𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬.
Love is hope for the hopeless and sin for the saint. Love makes you do things you never intended to do, but it's distinct when you hold hands and promise to behold each oth...
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Then I heard it.
A low, rough muttering cut through the silence. It wasn't loud enough to be a conversation, but it wasn't aimless either.
I tiptoed closer, my sneakers barely making a sound against the cold floor. The noise grew clearer- a deep, gravelly voice repeating words I couldn't quite make out.
It wasn't until I rounded the corner of a bookshelf that I saw him.
My breath caught in my throat. I froze, torn between the instinct to retreat and the inexplicable urge to move closer.
What had I just walked into?
There he was.
Rutvik.
His whole body was upside down, balanced on his palms, doing slow, deliberate handstand push-ups against the floor. Each rise and fall of his body was controlled, powerful, and impossibly mesmerizing.
He was shirtless, the taut lines of his shoulders and back illuminated by the flickering light. Sweat glistened on his skin, tracing the hard planes of his muscles as he moved. His skin has scars-and his back was wrapped in a white bandage. His both hands, still gloved, gripped the floor with unrelenting strength. And then, as if gravity itself wasn't worthy of restraining him, he shifted.
But it wasn't just that-it was how he did it. Beneath him, carefully placed on the ground, was the letter I had given him.
My letter.
"My Rutvik," his deep, rough voice echoed, repeating the word, the phrase rolling off his tongue with a weight that made my heart stutter.
He then remove his right hand off from the floor and place it on his back. Now, with his single left hand on the ground, his body balanced effortlessly, legs up suspended in perfect control. My lips parted, a mix of awe and disbelief stealing the breath from my lungs.
"My Rutvik," he murmured again. With every push-up, the name rolling off his tongue like a plea and a prayer all at once.
He didn't stop. He didn't falter. His body moved in perfect synchronization with his words, like each syllable powered his strength. He was reading my letter.
"Your Ella-" he groaned this time, the sound so guttural and raw that my knees nearly gave out.
I clutched the edge of the bookshelf, the heat rising in my cheeks as a tangle of emotions surged through me-fear, embarrassment, and something far more dangerous that I couldn't name.
And then he stopped.
Rutvik lowered his face, gripping my letter with his mouth as though it were sacred, never faltering in his focus.
And then, with a clap and a swift backflip, he landed gracefully on his feet. The room felt electric, charged with the power of his presence as he reached for his gray prison shirt lying on the ground. His movements were unhurried, deliberate. He slid the fabric over his shoulders as he began to button it.
