Sarla placed her empty teacup on the tray with a soft clink. She stretched her arms above her head, a cat-like movement that lifted her chest and pulled the yellow fabric taut against her waist.

“Okay, enough lazy time,” she announced, clapping her hands together lightly. She looked at Dhairya with bright, expectant eyes. “Go change your clothes. Put on something nice. Not those torn jeans.”

Dhairya blinked, confused. “Change? Why? Where are we going?”

“Market, buddhu,” Sarla said, standing up and smoothing out the pleats of her saree. “I need to buy some fabric for a new suit, and I have to pick up the altar flowers. Plus...” She winked at him. “We can eat golgappas on the way back. My treat.”

She looked so excited, like a child planning an adventure. For a second, Dhairya wanted to say yes. The thought of walking through the crowded market with her, watching men turn their heads to look at his mother while he stood guard, gave him a strange, possessive thrill.

But then the image of his open textbook-and the looming threat of his exams-crashed back in.

“Mom... I can’t,” Dhairya said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have mid-terms starting Monday. The syllabus is huge. If I don’t finish the coding assignment today, I’m dead.”

Sarla’s smile faltered. The light in her eyes dimmed instantly. She stopped adjusting her pleats and looked at him, her shoulders slumping just a fraction.

“Oh,” she said softly. “But... it will only take an hour, Dhairya. You can study tonight.”

“I can’t, Mom,” Dhairya insisted, though he hated the disappointment on her face. “Papa will be furious if my grades drop. I really need to focus.”

Sarla stared at him for a moment, her lips pursed in a small, sad pout. Then, the “maternal” mask slid back into place. She sighed, a long breath that made her heavy chest rise and fall visibly.

“Okay, okay. You and your studies,” she said, waving her hand dismissively, though her voice lacked its usual spark. “I understand. You become a big officer, make us proud. I won’t disturb you.”

“You can go another day?” Dhairya suggested weakly.

“No, no,” Sarla shook her head, turning toward the mirror on the wall to check her appearance. “I need the things today. It’s fine. I will go alone.”

She said “alone” with a subtle weight, making Dhairya feel a twinge of guilt.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, baba. I am a big girl. I can manage,” she teased, though she was already busy transforming from “Home Mom” to “Public Sarla.”

She opened her vanity purse and pulled out a tube of dark maroon lipstick. Leaning into the mirror, she applied a fresh coat, her mouth shaping into a perfect ‘O’. She rubbed her lips together, the color stark and bold against her fair skin.

Then came the perfume. She sprayed a cloud of heavy, floral scent behind her ears and-Dhairya watched, mesmerized-down the front of her blouse, right into her cleavage.

“Okay,” she said, turning back to him. She looked sharper now, more armored for the outside world. The lipstick made her look more mature, more dangerous. “I’m leaving. Lock the door from inside. Don’t open it for anyone until I come back.”

She walked over to him and ran her hand through his hair, messing it up affectionately.

“Study hard, my genius,” she whispered.

She grabbed her purse and walked to the door. Dhairya followed her to lock up.

As she stepped out onto the porch, the harsh afternoon sun hit her. The yellow saree glowed. She opened a small umbrella to shield herself, casting a shadow over her face.

“Bye, Mom,” Dhairya said.

“Bye,” she called back without turning, her hips swaying with a practiced rhythm as she walked down the driveway toward the main gate.

Dhairya watched her go until she turned the corner.

The silence in the house didn’t last long.

Barely ten minutes after Sarla had left, the doorbell rang again. It wasn’t the sharp, impatient ring of a delivery man; it was a cheerful, rhythmic double-buzz. Ting-tong... Ting-tong.

Dhairya groaned, slamming his pen down. “Now who?”

He pushed his chair back, marching to the living room. He checked the peephole, expecting a salesperson.

Instead, he saw a flash of oversized sunglasses and bob-cut hair.

He unlocked the door and swung it open.

“Surprise!”

Standing on the porch was Priya Rathore.

Dhairya blinked, momentarily stunned. He was used to seeing women in his family in sarees or shalwar kameez. But Priya Bua was... different.

She was wearing a fitted, knee-length floral dress that hugged her figure in all the right places. At 46, she carried herself with a confidence that was intimidating. The dress had a V-neckline-not scandalous, but deep enough to hint at the heavy, soft curves she shared with the women of his family. Her arms were bare, fair and plump, and she smelled of expensive, sharp French perfume-a stark contrast to Sarla’s sandalwood soap.

