08-02-2026, 11:11 PM
Chapter 75 – The First Hot Hug
The bedroom was bathed in the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp. Mirnaa sat near the edge of the bed — lavender nighty slipping slightly off one shoulder, the thin cotton clinging to the gentle swell of her breasts with every slow breath. She had just come from Vikram’s room, AirPod discreetly in her left ear, heart beating too fast.
She looked at Bharath — slumped on the edge of the guest bed, head bowed, shoulders heavy with the weight he carried (or pretended to carry).
“Bharath,” she whispered.
He looked up — eyes red-rimmed, glycerin tears still glistening on his lashes.
Mirnaa patted the bed beside her.
“Sit here.”
Bharath moved slowly — deliberate, broken — and sat near her.
Close enough that their thighs almost touched.
The mattress dipped under his weight.
Mirnaa swallowed. Her voice was soft, trembling slightly.
“Bharath… we have been friends even for a few days. I know how good you are. Whatever bothers you — share it with us. If you feel me as a friend… then tell me. I will hear.”
Bharath looked at her — long, wounded gaze.
He started — voice low, cracking at the edges.
“I have been like this… ever since my family betrayed me. I consoled myself. I never allowed anyone near me.”
He paused — throat working.
“I had my kid. Though I’m not the biological father… I took care more than anyone. Whenever I’m down… I play with her. I hug her. That relaxes me.”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“After they took her away from me…”
He choked — a crafted collapse — shoulders shaking, head dropping forward.
“Who’s there for me?”
Mirnaa’s heart clenched. She felt really bad — no words came at first.
Mirnaa hesitated — then slowly reached out. Her palm rested on his shoulder — warm, tentative. She patted gently.
“Mmm…” she murmured — just enough for Vikram to hear.
Mirnaa slid her hand down — fingers brushing his — then took his hand in hers. She squeezed lightly.
“Just now I said, right? We are friends. We are with you.”
She looked at him — eyes soft, earnest.
“Why don’t you consider me…?”
She paused.
“See… I’m all ears. Tell me. Vent out your sorrows.”
Bharath looked at her — eyes watery (fresh glycerin drop timed perfectly).
He swallowed — visibly.
“I will,” he said.
He began — slow, broken.
“All started seven years back.
I was deeply in love with Manya. Her father worked below my father. My father has a big empire running.”
Mirnaa listened — breath shallow.
“One day they got to know I was in love with her. They strategically split her from me. They didn’t stop there — they took her and made her father marry her off to someone from my father’s company.”
His voice cracked.
“I was broken. They didn’t leave me. They married me to someone richer. But she was already in love with someone… had a baby when she married me. I didn’t know. Months later I found out she was pregnant. I didn’t consummate my marriage with her because of Manya… I needed space. But this was outright insult.”
He paused — eyes distant.
“But ever since the kid was born… I happily took the role of father. The woman I married started liking me… but I was in no mood. The colleague started an affair with her. I saw them together. But they pinned it on me and the colleague’s wife. With betrayal I fought. I proved I was clean. But to revenge me… they took the kid.”
Mirnaa’s eyes filled — tears brimming.
Bharath continued — voice dropping.
“I escaped the issue… decided to start fresh. But soon another trouble loomed. When Manya’s husband got into accident — as it happened inside the company — she started believing I orchestrated it due to jealousy.”
He looked at Mirnaa — eyes pleading.
“Mirnaa… tell me… what will you do when your loved one says you did something… when you actually never did it?”
Mirnaa’s tears spilled over. She realized — there was so much common between Vikram and Bharath. Both betrayed. Both misunderstood. Both carrying invisible wounds.
What Mirna doesnt know is this is Bhrath's calculated game to make a similarities.
She softened completely.
Bharath had pulled another drop of glycerin when she looked away.
He whispered — voice breaking.
“And today… today… she called me a sex maniac.”
The tear dropped — heavy, slow.
Mirnaa gasped softly. “Acho… why are you crying, Bharath? It’s okay… it’s done. We know you.”
Mirnaa wrapped her arms around his shoulders — warm, enveloping, her palms pressing flat against the back of his shirt. The lavender nighty rode up slightly as she leaned in, the thin cotton sliding against her thighs. She held him like she was cradling something fragile, something that might break if she let go too soon.
Bharath let himself sink into her.
His chin came to rest on the soft curve of her neck — the exact spot where her pulse fluttered beneath warm skin. He inhaled slowly, deliberately, drawing in the faint scent of her jasmine shampoo mixed with the clean, feminine warmth of her body.
His arms slid around her waist — not tight, not possessive yet — just enough to feel the gentle dip above her hips, the subtle give of her flesh under his palms.
He pulled her closer — fraction by fraction — until the soft, heavy press of her breasts flattened against his chest. Through the thin fabric of her nighty, he could feel everything: the slight bounce as she breathed, the pebbled tips of her nipples hardening against him (whether from nerves or the sudden closeness, he didn’t care). The heat of her body seeped into his shirt, branding him.
