23-03-2026, 09:39 PM
Chapter 37: The Two hours of Mess
Exactly two hours back she came.
The door got shut — not locked.
Suriya stood there — casual, smiling — as Anandhi stepped inside. She wore the soft green saree, the one that clung just enough when she moved, the pallu tucked neatly at her waist. Her hair was pinned loosely, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She looked around Surya’s flat — clean, sparse, masculine — and gave a small, nervous smile.
“Thanks for helping me out,” Suriya said, voice easy.
Anandhi raised an eyebrow — half-teasing, half-curious.
“You know how to cook, right? What happened now?”
Suriya shrugged — sheepish grin.
“I know the basics — rasam, dal. Sambar and all that… new. Today it was my treat, so I’m just making sure it should be better.”
Anandhi laughed softly — the sound light, unguarded — and stepped toward the kitchen.
“Then let me see what you’re doing wrong.”
She started suggesting — gentle instructions, pointing at the spice boxes, adjusting the flame, stirring the pot when he hesitated. Suriya purposely struggled — let the onions burn a little, asked “Is this enough salt?” — drawing her closer. Their bodies brushed — arm against arm, shoulder grazing shoulder — as they worked side by side. Cooking finished in an hour — sambar bubbling, rice steaming, the kitchen warm and fragrant.
Then the plan.
Suriya had already loosened the kitchen tap the night before — tied it with a thin, glossy rope hidden under the sink so it looked intact. As soon as they finished cooking, he “accidentally” tugged it while reaching for a spoon.
The tap broke.
Water sprayed — sudden, forceful — splashing both of them.
Suriya asked Anandhi to help him in closing the tap, but in t he attempt they got more drenched , when they fixed it.
Anandhi gasped — stepping back. The green saree soaked instantly — clinging to her skin, turning almost transparent over her white blouse. The fabric molded to her 34D breasts — shapes clearly visible, dark nipples outlined through the wet cloth. Water dripped from her hair, trailed down her neck, ran in rivulets between her cleavage.
She panicked — hands flying to cover herself — face flaming.
“I need to go—”
Suriya blocked her path — voice calm, concerned.
“Wait. There’s another person — a young fellow at home. Your appearance will give him unwanted ideas. Be here. Don’t go home like this.”
Anandhi froze — shy, furious, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
Suriya stepped closer.
“Stay here.”
He guided her — hand gentle on her elbow — toward his bedroom.
She resisted at first — but the water was cold, the saree heavy — she let him lead.
Inside — she stood near the bed — hiding herself with her arms, trembling.
Suriya opened the windows — warm air rushed in — then turned to her.
“Remove the clothes. Put them to dry.
Twenty-thirty minutes, they’ll be okay.”
Anandhi’s eyes widened.
She shook her head — voice small.
“I can’t… i cant change here, let me g o to house”
He Said no, do here.
Suriya grabbed a towel from the chair — offered it.
“Just dry yourself. I’ll step out.”
His tone and his authorativeness raised a doubt in her.
She took the towel — but threw it back at him.
Her eyes flashed — suspicion, fear.
“Suriya… your intention seems bad. Get away from me.” Im moving to my house.
Suriya’s face darkened — anger flaring suddenly, uncontrollably.
He didn’t know where it came from — the weeks of restraint, the constant wanting, the rejection in her tone.
He pushed her — hard.
She stumbled back, fell onto the bed.
He came over her, pinning her wrists above her head — body heavy on hers.
“Do you think you can escape my grip?” he growled.
Anandhi struggled,legs kicking, body twisting — but his strength was too much.
He leaned closer, voice low, dangerous. Like he was going to kiss her,
She turned her face in an attempt to fight
He said in her ears. “If my intention was your body… in the last four-five years I had so many chances. When you were alone. I never took them.”
Anandhi stopped struggling, the truth in his tone hitting her.
She stared up at him, face straight, confident — no tears, no fear now.
“Let me go.”
Suriya exhaled, anger draining, replaced by shame.
He rose, slowly, releasing her wrists.
But as he stood, his foot slipped on the wet floor.
He fell forward, hand shooting out to catch himself.
It landed on her breast — palm cupping the wet, soft mound through the soaked blouse.
They froze
second stretched
his fingers feeling the hard nipple beneath the fabric, her breath hitching sharply.
Suriya yanked his hand away — face burning.
“Sorry its its
accident — I just wanted to prove my point
but everything turned bad — I’m sorry.”
He backed away — voice solid, broken.
“Dry yourself. Go to your house.”
Anandhi sat up — pulled the wet saree tighter around herself — eyes hard.
She didn’t speak.
She walked past him, into the bathroom, closed the door.
Fifteen minutes later, she stormed out, saree still damp but re-wrapped, face set in fury.
She didn’t look at him.
She left.
Surya typed the message, sent it.
