My Night Mare

It started as nothing. A moment that should have passed without consequence, just another fleeting interaction between strangers. Isha Verma had always been the type to observe, to measure people before deciding if they were worth her time. Reyan Malhotra was exactly the kind of person she had no patience for—effortlessly confident, too sure of his place in the world, wrapped in a charm that was more weapon than gift. They met on an ordinary evening, surrounded by the hum of campus chatter, the restless energy of student life. Isha had been absorbed in her work, seated in a quiet corner of the library, mind deep in her notes—until he appeared, careless and infuriating, sliding into the seat across from her like he belonged there. "Didn’t peg you for the kind to hide in the library," he mused, tapping his fingers against the desk as if testing her patience. Isha didn’t bother looking up. “Didn’t peg you for the kind who need books.” He laughed—a slow, amused sound, not mocking but intrigued. It should have ended there. He should have gotten bored and moved on. But Reyan wasn’t one to let go of things that sparked his interest, even if that interest was born from a wager, a cruel game he barely thought twice about. What hadn't he expected? The sharpness in her words, the quiet challenge in the way she refused to acknowledge. The moment Reyan slid into the chair across from Isha, she knew she was in trouble. The kind that arrived uninvited, dripped arrogance, and made sure she knew exactly how little effort it took for him to own a room. She didn’t even look up. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. "You are always this cold," he murmured, tapping a finger against the desk, slow and lazy. "Or is this just for me?" Isha kept her focus on her book, the words blurring as irritation coiled low in her stomach. "And what makes you think you are worth my time?." A pause. Then, a chuckle—deep, amused, a little too satisfied. Like she’d just confirmed something for him. She could feel it—his attention, his certainty that he’d found something interesting. And worse? He wasn’t leaving. "I have my moments, and obviously you will make time for me" he said, his voice dipped into something deliberately smooth. "Though right now, I’m more interested in watching you pretend you don’t know Why I’m here." She should have told him off. Should have dismissed him like she did every i***t who thought they could make a sport out of getting under her skin. But something about his tone—the challenge wrapped in silk—sent a pulse of heat through her veins. So she looked up. And his smirk faltered. Oh. She wasn’t supposed to do that, was she? She wasn’t supposed to meet his gaze with quiet confidence, with a slow tilt of her head that told him," You want a game? You have no idea who you're playing with." Reyan leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk like he wasn’t ready to let this moment slip away. Like he’d just discovered something dangerous, and he wanted to keep touching the fire. "You intrigue me," he admitted, watching her like he was waiting for her to react, waiting for her to give him something. Isha's lips parted—just slightly, just enough to make his gaze flick to her mouth before she said, smooth as silk— "You bore me." His smirk returned, but there was something different in his eyes now. Something darker. That was when it started—the unraveling, the slow, silent war neither of them realized would become the most dangerous thing they’d ever fall into. His gaze roamed over her—not with the careless admiration of a man who simply appreciated beauty, but with the raw, reckless hunger of someone who had spent too long fighting what he couldn’t control. Isha stood up from her seat and moved like she was unreadable, untouchable, every inch of her wrapped in defiance. She knew what that look meant—had seen it before, had tasted the danger of letting it linger too long. But this time, the weight of it was different. Because they weren’t strangers in battle anymore. They were entangled in a history that refused to unravel. He hated her for the control she still had over him. She hated him for knowing exactly how deeply he could penetrate her soul even after all these time. And yet, the air between them was thick with something else entirely—an unspoken war of desire and resentment, a push and pull neither of them knew how to end. His jaw tightened, frustration laced with temptation, with all the ways he wanted to break through her walls. But Isha? She had no intention of letting him win. Not yet. Not ever. Or maybe—just maybe—until it was too late.