Adultery Between Nabila and Ranjeet

[naj0501]

Based on true events.
This is not just a story—it's a piece of my soul.
I've done my best to be as honest and raw as possible in every word I've written. This is my very first attempt at putting my feelings into words, so I ask for your understanding if you come across any flaws or imperfections.
I'm not trying to craft a perfect narrative. I’m simply pouring my heart out—just the way I felt it, the way I lived it.While the emotions and experiences shared here are real, the names of people and places have been changed.

===================
The dough rested under a muslin cloth on the counter, its surface smooth and still as if sleeping, while the last flicker of flame on the stove gave one final sigh before going out. The warmth of the kitchen lingered in the air, a mixture of cardamom, onions, and freshly kneaded flour. I had just turned the knob off and was reaching for the towel when his voice cut through the hush.


"Nabila!"

It was jarring—sharp and thunderous. The kind of tone that didn’t just travel through walls, but wedged itself into your spine.
My breath hitched. The serenity of the kitchen collapsed like a house of cards. I stood frozen for a moment, the rhythm of my evening shattered. Then slowly, methodically, I wiped my damp hands on the edge of the towel hanging by the sink.

The cloth felt rougher than usual, or maybe it was my skin, suddenly sensitive with tension. I swallowed hard, my shoulders tensing, my body already anticipating the storm that would follow. I didn’t reply. Not yet. I needed one more breath.

One more quiet moment before I walked into the fire.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment before answering, trying to still the sudden rush of dread in my chest.

"Kya hua?" I called back, trying to sound even.

But he didn’t respond with words—he stormed into the kitchen, phone clenched in his hand, his face already tense.

"Mummy ne bataya—tumne apni maa ko bula liya party mein?" he snapped.

I turned slowly to face him, my hands already dry from moments earlier, now nervously clasped in front of me. My voice stayed calm.

"Haan. Adnan unhe miss karta hai. Roz unka naam leta hai. Birthday pe unka hona zaroori tha."

He scoffed and stepped closer. "Miss karta hai? Toh main kya hoon? Main uska baap hoon, Nabila! Aur main keh raha hoon ke woh is ghar mein nahi aayengi."

I met his eyes squarely. "Tum yeh sirf isliye keh rahe ho kyunki tumhari maa unse baat nahi karti. Woh meri maa hain. Aur jab Papa guzre the, unhone hi mujhe sambhala tha. Mere liye woh sirf maa nahi, mera sahara hain, Asif. Main duniya ke liye kisi bhi rishte se samjhauta kar sakti hoon—lekin apni maa se nahi."

His jaw tightened. "Mujhe ghanta farak nahi padta. Mujhe yeh drama nahi chahiye. Abhi phone uthao. Unhe call karke mana karo."

I stared at him in disbelief. "Aaj? Adnan ke birthday wale din? Bina kisi wajah ke? Sirf kyunki tumhari maa ko problem hai?"

He stepped in closer, close enough that I could smell the sharp sting of his cologne mixed with bitterness.

"Tu har baat mein meri maa ke saamne jaane lagi hai. Tujhme itni himmat kaise aayi?"

My fists clenched at my sides. "Main kisi ke saamne nahi jaa rahi. Main sirf itna keh rahi hoon ke meri maa mere liye important hain. Main unka apmaan nahi kar sakti."

He slammed his palm on the counter, the noise cracking through the kitchen and making a spoon clatter to the floor.

"Phone uthao, Nabila. Abhi. Warna main party mein kadam bhi nahi rakhunga."

My throat tightened. "Tumhe zara si bhi sharam nahi aati, Asif? Aaj tumhare bete ka birthday hai. Ek din bhi… ek din bhi tum normal behave nahi kar sakte?"

His nostrils flared. "Main kisi natak ka hissa nahi banunga."

"Asif, please," I said, trying to soften my tone. "Chhoti si baat hai. Main manage kar loongi. Tum bas—"

He was already grabbing his keys off the fridge.

"Main keh raha hoon, agar woh aayi toh main nahi aayega. Samajh gayi na?"

I followed him to the door, reaching for his arm. "Asif, ruk jao. Adnan pura din tumhara intezaar karega. Woh poochega tum kahan ho."

He shrugged my hand off as if I were a stranger. His face was cold.

"Tumhari maa se problem tumhari hai. Tum suljhao. Main nahi aa raha."

And then, with a final glance that held no emotion, he opened the door and slammed it shut.
The sound echoed. Long after he left.

I stood frozen, hand still half-raised, staring at the empty space he’d just walked out of.

My hands were clean. But inside… I felt covered in ash.

The kitchen felt like a void now—no longer warm with the scent of spices, but hollow with silence. I leaned back against the counter, arms folded tightly across my chest, as if trying to hold myself together.

I thought of Ammi—her gentle voice, her steady presence, the way she never raised her tone even in the worst of times. She had always been my rock. Ever since Papa’s illness, she had stood by me, unshaken, even when the rest of the world slipped away.

But for Asif’s mother, that kindness was never enough. From the very beginning, there was a quiet wariness—an unspoken discomfort that only grew over time. She was narrow-minded, deeply conservative, and prided herself on traditional values that left no room for a woman like me. She didn’t like how close I was to my own mother, didn’t like how much I relied on her advice, and certainly didn’t approve of the fact that I chose to work.

She made cutting remarks under the guise of casual conversation—“Humare yahan bahu ghar sambhalti hai, naukri nahi karti,” or “Teri maa ne tujhe kuch zyada hi azadi de rakhi hai.” To her, my education, my independence, my opinions—all of it was a threat.

