The moment she opened her mouth, I knew she hadn't changed.

Same fire. Same sharp tongue. Same ability to slice through a man's ego like it was butter left out in the sun.

God, Saanvi Desai.

It had been years since I'd last seen her, but she was still exactly as I remembered—outspoken, fearless to the point of stupidity, and maddeningly unaware of how every flick of her hair, every curve of her lips, and every angry twitch of her eyebrow could drive a man insane.

And don't even get me started on that dupatta clinging to her like it had sworn an oath to tempt me.

I told myself I was just being decent, stopping for a stranded stranger at midnight. But the way my eyes kept betraying me? Yeah. Decent had left the chat.

The streetlight flickered overhead, casting shadows on her collarbones—slender, sharp, glinting just above the neckline of her kurta. I'd always thought collarbones were overrated... until tonight. On her, they weren't just bones. They were an invitation. 

Subtle, accidental, but lethal. My fingers actually twitched with the ridiculous urge to trace them, to see if she'd shiver. Worse, a flicker of an image flashed in my mind—my lips grazing that delicate dip, tasting the warmth of her skin, hearing the hitch in her breath.

And that face—God help me—that face was just as infuriatingly beautiful as I remembered. Not delicate, not doll-like. No. 

Saanvi was the kind of beautiful that made men lose their composure. Big eyes that blazed when she was angry (and she was angry 90% of the time), lips that pouted without even trying, and that stubborn chin that looked like it had declared war on the entire male species.

Beautiful in a sexy, dangerous way. The kind of woman who didn't just walk into a room, she made the air heavier, made your heartbeat stutter, and made you forget why you were breathing in the first place.

And as much as she tried to act like she hated my every word, her body was busy betraying her.

The faint flush creeping up her neck, settling high on her cheeks? Yeah, I noticed. The way her eyes darted to my arms, then away, then back again? I noticed that too. She could glare at me all she wanted, but she wasn't fooling either of us.

She too felt it. The pull. The same damn current that sparked every time we were within ten feet of each other.

And then—just when I thought maybe this wouldn't be a total nightmare—she proved me wrong.

Instead of slipping into the passenger seat like any sane person, she yanked open the back door and slid in, plopping herself down like she was hailing an Uber.

I froze for a second, staring at her through the rearview mirror as she adjusted her dupatta with a straight face, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Unbelievable.

Of course she'd do this. Of course.

I gripped the steering wheel, biting back a laugh that was equal parts frustration and disbelief. "Seriously?" I finally said, twisting slightly to look at her.

She raised her brows, all fake innocence. "What?"

I ran a hand over my jaw, exhaling slowly. "What do you mean, 'what'? You're sitting in the backseat."

"So?" She shot back, folding her arms like a petulant child. "I thought it'd be safer."

I blinked at her. Safer? The girl had just thrown a verbal grenade at me about women not being for cages, and now suddenly, this?

I leaned back against my seat, staring at her through the shadows. "Listen," I said, voice low, calm, and laced with sarcasm. "I stopped to help you. I am not your chauffeur. If you want me to drive, you sit in the passenger seat. Period."

Her lips parted, like she was ready to argue, ready to launch into a ten-minute lecture about boundaries and patriarchy and whatever else she had lined up in that sharp tongue of hers. But then—miracle of miracles—she shut her mouth with an exhale that sounded a lot like surrender.

"Fine," she muttered, dragging the word like it hurt her pride. With a reluctant shuffle, she climbed out of the backseat and slid into the passenger seat beside me. She buckled up, shot me a sideways glare, and clipped out her address like she was dictating it to a cabbie she hated.

I smirked but didn't say a word. No point rubbing it in—I'd already won this round.

The engine roared to life, and I guided the Defender back onto the highway. Silence filled the car, thick and heavy, broken only by the steady hum of the tires on asphalt. She stared out of the window, arms crossed tight, as if even acknowledging me would give me some sort of undeserved victory.

But me? My head was far from silent.

The highway stretched out ahead, a ribbon of black under the car's headlights, but my mind wasn't on the road. It was on her. Saanvi Desai. 

Sitting right there, barely a foot away, her presence filling the car like smoke—impossible to ignore, curling into every corner of my senses. The way her kurta hugged her frame, the faint scent of her perfume—something floral, maybe jasmine, with a hint of spice—hit me harder than it had any right to. 

It wasn't just her beauty; it was the way she carried it, like she didn't give a damn who noticed. That defiance, that fire, it was a drug, and I was already hooked.

Back in school, she'd been the same. A hurricane in a ponytail, always arguing with teachers, always challenging the boys who thought they could out-talk her. 

I'd watched her from a distance then, a lanky teenager with too much ego and not enough courage to do anything about the way she made my pulse race. 

She was beautiful even then—not in the soft, predictable way of the other girls, but in a fierce, untamed way. Those big, blazing eyes that could pin you to the spot, that stubborn tilt of her chin that dared you to try her. 