“Priya Bua?” Dhairya stammered.

“Oh, look at you! My handsome nephew!” Priya squealed delightedly.

Before Dhairya could step back, she lunged forward.

She wrapped her arms around him in a crushing hug. It was different from Sarla’s hug. Sarla’s was soft and enveloping; Priya’s was firm and enthusiastic. She pressed her body against his, and for a second, Dhairya was drowning in the scent of her perfume and the feeling of her synthetic dress sliding against his bare arm. Her chest pressed firmly against his chest, the contact lingering just a few seconds longer than necessary.

“Mmuah!” She kissed his cheek loudly, leaving a faint smudge of pink lipstick, then pulled back, keeping her hands on his shoulders.

She looked him up and down, beaming. “You’ve grown taller again, I swear. Are you hitting the gym? Your shoulders feel hard.” She gave his shoulder a playful squeeze.

“Hi, Bua. Good to see you,” Dhairya managed, wiping the lipstick off his cheek self-consciously.

Priya took off her sunglasses, revealing eyes that were lined with kohl. She looked past him into the dark, cool hallway.

“Where is everyone? I thought I’d surprise Bhaiya and Bhabhi (Brother and Sister-in-law). The car isn’t in the driveway.”

“Papa is at the office,” Dhairya explained, stepping aside as she breezed past him into the house without waiting for an invitation. “And Mom just left for the market. Like, ten minutes ago.”

“Oh, no!” Priya pouted, turning around in the middle of the living room. The movement made her dress swirl around her knees. “I missed her? I came all the way from South Delhi just to show her the photos from my trip.”

She sighed, fanning herself with her hand. “And it is so hot outside. Uff.”

She looked at Dhairya, her eyes twinkling.

“Well, I can’t go back in this heat immediately. And I haven’t seen my favorite nephew in months.”

She walked over to the sofa-the same spot Sarla had vacated-and sat down, crossing her legs. The hem of her dress rode up slightly, revealing her calves and a glimpse of her knees. It was a lot of leg for a “Bua” to show, but she seemed completely comfortable.

“Come, sit,” she patted the cushion next to her. “Since I’m here, you have to entertain me until they come back. Make your poor Bua some cold water? Or maybe... something stronger? Does your dad still hide the good whisky?” She laughed, a bright, modern sound.

“I’ll... I’ll get you some cold water. And juice,” Dhairya said, his voice sounding a little too loud in the quiet room.

“You’re a sweetie,” Priya beamed, leaning back into the cushions and crossing her legs the other way. The floral fabric of her dress swished softly, riding up another inch to expose the smooth, fair skin of her thigh.

Dhairya turned and walked quickly to the kitchen.

Once he was behind the safety of the kitchen counter, he exhaled sharply. He grabbed a glass pitcher from the fridge, his hands gripping the cold handle tight.

What is happening today? he thought. First his mother in that backless blouse, and now Priya Bua looking like she just walked out of a fashion magazine.

He poured the water, watching the condensation fog up the glass. He could still smell her perfume-it was sharp, floral, and lingered in his nose. It was so different from Sarla. Sarla was soft, traditional, and smelled of home. Priya was bold, loud, and smelled like the city.

He placed two glasses on a tray-one for her, one for him-and walked back out.

Priya was busy checking her phone, scrolling through Instagram with long, manicured fingers. As Dhairya approached, she looked up and smiled, tossing her phone onto the cushion beside her.

“Finally! I was melting,” she exaggerated, reaching out.

Dhairya leaned down to place the tray on the coffee table, but Priya didn’t wait. She reached for the glass while he was still holding it. Her fingers wrapped around his hand instead of the glass, her palm warm against his cold skin.

“Thanks, beta,” she murmured, taking the glass from him. Their fingers slid against each other-a long, lingering friction.

She brought the glass to her lips and drank deeply. Dhairya stood there, watching. He watched the way her throat moved as she swallowed, the way a single drop of water escaped the corner of her mouth and rolled down her chin, tracking a path toward that deep V-neckline.

“Ah, that’s better,” she sighed, lowering the glass. She noticed him standing there like a statue.

“Why are you standing on my head? Sit!” She patted the spot next to her again, insistent this time. “I haven’t seen you since Diwali. Come, talk to your Bua.”

Dhairya sat down. He sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa, trying to maintain a respectful distance.

“So,” Priya turned her body toward him, resting her elbow on the back of the sofa and propping her chin in her hand. The posture pushed her breasts together, deepening her cleavage. “How is college? Your dad says you are topping everything. A genius in the family, finally.”