 Ammi’s poise, her calm intellect, her quiet refusal to bow down to anyone—it unsettled her. She preferred silence, obedience, control. And I, raised by a woman who taught me to stand for myself, didn’t fit that mold.

What she really wanted was another version of herself—a silent, pliable shadow. But I had a voice. And worse, I used it.
The breaking point came one winter evening, a few months into our marriage. Asif and I had a terrible fight—one of those soul-cutting ones that leave you in tears long after the words have stopped. I’d called Ammi, unable to hold it in. She didn’t ask questions. She came straight to pick me up. When Asif’s mother came home and found I had left without her permission, she called Ammi names over the phone—accused her of meddling in her son’s marriage.

Ammi, who had swallowed so many insults before for my sake, didn’t that day. She quietly said, "Apni beti ka saath dena agar galat hai, toh haan, main galat hoon."

Since then, the two women hadn’t exchanged a single word.
And Asif? He never questioned it. He never stood up. In fact, with every passing year, he began to mirror her more. He stopped listening to me, started second-guessing everything I did, because "Mummy ne kaha hai…" He had become her voice, her will, her echo. My husband in name, but her son in loyalty.

And in the past few months, he’d become colder—distant glances, irritation at the smallest things, as if my very presence agitated him. No affection, no warmth. Just a running tally of disappointments I had somehow caused.

And now, this… this explosion over a simple invitation to my mother.
It wasn’t just about today. It was everything that had led to today.

We had been married for six years. I was barely twenty-one when I became his wife—young, hopeful, still trying to understand what love was supposed to feel like. He was thirty-two then, mature on paper but already too tied to the apron strings of a mother who had no room in her world for another woman in his life.

Now I was twenty-seven, a mother myself. And our son—our sweet, gentle Adnan—was old enough and already too familiar with tension hanging in the air like an extra piece of furniture.

The age gap between Asif and me had once seemed insignificant. Now it felt like a canyon filled with years of silence, control, and missed chances to meet in the middle.

And now, years of tension had boiled over into this—on my child’s birthday.

I looked at the dough on the counter. Still resting, still patient. Everything else had turned cold.
I stood there, alone—not just in the kitchen, but in the marriage.

From the living room, I heard a tiny, chirpy voice rise above the silence—
"Mumma… meri car kahan hai?"

It felt like the first sound of sunlight after a storm.

I stepped out of the kitchen, forcing a smile to my lips, though it stretched across my face like fabric too tight across a wound. "Drawer mein dekho, beta. Neeche waala," I replied gently, my voice soft enough to not tremble.

Adnan didn’t even look up. He nodded distractedly and scurried across the room, digging through the drawer with the urgent focus only a child can have. He was humming to himself, already drifting away from the question he had just asked.

I paused in the doorway, watching him quietly.
He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, toys scattered around him like confetti—plastic action figures, building blocks and what not. He roamed a blue race car across the floor.

The way he laughed—freely, wildly, like the world was made only of joy and nothing else—was enough to both warm and shatter me.
He didn’t know.

He didn’t know that his father had just walked out the door. He didn’t know about the tension, the slammed words, the cracked walls of our fragile home. He didn’t see the heaviness in my eyes or feel the weight I carried in my chest.

And thank God for that.

His innocence was a fragile, glowing thing—untouched by ego, bitterness, or the bruises elders pass down without meaning to. For a moment, I just stood there, soaking in his laughter, letting it wrap around my heart like a warm bandage.

Maybe, for today, he didn’t need to know what had broken. Maybe, for today, I could hold it all together just long enough for him to believe everything was okay.

Just one more day of pretending. Just one more day of being strong.
For him.

[naj0501]

I walked back into the kitchen and picked up my phone from the counter.

I unlocked it and opened Ranjeet’s chat—but paused.

The blinking cursor stared back at me like it could read my hesitation. This wasn’t just a message. This was me cracking open a quiet part of myself. And somehow, despite everything, he was the only one I wanted to talk to.

Ranjeet—my manager. My boss. And, over time, my quietest friend. Thirty-two, composed, reliable to a fault. Sharp in meetings, respectful in tone, always the first to defend a team member when something went wrong. But behind all that formality, he had something else—kindness. The quiet kind. The rare kind. And lately, the only kind I trusted.

I typed: “He left.”

My thumb hovered. Then, backspace.

I exhaled and tried again:

“Asif walked out. We fought again. This time because I invited my Ammi. It’s Adnan’s birthday, Ranjeet… and he still made it about his mother. About control. I’m trying to hold it together but I… I just needed to talk to someone who wouldn’t make me feel stupid for needing help.”

I read the message again. Then hit send.

The message had barely been delivered before my phone began to vibrate. Ranjeet.

For a split second, I panicked. My face was blotchy. My voice would crack. But I swiped to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, softer. “I was just about to text you. Actually, I called to ask something work-related, but… are you okay?”

I sat down heavily on the nearest chair. My knees felt like they didn’t belong to me.

“No,” I whispered. “He left. It’s Adnan’s birthday. He just… left.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Nabila, I’m… really sorry. I don’t know what to say except—this shouldn’t be happening to you. Not today. Not ever.”

I swallowed. “He said he wouldn’t stay if Ammi was in the house. Like she’s some kind of threat. Like she hasn’t already kept herself small just to avoid conflict.”

Ranjeet exhaled, his voice laced with quiet anger. “That’s not right. None of this is. You invited your mother. For your son’s birthday. That’s love. That’s normal. What he’s doing… that’s not love. That’s control.”

A lump formed in my throat.

“I wasn’t going to message anyone,” I confessed. “I didn’t want to explain it all. I didn’t want to feel judged.”