I'd spent half my school days imagining what it'd be like to kiss that sharp mouth of hers, to feel her soften under my hands, to hear her laugh not at me but with me. And the other half? Well, let's just say teenage Kabir had a vivid imagination, and Saanvi starred in every forbidden fantasy I didn't dare admit to anyone.

Now, years later, she was here, in my car, and those old fantasies hadn't faded—they'd grown claws. The way her dupatta slipped slightly, revealing the curve of her shoulder, made my throat tighten. I imagined pulling over, right here on this empty highway, the night swallowing us whole. 

I could see it—her breath hitching as I leaned in, my fingers brushing that collarbone, trailing down to the small of her back. Her lips parting, not to argue for once, but to let out a soft gasp as I pressed myself closer, the heat of her body against mine. 

In my head, it was midnight, just like now, the world quiet except for the sound of her whispering my name, her nails digging into my shoulders as I showed her exactly how much I'd wanted her all these years. 

Every nerve in my body screamed to make it real, to turn this tension into something raw, something that'd leave us both breathless and undone.

God, she was still so damn sexy. More than back then, if that was even possible. Age had sharpened her edges, made her curves more dangerous, her confidence more lethal. The way she'd snapped at me earlier, all fire and sarcasm, only made me want her more. 

It wasn't just her body—though, hell, that was enough to drive a man to distraction—it was her. The way she fought, the way she refused to back down, the way she made me feel like I was simultaneously winning and losing a game I didn't even know I was playing.

I stole a glance at her, her profile lit by the faint glow of the dashboard. She was staring out the window, lips pressed tight, probably plotting how to murder me for that "good girl" comment. The thought made me smirk. 

She had no idea how much I wanted to ask her everything—where she'd been all these years, what she'd been doing, if she remembered me at all. Did she ever think of me, the quiet guy in the back of the class who'd stared at her too long? 

Or was I just another face in her past, forgettable, irrelevant? I wanted to know if she felt this pull, this maddening heat between us, or if it was all in my head.

But I kept my mouth shut. Asking those questions would open a door I wasn't sure I could handle. 

She'd turn those blazing eyes on me and demand to know why I cared, and I'd be stuck trying to explain that I'd spent years imagining her in ways that'd make her blush—or slap me. Maybe both. 

No, better to keep it locked down, focus on the road, on getting her home safe. This wasn't a schoolboy crush anymore; this was real, and I had a job to do. 

The Deshmukh case file on the back seat was a reminder of that—blood, chaos, and a city waiting for answers. I couldn't afford to get distracted, no matter how much every inch of me wanted to.

An hour later, we finally rolled into the narrow lane she called home.

Her address had been way off my route—hell, it was in the exact opposite direction of where I'd been headed. But I didn't complain, didn't point it out, didn't even let it slip in my expression. If she noticed, fine. If she didn't, better.

The car came to a halt in front of a modest two-storey house, its balcony draped in half-dried laundry swaying gently in the night air. I cut the engine, and the silence that followed was louder than the drive itself.

For a second, she didn't move. Just sat there, hands clasped around the strap of her bag, chewing on her lower lip like she was debating whether to say something or just disappear inside without a word.

Then, finally, she unbuckled her seatbelt and pushed open the door. She stepped out, smoothing down her dupatta like armor, before leaning back in through the open window.

"Thanks," she said, her voice clipped, reluctant. Then, with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, she added, "Guess if the police were doing their jobs properly, I wouldn't have had to wait for random strangers to stop."

The corner of my mouth twitched. She had no idea. No damn clue that the man she'd just accused of inefficiency was the same ACP who'd been cracking his skull since last 3 years over keeping this city safe.

I bit back a laugh, forcing my expression into something neutral, almost bored. "Yeah," I said quietly, meeting her eyes for the briefest second. "Guess you're right."

She straightened, clearly satisfied at scoring the last word, and turned toward her front gate. Her footsteps echoed against the pavement, soft but steady, until the sound faded behind the closing door.

I sat there for another minute, staring at the darkened house, her smirk still playing in my head. The irony of it all made me shake my head, lips curving into the kind of smile I hadn't worn in years.

Saanvi Desai had just walked back into my life.
And she had no idea what she'd just stirred up.

The Defender's engine rumbled back to life, and I pulled away to my home. For the first time that night, a different kind of dread crept in—facing my mother. She hated it when I was late, and I had no idea what excuse I'd come up with this time.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

That's a wrap for Chapter 3! 🌙
Saanvi may have reached her home, but we all know this is far from the end of her collision course. 😉

If you're enjoying their fiery banter, don't forget to vote, comment, and share—it really keeps me motivated to bring you the next chapter faster. I'd love to hear your thoughts: Did you catch that sly jab Saanvi made at the police? 👀 Imagine her face when she finds out who Kabir really is...

Stay tuned—things are about to get very interesting in Chapter 4.