Adultery Between Nabila and Ranjeet

[naj0501]

I woke up before the sunrise. The room was thick with sweat and sandalwood-last night still in the air. The sheets were twisted and damp, pillows kicked to the edge, and clothes lay crumpled under the chair. First I lay very still and tried to remember the night. Then I wanted to erase it.
Still, a warm, shy happiness sat inside me. For a few seconds I smiled into the pillow, remembering how he held me and how I felt seen. Then the guilt rose like a stone in my throat. I thought of my vows, of God, of the life I had promised to keep clean. The two feelings pulled me in opposite ways-joy made me light, guilt made me heavy. I did not know which one was the real me.
I quickly stripped the bed. Sheets went into the bucket, pillowcases into the sink, and I shook out the duvet like a white flag. I scrubbed till the lemon cleaner stung my nose. I changed the towels. I opened the windows. I washed one coffee mug twice. I told myself it was hygiene, it was punishment, it was both.
My phone buzzed, face-down, on the counter.
R: Home safe. Text me when you wake up. R: Or don’t. I’ll wait.
I turned the phone over and kept it face-down again, like a quiet animal.
I called the office and said a word I had never used: “Sick.” The lie felt like a small, helpful pill. Riya made a small tsk, kindly. “Rest,” she said. “Boss can manage one day without you.”
Boss. That word knocked the breath out of me.
Ranjeet called. I watched the screen light up. I let it ring out. He sent one WhatsApp-no hearts, no plea.
R: I’ll follow your lead. R: Eat something.
I kept the phone in a steel dabba and shut the lid.
By noon I had cleaned everything I could. The house shone. I didn’t. Guilt crawled under my skin like an old rash. Then I stood straight and made a rule, like on a college blackboard: Just once. We stop.
I returned to work the next day in my simplest kurta and no perfume. I was early, before most lights were on. The guard wished me good morning and looked twice at my face. The office smelled of floor cleaner and stale coffee. I chose a desk from where I had to turn my head three times to see his cabin, behind the glass and the money plant. I kept my bag between my feet, opened the laptop, and stared at the login screen for a full minute. My pulse beat in my neck like a small drum. Even without looking, I knew when he walked in-my heart found him before my eyes did.
He arrived two minutes late. His voice was smooth, like the coffee machine hiss near the pantry. He paused at the door, said a general good morning, glanced at the whiteboard, the team, the clock-everywhere except my face-and went to his cabin. He looked past me, over me, not at me. Professional. Clean and distant. I was hoping for this space but It still stung. My stomach tightened. I fixed my eyes on the screen and typed my password twice.
At 11, his 1:1 invite popped up. I stared at the calendar square until the pixels blurred, then clicked Accept. When I entered, his cabin door was left a little open-the HR rule for caution during 1:1 meetings. Cool AC air slipped through the gap and the blinds clicked softly.
“Status on the client rollout?” he asked, like the world was only Gantt charts, risks and dependencies. I gave the printouts. Our fingers did not touch.
When the updates ended, I spoke before my courage ran out. My throat felt dry and my fingers pressed the stapled pages too hard; the pin pricked my thumb. I kept my eyes on the table edge, not on him. “We need to talk...About… that night,” I said finally.
He did not rescue me from the words. He waited, hands flat on the desk, the pen lying still, jaw tight but calm. The AC hummed and the blinds clicked. He kept his eyes steady and let the silence stretch so I could finish.
“We crossed a line,” I said. “ I can not continue. I am married. You are my boss. Whatever that was, it was for one time.”
Something changed in his eyes-disappointment he did not show-like a tide turning. His shoulders dipped a little and his jaw tightened. He took a slow breath, clicked the pen once, then kept it down. He only nodded once.
“ok” he said sadly. “I really like you and I would like to take it further, but I will respect your choice.”
There was silence, not empty.
He added, carefully, “I started your lateral transfer paperwork. Clean lines, even if we stopped. You keep the project. No pay change.”
I swallowed. This was care that remembered life outside the bed.
“Thank you,” I said. My voice did not break. I felt proud.