“You’re not judged. Not here,” he said quickly. “And if I’m being honest… I’m glad you messaged me.”

That made me pause. “Really?”

“Of course,” he replied. “You’ve always shown up for everyone else. You deserve someone to show up for you too.”

I didn’t respond right away. My throat was too tight.

Then he added gently, “You don’t have to talk. I can stay on the line. You can just breathe. I’ll be right here.”

“Just for a bit,” I whispered.

And he stayed. No work. No pressure.

Just his voice. His breath. A quiet presence on the other side of the line.

And for the first time that morning, I didn’t feel like I was breaking alone.

Then he asked calmly, as if offering something without pushing, "Do you want me to come early? I’ll help you set up. Balloons, cake, whatever you need. You don’t have to handle this alone."

My fingers trembled slightly as I held the phone. His words, so simple and kind, cracked something open inside me. I walked slowly to the bedroom and sat at the edge of the bed.

Then he asked again, more softly this time, "Are you there?"

I let out a shaky breath. My throat tightened as a single tear escaped down my cheek. I wiped it away before it could fall any farther, swallowing the lump rising in my chest.

I stared at the wall for a long moment before speaking:

“Thanks. It would be a great help.”

The reply came within seconds.

“Welcome.”

I didn’t move. Just sat there, still clutching the phone, breathing in the silence around me. But something had shifted. I wasn’t okay—not yet. But help was on the way.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

It was mid-afternoon, a little after lunch, when the doorbell rang.

I wiped my hands on a napkin and hurried to the door, the sound sending a ripple through my chest—part anxiety, part comfort.

When I opened it, there he was.

Ranjeet, in jeans and a dark olive T-shirt, a small bag hanging from one hand. His hair was slightly tousled like he'd stepped out in a hurry after lunch, but his eyes—when they met mine—were steady. Warm. The kind that didn’t ask questions but offered presence.

“Salaam,” he said, his voice soft, respectful.

“Namaste,” I murmured, and the weight I’d been carrying all morning felt a little lighter.

He stepped in quietly, removed his shoes with care, and looked around the room—half-decorated, cluttered with balloon strings, party favors, the birthday banner still unopened.

“You’re okay?” he asked, gently.

I paused, then nodded slowly. “Trying. But better now. Adnan shouldn’t feel anything off today.”

He held my gaze for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Tell me what to do. Where do we start?”

He nodded slowly. “Chalo, mujhe batao kya karna hai.”

We began with the balloon arch.He held the balloons as I tied the string. Our hands brushed more than once. The contact was fleeting, but each time it happened, I felt its warmth linger. At one point, I looked up and found him watching me—not in a way that made me uncomfortable, but in a way that made my heart stumble.

Without thinking, I stepped a little closer. The room felt suddenly smaller, quieter.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“For what?” he asked.

“For showing up. For being here. For not making me feel like a burden.”

He didn’t say anything. He just opened his arms, the gesture soft and unspoken.I walked into them.

It wasn’t a romantic hug. It wasn’t hurried or tight. It was warm. Grounding. His hands rested gently on my back, and mine clutched the sides of his shirt like I was anchoring myself.

For a few seconds, I closed my eyes and let myself feel what I had been denying all morning: the ache, the weight, the quiet relief of being held.

When we slowly pulled apart, he looked into my eyes and smiled faintly.

“Anytime,” he said.

And I believed him.

At one point, I fumbled with a balloon clip and sighed in frustration.

“Do na,” he said, extending his hand.

“Main kar leti,” I muttered.

“Tum sab kuch akele kar leti ho, Nabila,” he said quietly. “Kabhi toh kisi aur ko bhi karne do.”

His tone wasn’t scolding. It was full of quiet understanding. And it made me pause.

I handed him the clip. He fixed it in seconds and passed it back, his fingers grazing mine intentionally or not—I wasn’t sure.

“Thanks,” I said, looking away quickly.

We moved to the cake table. I arranged the plates and napkins while he set the party favors. We worked in silence, moving like we’d done this together before—like we belonged in the same rhythm.

When I paused to check my phone, I noticed him watching me.

“Kya?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Bas dekh raha hoon,” he said. “Tum kaise sab kuch gracefully sambhal leti ho.”

I gave a faint smile. “Maa hoon. Options nahi hote.”

He shook his head slowly. “Par tum sirf maa nahi ho.”

I looked up.

“You’re strong. Beautiful. Intelligent. Deserving of much more than… jo kuch bhi tumse cheena gaya hai.”

My breath hitched.

“Ranjeet… that means more than you know,” I whispered, my voice softer than breath. “I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that until you said it.”

He came closer, standing beside me. Close enough that the side of his arm brushed mine.

“Please kabhi apne aap ko akela mat samajhna,” he said.

We stood there for a moment, quietly breathing in the calm between us. Around us, half-inflated balloons drifted gently across the floor, and unopened boxes of candles sat on the sideboard like patient guests waiting their turn. The room, messy and half-done, somehow felt whole in that silence. Like we had already built something unspoken between us.

I cleared my throat. “Us bag mein kya hai?”

He blinked and looked down at the bag as if he'd just remembered it was there. His expression softened into a smile—shy, almost boyish. “Adnan ke liye ek chhoti si gift hai,” he said, lifting the bag a little. “Remote control car. Jab dekha toh bas socha… yeh uske liye perfect hoga. Usse cars aur bikes ka kitna craze hai, yaad hai na?”

His voice held that gentle pride people reserved for thoughtful surprises, and for a moment, it was like he wasn’t just a guest—but someone who cared deeply, who had paid attention to the smallest things.

I smiled, a little more genuinely now. “Woh pagal ho jaayega dekh ke.”