Mirnaa didn’t notice.
She was lost in his story — in the pain he painted, in the tears still sliding down his cheeks (fresh glycerin drop timed perfectly). Her own eyes were wet, her breathing uneven with sympathy. She tightened her hold — one hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair. The other arm stayed locked around his shoulders, unconsciously pressing her chest even more firmly against him.
Bharath’s hands began to move — slow, almost imperceptible.
His right palm drifted lower — tracing the small of her back, following the natural inward curve just above her tailbone. His fingers splayed wide — warm, possessive — feeling the delicate ridge of her spine through the nighty. Then — bolder — his thumb brushed the side swell of her breast, a feather-light graze disguised as comfort.
Mirnaa didn’t flinch.
She was too deep in his words, in the choked “why no one sees the good in me,” in the sob that shook his shoulders against her. Her own sob hitched in response — soft, muffled against his neck.
Bharath’s left hand mirrored the movement — sliding up her side, stopping just under her armpit. His thumb circled once — slow, deliberate — brushing the underside curve of her breast. The nighty fabric was so thin he could feel the heat of her skin, the slight tremor as her nipple tightened further from the contact.
He closed his eyes — ecstasy flickering behind the glycerin tears.
Memories flooded back — the hospital room, months ago, her body falling forward during that accidental moment, her breast pressing full and warm against his face for those five endless seconds. The memory was vivid: the softness, the weight, the faint floral scent of her skin. Now it was happening again — slower, deliberate, under the guise of comfort.
His cock stirred — thickening against the inside of his thigh — but he kept his hips angled away. Control. Always control.
They remained still — her holding him, his head against her neck, her scent filling his lungs. His hands stayed where they were — one splayed on her lower back, the other resting just under the swell of her breast — thumbs making the tiniest, slowest circles.
Vikram — listening through the AirPod — heard only soft breathing, the rustle of fabric, the faint hitch of Mirnaa’s sob.
He didn’t know how close they were.
He didn’t know Bharath’s palms were mapping her body.
He didn’t know Bharath was smiling — slow, victorious — against her skin.
The hug lasted longer than either of them expected.
And Bharath drank in every second.
The stage was set.
And the performance was only beginning.
The bedroom was bathed in the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp. Mirnaa sat near the edge of the bed — lavender nighty slipping slightly off one shoulder, the thin cotton clinging to the gentle swell of her breasts with every slow breath. She had just come from Vikram’s room, AirPod discreetly in her left ear, heart beating too fast.
She looked at Bharath — slumped on the edge of the guest bed, head bowed, shoulders heavy with the weight he carried (or pretended to carry).
“Bharath,” she whispered.
He looked up — eyes red-rimmed, glycerin tears still glistening on his lashes.
Mirnaa patted the bed beside her.
“Sit here.”
Bharath moved slowly — deliberate, broken — and sat near her.
Close enough that their thighs almost touched.
The mattress dipped under his weight.
Mirnaa swallowed. Her voice was soft, trembling slightly.
“Bharath… we have been friends even for a few days. I know how good you are. Whatever bothers you — share it with us. If you feel me as a friend… then tell me. I will hear.”
Vikram’s voice came through the AirPod — calm, guiding.
“Well done, Mirnaa. Continue.”
Bharath looked at her — long, wounded gaze.
He started — voice low, cracking at the edges.
“I have been like this… ever since my family betrayed me. I consoled myself. I never allowed anyone near me.”
He paused — throat working.
“I had my kid. Though I’m not the biological father… I took care more than anyone. Whenever I’m down… I play with her. I hug her. That relaxes me.”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“After they took her away from me…”
He choked — a crafted collapse — shoulders shaking, head dropping forward.
“Who’s there for me?”
Mirnaa’s heart clenched. She felt really bad — no words came at first.
Vikram’s voice — quiet in her ear:
“Pat his shoulder.”
Mirnaa hesitated — then slowly reached out. Her palm rested on his shoulder — warm, tentative. She patted gently.
“Mmm…” she murmured — just enough for Vikram to hear.
Vikram: “Take his hand. Tell him we are with you.”
Mirnaa slid her hand down — fingers brushing his — then took his hand in hers. She squeezed lightly.
“Just now I said, right? We are friends. We are with you.”
She looked at him — eyes soft, earnest.
“Why don’t you consider me…?”
She paused.
“See… I’m all ears. Tell me. Vent out your sorrows.”
Bharath looked at her — eyes watery (fresh glycerin drop timed perfectly).
He swallowed — visibly.
“I will,” he said.
He began — slow, broken.
“All started seven years back.
I was deeply in love with Manya. Her father worked below my father. My father has a big empire running.”
Mirnaa listened — breath shallow.
