I still remember the sound of the rain that night — the kind that drowns out everything except your own heartbeat. It was past midnight, and the city outside my window had gone silent, as if even the streetlights had grown tired of watching us fall apart.

Aaryan stood by the doorway, his coat half-buttoned, his jaw tight, his eyes colder than the rain. He always looked like that — composed, unshakable — the kind of man who could control boardrooms, empires, and men twice his size with a single word. But that night, his control was slipping, one heartbeat at a time.

“I told you, Meera,” he said, his voice low, almost trembling with restraint. “You don’t walk out on me like that. Not after everything—”

“After everything what?” I snapped, my hands shaking as I tried to keep my voice steady. “After everything you decided for me? Everything you controlled?”

He flinched, just a little, and I saw something flicker in his eyes — hurt, maybe, or pride breaking apart under the weight of truth. But then he straightened, hiding it behind the same armor that had always kept him safe.

“This isn’t about control,” he said. “It’s about protection.”

That word. Protection. He always used it like a shield — a justification for every wall he built between us. He’d say he was protecting me from his world, from his enemies, from the press, from pain. But somewhere in the middle of all his protection, I had stopped breathing.

“I don’t need protection,” I whispered. “I just needed you.”

He didn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t. The man the world called a wolf had no idea how to be gentle, not with words. He knew how to conquer, not comfort. He could buy anything, build anything — but when it came to love, he was lost.

The thunder rolled outside, and for a moment, the lightning caught his face — and I saw him, really saw him. Not the billionaire. Not the legend. Just a man too scared to admit he was afraid of being left alone.

“I can’t do this anymore, Aaryan,” I said softly. “I’m tired of being the only one trying to make us human.”

He took a step forward, his breath uneven. “You’re not leaving.”

I swallowed hard. “Watch me.”

And I did. I picked up my small bag from the sofa — the one I’d packed quietly two days ago when I first realized love wasn’t supposed to feel like drowning — and I walked toward the door.

He didn’t move. Didn’t shout. Didn’t beg.

That was the worst part.

The silence between us was heavy, full of words we would never say again. I reached for the handle, my fingers cold, my heart louder than the rain outside. Just as I pulled the door open, I heard him whisper behind me.

“Don’t go.”

It wasn’t a command. It was a plea.

I froze. For a second, I thought I’d imagined it — the billionaire who had the world kneeling at his feet, sounding like a lost child in the dark.

But I didn’t turn around. Because if I did, I knew I would stay.

So, I stepped out into the night.

---

The rain hit my skin like needles — cold, relentless, cleansing. I didn’t even open my umbrella. I wanted to feel everything. The heartbreak, the loss, the quiet liberation that came with finally walking away from someone you still loved.

Behind me, I heard the door close softly. That was it — the final sound of us ending.

I walked for blocks, barefoot at some point, my heels dangling from my hand, mascara mixing with rain on my cheeks. The world around me blurred into a smear of headlights and puddles. But inside, everything was sharp. Painfully sharp.

By the time I reached my apartment, my phone buzzed — his name flashing across the screen.

I didn’t answer. Not then. Not that night.

---

It’s strange, the things you remember after a heartbreak.

Not the fights. Not the lies. But the quiet details.

The way his hand always found mine when we crossed the road.

The way he’d stand too close in elevators, pretending it was crowded.

The way he’d call me “meri jaan” when he thought I was asleep.

Those memories followed me home like ghosts.

I sat by the window all night, wrapped in a blanket, watching the city lights fade one by one. By dawn, I convinced myself I had done the right thing. I told myself he’d move on — after all, Aaryan Vora always moved on. He never lost. Never chased.

At least, that’s what I believed.

Until the next morning.

---

It was six a.m. when I heard it — a faint thud outside my building. At first, I thought it was just the sound of rain against the gate. But when I looked out the window, my heart froze.

He was there.

Aaryan.

Standing in the rain, soaked from head to toe, no umbrella, no car, no security detail — just him. The man who once ruled every room now looked like a ghost of himself. His shirt clung to him, his hair plastered against his forehead, and even from the third-floor window, I could see the way his shoulders trembled.

I pressed my palm against the glass, as if the touch could warm him from this far away.

For a moment, I wanted to run down. To throw open the door and yell at him for being so stupid, so stubborn, so heartbreakingly human.

But I couldn’t move.

My heart raced. My mind screamed.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be doing this.

And yet, there he was — the wolf of Mumbai, waiting quietly like a lost dog in the rain.

I stayed there for hours, watching him through the fogged glass. He didn’t leave. Didn’t move. Didn’t even look up at my window. Just stood there, letting the storm swallow him whole.

By the time the sun began to rise, I could see his body sway slightly, his hand pressed against the gate for support. He looked weak — feverish, maybe. My throat tightened as I realized what was happening.

He was burning up.

Something inside me broke — that fragile wall I’d built all night. I grabbed my keys and ran down the stairs, ignoring the fact that my hair was a mess, that my heart felt like it was going to burst.

