled the knots she’d been carrying in more places than her scalp. She traced the line of his jaw, still sharp but softer at the edges after all these years.

Maya rested her head on Arjun’s chest. “MoodX should film this,” she teased.