Not in the Script: An Ahaan & Aneet Collection

Best Friends...?

—

The DJ found a groove that turned the crowd liquid. Someone dimmed the chandeliers and brought up the floor lights, warm gold that made everything feel closer. Ahaan kept finding her. It was like his body had learned her outline and refused to forget it — in the reflection on a window, in the doorway to the terrace, in the curve of a laugh.

He made small talk mechanically until he couldn't. Then he crossed over to her again.

"Dance?" he asked. She looked at him for a beat, then let him lead her to the less-crowded edge of the floor. He didn't pull her into him like a claim; he placed his right hand at her waist lightly, like a request. She said yes by taking his left hand and fitting her fingers between his. They found a slow rhythm to a song that didn't ask for one.

"Too close," she murmured.

"Everyone's close," he said.

Her chin tipped toward his shoulder, not quite resting, but ready. "You're being—"

"Obvious?" he supplied.

"Loud," she corrected.

He smiled into the space above her temple. "I can be quiet later."

"What's later?" she asked, barely audible.

He didn't answer. He moved them a fraction closer. The hand at her waist warmed through fabric; her breath touched his throat, and the heat that ran through him had nothing to do with fog machines.

A camera swung their way and he felt her stiffen, almost imperceptibly. He eased back, just enough to turn them so his back took the angle. His body made a small shield. She relaxed again, and her fingers tightened over his, a thank you disguised as a reflex.

"Your mom's watching," she whispered.

"She's always watching," he said. "That's how she controls me."

Her laugh shook against his chest. He wanted to keep it there.

The song ended. He let her go slow. She stepped back like she was returning to her body after a long dream.

"Walk?" he asked again.

"Yes," she said.

—

They slipped onto the terrace, a spill of city lights below, the muffled party behind them. The door clicked shut. Cool night air slid between their wrists.

"Five minutes," she said, leaning on the railing. "No more. I told Rysa I'd come back and take selfies."

"Rysa's wrath is scarier than press," he agreed, stepping beside her, not touching, feeling every centimeter they weren't using. "How are you?"

"Tired." She paused. "Happy."

"Relieved?"

She considered. "Relief feels like giving up fear. I haven't had the chance yet. Maybe after Friday."

He nodded. Friday — the actual release day. "You were good today."

"I was surrounded by everyone important to me," she said. "By my family, your family....By you." She glanced at him. "That helps."

He swallowed. "You want the truth?"

"Always," she said, the word a pressure on his chest.

"I'm not... good at pretending I don't want this," he said quietly. "Not labels. Just..." He searched. "This. The way we are when it's just us. The calls after rehearsal, the way you steal my hoodie, the way you kick my shin when I'm impossible. I can go slow. I can be quiet. But I'm... not good at distance. Not with you."