I’msuchan idiot. What was I thinking, putting my ear to his door like that and stumbling right into him? Andstaying there? God!
The bathroom floor is still a little wet, but most of the water has been wiped to the drain. I nod in approval. I despise it when people don’t wipe the floors after they shower. It smells like lemon soap in here, and I spot the cologne he must’ve used perched on the windowsill. Of course Rudra owns a luxury scent. No wonder he smells so good. Maybe once I’ve taken a bath, I’ll sneak a couple of sprays, just to experience what it’s like trying on expensive perfume.
I repeat the ritual and stand before the shower, bracing myself for the cold again, but piping hot water greets me instead.
Ten minutes later, I’m feeling so much better and cleaner. It’s a wonder what a shower can do to a person. I put on a loose pair of shorts and an oversize T-shirt, wipe the bathroom floor, and quickly spray Rudra’s scent under my arms. Instantly worried he might detect it, I spritz on some of my own deodorant, and once I’m convinced I’ve rid the crime scene of evidence, I step out.
I clutch my dirty clothes and towel in one hand and comb my fingers through my hair with the other. The AC is on, and the steam from the bathroom clashes strongly with the cold. Goose bumps erupt all over my arms as I shut the door behind me.
Rudra is perched on the edge of the bed, playing the guitar. He hums softly under his breath, intermittently mouthing something indiscernible, his gaze fixed on his phone. Only the small golden lamps by the sides of the bed are turned on, so his face is mostly illuminated by the blue light of the screen. I wince, praying for his poor eyes because he clearly doesn’t have night mode turned on.
“I’m done,” I announce, shivering.
“Cool,” he replies without looking up.
There’s something annoyingly attractive about guitarists that I’venever been able to put a finger on. And this isespeciallyannoying because it’s Rudra Desai, thenot-sunshine boy, who, by the way, is in love with my cousin. In case we all forgot that teeny tiny detail there. Especially attractive because I can’t help but notice how slender his fingers look as they move over the strings of his guitar, and how his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he hums, his voice a low vibrato, and how his loose, damp hair falls in flowy waves around his face. It’s only when he raises his hand to push his hair behind his left ear that I realize my nipples are hard from the cold.
Ohgod, I forgot to wear a bra!
“What?” Rudra looks up, staring at me.
I wrap my arms around my chest and stare back at him, trying to look nonchalant. “What?”
“Do you need something else?”
Valid question, Krishna. What excusedoyou have for not having left already?
“Oh, not really,” I say, pursing my lips and desperately trying to think of something else to say. “I was just trying to figure out what song you’re covering?”
There, perfect.
“Not covering.” Rudra turns his attention back to his phone and guitar. “Composing.”
“Composing? As in, an original?”
“Yep,” he says, chewing on his lower lip, probably not having expected me to be interested in what he’s doing. Or maybe he thinks I’m just trying to be polite because not asking at all and leaving might be rude.
A part of me wants to leave, given my current braless state, but the other is itching to listen to Rudra sing.
The latter wins.
“Can I listen?” I ask, arms still around my chest, hoping he sees that I’m being sincere.
Rudra hesitates. “It’s not complete.”
“That’s okay.”
“All right.” He scoots back on the bed, and the sheet smooths out in front of him, leaving space for me to sit. I dump my dirty clothes and towel on the chair nearby. Then I perch on the edge of the bed, which creaks ever so slightly, and peek at his phone. His Notes app is open, with a bunch of lyrics and chords haphazardly written down.
“Ready whenever you are,” I say, propping my bare legs on the bed. Rudra glances at them once before hastily looking away.
“Here goes.” He inhales deeply, eyes shuttering closed, and begins to strum. He plays a soothing fingerstyle pattern, periodically tapping the wood of the guitar in a distinct rhythm. The tune reminds me of the songs one would play in open cars on road trips, like “Khaabon Ke Parindey.”His fingers move smoothly over the frets and strings, and I watch them in fascination.
And then he starts singing.
His voice is soft yet deep, and his lyrics switch between English and Hindi with ease, much like in Prateek Kuhad’s songs. His enunciation is clear, so the lyrics are easy to follow, and at one point, I shut my eyes to pay attention to them. It takes me a bit to figure out the meaning, but when I do, I find myself pleasantly surprised.
I open my eyes about halfway through the second verse, finding his still closed. I fixate on his Adam’s apple again, his lips, and the fluid motion of his hands. He finishes the song with a beautiful, melodic outro. I gulp as his eyes finally open, a dazed look in them.