“Main chahta ho woh khush rahe,” he said softly. “Tum dono khush raho.”

A breeze creaked the balcony door open slightly. A balloon floated lazily toward the window.

Adnan’s laughter rang out from his room, bright and echoing down the hallway.Moments later, his small footsteps padded quickly across the floor and he peeked into the living room, eyes wide with curiosity.

“Mumma!” he called excitedly. “Kya Ranjeet uncle aa gaye?”

I turned toward him, smiling with a softness I hadn't felt in days. “Haan, beta. Dekho toh zara kaun aaya hai tumse milne.”

My voice carried a gentle excitement, and I stepped aside so Adnan could get a clearer view of Ranjeet standing near the decorations.

Ranjeet crouched a little and held out his hand. “Hey champ! Happy Birthday!”

Adnan beamed and ran over to him, giving him a quick hug.

“Tumhare liye ek surprise bhi laaya hoon,” Ranjeet added, lifting the bag.

Adnan’s eyes lit up. “Mere liye? Kya hai?”

“Pahle ready ho jao, champ. Jab sab aajayenge aur hum cake cut karenge, tabhi milega gift. Surprise ka maza tabhi aata hai na?” I said quickly, gently nudging him toward the hallway.

Adnan groaned dramatically but nodded. “Okay Mumma… but mujhe sabse pehle balloon ka color choose karna hai!”

“You will,” I promised, kissing his head. “Ab jao.”

As he ran off, his giggle trailing behind him, I turned back to Ranjeet.

“Thank you,” I said softly, my voice touched with something warm and full.

And for a moment… it felt like everything was okay.

Like we were just two people setting up a party.

Not a shattered soul, and the one man who had quietly, patiently gathered every piece of her with eyes that never looked away.

With the decorations complete and the living room transformed into a little world of colorful cheer, I let out a slow breath. The hard part was done. Adnan was dressed now—his little button-down shirt tucked in neatly, hair combed to the side, a wide smile on his face as he admired the balloons and party favors like treasures.

“Main ready ho gaya!” he announced proudly from the hallway, spinning in place as if modeling his outfit.

“You look like the handsomest birthday boy ever,” I said, grinning.

He gave me a quick thumbs-up and darted back to his room, probably to line up his toy cars.

I turned to Ranjeet, who was still adjusting a streamer on the window frame.

“Bas thoda waqt chahiye,” I said quietly. “Ab mujhe bhi ready hona hai.”

He turned to face me, nodding with a soft smile. “Jao. Main yahan sambhal lunga. Don’t worry.”

I gave him a grateful glance and walked toward the bedroom, the quiet comfort of his presence still settling over me like a shawl.

It was time to take a breath. And be ready to welcome the world again—with a smile.

[naj0501]

I closed the door softly behind me, letting the heavy hush of the room settle over my shoulders like a comforting shawl.
For the first time all day, solitude wrapped itself around me, heavy and absolute.
I moved toward the dressing table with slow, almost reverent steps, each footfall muffled against the soft rug. My hand lifted on its own, finding the clip that had held my hair captive all day. With a gentle tug, the clip loosened, and my hair tumbled down in a heavy, cascading wave, thick and slightly unruly, a few rebellious strands framing my face. The familiar scents of coconut oil and jasmine water floated up, wrapping me in a fragrance that felt both tender and nostalgic. I sat down before the mirror, studying the woman who stared back at me—a version of myself I hadn’t truly looked at in what felt like forever.
There I was.
Not just a mother, not just a wife, but a woman in her own right. A woman rediscovering herself in the quiet hush of an evening. Me—whole, vivid, unapologetically alive.
I peeled off my kurta with slow, deliberate movements, feeling the soft cotton whisper against my skin, trailing a shiver along my arms as it slipped down. The fabric clung momentarily to the curve of my shoulders before falling away, pooling silently at my feet like a shed layer of hesitation. Each motion felt like a small reclamation of self, a quiet act of letting go, leaving me standing there, vulnerable yet strangely empowered under the dim, forgiving light.
Slowly, I rose to my feet, feeling the soft tug of fabric against my skin as I slid my salwar down, letting it pool soundlessly at my ankles. I stepped out of it carefully, savoring the growing sense of lightness that came with each piece I shed.

