Adultery Priya Didi

[shailu4ever]

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Priya’s breath slowed deliberately.
 
She kept her eyes on the dough even as awareness spread through her, of his nearness, of the warmth radiating from the pan, of the quiet way the air seemed to thicken when they stood too close.
 
Her fingers lingered on the dough a moment longer than necessary, savoring the tactile weight, the pliant texture, the faint vibration of energy in the kitchen.
 
"We’re doing this on purpose."
"Choosing closeness. Choosing control."
 
They fell into a rhythm.
She rolled.
He cooked.
She passed.
He flipped.
 
Each exchange brought them closer, not dramatically, not suddenly, but inch by inch, until the space between them felt intentional, charged with restraint rather than distance.
 
Flour dusted Ravi’s forearms. A faint smear marked Priya’s wrist.
 
Ordinary details, yet each one felt magnified, intimate. Even the subtle sounds of their movements, the scratch of rolling pin against counter, the soft scbang of pan on flame, the faint rustle of cloth, felt amplified, woven into the quiet tapestry of shared presence.
 
“You always make them this thin,” he said quietly.
She smiled, just a little.
“My mother said chapatis should be soft enough to fold without breaking.”
 
He glanced at her.
“And strong enough to hold everything inside?”
 
She met his eyes then.
Yes, her look said.
Exactly that.
 
They looked away at the same time.
 
More chapatis stacked on the plate, one after another, warm and waiting. The task stretched on longer than necessary, neither of them rushing it. Each finished piece felt like a small victory of restraint.
 
"We’re managing."
"We’re still managing."
 
By the time the last portion of dough was rolled, the kitchen was warm, scented with cooked bread and something else, something quieter, deeper, that hummed between them.
 
The subtle heat of the room brushed their skin, carrying with it the weight of unspoken acknowledgment, the tiny surge of longing they both resisted but could not ignore.
 
Priya reached for the final chapati. Her movements slowed, deliberate. The dough felt heavier under her hands, pliant yet resistant, each press echoing a heartbeat she hadn’t noticed until now.
 
Ravi’s chest tightened, the ache of anticipation threading through him, each moment stretching longer, sweetly unbearable.
 
He finished cooking the last chapati, set it aside, and turned off the stove. The sudden quiet was almost shocking, the absence of sizzle, the pause after motion.

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