Anjali's POV
The afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window, casting long shadows across the counter where she stood, her hands deep in dough, kneading with a rhythm that had become mechanical years ago. The dough was for dinner—Taarak had promised to be home by seven, which meant he would be home by nine, and the dough would be overworked by then, tough, the way he liked it.
She didn't know why she still bothered. He didn't notice the difference between fresh rotis and the ones that had been waiting for hours. He didn't notice a lot of things.
The knock on the door was soft, almost hesitant. She wiped her hands on her apron, her heart already beating faster than it should, because she knew who it would be. He had been coming by more often, finding reasons to visit, and she had been finding reasons to let him.
She opened the door. Suyash stood in the hallway, dressed simply—jeans, a white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was still damp, as if he had just showered, and she caught the faint scent of sandalwood, something clean and male that made her breath catch.
"I brought sweets," he said, holding up a box. "Jethalal had a new shipment. I thought you might want to try."
She took the box, her fingers brushing his, and the touch was a spark, brief and electric. "You didn't have to."
"I know." He smiled, that slow smile that made her forget, sometimes, that she was married, that she was a good wife, that good wives didn't stand in doorways with their hearts racing for men who were not their husbands. "But I wanted to. Can I come in?"
She stepped aside, and he walked past her, close enough that she felt the warmth of his arm against hers. She closed the door and followed him into the kitchen.
He sat at the small table where she took her morning tea, the one Taarak never used, and watched her put the sweets on a plate. She could feel his eyes on her, on the curve of her hip where her saree pulled tight, on the hollow of her throat where the pallu had slipped, on the way her hands trembled slightly as she arranged the mithai.
"You were cooking," he said.
"Kneading dough," she said, sitting across from him. "For dinner. Taarak will be home late, so I'm starting early."
"He works a lot."
"He does." She looked down at her hands, still dusted with flour. "He's always worked a lot. It's what he does. It's who he is."
"And you?" His voice was soft, probing. "What do you do?"
She looked up, meeting his eyes. "I wait."
The word hung between them, heavier than she intended. She had not meant to say it, had not meant to let him see that far inside. But he was looking at her with those eyes—dark, patient, seeing—and the words had come out before she could stop them.
"I wait," she said again, quieter this time. "For him to come home. For dinner to be ready. For the phone to ring. For him to look at me the way he used to."
Suyash didn't speak. He didn't offer comfort or advice or the empty platitudes she had heard from other women, from her mother, from the aunties who whispered that this was marriage, this was what it meant to be a wife. He just sat there, watching her, and his silence was more intimate than anything anyone had said to her in years.
"I used to dance," she said, the words coming faster now, like water finding a crack in a dam. "Before marriage. I loved to dance. Taarak used to watch me. In the beginning. He would come home and find me in the living room, moving to the radio, and he would sit and watch with this look on his face, like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing."
She stopped, her throat tight. "Now he doesn't notice. He comes home, he eats, he sleeps. And I'm still here. Waiting."
She didn't realize she was crying until she felt his hand on hers—warm, dry, steady. He had moved without her noticing, was sitting beside her now, close enough that she could see the pulse beating in his throat, could smell the sandalwood of his skin.
"You deserve to be seen," he said, and his voice was low, rough, the same words he had said before but different now, charged with something that made her skin prickle.
She looked at his hand on hers, at the way his fingers curled around her wrist, at the contrast of his skin against hers. "Suyash—"
"You deserve to be touched," he said, and his thumb moved against her pulse, a slow circle that made her breath catch. "To be wanted. To be more than someone who waits."
She should pull away. She knew she should pull away. But his hand was warm, and his eyes were dark, and the kitchen was suddenly too small, too hot, the air between them thick with something she hadn't felt in years.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, but she didn't move, didn't pull back.
"What you want me to do," he said, and his hand moved up her arm, slow, deliberate, his fingers tracing the inside of her elbow, the soft skin of her forearm, the curve of her shoulder. "What you've been wanting since I walked in."
She closed her eyes. She could feel his breath on her cheek, warm and even, and she thought about the years she had spent waiting, the nights she had lain beside Taarak, wanting, and the mornings she had woken up hungry for something she couldn't name.
"I don't—" she started, but his hand was on her face now, cupping her jaw, tilting her head up, and she couldn't remember what she was going to say.
"Yes," he said. "You do."
His thumb traced her lower lip, and she parted her mouth, a soft gasp escaping her. The sound was too loud in the quiet kitchen, too honest, and she felt the heat rise to her face, to her chest, to the place between her thighs that had been empty for so long.
He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching hers. "Tell me to stop," he said, and his voice was rough, strained, as if he was holding himself back with an effort that cost him. "Tell me to go, and I'll go. I'll leave, and I won't come back. I'll pretend this never happened."