Underneath, I was still wearing the same set I had slipped on in the morning—simple, soft, nude-toned lace bra and matching mid-rise panties. My breasts, 34C, felt slightly flushed from the heat and movement. My waist, curved and soft, bore the gentle impressions of the drawstring of my leggings.
I looked at my reflection in nothing but those delicate underthings and let myself feel the moment—no filters, no mask. Just skin and breath.
Then I turned to the cupboard.
I reached for the one outfit I hadn’t worn in a long time.
It was a dark midnight blue salwar-kameez set—designer, exquisite, radiating understated luxury. Silver hand-embroidered floral patterns snaked up from the hem of the kameez and curled delicately along the cuffs of the sleeves, each stitch a testament to painstaking craftsmanship. The fabric itself was georgette, featherlight and sheer, catching the light with a soft, tantalizing shimmer that made it seem almost alive when I moved. The dupatta, fashioned from the finest chiffon, floated weightlessly, its borders kissed with tiny silver sequins that caught the faintest glimmers of light, twinkling like distant stars scattered across a midnight sky. Just holding it made my heart thud louder, made the air around me feel charged with forgotten excitement.
I had worn it last Eid, when everything had felt celebratory and light. Now, my hands reached for it almost instinctively, drawn to its memory and meaning.
Or maybe not instinctively—maybe knowingly.
Because he loved blue. Always had. Always said it made me look like something out of a dream.
He had once gazed at me, a rare softness in his eyes, and whispered that I looked like the night sky wrapped in velvet when I wore it. That memory shimmered now, tender and electric, as my fingers clutched the fabric tighter, drawing comfort from something I wasn’t ready to name.
I slipped into the matching Salwar first, pulling the soft fabric over my legs. Then came the kameez—it hugged my figure gently, accentuating the curve of my hips and the inward dip of my waist. It flowed just past my knees, the neckline a modest scoop that sat just above my cleavage, the embroidery drawing the eyes subtly, beautifully.
I wore the dupatta around my neck.
Then I opened my jewelry box.
I chose a delicate silver necklace—thin, almost fragile—with a single sapphire stone that sat at the hollow of my throat. Ranjeet had once complimented it. “Yeh tumhari skin pe chamakta nahi… behta hai,” he’d said.
I added a pair of matching sapphire studs in my ears.
Then the bangles—thin silver ones that clinked softly as I slid them onto each wrist. The sound felt like a woman reclaiming her rhythm.
I sat before the mirror again, gathering my hair with careful fingers. I twisted it loosely into a soft, low bun at the nape of my neck, letting a few wisps fall around my face deliberately, a casual elegance I hadn’t allowed myself in a long time. Only then did I apply a fresh layer of kajal, dark and smooth. A soft brown shadow, a little highlighter. Just enough mascara. I added a light blush to my cheeks, then paused.
Lipstick.
I reached for the deep rose shade I hadn’t worn in months.
It was bold. More than I usually wore. But I remembered how his eyes lingered the last time I wore it at the office Diwali function.
My fingers hesitated… then applied it anyway.
I ran one hand down my front to smooth the fabric, watching the way the dupatta shifted, the outline of my breasts soft but present beneath it.
This wasn’t about seduction.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be seen.
I didn’t want to be invisible anymore.
And when I stood, fully dressed, fully me, I felt it.
I wasn’t dressing for anyone’s approval today.
But if he looked at me—really looked—I wouldn’t look away.

[kishen]

Really, well written...Beautiful prose, I must say...congratulations...keep them coming...all the best.

[Attitude Breaker]

By any chance this story is going to be continued? I can see it has very good potential. Please update

[naj0501]

Thanks for the comments. It encourages to write more. Update on the way.

[Attitude Breaker]

Thanks for the comments. It encourages to write more. Update on the way.

Please update bro. Awaiting for your update eagerly

[naj0501]

