The Bangalore grind had a way of swallowing time, and for Jaya, the weeks after the comedy show blurred into late-night copy drafts, client revisions, and endless coffee runs. Her junior copywriter role at the ad agency consumed her energy, leaving little space for the spark-filled nights she craved. Prashanth, too, was swept up in his own chaos, his scriptwriting projects demanding long hours of brainstorming and editing. Yet, their connection thrived in the quiet glow of Instagram notifications, a lifeline through their hectic days.
It began with a like on Jaya's post—a candid of her at a café, her smile bright against latte foam art. Prashanth's comment, "Stealing the spotlight, Jayy," made her heart skip, the nickname a playful evolution from their Pondicherry nights. She replied, "Just owning it, Prasuu," with a winking emoji, and their private chat blossomed. "Prasu" and "Jayy" became their secret code, a stream of flirty messages and memes—his about scriptwriting struggles, hers about ad slogans gone awry—that kept them tethered through the chaos.
"Another client call survived," she'd text late at night, sprawled on her couch. "Send help."
"Virtual coffee and my best one-liner coming your way," he'd reply, attaching a cheesy script line that made her laugh out loud. Their chats were light, teasing, but carried a growing longing, each "Goodnight, Jayy" and "Sleep well, Prasu" a quiet promise of more.
When Priya pitched a group outing—a party at a lively Bangalore pub in MG Road—Jaya's pulse quickened at the thought of seeing Prashanth. The promise of music, drinks, and his presence outweighed her looming deadline for a shampoo campaign. She decided to go all out, spending extra time on her look, wanting to feel bold, magnetic. In her mirror, she slipped into a sleeveless black one-piece dress, its fitted silhouette hugging her curves, the hem teasing her thighs. Strappy heels added elegance, her hair fell in loose waves, and a swipe of red lipstick sealed her transformation. She met her reflection's gaze, nerves and excitement swirling, and whispered, "Let's do this."
The pub was a kaleidoscope of color and sound, its rooftop deck pulsing with neon lights and a Bollywood-EDM mix. The air carried spicy chaat and rum, the open space alive with a freedom that echoed the seaside sanctuaries Jaya had come to love. She stepped onto the deck, her heels clicking, the crowd's energy wrapping around her like a warm breeze. Priya spotted her, her jaw dropping. "Jaya, you're a goddess!" she squealed, pulling her into a hug. "Hearts are breaking tonight."
Jaya laughed, her cheeks warming. "Just here for the vibe," she said, but her eyes searched for Prashanth. She found him by the bar, a whiskey in hand, his navy shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his dark hair catching the neon glow. He turned, his gaze locking on her, his expression shifting to awe, his eyes tracing her with a hunger that made her skin tingle. "Jayy," he said, his voice low as she approached, "you're... stunning."
Her heart raced, his words igniting a flush across her skin. "Thanks, Prasu," she said, her smile playful, her voice soft. "You're not looking too bad yourself."
He chuckled, his eyes lingering, a spark of desire in them. "Trying to keep up," he teased, handing her a gin and tonic. Their fingers brushed, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver through her, and she sipped, the alcohol's bite grounding her.
The night blurred into laughter and music, the group—Priya, Arjun, Vicky, and others—claiming the dance floor. Jaya felt the gin loosen her nerves, her body swaying to a Dil Dhadakne Do remix, her dress shimmering under the lights. Prashanth joined her, his moves confident, his eyes locked on hers with an intensity that stole her breath. They danced close, not touching but near enough for her to feel his heat, their rhythm syncing like a pulse. The alcohol made her bold, her laughter freer, and when the DJ slowed to a sultry Tum Hi Ho, Prashanth took her hands, his grip firm, protective, guiding her through the steps.
"Your hands are safe with me, Jayy," he murmured, his voice a rumble over the music, his thumbs brushing her knuckles. The words, tender and intimate, sent warmth rushing through her, her core tightening at his touch.