I started to move. He did not try to stop me. When I reached the door, he said softly, “For the record, I love you.” Then, before I could react, “And I promise, I will be boring, like you asked.”
The word love landed in my chest like a hot coin. I put it in my pocket and left.
He didn’t overwhelm me; he kept his care neat and proper. He stayed within limits, gave me space, and kept things formal so I could breathe.
He sent praise through the team, not to me directly. “Nabila’s risk matrix saved two days. Use it.” He did not look at my face for long when he said my name.
In two weeks, he sent only one message after office hours. R: FYI-transfer approved. New reporting line from Monday. I replied at 9:01 a.m., office time: Noted. Thank you.
One day a small courier box came to my desk with noise‑cancelling earphones “for focus.” There was no note, only the invoice with my name. My stomach tightened and I took the set to the mailroom to send it back. Next day the same model showed up on every desk with a short mail from Admin: “For productivity.” He had made it a team thing so I would not stand out. I understood the care. I still hated the feeling, but I smiled with everyone and said thank you.
He kept the cabin door a little open during our talks, as per the HR rule. His meeting invites were clear, with a short agenda and a set time box. He copied HR on check‑ins, used plain language with no emojis, and he never called late‑night.
I kept my boundary. I spoke short and clear. I finished tasks, closed tickets, and went home on time. My eyes learned to look around him like he was a pillar in a temple I didn’t pray to.
Then it happened on a Wednesday that had never promised much. Adnan’s teacher called at 1:07 p.m., her voice tight with worry: “Ma’am, Adnan has fever. He is very weak and dull-please come quickly.” I reached the basement parking just as the sky folded into thunder. Warm wind turned to hard rain; the lane filled with brown water and the smell of wet earth. I clutched my car keys and ran between the pillars to my car. Asif wasn’t picking up; his phone went straight to busy. The clinic line was busy too. Even though I was inside, the basement was half open; wind pushed rain spray in and water dripped from the ceiling. My dupatta got wet and stuck to my neck, my hands slipped on the damp steering wheel, and my breath shortened. The world tilted and I started the engine anyway, switched on the wipers, and prayed I would reach fast.
I stared at my contacts list like it was a red button I had sworn never to press. My thumb hovered over his name; then thunder shook the car. Panic won. I hit call.
He answered on the first ring.
Ranjeet: Nabila?
Nabila: I need your help. I'm in the car, in the basement parking. I'm heading to Adnan's college-he has a fever. It's raining heavily.
“I’m on my way,” he said.
Within minutes he came into the basement parking and tapped on my window.
Ranjeet: Give me the keys. I’ll drive.
Nabila: Okay.
I slid to the passenger seat and he took the wheel. We climbed the ramp into the rain and headed to Adnan’s college. At the gate he parked by the security cabin with the same steadiness he used to tie marigolds. I signed at the office while he waited near the car. The teacher brought Adnan, hot and sleepy. Ranjeet opened the back door, took the college bag, and buckled Adnan in with careful hands, like a guest in someone else’s family.
“Straight to the hospital,” he said.
We drove there at once. At the hospital he managed forms; I managed my son. He got water and ORS and sat two seats away in the waiting room like a devotion with restraint.
When the nurse said it was viral, keep him hydrated, my knees went weak with the primitive relief of mothers since the beginning of time. I sat. He didn’t move closer. He folded the receipt into a small paper bird and kept it on the chair between us-for luck.
I looked at the little paper bird and then at him. I understood that love did not always look like hugs or big words. Sometimes it looked like showing up, driving in the rain, filling forms, keeping distance, and letting me breathe. There were a thousand kinds of love; one of them was simple competence when the world was loud.
Back at our society gate, he slowed and switched on the hazard lights. He stepped out, opened my door, and held the umbrella over Adnan while I lifted him out. He didn’t ask to come up. “Text if you need medicines,” he said. “Or don’t text. Just-take care.” He waited till we reached the lobby, gave a small nod, and drove off.
He left. But a small warm feeling stayed inside me, even with all my rules.