The hallway was silent and dim, broken only by the soft whisper of my dupatta brushing against the delicate fabric of my kameez with each measured step.
I caught faint sounds drifting in—the gentle clink of plates, the soft creak of the balcony door as it swung shut. Ranjeet was still there, somewhere between the dining table and the living room, moving quietly, methodically. Probably tidying up things I’d overlooked, probably with that quiet perfection he didn’t even realize he carried.
I lingered for a heartbeat at the edge of the hallway, the moment stretching longer than it should have.
Then, with a quiet breath and my heart racing, I stepped into the room.He was placing paper cups on the table when he turned—and saw me.
His hands paused mid-air, the paper cup forgotten between his fingers. For a moment, he was utterly still—just staring, as if the sight of me had stolen his breath and words both.
It was as if he was momentarily lost, caught in a daze. His eyes flickered—first to my face, lingering at the curve of my lips, then drifting down to the soft shine of the silver embroidery along the neckline of my dress. A strange storm of emotions erupted inside me—nervousness prickling under my skin, excitement fluttering like trapped butterflies in my chest, and something far deeper, far wilder, thrumming through my veins.
It was a dangerous thrill, a magnetic pull that both scared and intoxicated me. I felt exposed under his gaze, yet beautiful in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time—seen, admired, desired. Every inch of me seemed alive, aching to be closer, aching to be touched, even as a soft voice inside me whispered warnings I chose to ignore. My heart pounded in my ears, my skin tingled under the heat of his gaze, and a breathless warmth spread through me, leaving me both shy and secretly exhilarated.
His kept staring at my bust—bold, unhurried, drinking in the curve of my bosom with a kind of reverence that made my breath hitch. A wild shyness bloomed inside me, mixed with a sweet, thrilling ache I couldn’t name. My hands itched to cover myself, yet I didn’t move. Instead, a secret part of me basked in the way he looked at me—as if I were something rare, something precious.
The weight of his eyes made my skin heat up deliciously, making me feel both delicate and powerful all at once. The fabric shimmered faintly with each rise and fall of my chest, and I felt the weight of his attention like a touch I hadn’t expected but couldn’t ignore. From there, they traveled down to my wrists, where my bangles glinted softly, catching the warm light as I shifted. Then, slowly, deliberately, his gaze returned to my face—more tender this time, more breathless—like he was trying to memorize me, trying to hold the image of me in that moment like a secret he didn’t want to share with the world.
“Ranjeet?” I asked gently, suddenly self-conscious.
His voice came a beat late. “Tum…”
He cleared his throat, stepped closer.
“Tum… bahut hi beautiful lag rahi ho, Nabila,” he said quietly. “Matlab… itni sundar lag rahi ho ke main… kuch der ke liye bhool gaya ke main saans le raha hoon ya nahi.”
I felt it instantly.
That rush of warmth flooding my cheeks. The heat blooming across my skin.
I looked away, my heart pounding, suddenly hyper-aware of every single thing about myself—the snugness of the neckline hugging the curves of my body, the soft, delicate clinking of my bangles with even the tiniest shift of my wrist, the warmth rising over my skin like a secret only he could see. I realized with a start that I had chosen this very shade of lipstick—the deep, blushing rose—without even thinking, as if my soul had known it would be him I wanted to impress tonight. The air around me felt heavier, charged, as if even the smallest movements carried meanings I wasn’t ready to speak aloud.
“Tumhara blue color waale kapdon ka selection… khatarnaak hota ja raha hai,” he added with a crooked smile.
I rolled my eyes, laughing softly. “Shayad tumhara asar hai.”
He took another step closer. His voice dropped, softer now.
“Jo bhi ho, Nabila… agar yeh tum party ke liye pehni ho, toh sare mehmaan birthday boy ko bhool kar tumhe hi taadne wale hai.. Main toh soch raha hoon, tumhe dekh ke party ka theme hi 'Nabila Appreciation Party' rakh dete hai.”
I turned to look at him, caught between smiling and blushing and maybe saying something I shouldn’t.
Instead, I said the safest thing I could.
“Cake fridge mein rakha hai. Candles mai laati hun.”
He smiled, but didn’t move. “Theek hai.”
But I felt it the moment I turned away — his gaze clinging to me like a warm, invisible thread, tugging gently at my back. It was heavy, electric, making my skin prickle with awareness. Even without seeing, I could feel his eyes drinking me in, lingering with a hunger and admiration that left my body humming and my heart skipping uneven beats.
Still holding the unspoken between us.
I turned away quickly after that compliment, my heart beating fast, the silver chain around my neck feeling warm against my skin. My bangles made a soft sound as I opened the fridge and pulled out the cake box—just trying to keep my hands busy, pretending I wasn’t melting under his stare.
But I could feel it — his eyes still on me. Not just looking — admiring. Eating me up with that slow, lazy smile he had. It made my cheeks burn and my stomach flip, but it also made me want to sway my hips just a little more than necessary.
“You said candles, right?” he called out, his voice playful and teasing now, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
I turned, and sure enough — he wasn’t even pretending to look away.
He just grinned, boyish and a little wicked, like he’d been caught but didn’t mind one bit.
His presence had a way of filling a room—not loud or demanding, but steady, like breath in a space that had forgotten how to breathe.
“Haan,” I said, teasing a little. “Drawer mein hain… woh shelf ke neeche waala. Dhoondh paaoge ya main madad karun?”
He raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Challenge mat do, Nabila. Main expert hoon khojne mein.”
I laughed under my breath as he bent slightly, pretending to search like it was a treasure hunt.
He straightened a little, giving me a mischievous grin. “Drawer ya full treasure hunt organize karwaya hai tumne?” he teased, pretending to peer around dramatically as if expecting clues on the walls.
I bit my lip to stop my laugh. “Drawer simple hai, Mr. Detective, maze mat lo,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
He chuckled, tapping the drawer lightly as if solving a great mystery. “Mission accomplished,” he said, pulling out the candles with a little victorious smirk. teased, glancing up at me.
“Drawer, bilkul simple,” I said, trying not to smile too wide.
He found the candles easily and placed them next to the cake with a dramatic little bow, as if he’d accomplished some heroic mission.
“Chocolate truffle?” he asked, peeking into the box with a grin.
“Adnan ka favorite. Aur mera bhi,” I said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“Great..aapka taste zabardast hai jee,” he said, winking. “Mujhe bhi pasand hai... ab toh party aur special ho gayi.”
I shook my head at his shameless flirting but couldn’t stop the smile spreading across my face.
For a second, we just stood there — the closeness between us humming in the air, sweet and a little dangerous.
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Waise... main toh keh raha hoon, tum aur yeh cake — dono party ke asli highlight ho.”
I gave him a mock glare, picking up the candles to hide my blush. “Bohot flirt karte ho aajkal, Mr. Ranjeet.”
He laughed softly. “Bas sach bol raha hoon, Ms. Birthday Queen.”
Before I could say anything smart back, we both heard footsteps approaching.
“Mummaaa!” Adnan called out excitedly, running into the kitchen in his socks, nearly sliding into me.
I quickly bent down, balancing the cake box in one hand as I caught him in a quick hug with the other.
Ranjeet chuckled. “Arre arre... party shuru hone se pehle hi goal kar diya!”
I laughed, ruffling Adnan’s hair. “Bas thoda excited hai humara birthday boy.”
Adnan grinned up at me, then looked curiously at Ranjeet.
“Cake?” he asked, eyes sparkling.
“Bas thodi der aur, champ,” Ranjeet said, kneeling down to his level. He ruffled Adnan’s hair with a playful grin. “ Captain! Guests aate hi honge, tayyar ho jao!”
Adnan puffed up his chest proudly, nodding like he had been given a top-secret mission.
Adnan giggled, nodding solemnly like it was a big responsibility.
I shook my head with a smile, feeling a warm, fuzzy happiness at the sight of the two of them—so easy, so natural.
And somewhere deep inside, a tiny, dangerous thought flickered:
This... this felt a little too perfect. Like the kind of moment you wish you could freeze and tuck away safely, knowing life rarely lets you hold onto something this warm, this easy, this full of unspoken dreams. A flutter of fear mixed with the sweetness in my chest — fear that maybe things this beautiful were never meant to last.

[ShaziaMirza]

Good story!