“One day they got to know I was in love with her. They strategically split her from me. They didn’t stop there — they took her and made her father marry her off to someone from my father’s company.”
His voice cracked.
“I was broken. They didn’t leave me. They married me to someone richer. But she was already in love with someone… had a baby when she married me. I didn’t know. Months later I found out she was pregnant. I didn’t consummate my marriage with her because of Manya… I needed space. But this was outright insult.”
He paused — eyes distant.
“But ever since the kid was born… I happily took the role of father. The woman I married started liking me… but I was in no mood. The colleague started an affair with her. I saw them together. But they pinned it on me and the colleague’s wife. With betrayal I fought. I proved I was clean. But to revenge me… they took the kid.”
Mirnaa’s eyes filled — tears brimming.
Bharath continued — voice dropping.
“I escaped the issue… decided to start fresh. But soon another trouble loomed. When Manya’s husband got into accident — as it happened inside the company — she started believing I orchestrated it due to jealousy.”
He looked at Mirnaa — eyes pleading.
“Mirnaa… tell me… what will you do when your loved one says you did something… when you actually never did it?”
Mirnaa’s tears spilled over. She realized — there was so much common between Vikram and Bharath. Both betrayed. Both misunderstood. Both carrying invisible wounds.
What Mirna doesnt know is this is Bhrath's calculated game to make a similarities.
She softened completely.
Bharath had pulled another drop of glycerin when she looked away.
He whispered — voice breaking.
“And today… today… she called me a sex maniac.”
The tear dropped — heavy, slow.
Mirnaa gasped softly. “Acho… why are you crying, Bharath? It’s okay… it’s done. We know you.”
Vikram’s voice — calm, commanding:
“Hug him, Mirnaa.”
Mirnaa hesitated — only for a heartbeat.Mirnaa wrapped her arms around his shoulders — warm, enveloping, her palms pressing flat against the back of his shirt. The lavender nighty rode up slightly as she leaned in, the thin cotton sliding against her thighs. She held him like she was cradling something fragile, something that might break if she let go too soon.
Bharath let himself sink into her.
His chin came to rest on the soft curve of her neck — the exact spot where her pulse fluttered beneath warm skin. He inhaled slowly, deliberately, drawing in the faint scent of her jasmine shampoo mixed with the clean, feminine warmth of her body.
His arms slid around her waist — not tight, not possessive yet — just enough to feel the gentle dip above her hips, the subtle give of her flesh under his palms.
He pulled her closer — fraction by fraction — until the soft, heavy press of her breasts flattened against his chest. Through the thin fabric of her nighty, he could feel everything: the slight bounce as she breathed, the pebbled tips of her nipples hardening against him (whether from nerves or the sudden closeness, he didn’t care). The heat of her body seeped into his shirt, branding him.
Mirnaa didn’t notice.
She was lost in his story — in the pain he painted, in the tears still sliding down his cheeks (fresh glycerin drop timed perfectly). Her own eyes were wet, her breathing uneven with sympathy. She tightened her hold — one hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair. The other arm stayed locked around his shoulders, unconsciously pressing her chest even more firmly against him.
Bharath’s hands began to move — slow, almost imperceptible.
His right palm drifted lower — tracing the small of her back, following the natural inward curve just above her tailbone. His fingers splayed wide — warm, possessive — feeling the delicate ridge of her spine through the nighty. Then — bolder — his thumb brushed the side swell of her breast, a feather-light graze disguised as comfort.
Mirnaa didn’t flinch.
She was too deep in his words, in the choked “why no one sees the good in me,” in the sob that shook his shoulders against her. Her own sob hitched in response — soft, muffled against his neck.
Bharath’s left hand mirrored the movement — sliding up her side, stopping just under her armpit. His thumb circled once — slow, deliberate — brushing the underside curve of her breast. The nighty fabric was so thin he could feel the heat of her skin, the slight tremor as her nipple tightened further from the contact.
He closed his eyes — ecstasy flickering behind the glycerin tears.
Memories flooded back — the hospital room, months ago, her body falling forward during that accidental moment, her breast pressing full and warm against his face for those five endless seconds. The memory was vivid: the softness, the weight, the faint floral scent of her skin. Now it was happening again — slower, deliberate, under the guise of comfort.
His cock stirred — thickening against the inside of his thigh — but he kept his hips angled away. Control. Always control.
They remained still — her holding him, his head against her neck, her scent filling his lungs. His hands stayed where they were — one splayed on her lower back, the other resting just under the swell of her breast — thumbs making the tiniest, slowest circles.
Vikram — listening through the AirPod — heard only soft breathing, the rustle of fabric, the faint hitch of Mirnaa’s sob.
He didn’t know how close they were.
He didn’t know Bharath’s palms were mapping her body.
He didn’t know Bharath was smiling — slow, victorious — against her skin.
The hug lasted longer than either of them expected.
And Bharath drank in every second.
The stage was set.
And the performance was only beginning.
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