Looks I messed it Jeeva reads.
Exactly two hours back she came.
The door got shut — not locked.
Suriya stood there — casual, smiling — as Anandhi stepped inside. She wore the soft green saree, the one that clung just enough when she moved, the pallu tucked neatly at her waist. Her hair was pinned loosely, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She looked around Surya’s flat — clean, sparse, masculine — and gave a small, nervous smile.
“Thanks for helping me out,” Suriya said, voice easy.
Anandhi raised an eyebrow — half-teasing, half-curious.
“You know how to cook, right? What happened now?”
Suriya shrugged — sheepish grin.
“I know the basics — rasam, dal. Sambar and all that… new. Today it was my treat, so I’m just making sure it should be better.”
Anandhi laughed softly — the sound light, unguarded — and stepped toward the kitchen.
“Then let me see what you’re doing wrong.”
She started suggesting — gentle instructions, pointing at the spice boxes, adjusting the flame, stirring the pot when he hesitated. Suriya purposely struggled — let the onions burn a little, asked “Is this enough salt?” — drawing her closer. Their bodies brushed — arm against arm, shoulder grazing shoulder — as they worked side by side. Cooking finished in an hour — sambar bubbling, rice steaming, the kitchen warm and fragrant.
Then the plan.
Suriya had already loosened the kitchen tap the night before — tied it with a thin, glossy rope hidden under the sink so it looked intact. As soon as they finished cooking, he “accidentally” tugged it while reaching for a spoon.
The tap broke.
Water sprayed — sudden, forceful — splashing both of them.
Suriya asked Anandhi to help him in closing the tap, but in t he attempt they got more drenched , when they fixed it.
Anandhi gasped — stepping back. The green saree soaked instantly — clinging to her skin, turning almost transparent over her white blouse. The fabric molded to her 34D breasts — shapes clearly visible, dark nipples outlined through the wet cloth. Water dripped from her hair, trailed down her neck, ran in rivulets between her cleavage.
She panicked — hands flying to cover herself — face flaming.
“I need to go—”
Suriya blocked her path — voice calm, concerned.
“Wait. There’s another person — a young fellow at home. Your appearance will give him unwanted ideas. Be here. Don’t go home like this.”
Anandhi froze — shy, furious, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
Suriya stepped closer.
“Stay here.”
He guided her — hand gentle on her elbow — toward his bedroom.
She resisted at first — but the water was cold, the saree heavy — she let him lead.
Inside — she stood near the bed — hiding herself with her arms, trembling.
Suriya opened the windows — warm air rushed in — then turned to her.
“Remove the clothes. Put them to dry.
Twenty-thirty minutes, they’ll be okay.”
Anandhi’s eyes widened.
She shook her head — voice small.
“I can’t… i cant change here, let me g o to house”
He Said no, do here.
Suriya grabbed a towel from the chair — offered it.
“Just dry yourself. I’ll step out.”
His tone and his authorativeness raised a doubt in her.
She took the towel — but threw it back at him.
Her eyes flashed — suspicion, fear.
“Suriya… your intention seems bad. Get away from me.” Im moving to my house.
Suriya’s face darkened — anger flaring suddenly, uncontrollably.
He didn’t know where it came from — the weeks of restraint, the constant wanting, the rejection in her tone.
He pushed her — hard.
She stumbled back, fell onto the bed.
He came over her, pinning her wrists above her head — body heavy on hers.
“Do you think you can escape my grip?” he growled.
Anandhi struggled,legs kicking, body twisting — but his strength was too much.
He leaned closer, voice low, dangerous. Like he was going to kiss her,
She turned her face in an attempt to fight
He said in her ears. “If my intention was your body… in the last four-five years I had so many chances. When you were alone. I never took them.”
Anandhi stopped struggling, the truth in his tone hitting her.
She stared up at him, face straight, confident — no tears, no fear now.
“Let me go.”
Suriya exhaled, anger draining, replaced by shame.
He rose, slowly, releasing her wrists.
But as he stood, his foot slipped on the wet floor.
He fell forward, hand shooting out to catch himself.
It landed on her breast — palm cupping the wet, soft mound through the soaked blouse.
They froze
second stretched
his fingers feeling the hard nipple beneath the fabric, her breath hitching sharply.
Suriya yanked his hand away — face burning.
“Sorry its its
accident — I just wanted to prove my point
but everything turned bad — I’m sorry.”
He backed away — voice solid, broken.
“Dry yourself. Go to your house.”
Anandhi sat up — pulled the wet saree tighter around herself — eyes hard.
She didn’t speak.
She walked past him, into the bathroom, closed the door.
Fifteen minutes later, she stormed out, saree still damp but re-wrapped, face set in fury.
She didn’t look at him.
She left.
Surya typed the message, sent it.
Looks I messed it Jeeva reads.
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