It rained that night.
A slow, unhurried rain that tapped on windows like someone asking permission to be let in. Rekha stood by the kitchen sink, rinsing rice under the cold stream, but her mind was still at the door.
The rose was in a glass tumbler by the stove. Yellow and soft, opening petal by petal like it had no shame in blooming in the wrong season.
She couldn't stop looking at it.
She hadn't told anyone. Of course not.Not even herself, not out loud.
But that flower sat on the counter like a confession no one had asked her to make.
Ishan didn't appear for two days.
No music from 3B. No glimpse on the stairs. No shadow on the balcony.
At first, it relieved her.
Then it unsettled her.
Then it made her furious.
Had he sensed her hesitation and pulled back? Had he moved on to some other woman, one who didn't stand frozen at her own front door, gripping a flower like it might explode?
She told herself she didn't care.
But her eyes kept going to that balcony below.
On the third night, he came back.
It was late—past ten. Ashok had fallen asleep in front of the TV, his mouth open slightly, remote still in his hand. The news was rolling headlines about ministers and murder and monsoon delay.
Rekha got up from the couch quietly and stepped out onto the balcony.
And there he was.
Ishan.
Leaning on the railing. Smoke curling from his fingers. The glow of his cigarette like a pulse in the dark.
He didn't look up immediately.
But she knew he knew.
She held the railing tighter. Her palms were damp.
Then, slowly, he turned his head and met her eyes.
He didn't smile.
Didn't nod.
Just waited.
And Rekha—heart beating too loud, mouth too dry, and body too awake—did something she hadn't planned.
She lifted her hand. Just an inch. A quiet, trembling signal.
A yes.
He didn't knock.
He messaged her.
"Balcony door?"
She went to the sliding door. Unlatched it. Stepped back.
He didn't enter right away.
He stood there for a moment, half-shadow, half-temptation.
When he finally stepped in, the air in the room shifted.Like something real had walked in. Like heat.
Rekha was still in her cotton nightgown. No lipstick. No jewellery. Nothing that said come in.
But everything about her said don't leave.
He came close but didn't touch.
"Sure?" he asked, voice low.
She looked at him.
Her throat tightened.
Then she nodded. "Yes."
One word. All breath. All surrender.
The first touch was nothing.
Fingers brushing her wrist.
But it was everything.
Her skin lit up like it had memory.
He ran his hand up her arm, slow, deliberate, reading her like a poem nobody else had bothered to finish.
"You're shaking," he said.
She didn't deny it.
He touched her cheek, thumb grazing her jaw.
"You want slow?"
She closed her eyes. "Yes."
So he went slow.
He kissed her forehead first.
Then her temple.
Then the hollow beneath her ear, where her breath caught and stayed.
His hands moved to her waist, resting there, not claiming—just holding.
"I don't want to break you," he whispered.
"You won't," she whispered back.
He paused.
"No. But you might break me."
His lips reached hers gently, like testing water. But the moment her mouth opened, something ignited.
His tongue found hers, and the kiss deepened—slow, wet, breathless. He kissed like he was searching for something he'd lost. Like he was starved.
She moaned softly into his mouth, a sound that startled her. A sound she hadn't made in years.
Her hands gripped his shirt, pulling him closer.
When his mouth left hers, it trailed down her throat, tracing the edge of her collarbone, making her gasp.
"You're so quiet," he murmured.
"I've forgotten how to make noise."
"I'll remind you."
He didn't tear her gown off. He peeled it. Like skin. Like respect.
Underneath, she wore nothing.
He stepped back.
His eyes didn't leer. They lingered.
"You're beautiful," he said, with no irony. No agenda.
She blushed, angry at herself for it.
"No I'm not."
"Yes. You are. Especially like this."
"Like what?"
"Wanting."
He kissed her again, deeper now, hands sliding down her back, cupping her hips.
When his mouth reached her breast, she gasped again. His tongue circled her nipple, then sucked gently, and her knees buckled.
He caught her, lifted her, carried her to the bed.
Laid her down.
His shirt came off.
Then his jeans.
Then nothing.
She looked at him fully—every line, every scar, every inch of him.
Her breath hitched. Not in fear. In ache.
When he entered her, he didn't rush.
He moved like he was memorising her from the inside.
Every thrust slow.Every movement deliberate.
And Rekha—who had been silent for years—finally remembered what it meant to moan.
Not from duty.Not from habit.But from being seen. From being ruined.
From being alive.
They moved like that for a long time.
Shadows on the wall.
Breath on breath.
Skin on skin.
No shame. No permission.
Just a woman learning the shape of her own hunger.
When it was over, she didn't cry.
She expected she might. But she didn't.
She just lay there, chest rising fast, eyes fixed on the ceiling, feeling like a storm had passed through her body and left a new country behind.
Ishan lay beside her, arm draped over his eyes.
Neither spoke for a long while.
Then he said, "Still sure?"
She turned to him.
"Yes," she said.And meant it more than anything she'd said in years.