15-06-2025, 02:15 AM
But tonight wasn’t about anyone.
It is all about her and Abhi.
She held the dress against herself in the mirror.
It was simple—but flattering.
And it didn’t scream seduction, which mattered.
This needed to be natural.
Like it just happened.
But beneath the softness was an edge.
She wanted him to see her—not as someone married, distant—but as a woman.
A beautiful, desirable woman who had chosen him to cook for.
It was just dinner.
She reminded herself of that as she pulled open the refrigerator and scanned the ingredients.
But there was nothing casual about the way her fingers moved as she picked curry leaves from their stems, or how she stood back to observe the table she was slowly setting—less like a weekday dinner, more like something she wanted him to remember.
She glanced at the clock: just past five.
There was time still.
But already, something in her chest had begun to stir—like the quick flutter of wind against half-drawn curtains.
She walked into her bedroom, towel-drying her hair absently, and paused by the open window.
The city below moved in its usual rhythm. And yet inside her, nothing felt usual anymore.
She tried not to overthink how the evening would go.
And yet, her mind gently drifted—filling in silences that hadn’t yet arrived.
Abhi would come by, a little early perhaps, with that soft awkward smile he wore when he didn’t know where to place his hands.
He might comment on the aroma in the kitchen or the breeze on the balcony.
They’d talk—about yoga, his work, something from the neighborhood.
But behind her calm poise, she knew she would be watching—watching him take in the space, notice the way she had set things up without trying too hard.
The way her hair fell differently today.
The way her voice might be softer.
It is all about her and Abhi.
She held the dress against herself in the mirror.
It was simple—but flattering.
And it didn’t scream seduction, which mattered.
This needed to be natural.
Like it just happened.
But beneath the softness was an edge.
She wanted him to see her—not as someone married, distant—but as a woman.
A beautiful, desirable woman who had chosen him to cook for.
It was just dinner.
She reminded herself of that as she pulled open the refrigerator and scanned the ingredients.
But there was nothing casual about the way her fingers moved as she picked curry leaves from their stems, or how she stood back to observe the table she was slowly setting—less like a weekday dinner, more like something she wanted him to remember.
She glanced at the clock: just past five.
There was time still.
But already, something in her chest had begun to stir—like the quick flutter of wind against half-drawn curtains.
She walked into her bedroom, towel-drying her hair absently, and paused by the open window.
The city below moved in its usual rhythm. And yet inside her, nothing felt usual anymore.
She tried not to overthink how the evening would go.
And yet, her mind gently drifted—filling in silences that hadn’t yet arrived.
Abhi would come by, a little early perhaps, with that soft awkward smile he wore when he didn’t know where to place his hands.
He might comment on the aroma in the kitchen or the breeze on the balcony.
They’d talk—about yoga, his work, something from the neighborhood.
But behind her calm poise, she knew she would be watching—watching him take in the space, notice the way she had set things up without trying too hard.
The way her hair fell differently today.
The way her voice might be softer.
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