“Wait.” Rudra rummages through his pocket for his phone, takes it out, and holds it in front of him. His tongue pokes out the corner of his mouth as he focuses the lens, and it’s so cute I can’t help but smile. The shutter snaps before I’m even ready, and Rudra flips the phone around to show me the picture.
For a moment, I’m so shocked, I don’t say anything, just stare at the picture.
It’s the best photo anyone has ever taken of me.
If anyone were to glance at it for more than a second, they’d realize I’m not actually looking at the camera but at something behind it.Rudra.I’m smiling dreamily, and some of my hair is in my face. And while I’m wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and look grimy and sweaty, the picture is natural,real, beautiful, the kind you could make your display picture. The kind you’ll keep coming back to look at because you like it so much. I’m lit up by the fireflies circling the branches around me and the stray one sitting in my hair.
And because it’s a live photo, it’s dynamic, showing the exact moment when my face breaks into a smile, the passing wind blowing strands of my hair onto my eyes, the firefly’s wings quivering.
I shouldn’t be surprised by how good the picture is, though, because Rudra’s Instagram posts are aesthetic and well shot—they could be professional. He’s excellent at what he does, and within seconds, he’s photographed possibly my favorite moment of me for weeks to come.
“I look like a Disney princess,” I gush without meaning to, because it sounds so conceited. That’s the sort of thing you say in your head, or out loud when you’re by yourself, preening in front of a mirror, pretending you’re filming a “Get Ready with Me”video.
But Rudra gazes directly up at me and says, “Yes, you do.”
“This is the prettiest picture anyone has ever taken of me.” My blood rushes to my head, making me feel dizzy.
“It’s not the picture, Krishna,” Rudra says, his voice soft yet distinct in the silence of the forest surrounding us. I follow the movement of his hand as he reaches up, knuckles brushing the shell of my ear, where the firefly hovers inches above it. “It’s you.” That last part is so hoarse it’s like his throat has been rubbed with sandpaper.
My eyes shut as the gentle stroke of his knuckles sends a ripple of shivers through my body, originating from the point where his skin and my skin meet and spreading like a shock wave. Before I know it, my entire body shudders, caught in an earthquake of its own.
Rudra’s knuckles skim the curve of my ear, my earlobe, then touch the sensitive spot right behind my ear, tracing the dip in the skin. His touch there nearly makes my body change states and turn to fluid. At every point of contact, tiny seismic waves of pleasure whip outward, swathing me whole.
I don’t know what’s happening, or why it’s happening, but if he keeps doingthis, whatever it is, I will lose it. I will lose every ounce of control that’s keeping me upright and stopping me from crumpling into him. I have never felt this way in my entire life, never had anyone touch me the way he’s touching me right now.
My eyes are closed as I wholly give in to the sensation, so I can’t read his expression. Part of me is afraid to, because what if I open my eyes, spot a confused look on his face, and realize he was just reaching for the firefly in my hair?
I would simply combust and die from mortification. I would never be able to look him in the eye again, never escape the constant feeling of regret that would fold over me every time I thought back to this moment.
But I can’t stay like this forever. Especially because his hand has paused just above the curve of my neck, halting. I need to look at him.
I open my eyes, bracing myself for the worst. Our gazes link almost immediately, and what I see floods me with both relief and nervousness.
Thatis not the look of someone who was reaching for the firefly in my hair. It’s the look of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Whose every movement was intentional.
My breath is trapped in my throat, and we’re so close that half of me screams to move away and the other half yearns to close the distance between us. At some point, Rudra must’ve stepped forward, because he wasn’t this close before. He pulls his hand back, dropping it to his side, fingers flexing.
I wordlessly look down at him, noticing more the longer my gaze lingers. And I see it.
The apprehension.
It mirrors mine. So much doubt, yearning, and embarrassment, as if he’s been following my every movement to see what I’m thinking, as if everything I’m feeling isn’t written in bold letters across my face.
“Rudra,” I say as his gaze falls to my lips, desire hanging in those beautiful irises like dewdrops from a leaf. “You look like you’re about to kiss me right now.”
Rudra’s expression doesn’t falter. “Do you want me to?”
“I...”I want you to. I want to kiss you so bad it physically aches.“I can’t.”
“That’s not an answer.”
If I were in his place, I’d have taken my response as an instant rejection, fled from the spot, and never looked back. But the fact that he’s questioning me again is probably because I’ve never been able tokeep what I’m feeling or thinking off my face.
“I want you to,” I whisper, unable to believe this is happening to me. This entire moment feels like it’s part of a dream montage. All my life, I’ve been so attuned to everything panning out exactly the way I’ve planned it, and I was only prepared to kiss Amrit because it was all part ofa plan. Plan Bs and backups—those have always been inconsequential because I’ve never failed at a plan A in the first place.
I wasnotprepared for this detour.
“But I can’t,” I say.