She smiled, her eyes shining. "I know, Prasu," she said, her voice laced with want. They danced, lost in each other, the crowd fading until it was just them, their hands entwined, their bodies swaying under the neon stars.
Vicky, tipsy and cheerful, cut in for a dance, his grin wide, but Jaya's thoughts stayed with Prashanth, who watched from the sidelines, his eyes never leaving her. The night rolled on, drinks flowing, laughter rising, until the pub's lights flickered, signaling last call. The group stumbled out, giggly and buzzed, piling into Arjun's SUV. Arjun, the sober driver who'd stuck to soda, took the wheel, his calm grounding the chaos. Vicky, slurring and swaying, sat between Jaya and Prashanth in the back, his drunken chatter filling the car.
Jaya felt Prashanth's presence beside her, his knee brushing hers, and then his fingers found her earlobe, a teasing touch that sent a jolt through her. He played with her silver hoop earring, his fingertips grazing her skin, and she felt a rush of heat, her core tightening, a quiet ache blooming at the intimacy. She glanced at him, his eyes dark with intent, a half-smile on his lips, and her body responded, her breath hitching as desire flickered under his touch.
"Arjun," Prashanth said, his voice calm but firm, "drop Vicky off first. He's a mess."
Arjun nodded, steering toward Vicky's apartment, a five-story building in a quiet lane. Vicky, barely coherent, needed Arjun's help to stumble out, and Arjun parked, promising to be quick as he guided Vicky to the fifth-floor flat. The car fell silent, save for a slow, soulful Aaj Din Chadheya playing softly on the radio, its melody wrapping them in a cocoon. They were alone now, parked under a sprawling banyan tree, its branches casting dappled shadows through the moonlight.
Jaya's eyes met Prashanth's, the air between them electric, heavy with unspoken longing. His gaze was intense, searching, a silent question burning in its depths. Her heart pounded, her breath shallow, and without a word, he leaned closer, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb tracing her jaw. Their lips met, a slow, passionate kiss that ignited like a spark to dry tinder. His mouth was warm, hungry, tasting of whiskey and desire, and she melted into him, her hands sliding to his shoulders, then tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. His hands roamed, one slipping to her waist, the other brushing the curve of her chest, pressing gently, drawing a soft gasp from her lips. Her body arched toward him, the fire between them blazing, their kiss deepening, a dance of need and longing.
"Arjun's coming," she whispered, her voice trembling with want and caution, her hands clutching his shirt.
Prashanth kissed her neck, a slow, deliberate press of his lips that sent shivers through her, then a soft smooch before his lips found her eyes, kissing them gently, reverently. "Let him," he murmured, his voice husky, but he pulled back, straightening, his hand still holding hers, his thumb stroking her knuckles. His old-school charm—those tender kisses, the way he held her like she was treasure—sent butterflies fluttering in her chest, a feeling both thrilling and grounding.
Arjun slid back into the driver's seat, oblivious to the charged air. Jaya's hand stayed in Prashanth's, their fingers laced, her eyes fixed on him, drinking in the warmth of his gaze. He lifted her hand, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles, his lips lingering, and she felt her heart swell, the butterflies dancing wilder. The gesture was simple, chivalrous, and it made her fall harder for the man who wove fire and tenderness so effortlessly.
When they reached her apartment, Jaya leaned over, wrapping her arms around Prashanth in a quick, tight hug, her cheek brushing his. "Goodnight, Prasu," she whispered, her voice soft, her heart full.
"Goodnight, Jayy," he murmured, his eyes locked on hers as she stepped out, his gaze following her until she vanished into her building. Even as she climbed the stairs, she felt his eyes on her, a quiet vow that this was only the beginning.
In her apartment, Jaya sank onto her bed, her body humming from his touch, her lips tingling from their kiss. The night replayed—the dance, his hands, the fire of their silent kiss under the banyan tree. Prashanth wasn't just a crush; he was a flame, burning bright in her heart, and she knew, as she drifted to sleep, that their story was unfolding, one spark at a time.
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