"Neha, tum yeh sweater pehen ke kahan ja rahi ho?" Harsh leaned against the doorframe of her room, arms crossed, eyes lazily trailing over her body. The sweater clung just a little too tight, the fabric stretching over her curves in a way that made his throat dry.

Neha adjusted the hem of her sweater self-consciously, fingers brushing the soft fabric. "College ke liye, bhaiya. Kya hua? Accha nahi lag raha?" Her voice was light, innocent—the kind that made his teeth grit.

Harsh stepped closer, the scent of his cologne wrapping around her like an unspoken threat. "Accha toh bahut lag raha hai," he murmured, reaching out to tug gently at the sleeve. His thumb grazed the inside of her wrist, slow, deliberate. "Par thoda tight hai. Dikha raha hai sab." The words dripped with a heat she didn’t understand, but her skin prickled anyway.