The afternoon heat pressed down like a dare. The trees thinned into open ground dappled with sunlight—a natural track begging to be claimed.
Alzan's grin came quick and cocky. "Perfect. Let's make this hike interesting." He pointed toward a ridge where the trees broke into open sky. "First one up there wins."
Simran squinted. "That's at least a quarter mile."
"Scared?" Alzan nudged her shoulder, playful and daring.
She smirked. "Not even close."
Zain leaned against a tree, eyes fixed on the ridge. "Winner gets more than bragging rights. Losers carry extra gear tomorrow."
"Done." Alzan rolled his shoulders like he already owned the race.
Junaid tilted his head, dark hair catching the light. "You'll regret it," he said quietly.
The air tightened with challenge.
Simran tied her hair into a ponytail, her heart hammering from more than the thought of running. Three pairs of eyes stayed on her—Alzan's bright with mischief, Zain's measured, Junaid's unreadable but heavy.
She raised her hand. "Three, two, one—go."
They took off.
Alzan surged ahead, laughing as he darted over roots and rocks. Zain moved like water, every step precise and silent. Junaid ran beside her at first, long strides easy, his calm presence a weight at her shoulder.
Her lungs burned, legs screaming, but she wouldn't slow down.
Alzan glanced back, grin wicked. "Come on, sunshine. Don't make it easy for me."
Simran pushed harder, breath uneven. Zain's pace edged past hers, a faint smirk flickering as he passed with effortless speed.
Junaid dropped back slightly, letting her lead, his gaze burning hotter than the sun—as if the race was only half the game.
They reached the ridge almost together. Alzan leapt onto the final rock with a triumphant shout, Zain a step behind. Simran stumbled in, gasping, and Junaid arrived a breath later, smirk still intact as if he hadn't even broken a sweat.
Alzan threw his arms wide. "And that, my friends, is victory."
Simran dropped onto a sun‑warmed boulder, chest heaving. Zain handed her his bottle without a word. Their eyes met briefly, something unreadable passing between them. Junaid watched her with faint amusement, like he saw more than he should.
"Dinner's on you three," Alzan said, wiping his brow, grin sharp. "Winner's choice."
She laughed, breathless, tension breaking—but only a little.
By the time the sun slipped behind the trees, the ridge had gone quiet. The campfire crackled, shadows flickering against their faces, sparks leaping into the night. The distant waterfall roared softly as mist clung to the air.
Zain had already vanished into his tent, silent as always. Junaid lingered at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, watching the flames with that same steady intensity.
That left Simran and Alzan in the glow.
He lounged beside her, close enough for their shoulders to brush. His shirt hung loose, firelight tracing the lines of his skin and picking up the shine of jeweled chains. Smoke and sandalwood clung to him—sharp, distracting.
"You're staring, sunshine," he teased, his grin tugging at one corner.
Simran tensed. "I wasn't."
"You were." He glanced at her, eyes glinting. "Not that I mind."
She rolled her eyes, heat rising in her cheeks. "You're impossible."
"And you like me that way." His voice dropped lower, rougher, daring her.
Every nerve buzzed. She should have teased back or pulled away, but her body wouldn't listen.
Alzan noticed, of course. His grin turned slower, darker. "Relax. I won't bite." He leaned closer, breath warm against her ear. "Unless you want me to."
Her breath caught. "Alzan—"
"God, the way you say my name…" His voice dropped to a murmur, eyes locked on hers. "You have no idea what you do to me, do you?"
The fire popped, sparks shooting upward.
He shifted closer, his hand brushing her thigh—barely a touch, just enough to twist her stomach tight. His mouth hovered a breath away, teasing.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered.
She didn't.
That was all the permission he needed.
His lips crashed onto hers, hot and hungry, tasting of smoke and fire. His hand tightened on her thigh, pulling her closer until fabric did nothing to hide the heat between them.
She gasped as he deepened the kiss—all wild hunger and reckless energy, pure Alzan.
When he finally pulled back, her lips were swollen, breath uneven. His grin was smug and devastating.
"Our little secret," he murmured, thumb brushing her lower lip. "Don't worry, sunshine. I'm good at keeping secrets."
A branch snapped in the shadows.
Junaid.
Simran froze, heat and guilt flooding her veins. Alzan leaned back on his elbows, unfazed, that same smirk still playing on his lips.
But her lips still burned, and her heart knew something had shifted—dangerously so.