She should tell him to go. She knew she should. But his hand was on her face, and his breath was in her hair, and she could feel the heat of his body through her saree, the hard line of his thigh against hers, and she was so tired of waiting.
"Don't," she whispered. "Don't go."
His mouth was on hers before she finished the word.
It was not a gentle kiss. There was nothing gentle about the way he took her mouth, the way his tongue slid against hers, the way his hand moved from her face to her hair, pulling her closer, deeper. She made a sound against his lips—a moan, a whimper, something she had never heard herself make—and he swallowed it, drank it down, his other hand finding her waist, pulling her off the chair and onto his lap.
Her saree was a tangle around her legs, her blouse pulled loose from the petticoat, and she could feel him through his jeans, hard and ready, pressing against her thigh. She should be ashamed. She should be horrified. But his mouth was on her neck now, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin where her pulse beat, and she couldn't think, couldn't breathe, could only feel.
"You're so beautiful," he said against her throat, and his hands were on her back, finding the ties of her blouse, loosening them with a skill that made her gasp. "Do you know how long I've wanted to touch you? How many mornings I've watched you from my balcony, seen you in your kitchen, wanted to be the reason you smiled?"
"Suyash—" His name was a prayer on her lips, a plea, a surrender.
He pulled back, just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and there was something in them that made her breath catch—not just desire, but hunger, a need that matched her own.
"I want to see you," he said. "All of you."
She should say no. She should stop this, should stand up, should smooth her saree and offer him tea and pretend that none of this had happened. But his hands were on her blouse, and her nipples were hard against the fabric, and she could feel the wetness between her thighs, the ache that had been building since the first time she saw him standing on his balcony, young and beautiful and alone.
She reached behind her and untied the last knot herself.
The blouse fell away, and she was bare before him, her breasts full and heavy, the nipples dark and peaked. He made a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a growl, and his hands were on her, cupping her, thumbs stroking the sensitive tips until she arched against him, her head falling back, her mouth open on a cry she couldn't contain.
"Beautiful," he said again, and his mouth followed his hands, hot and wet, his tongue circling her nipple, sucking, biting gently, and she was lost.
She clung to him, her fingers in his hair, her hips moving against his thigh, seeking friction, seeking relief. She could feel herself slipping, could feel the years of waiting dissolving under his hands, under his mouth, under the relentless pressure of his body against hers.
"Please," she heard herself say, and she didn't know what she was asking for, only that she needed more, needed him, needed to feel something other than the waiting.
His hand slid down her stomach, under the folds of her saree, his fingers finding the wet heat between her legs, and she cried out, her body arching, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"So wet," he said, his voice thick. "So ready. How long has it been, Anjali? How long since someone touched you like this?"
She couldn't answer. She could barely breathe. His fingers were inside her now, moving slowly, deliberately, and she was shaking, her thighs trembling, her whole body wound tight as a wire.
"Look at me," he said, and she opened her eyes, met his gaze. "I want to see you when you come."
His thumb found her clit, pressing, circling, and the world shattered.
She came with a cry that was almost a scream, her body convulsing against his, her hands clutching his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, anything to anchor herself as the waves crashed through her. She was aware, dimly, of his mouth on her throat, his arm around her waist, holding her as she shook, as she fell, as she finally, finally stopped waiting.
When she came back to herself, she was curled against his chest, her face buried in his neck, her breath coming in ragged gasps. His hand was on her back, stroking slowly, and she could feel his heart beating against her, fast and strong.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, and she didn't know what she was apologizing for—for wanting, for taking, for the wet spot on his jeans, for all of it.
"Don't," he said, and his voice was gentle now, soft. "Don't be sorry."
She should get up. She should fix her blouse, smooth her saree, put the dough in the refrigerator and pretend this had never happened. But his arms were around her, and for the first time in years, she didn't feel like she was waiting.
"He'll be home soon," she said, but she didn't move.
"I know."
She closed her eyes, and let herself have this moment, this one moment, before the waiting began again.
Komal's POV
The compound was empty when she came down from her flat, most of the residents indoors for the afternoon heat. She had told Hathi she was going to the market, but the market could wait. What she wanted was a walk, a chance to stretch her legs, to feel the sun on her skin, to be somewhere other than her flat, where Hathi sat in his chair, snoring, his bulk filling the space that should have been shared.
She had been married to Hathi for twelve years. Twelve years of being the thin wife of a fat man, the pretty one, the one everyone looked at and wondered. Twelve years of his hands on her, heavy and sweating, his body pressing hers into the mattress, his breath hot in her ear. Twelve years of being seen but not touched, of being wanted but not desired.
She was walking past the staircase when she heard footsteps behind her.
"Komal ji."
She turned. Suyash was coming down the stairs, his shirt slightly rumpled, his hair mussed, and there was something in his face—a flush, a brightness—that made her look at him more closely.
"Suyash," she said, and she let her eyes move over him slowly, from his face to his chest to the waistband of his jeans. "You look like you've been busy."
