[SilverArrow]

They stepped into the hallway and pulled Rakesh’s door mostly closed behind them. The flat was still quiet. Morning light had begun to strengthen through the living-room curtains, catching the dust motes in the air. Monica adjusted the belt of her robe once more; the fresh bra straps sat neat under the thin fabric, but every small movement still reminded her of the faint bruises beneath. The residual soreness between her legs was a steady, private pulse.

Ranga spoke first, voice low and practical, as if the night had never happened.

“I’ll go to the municipal office today. Deshmukh has been fooling around with the file long enough. Another week of this and the whole café timeline collapses.”

Monica glanced at him, already turning toward the kitchen.

“Then tell him clearly what we want. No more polite delays, no more ‘I’ll look into it.’ We can’t keep waiting like this for eternity. The project is stuck because of him, and I’m not in the mood for another round of excuses.”

“I’ll deal with it,” Ranga said. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, watching her. “He understands pressure when it’s applied the right way. I’ve handled men like him before.”

Monica gave a short nod, the practical side of her already sorting the day into clean compartments.

“Good. Just don’t create a bigger problem than the one we already have. We need the file cleared, not a war.”

She continued into the kitchen. Ranga followed as far as the doorway and stayed there, arms loosely crossed. Monica opened the fridge. The cold air brushed her bare calves under the robe. She took out eggs, the packet of bread, and the small steel container of leftover sabzi from the previous night. She set them on the counter with efficient, slightly sharp movements, then spoke without looking at him, voice dropping so it would not carry toward Rakesh’s room.

“I’m making breakfast, then I’m going for a proper shower. I stink, Ranga. Your cum is still all over me. I can feel it. I need to wash every bit of it off before I leave this house and sit in front of the client.”

Ranga’s mouth curved. The amusement was quiet and unmistakable.

“It’s dried by now. Stuck to your skin in places. Especially between your legs. And your tits still look red from last night— hope you are not hurt.”

Monica shot him a flat look over her shoulder, the wooden spoon already in her hand.

“Shut up, Ranga. Don't distract me. This client meeting is important and I am not even half prepared for it!”

He only looked more entertained. The small smile stayed.

“When is the meeting? What’s it about?”

“Eleven-thirty.” Monica cracked two eggs into a bowl with sharp, precise movements. The shells went into the bin with a short clatter. “These guys are coming from Jaipur ... I don't even know how my manager got me into this project..Just a random decision he always ends up making... nothing surprising.”

Ranga nodded once, still watching her whisk the eggs.

“Good. Wear something nice. The navy one you wore last month looked good on you.”

Monica gave him a dismissive glance as she reached for the bread and dropped two slices into the toaster.

“I’ll see. I’m not dressing for your approval.”

She switched on the stove, set a pan down, and poured a little oil. The ordinary smell of heating oil and toast began to fill the kitchen. She moved through the motions— eggs scrambled with quick flicks of the wrist, sabzi reheated, toast buttered— with the same efficient, slightly sharp energy she used for everything else. The domestic routine sat in sharp contrast to the wrecked bed two doors away and the residual stickiness she could still feel on her inner thighs under the fresh panties.

Ranga remained in the doorway a moment longer, the small satisfied curve still on his mouth.

“You want me to take the plate in to him?”

“No.” Monica plated the food with neat precision— eggs, toast, a portion of sabzi— and set it on the dining table with a glass of water and the morning medicines already arranged beside it. “I’ll do it. You stay out of that room unless he calls. The less he sees us moving around together this morning, the better.”

She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, then turned toward the bathroom.

As she passed the living room she spoke without slowing down, voice still carrying the same dry edge.

“I’m going to shower. Don’t go back into the master bedroom until the maid has been and gone. The bed is a disaster— sheets, everything. I’ll deal with it later. And if the maid asks why the room looks like that, I’ll handle it. You say nothing.”

Ranga, already seated on the sofa with his phone in hand, looked up.

“Understood.”

Monica stepped into the bathroom, closed the door, and locked it with a deliberate click. The sound of the shower starting filled the small space. Under the hot water the dried evidence of the night began to wash away— the residual stickiness on her inner thighs, the faint salt of dried cum on her skin, the lingering scent of him that still clung to her. She stood under the spray longer than necessary, eyes closed, letting the heat work on the aches he had left in her body: the deep soreness between her legs, the tender pull of the marks on her breasts, the faint bruise of fingerprints on her hips.

She washed thoroughly, methodically, the same way she handled everything else— until the water ran clear and the only thing left was the ordinary scent of her own soap. When she finally stepped out, wrapped in a towel, the flat was still quiet except for the low sound of Ranga’s voice on a phone call in the living room. The domestic morning continued— ordinary on the surface, thick with everything unfinished beneath it.