Adultery Between Nabila and Ranjeet

[naj0501]

We drove through quieter streets for about ten minutes from the hall until we reached his neighbourhood. The area looked peaceful, with new apartment blocks standing tall. Wide balconies jutted out from each floor, and old leafy trees lined the road. His building was newly built, simple but neat, with a small garden at the entrance. The watchman nodded at Ranjeet like they were old acquaintances.
In the lift to the fourteenth floor, we exchanged small talk about the evening, our voices still carrying traces of the party’s energy. When he opened the door of his flat, I stepped into a space that felt calm and warm – cream walls, a dark brown sofa, a low wooden coffee table, and a tall floor lamp casting a soft glow. On a shelf sat framed photos – landscapes, group shots, and one of a smiling little girl. The faint mix of floor cleaner and woody cologne hung in the air.
“This is nice,” I said.
“Not much, but it’s home. Please, sit. I’ll make us some coffee.”
I sank into the sofa, feeling the smooth fabric and soft cushions. My saree settled around me, the chiffon brushing lightly against my skin, pleats spread over my legs, pallu trailing along my arm in the lamplight. From the open kitchen came the sound of water boiling and the gentle clink of a spoon.
He returned with two steaming cups. “Here. Careful, it’s hot.”
I sipped. “You make good coffee.”
“A survival skill,” he smiled. “For late nights.”
“Rajiv kept forgetting names!” he laughed.
“And you clapped so loudly when your team got an award!” I teased.
“Proud moment,” he grinned.
We laughed about Meera’s near-trip on stage and the country head mixing up designations. “Talking to you feels so easy,” I said.
“Like old friends,” he agreed, eyes warm.
“But with something… extra,” I added.
“Something we both feel,” he said softly.
Without breaking the mood, he picked up his phone. “Want to see some pics from tonight?”
I leaned in. Group shots, candid moments – and me, in almost every frame.
“You were following me,” I teased.
“Not following – focusing on the best part of the evening,” he said.
“Smooth talker. Flattery won’t get you dessert.”
“I’m not after dessert… I’m after catching the real smile hiding in these pictures.”
“Careful, you’re sounding rehearsed.”
“With you, Nabila, I don’t need rehearsal.”
"Your daughter?" I asked looking towards a framed photo on the wall opposite to us.
"Yes, Anaya. Lives with my parents in Goa.”
“She’s lovely.”
“She is. Lost her mother too soon. I visit whenever I can.”
I told him about Adnan’s cricket coaching sessions.
"He runs faster than all the other friends," I said, smiling, "but half the time he misses the ball completely. Still, he throws his hands up like he’s just won the World Cup."
Ranjeet laughed. "That’s the spirit!"
"Or the drama," I chuckled. "At home, he hides my phone in the laundry basket, or switches sugar with salt just to see my face."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Does he get that mischief from you?"
"Maybe," I said, tilting my head, "maybe not."
"I think he does," he grinned. "I can see where he gets his smile from too."
"Flatterer," I said, shaking my head.
He kept nodding, asking little questions about Adnan’s friends, his study, his favourite games, laughing warmly at the right moments, his smile lingering as if he could see every scene in his mind.
Our laughter slowly gave way to a softer quiet, the kind that made you more aware of the person sitting across from you. I noticed his gaze holding mine for a fraction longer, his smile gentler now. The shift was almost unspoken, but I felt it – the conversation moving from the safety of family stories to something more personal.
“Seeing you in that saree tonight… I forgot we were in a crowd,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked. And how much I missed talking to you.”
“Maybe you should have.”
“Maybe I saved it for now,” he replied, holding my gaze.
I set my cup down. The room felt warmer.
“Are you glad you came?” he asked.
“More than I thought I would.”
His slow smile told me the night was far from over.
He leaned a little closer. “You have no idea how hard it was to not touch your hand during the dinner.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And now?”
“Now,” he said softly, “I’m not holding back.” His fingers brushed mine, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver up my arm.
I didn’t move away. “You’re getting bold, Ranjeet.”
“Maybe I’ve been bold all along. Tonight just gave me the chance.”
Our words slowed, the silences filled with glances that spoke louder. When his hand gently closed around mine, his palm was warm and his grip firm yet tender, his thumb slowly stroking the side of my fingers as if testing my comfort, I felt my breath catch. Neither of us spoke for a few seconds.
“You make it hard to think straight,” I murmured.
“That’s exactly how you make me feel,” he replied, his voice low.
When he finally leaned in, our conversation melted into quiet closeness, the kind that made the rest of the night blur into warmth and touch.