[naj0501]

The doorbell chimed once, then again, softer, as if the caller had all the time in the world.
I recognized that ring.
Adnan looked up, clutching his balloon. “Nani’s here!”
I grinned. “Haan, Ammi aayi.”
I opened the door, and there she was—my mother, dressed in her black abaya, holding a small purse and a tin of homemade nankhatai. Her eyes softened the moment they met mine, carrying the warmth of countless shared moments.
“Assalamu Alaikum,” she said, her voice gentle.
“Wa Alaikum Salaam, Ammi,” I replied, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
Her hand brushed my face, lingering as she studied me with that quiet, knowing look. “Kitni sundar lag rahi ho, beta,” she said, her smile bright with pride.
“Bas, Ammi, aapki dua,” I said, warmth spreading through me.
She stepped inside, her gaze sweeping over the room. “Arre, yeh toh bilkul jashn ka mahaul hai!” she exclaimed, taking in the vibrant streamers, twinkling fairy lights, and balloons. “Sab kuch kitna pyaara hai!”
Adnan darted to her, tugging at her hand. “Nani, dekho mera naya toy!”
She bent down, wrapping him in a hug. “Mera pyara Shahzada, kitna bada ho gaya hai!” she said, her voice full of love.
Then her eyes caught Ranjeet, standing quietly by the table, hands clasped loosely. He offered a warm smile and a slight nod. “Namaste, Aunty,” he said respectfully.
Ammi turned to him, her gaze lingering briefly. “Namaste, beta,” she said, her tone kind but curious. “Tum… Ranjeet, sahi?”
“Jee, Aunty,” he confirmed with a nod.
Her eyes flicked to me, a question in them. I looked away, busying myself with the tin of nankhatai. “He helped set everything up today,” I said quickly.
Ammi’s smile returned, softer now, not quite reaching her eyes. “Achha, bahut acha kiya,” she said.
She moved to the sofa, Adnan still clinging to her hand, the faint jingle of her bangles filling the quiet moment.
I settled next to Ammi on the sofa, the soft jingle of my bangles breaking the quiet as I smoothed my dupatta. Her hands rested in her lap, but her eyes were fixed on Ranjeet, who stood by the dining table, meticulously adjusting the cutlery with calm precision.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just observed.
Then her voice came, soft but deliberate, the kind she used when she was weighing every word. “Yeh ladka....”
I kept my gaze forward. “Ranjeet? Haan, woh aaj help karne aaya hai.”
“Help, ya kuch aur?” she asked, her head tilting slightly toward me.
My chest tightened. “Ammi…”
She lifted a hand, gentle but firm. “Nabeela, main bas yeh keh rahi hoon—mushkil waqt mein kisi ki achhi baatein dil ko chhoo sakti hain, par woh sahara nahi hoti.”
I turned to her, my voice steady but sharp. “Woh ek dost hai, Ammi. Sab kuch akele karna asaan nahi tha. Usne madad ki offer ki, maine haan kaha.”
Her eyes flicked over me, lingering on my outfit. “Aur yeh jo tune pehna hai,” she said, not accusingly but with a knowing edge, “lagta nahi ke sirf apne liye hai.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
I looked away, my voice quieter. “Mujhe achha lagta hai tayyar hona. Har cheez kisi ke liye kyun honi chahiye?”
Ammi’s face softened, but worry lingered in her eyes. “Main bas itna chahti hoon, Nabila, ke tu soch samajh kar kadam uthaye. Tera rishta toot raha hai....... duniya ke sawalon ka saamna tujhe hi karna padega.”
I exhaled, nodding once to acknowledge her words, even if they didn’t sit right. “Woh sirf dost hai,” I said, more firmly. “Aaj usne meri madad ki. Isse zyada kuch nahi.”
Ammi didn’t push further. She gave me a long, searching look, then rested her hand on mine briefly. “Main hamesha tere liye dua karti hoon. Bas samajhdari se faisle lena.”
She rose to fix Adnan’s hair, as if the conversation hadn’t happened.
But its weight lingered.
Ranjeet hadn’t overheard, but when our eyes met across the room, something in his glance told me he sensed it.

[Attitude Breaker]

Amazing update bro, awaiting for more updates. Also please let me know if you have written any more stories ?

[kishen]

nice update...keep them coming

[Attitude Breaker]

Need bigger and quicker update bro

[naj0501]

Thanks for your comments. I'm working on update. It should be coming today.

[naj0501]