He smiled, and it was not the polite smile of a new neighbor, but something sharper, something that made her stand a little straighter, push her chest out a little more.
"Just an afternoon nap," he said. "I didn't sleep well last night."
"Is that so?" She stepped closer, close enough to see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, to smell the sandalwood of his skin, to notice the way his shirt was buttoned wrong, one button off, as if he had dressed in a hurry. "A young man like you, alone in his flat. I can imagine what keeps you awake."
His eyes met hers, and she saw the flicker there, the recognition of what she was offering. "Can you?"
"Oh yes." She let her voice drop, let her hand find his arm, her fingers light on his sleeve. "I'm a married woman, Suyash. I know what men want when they can't sleep."
She could feel the muscle beneath his shirt, hard and lean, nothing like Hathi's soft bulk. She thought about what it would feel like to have those arms around her, to feel that body pressing hers, to be held by someone who didn't wheeze when he moved, didn't sweat when he breathed.
"And what do women want?" he asked, and his voice was lower now, rougher.
She looked up at him through her lashes. "The same thing," she said. "The same thing they've always wanted. To be touched. To be wanted. To feel like more than a wife, more than a mother, more than the woman who brings the tea."
His hand covered hers on his arm, and she felt the heat of him through the silk of her blouse, the calluses on his palm, the strength in his fingers. "Komal—"
She moved before he could finish, her hand sliding down his arm, past his elbow, to the curve of his waist, and then lower, to his hip, and then, with deliberate slowness, to his backside.
She patted him, once, twice, her palm flat against the firm muscle of his ass, and she let her hand linger there, let her fingers curl just slightly, let him feel the pressure of her touch.
"You're fit," she said, and she made her voice light, playful, as if this were a joke between them, as if she hadn't just touched him in a way that no woman should touch a man who was not her husband. "Very fit. Do you exercise?"
He didn't move. His hand was still on hers, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, and she could feel his pulse there, fast and strong. "Sometimes," he said, and his voice was tight, controlled. "In the mornings."
"You should show me sometime." She let her hand drop, slowly, her fingers trailing down the back of his thigh as she stepped away. "I could use the exercise. All I do is sit around, waiting for Hathi to come home. A woman needs to stay in shape, don't you think?"
His eyes were dark, his jaw tight. "I think," he said carefully, "that some women don't need to try."
She laughed, and it was a real laugh, low and warm. "You're a flatterer. I can see why the young girls like you." She stepped closer again, close enough that her chest almost touched his, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "But I'm not a young girl, Suyash. I'm a woman who knows what she wants."
"And what do you want?"
She reached up and straightened his collar, her fingers brushing his neck, the hollow of his throat. "To see what you're hiding under that shirt," she said. "To feel those muscles without all this cloth in the way. To have someone look at me the way you're looking at me right now."
He caught her wrist, his grip firm, and for a moment she thought she had gone too far, pushed too hard. But he didn't push her away. He held her there, his thumb on her pulse, and his eyes were dark, hungry.
"Komal," he said, and her name on his lips was like a promise, like a warning, like the beginning of something she had been waiting for since the first time she saw him on his balcony, young and strong and alone. "Your husband—"
"My husband," she said, and she leaned closer, her mouth almost touching his ear, "is sleeping. He's always sleeping. He won't wake up for hours."
She pulled back, just enough to see his face, to see the war going on behind his eyes, the same war she had been fighting for twelve years, between what she was supposed to want and what she actually wanted.
"Come to my flat tonight," she said. "Hathi has a late shift at the clinic. He won't be home until midnight. We could have tea. We could talk. We could—" She let her hand slide down his chest, her fingers tracing the buttons of his shirt, stopping at his belt. "We could do whatever you want."
He caught her hand, stopped it before it could go lower. His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling against hers. "You don't know what you're asking."
"I know exactly what I'm asking." She stepped back, putting distance between them, giving him room to breathe, to think, to want. "I'm asking you to look at me the way you looked at me just now. I'm asking you to touch me the way you touched my backside, but longer. Slower. I'm asking you to give me something my husband hasn't given me in years."
She saw the shift in his eyes, the moment his control slipped, the moment he stopped fighting what he wanted. "What time?"
She smiled, slow and satisfied. "Eight. Come to the back staircase. I'll leave the door unlocked."
She turned and walked away, her hips swaying, her saree catching the afternoon light. She could feel his eyes on her, burning into her back, and she let herself smile.
At the corner, she looked back. He was still standing there, watching her, his hands in his pockets, his shirt still buttoned wrong, his face unreadable. She raised her hand in a wave, a small gesture, a promise.
He didn't wave back. But he didn't look away.
She turned the corner and let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. Her hands were shaking. Her thighs were wet. And for the first time in twelve years, she didn't feel like she was waiting.
She was counting.