Morning.
Sunday.
Silence.
She stood outside his door holding the keys he had given her last night when he couldn't open it himself.
The same keys.
She smiled faintly.
Unlocked the door.
Walked in.
He was still asleep.
Messy hair. One arm over his eyes. Shirt slightly creased.
He looked less dominant like this.
Less controlled.
More… hers.
She walked closer and stood beside the bed.
Watched him for a long second.
Then picked up the glass of water.
Not gentle.
Not violent.
Just enough.
Splash.
He shot up immediately.
"What the hell—?!"
His eyes focused.
And then he saw her.
Confusion.
Annoyance.
Something else.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, voice still thick from sleep. "You're not allowed here."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Oh? Since when?"
"Since yesterday," he said sharply. "You made it very clear."
He got up, trying to regain his usual calm authority.
"You should leave."
She didn't move.
"I'm not leaving."
His jaw tightened. "Don't do this."
She crossed her arms.
"No. You don't get to confess drunk and then act like nothing happened."
His eyes flashed.
"I didn't confess because I was drunk."
"Good," she stepped closer. "Because I wasn't listening properly yesterday."
Silence.
Heavy.
He looked at her cautiously now.
"What do you want, Aakrati?"
She took a slow step forward.
"Where are my flowers?"
He blinked.
"My what?"
"My flowers. My dramatic proposal. My 'Aakrati please be mine' moment."
His brows pulled together.
"You told me you don't want me."
"And you believed me?" she challenged.
"You accused me!" he snapped.
"And you didn't fight for me," she shot back.
That hit.
The air between them changed.
He stepped closer now.
"You pushed me away."
She looked up at him.
"Because I thought you wanted to touch me."
His expression darkened — not anger. Hurt pride.
"I wanted to stay," he said quietly.
The tension shifted again.
She swallowed.
"And I wanted you to chase me."
He stared at her like she had just revealed a secret code.
"You are unbelievable."
"I know."
"You said I hurt you."
"You did."
"You blamed me."
"Yes."
"And now you're asking for flowers?"
"Yes."
"Are you insane?"
She stepped into his space completely now.
"Yes," she whispered. "But I'm insane about you."
That broke something in him.
"What do you mean?" His voice wasn't dominant anymore.
It was dangerous.
She looked straight into his eyes.
"I mean… yes."
His breathing slowed.
"Yes what?"
"Yes, Arsh."
Silence.
"You asked me to be yours."
She held his gaze.
"I am."
Something flickered in his eyes.
"Say it properly."
She moved closer until their foreheads almost touched.
"I like you," she said softly. "Really. Really like you."
He searched her face for mockery.
There was none.
"You scared me yesterday," he admitted.
"You scared me too."
"With what?"
"With how much you matter."
That did it.
He grabbed her waist — firm, not rough — pulling her closer.
"You don't get to play with me like this," he murmured.
"I'm not playing."
"You almost lost me."
"I know."
"You thought I was like other men."
She shook her head slowly.
"Not anymore."
His thumb brushed lightly against her cheek.
"And now?"
"Now I want my proposal."
He almost laughed in disbelief.
"You are dramatic."
"And you like it."
He didn't deny it.
Instead, he suddenly lifted her.
She gasped, grabbing his shoulders.
"Arsh!"
"You want drama?" he said, voice low near her ear. "Fine."
He spun once slowly.
Not playful.
Possessive energy, but controlled.
"You think I wouldn't fight for you?" he murmured.
She smiled, heart racing.
"I was waiting to see if you would."
He set her down but didn't let go.
"You are impossible."
"And you're obsessed," she teased softly.
He leaned closer.
"Careful."
"With what?"
"With how you look at me."
She didn't look away.
"Say it again," he demanded quietly.
"What?"
"That you're mine."
She smiled.
"I'm yours."
His forehead rested against hers.
"And I'm not letting you push me away again."
"Then don't let me."
This wasn't calm.
This wasn't safe.
This was tension finally turning into confession.
And this time —
Neither of them was pretending not to want it.
Author's Thought
She wanted to be chosen loudly.
He wanted to be respected deeply.
Both hid their need behind ego.
But when pride melts and desire meets vulnerability —
Love doesn't look soft.
It looks electric.
And sometimes…
The most romantic thing a dominant man can do —
Is admit he was hurt.
And stay anyway.