The first guest came a few minutes after Ammi sat down with Adnan.Then guests started coming and house transformed from a quiet, heavy space to one buzzing with greetings, laughter and hustle bustle. Children’s voices rose. The smell of samosas and jalebis filled the living room as trays made their way in from the kitchen.
“Aree beta, happy birthday!”
“Bhai wah, kitna bada ho gaya hai!”
Adnan beamed under the attention, holding onto his new toy while jumping between guests and the balloon bunch Ranjeet had tied to the back of a chair.
I stood near the doorway, offering smiles, air-kissing cheeks, hugging guests and accepting compliments about the decorations.
Everyone noticed my outfit.
“Uff, Nabila, tum toh aaj chand lag rahi ho!”
“Blue suits you, yaar. Is it designer?”
“Woh lipstick shade… killer!”
I nodded, smiled, thanked them robotically. All on autopilot mode.
My eyes searched the room for Adnan every few minutes. Then found Ranjeet—standing by the drinks table, handing out juice boxes to kids, laughing softly with a guest about how many balloons it took to make the arch.
How easy he blended among the strangers .....
But when our eyes met across the room—just for a second—I knew he hadn’t forgotten what we were both holding back.
Ammi noticed it too. Her glances were quieter now, her expressions unreadable. She sat near the corner, occasionally scolding Adnan lovingly or asking someone if they’d had snacks.
And still… I felt her watching me.
I moved from guest to guest, adjusting plates, wiping crumbs, offering more chutney, complimenting sarees. Every gesture practiced. Every laugh perfectly timed.
Strangely, no one inquired about Asif's absence.Maybe they knew better. Maybe they’d been warned.Or maybe… they didn’t care.
“Sab ready?” Ranjeet called out cheerfully. People gathered around the table where cake was placed. Ranjeet asked someone to dim the lights a little.
And then the chant began.
“Happy birthday to you…”
Adnan stood in front of the cake, his eyes wide, a grin stretching from one cheek to the other, both palms planted excitedly on the table. He looked up at me and beamed.
I stood behind him, one hand gently resting on his shoulder, the other adjusting the dupatta that kept sliding down my arm. My bangles clinked softly, lost under the sound of claps, song, and laughter.
“Happy birthday dear Adnaaan…”
The candles flickered. A tiny breeze from the ceiling fan made the flames dance just as Adnan closed his eyes tightly and made a wish.
I smiled down at him.
Everyone cheered as he blew out the candles, clapped again when he cut the cake and playfully put some frosting on my finger before licking it off with a laugh.
He took the piece in his hand and offered to me.I leaned in for a bite, laughing as he pressed it to my lips like it was tradition.People started cheering.
Something made me lift my head—maybe instinct, maybe a whisper only I could hear in the noise.
There he was.
Ranjeet stood slightly away from the group, near the edge of the crowd. His phone was in his hand, held up to capture the moment, but he wasn’t just another guest snapping photos.
He stood calmly, like he belonged there—but there was something focused about the way he was standing. One foot slightly ahead, his chin lifted, and his eyes moving slowly, searching through the crowd.
But he wasn’t looking at the cake. Not even at Adnan.
He was looking right at me.
His gaze was steady and intense, like he could see something no one else could. And even though I knew I should’ve looked away… I didn’t.
I stared back at him for a moment longer than I should have, like we were both caught in some quiet understanding neither of us could say out loud.
And in that glance, everything else faded.
The guests. The laughter. The smell of vanilla and birthday balloons.
It was just his eyes—and mine.
There was no smile on his face. Just a quiet focus. Like he was memorizing something. Or someone.
Like the picture he wanted the most… wasn’t on his phone. It was already in his mind.
And just before he lowered the camera, just before the next round of cheers broke the moment—
He winked.
So quickly, so subtly, I wasn’t even sure it happened.
But my breath caught anyway.
I turned to Adnan, who was still smiling brightly, his little hands sticky with frosting. He held out the leftover piece of cake to me. I gently took it from his fingers and brought it up to his mouth, feeding it to him slowly as he giggled, crumbs sticking to the corner of his lips.
"Happy Birthday to my dearest...May you live for thousand years" I greeted him lovingly.
Then I helped Adnan cut more pieces and we started to distribute the cake to the guests.
I slipped into the kitchen to grab more plates for the guests.
The party was buzzing outside—kids chasing each other with balloon swords, someone laughing a little too loudly over the music, and Ammi calling out for someone to pass her chai.
I opened the cabinet, half-distracted, when I heard the door creak behind me.
I turned to the direction of the sound and found Ranjeet standing there.
“Tum chupke chupke kitchen mein kya kar rahi ho?” came his voice—low, warm, teasing.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Tum mujhe stalk kar rahe ho kya?”
“Main?” he raised both eyebrows. “Main toh bas yeh dekhne aaya tha ke hostess kitchen mein chhup ke cake to nahi chura rahi na.”
I smirked, sliding a plate onto the counter. “Mujhe chhup ke cake khana hota toh main balcony ka rasta leti. Tumhara toh bas reason chahiye hota hai mujhe follow karne ka.”
He took a step closer, resting one hand on the counter beside me. “Main mana nahi kar raha.”
His nearness made the air suddenly warmer. The light above flickered faintly—like even the room was holding its breath.
I turned slowly toward him, arms crossed, letting the corner of my dupatta slip from my shoulder just slightly.
“So?” I said, arching a brow. “Kya chahiye tumhe kitchen se? Cake? Chai? Ya hostess ka attention?”
He chuckled, eyes trailing down the edge of my dupatta. “Hostess ka attention mil gaya. Ab bas spoon chahiye. Cake khane ke liye.”
I reached for the drawer beside him, intentionally leaning a little too close as I opened it. My bangles brushed his wrist.
“Careful,” he murmured, voice low now. “Aise nazdeek aogi toh main spoon bhool jaunga.”
I looked up, right into his eyes. “Accha ?.”
For a second, we just stood there.
His hand hovered near mine.
My heartbeat was suddenly louder than the music outside.
He lifted one corner of his mouth in that half-smile I was learning to read too well. The one that meant don’t tempt me unless you mean it.
But before anything could slip between us—word, touch, breath—a loud knock came at the door.
“Bhaiya, aur plates chahiye!” a voice shouted from the hallway.
I exhaled, stepping back with a playful roll of my eyes.
He grabbed a few plates from the counter. “Main le jaata hoon.”
I smirked. “Spoon toh reh gaya.”
He winked. “Sorry....Mera focus kuch aur pe tha.”
And just like that, he disappeared into the noise again.
Leaving behind the scent of aftershave and tension that refused to leave with him.

[Attitude Breaker]

Please give bigger updates bro
...
Your writing skills is amazing

[Attitude Breaker]

Is there any hope of this story getting continued ?

[naj0501]

I don't know. I'm really discouraged due to lack of interest from the readers.

[Attitude Breaker]

Keep writing, readers will come once the story gets famous. No one becomes famous over night. And your update is also slow but your story has potential for becoming one of the most successful stories here. As it has interfaith connection.

[ShakirAli]

Keep writing… you are doing a great job… the viewership in English section is very less compared to other sections… keep up the good work and viewership will gradually increase. Moreover, majority of viewership comes from unregistered readers who can’t post comments or add likes.