When I opened the gate, he turned slowly, eyes red, lips trembling. And when he saw me, he smiled — faint, broken, relieved.

“Meera…” His voice cracked. “I told you… I don’t know how to stop loving you.”

Then, his knees gave way, and before I could catch him, he collapsed into my arms — heavy, feverish, trembling like a child. His head rested against my shoulder, his breath hot against my neck.

“I won’t be mean anymore,” he whispered weakly, clutching my hand as if I’d vanish. “Please… don’t leave me.”

And just like that, the rain didn’t feel cold anymore.

The morning light broke through the clouds like a shy confession after a stormy night. Drops of rain still clung to the balcony railing, dripping one by one onto the street below, echoing faintly against the quiet hum of the city awakening.

I stood by the window, wrapped in a thin shawl, staring at the man who had once been my whole world—and now, just a shadow outside my door.

Aarav Malhotra. The name that made boardrooms go silent, journalists chase for headlines, and women whisper in awe.

To the world, he was the ruthless billionaire, the youngest CEO in Mumbai’s cutthroat corporate jungle—cold, commanding, and dangerously intelligent.

To me, he had been something entirely different once. My warmth. My chaos. My “big puppy,” as I used to tease him when he tried to act tough but would sulk if I ignored him.

And now, there he was—soaked to the bone, his designer suit plastered against his skin, hair dripping rainwater, lips pale, and eyes red-rimmed from the night’s vigil. He hadn’t left.

I opened the door quietly, the hinges creaking as if to warn me not to. The chill rushed in instantly. Aarav swayed slightly but managed a faint smile.

“Good morning,” he rasped, voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

I wanted to slam the door shut. I wanted to forget the ache in my chest, the guilt, the longing. But his next step forward shattered every wall I’d rebuilt.

He stumbled.

“Aarav!” I caught his arm instinctively, feeling his skin burning beneath the cold rain. Fever. A bad one.

He looked up at me through half-lidded eyes, and that proud, intimidating man who had broken my heart only weeks ago suddenly looked small, lost, human.

“I… won’t be mean anymore,” he murmured, breath shallow. “Please… don’t leave me.”

Something inside me cracked.

I pulled him in before my mind could argue. His body trembled as I guided him to the couch, my heart racing in a rhythm I had sworn to forget. I fetched a towel, then hot water and medicine, every movement mechanical yet trembling with emotion.

When I touched his forehead with the damp cloth, his hand shot up, gripping mine tightly.

“Stay,” he whispered. “Don’t… disappear again.”

His voice was weak, but it held that same commanding tone—the one that used to make my pulse quicken in both anger and desire.

I tried to speak calmly. “Aarav, you need to rest. You’re burning with fever.”

But he only smiled faintly, eyes glassy. “I thought maybe… if I waited long enough, you’d open the door.”

He wasn’t joking. He had actually stood there all night—in the rain, in November cold—just for this.

A wave of conflicting emotions crashed inside me: anger, pity, love, exhaustion. I had left him for a reason. His obsession with control, his need to dominate every situation, even love—it had suffocated me. Yet now, as I watched him shiver beneath my blanket, I couldn’t deny that I still cared.

I sat beside him quietly, staring at the city skyline.

For the first time, the mighty Aarav Malhotra looked breakable.

“Why now?” I whispered. “Why come back when I finally learned to breathe without you?”

He turned his head slowly, eyes meeting mine. “Because without you… I forgot how to.”

My throat tightened. I hated that he still knew the exact words that could undo me.

He reached out, fingers brushing my wrist. “I know I was cruel. I thought being strong meant not showing how much I cared. But when you left… everything fell apart.”

I wanted to tell him that words weren’t enough. That love needed trust, space, and gentleness. That I couldn’t live like a bird trapped in a golden cage of his protection. But the words died in my throat when I saw a tear slip down his face.

He had never cried. Not once. Not when his parents died. Not when his company nearly collapsed. Not when the tabloids tore his name apart.

But now, for me, he did.

I wiped it away without thinking.

“You’re an idiot,” I murmured.

His lips curved into a fragile smile. “Your idiot.”

That familiar teasing spark returned between us for a brief, painful second.

And just like that, the distance of months vanished. The silence of heartbreak melted into something softer, unspoken.

He drifted into sleep soon after, still holding my hand. I watched his chest rise and fall, my thoughts tangled between resentment and longing.

Outside, the rain finally stopped. The sun peeked timidly through the clouds, casting golden light across the room.

And I realized something—

Maybe the storm hadn’t been between us. Maybe it had been inside us all along.

As I tucked the blanket closer around him, I whispered to the sleeping man who had once been the monster in my story,

“Let’s see if you can learn to be someone worth protecting this time.”

For the first time in months, his expression softened in peace.

And for the first time, I allowed myself to hope—just a little.

The sunlight had already crept across the floor by the time Aarav stirred. I had been sitting beside him for hours, a book open on my lap but unread. Every few minutes, I’d glance at him—the once untouchable tycoon now wrapped in my old blanket, sleeping like a child who had finally found a safe corner in a cruel world.

