𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬.
Love is hope for the hopeless and sin for the saint. Love is both a salvation for the lost and a temptation for the righteous. It drives people to cross lines they swore ne...
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Then I heard it.
A low, rough voice breaking the silence. Not loud enough to be a conversation, but not just noise either.
I crept forward, my shoes barely making a sound on the floor. The voice got clearer—deep and gravelly, repeating something I couldn’t quite catch. And then I turned the corner, around a tall bookshelf.
And saw him. Rutvik.
My breath hitched. I stopped dead in my tracks. Part of me wanted to run, but the other part? I want to scream out of fear.
What the hell had I just walked into?
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" 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, 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.
But then he locked his dark brown eyes with mine— I couldn’t look away, couldn’t move. He smoothly took the letter from his mouth with his right glove hand. His fingers playing with the letter before he toss it back to his pocket.
"My Ella," he drawled, his voice low, "I am memorizing here and you?"
My heart thundered. I had no answer—none that could match the intensity in his eyes or the way my name lingered in the air between us.
