“Do you regret kissing me, Ishika?” His voice dropped—dark, low, and possessive enough to steal the air from my lungs. My entire body froze. Not because I didn’t know the answer— But because I did. My breath hitched, sharp and aching. Regret? God. If only he knew what that kiss did to me. His grip didn’t loosen. His fingers dug gently into my wrist, grounding me to him, to the heat of his body pressed against my back. I could feel every inch of him—dangerous, intoxicating, magnetic. “Ishika,” he rasped again, each syllable laced with something desperate. Something real. “Do. You. Regret. It?” I should lie. Say it meant nothing. That it was a mistake. But my heart? It was screaming. Screaming for him. No. No, I didn’t regret it. I couldn’t. If I had, I wouldn’t still feel his taste on my lips. I wouldn’t still be burning from the ghost of his touch. I wouldn’t still be aching for more. “We wouldn’t have kissed that long…” I whispered, finally turning to look at him, “…and still not wanted to stop… if I regretted it.” My voice trembled. He stopped breathing. Literally. His chest pressed to mine, unmoving, as if my confession turned his whole world upside down. “If I regretted it, Veer…” I whispered, “…I wouldn’t be standing here, craving your mouth on mine again.” And that's it— I felt the pull.