When he moved, murmuring something incoherent, my heart jumped. The fever had made his skin pale, and a sheen of sweat coated his forehead. I gently pressed another cool cloth against him. His hand twitched, searching for something in sleep—then found mine again. He gripped it weakly, as if afraid I’d disappear.

I sighed softly. Same old Aarav. Always afraid to lose control, even in dreams.

I had met him three years ago in the most ironic way possible. I had been a struggling architecture intern, working part-time at a café to pay rent. He had walked in one stormy afternoon, demanding a black coffee, not realizing I was the same woman who had rejected his firm’s job offer the previous week. He’d stared at me like I was an unsolved riddle. Later, he admitted that moment had driven him insane—that no one had ever told him “no.”

That was Aarav Malhotra’s curse. Everyone said yes to him. Investors, employees, models, even politicians. But I hadn’t. I’d smiled and said, “No, thank you. I want to build my own dreams.” And for that, I became the one woman he couldn’t forget.

When he finally opened his eyes, his voice was faint.

“Still here?”

I didn’t answer right away. I just kept pressing the towel against his forehead.

“You shouldn’t have stayed outside all night,” I said quietly. “You could’ve caught pneumonia.”

He gave a half-smile, the kind that once melted every wall I built. “Would you have come if I just called?”

That question lingered in the air. And we both knew the answer.

“No,” I admitted softly. “Because I didn’t want to be the woman who forgives easily.”

He exhaled, turning his face away. “You’re right. You shouldn’t be.”

That surprised me. For once, he wasn’t arguing. Not trying to manipulate. Not giving a speech about love and loyalty. Just silent acceptance.

He looked out the window, the light tracing sharp angles across his face. “You remember what you told me once?”

I frowned. “I said a lot of things to you.”

He smiled faintly. “You said… ‘Love isn’t a transaction.’ And I didn’t understand it then.”

A small ache formed in my chest.

He continued, voice low. “All my life, I was taught everything has a price. Trust. Loyalty. Respect. People smiled at me because of what I could give them. When you loved me without asking for anything in return, it scared me. So I pushed you away before I could owe you anything.”

The honesty in his tone was disarming. I had seen Aarav charm investors, crush rivals, silence entire rooms with a look. But this man—sitting weak, vulnerable, admitting his fears—was someone new. Someone who might finally be learning what love actually meant.

“Aarav…” I began, unsure if words could bridge what time had broken.

He turned to me, eyes heavy with exhaustion and regret. “I know sorry doesn’t erase what I did. But I can learn. If you’ll let me.”

I looked at him carefully. “Learn what?”

He smiled faintly. “To be a man who loves without hurting.”

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. His words sank deep, stirring something long buried.

But my instinct still warned me—love like ours had once burned too bright, too fast. I couldn’t let it consume me again without reason.

“Words are easy, Aarav,” I said softly. “Change isn’t.”

He nodded slowly. “Then I’ll prove it. Not as the CEO, not as the man you once dated… but as the man who remembers every reason you walked away.”

His fever made him drift off again soon after, but his hand didn’t let go of mine until he fell asleep completely.

By evening, the air smelled of wet earth and jasmine. I had made soup and was cleaning the small kitchen when my phone buzzed—a message from an unknown number.

> Mr. Malhotra hasn’t attended the board meeting. Should we postpone, ma’am?

“Ma’am?” I muttered, startled.

Then it hit me. His assistant must have assumed I was still part of his life—still the woman who managed his moods and schedules like a second shadow.

I typed quickly:

> “He’s unwell. Reschedule everything for the week.”

A few seconds later, another message popped up.

> “Understood. Thank you, Mrs. Malhotra.”

My fingers froze.

Mrs.

I wanted to correct it, but my thumb hesitated above the screen. A strange warmth filled my chest. Maybe it was nostalgia. Maybe it was foolishness. But I didn’t correct them. Not this time.

When I returned to the living room, Aarav was awake, sitting up weakly with the blanket around his shoulders. He looked oddly out of place in my simple apartment—the glass-and-steel king surrounded by soft cotton and books.

He watched me approach, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You haven’t changed a thing here.”

“I didn’t need to,” I said quietly. “This place was always mine.”

He nodded. “And I ruined that for you once.”

“You did.”

He swallowed hard. “I won’t again.”

Something in his tone—firm yet broken—made my heart twist. I wanted to stay angry. I wanted to tell him love wasn’t about promises, that he couldn’t just walk back into my life with fever and regret. But the truth was… the rain outside my window felt a little less lonely with him here.

As I set the bowl of soup in front of him, he reached out—not to take the bowl, but to touch my hand. His eyes were soft, steady.

“I forgot how to love,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “But if you’ll let me, I’ll learn again… starting with you.”

The words hung between us like a fragile truce.

And for the first time since I’d walked away, I didn’t run.

That night, as the city lights flickered below, I stood on the balcony alone. Behind me, Aarav slept peacefully for the first time in months.

The man who once commanded empires now looked like someone who finally understood humility.

And maybe, just maybe… the man who had forgotten how to love was beginning to remember.