That night, the house did not let Mihir sleep alone.
He realized it slowly, drifting upward from a half-dream state where heat pressed against his skin and something heavy lay across his chest. At first, he thought it was another nightmare—another burning tree, another breath stolen by smoke.
Then he inhaled.
The scent was wrong for a dream.
Cold earth. Ash. Something metallic, faint but unmistakable.
Mihir's eyes snapped open.
The room was dark, lit only by moonlight spilling through the high window. Shadows clung to the corners like they had weight. The curtains stirred, though there was no breeze.
Someone was sitting on the edge of his bed.
Mihir did not scream.
He should have. Some rational part of him knew that. But fear did not come first.
Recognition did.
"Arjun," he whispered.
"Yes."
The word was breathed, not spoken.
Arjun sat close enough that Mihir could feel the cold radiating from him through the mattress. One hand rested on the bed beside Mihir's hip, fingers relaxed, long, capable. He was not touching him.
That was worse.
"You were burning," Arjun said softly.
Mihir swallowed. His throat felt raw. "I was dreaming."
"So was I."
That pulled Mihir fully awake.
He shifted slightly, the sheet sliding lower over his chest. He became acutely aware of his own body—bare arms, the slow rise and fall of his breath, the way his heart thudded far too loudly in the quiet room.
"You don't sleep," Mihir said.
Arjun's gaze flicked to his mouth, then back to his eyes. "I don't need to."
"Then how—"
"I dream when you do."
Silence thickened.
Mihir's skin prickled, as if the air itself had changed density. "What did you see?"
Arjun did not answer immediately. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Fire," he said at last. "But not destruction."
Mihir's breath hitched. "Then what?"
"Recognition."
Something twisted low in Mihir's stomach.
He pushed himself up on one elbow, closing the distance without fully meaning to. They were close now—too close. Mihir could see the fine lines at the corners of Arjun's eyes, the faint darkening beneath them that looked like sleeplessness but felt older.
"Describe it," Mihir said.
Arjun hesitated.
"You were standing beneath the banyan," he said quietly. "But it wasn't burning. It was… open. Like a ribcage."
Mihir shuddered.
"You had ash on your hands," Arjun continued. "And blood in your mouth."
Mihir's lips parted instinctively.
Arjun's gaze followed the movement.
"I was behind you," Arjun said. "Holding you there."
Mihir's pulse jumped. "Holding me how?"
Arjun's fingers flexed against the bedspread.
"Like this," he murmured.
He lifted his hand and placed it—not on Mihir's body—but on the mattress beside his waist. Close enough that Mihir could feel the cold through the thin fabric. Close enough that one inch would change everything.
Mihir did not move away.
His breath came shallow now, heat coiling beneath his skin, unfamiliar and unwelcome and wanted all at once.
"This isn't normal," Mihir whispered.
"No," Arjun agreed. "It's inherited."
Mihir let out a soft, broken laugh. "Figures."
The house creaked, a long settling sound that rippled through the walls like a sigh.
"You called my name," Arjun said.
"I didn't," Mihir replied automatically.
"You did," Arjun insisted. "In your sleep. Not loudly. Like you were afraid to be heard."
Mihir closed his eyes.
He remembered the dream now—not just fire, but heat pressed against his back, a presence anchoring him while the world burned forward.
"Did I sound afraid?" he asked.
Arjun leaned closer.
"So afraid," he said, "that you trusted me."
Mihir's eyes opened.
"That doesn't make sense."
"It does to me."
The air between them felt charged, humming faintly, like something alive. Mihir became intensely aware of the way Arjun's knee brushed the mattress, the way his shadow fell across Mihir's bare throat.
"You shouldn't be here," Mihir said weakly.
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because if I wasn't," Arjun said softly, "you would have followed the dream."
Mihir swallowed hard. "Where?"
"The banyan."
A chill raced through him.
Arjun reached out then—not to touch skin, but to grip the edge of the sheet near Mihir's chest, anchoring him physically to the bed.
"Sleep closer to the center," Arjun murmured. "The house protects what it keeps contained."
Mihir's voice shook. "And what do you protect?"
Arjun's eyes darkened.
"You," he said. "From what wants you before you're ready."
Mihir laughed breathlessly. "That's not reassuring."
Arjun's lips curved faintly. "It's honest."
Outside, something rustled beneath the soil. Roots shifting. Testing.
Mihir felt it echo inside him, a slow tightening, like desire or dread—he couldn't tell which anymore.
"Stay," he said suddenly.
The word surprised both of them.
Arjun stilled. "Mihir—"
"I don't want to sleep alone tonight," Mihir said. "If I'm dreaming your dreams anyway… what's the difference?"
Arjun searched his face, something like hunger flickering briefly before being locked away.
He lay down beside Mihir.
Not touching.
Their shoulders were inches apart. Their breaths slowly began to synchronize without conscious effort.
The heat between them was unbearable now—Mihir's skin felt too tight, nerves singing. He could smell Arjun clearly, feel the cold-and-warm contradiction of him like a promise pressed just out of reach.
"Don't," Arjun whispered, sensing the shift. "Not yet."
"Don't what?"
"Lean closer."
Mihir's throat tightened. "Why?"
"Because if you do," Arjun said, voice low and steady, "I won't move away."
That landed harder than any touch.
Mihir stared at the ceiling, heart racing, body buzzing with unspent want and fear tangled so tightly they felt like the same thing.
Outside, the banyan inhaled.
Inside, the house listened.
And between them, something ancient and patient smiled.