Ivaan's POV

Delhi is never quiet. Even at this hour, the streets buzz with life—the distant honk of an auto, the laughter of college kids high on freedom, the rhythmic dhak-dhak of a passing Royal Enfield. There's something intoxicating about the chaos, the way this city breathes and thrives.

And yet, standing on my balcony, high above it all, I feel like the only person awake.

Or maybe I'm not.

Somewhere, Kiara is probably awake too. Restless. Frustrated. Overthinking things she has no business thinking about. Sangharsh ki aadat hai usko. She fights everything—expectations, rules, even herself. Especially herself.

And me?

I think she likes fighting me the most.

Kiara is the kind of woman who should come with a warning. Sharp mind, sharper tongue. Eyes that burn with defiance, like she'd rather set the world on fire than let it tame her. And that mouth—always quick with a comeback, always ready to push me, test me, tempt me.

"Acha khasa insaan apna dimaag kho baithta hai uske saamne".

She doesn't even have to try. She just exists—dripping in confidence one second, adorably frustrated the next. The first time she argued with me, I should've ignored her. Walked away. But she stood there, chin tilted up, eyes sparking like Diwali ke patakhe, and I knew—this woman was going to be a problem.

She still is.

I don't chase women. I don't need to. But Kiara? She makes me want to lean in when she speaks. She makes me want to push, just to see how much she can take before she snaps.

And the worst part? She snaps back.

Like today. She stood inches away, so close I could smell the faint trace of the Jasmine perfume she wears, the one that lingers even after she's gone. So close that if I had leaned in—just a little—her breath would have hitched, her pulse would have betrayed her.

I know because I've seen it before.

She tries to maintain the facade but kayi baar nakhre dikha hi deti hai, jaise 'Student of the year' ki Shanaya ho.

Her body though tells a different story. The way she stills when my fingers brush hers. The way her lips part, like she's about to say something but forgets the words.

She feels it too.

She just doesn't want to admit it.

I should let her be. She's not meant for a world like mine. But there's something wickedly satisfying about watching her try to fight something she can't control. Something we can't control.

Delhi's heat has nothing on the fire burning between us.

And if she thinks she can walk through it untouched, toh phir sach keh raha tha main-

Nadaan hai.