“It’s okay,” Dhairya shrugged, trying to keep his eyes on her face. “Just a lot of coding. Exams are next week.”

“Coding,” Priya rolled her eyes playfully. “So boring. You need to have some fun, Dhairya. Look at you.”

She reached out and poked his bicep with a manicured fingernail.

“You are turning into a man. Tall, broad shoulders...” She squeezed his arm, her grip surprisingly firm. “You must be breaking hearts in college, hmm? How many girlfriends do you have? Tell Bua. I won’t tell your dad.”

She winked, leaning in closer. The scent of her perfume washed over him again.

“None, Bua. Really,” Dhairya said, shifting uncomfortably. The heat of her body next to him was radiating through his t-shirt.

“Liar,” she laughed, slapping his thigh lightly. “A handsome boy like you? Impossible. Unless...” She narrowed her eyes, her smile turning teasing. “Unless you are shy? Are you shy, Dhairya?”

She didn’t move her hand from his leg. She just let it rest there, casually, on his thigh, just above his knee.

“I’m not shy,” Dhairya defended, though his ears were burning.

“Good,” Priya purred. “Because shy boys get eaten alive in this world. You need to be bold.”

She looked around the empty living room again, then back at him, her voice dropping a notch.

“It’s nice and quiet here without everyone, isn’t it? Your mom is always running around doing puja or cooking. It’s rare to just... sit and relax.”

She stretched her arms out, arching her back. The dress tightened across her chest, the buttons straining slightly.

“My neck is so stiff from the drive,” she complained, rubbing the back of her neck. She looked at Dhairya with big, puppy-dog eyes. “Dhairya, you have strong hands. Be a sweet nephew and press my shoulders a little? Just for two minutes?”

She turned her back to him slightly, presenting her neck and shoulders, waiting for his touch.

“Uh... sure, Bua,” Dhairya stammered, looking at her expectant back. “I can try. But I’m not a pro or anything.”

“Oh, hush. You have big, strong hands. That’s all I need,” Priya laughed, waving a hand dismissively. She adjusted her position on the sofa, sitting up straighter but dropping her shoulders to expose the curve of her neck. “Come on. Just squeeze right here. It’s a knot the size of a cricket ball.”

She pointed to the junction of her neck and shoulder, her skin pale and smooth against the vibrant floral print of her dress.

Dhairya stood up slowly. His heart was doing that traitorous thumping thing again. He moved behind the sofa, standing directly behind her.

From this angle, looking down, he had a new perspective. He could see the part in her bob-cut hair, the nape of her neck where fine baby hairs curled, and the way the V-neck of her dress gaped slightly as she leaned forward.

He took a breath, inhaling the sharp, expensive scent of her perfume, and reached out.

His hands hovered for a second before descending.

When his palms made contact with her shoulders, Priya let out a long, audible groan.

“Mmm... oh my god. Yes.”

Her head dropped forward instantly, exposing more of her neck.

Dhairya’s hands felt hot against her skin. Her shoulders were soft, warmer than he expected, but the muscles underneath were indeed tight. He started to knead, his thumbs digging into the flesh, his fingers curling over her collarbones.

“Is... is that okay?” he asked, his voice sounding thick.

“It’s heaven, beta,” Priya sighed, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Don’t be afraid to press harder. I won’t break.”

Dhairya swallowed hard. He pressed harder.

The texture of her skin was intoxicating. It was smoother than Sarla’s, perhaps because of the lotions she used, but it had that same mature, yielding softness. As he worked his thumbs into the knot, Priya’s body reacted. She leaned back into his hands, effectively using his resistance to stretch.

“Aah, that’s the spot,” she moaned softly, rolling her neck. “You are magic, Dhairya. Magic.”

The sounds she was making-soft sighs, little hums of pleasure-were doing things to Dhairya’s biology that he couldn’t control. He was standing right behind her, his hips dangerously close to the back of the sofa. Every time she shifted or leaned back, her hair brushed against his wrists.

“You are so tense, Bua,” he murmured, trying to focus on the muscle and not the woman.

“Stress, darling. Pure stress,” she replied, her eyes closed. “Your uncle is useless at this. He just pinches. You have a real talent. Your future girlfriend will be a lucky girl.”

She chuckled, a low vibration that Dhairya could feel through his fingertips.

Then, she did something that stopped his breath.

She leaned her head all the way back, resting it against the top of the sofa cushion-and against his stomach. She opened her eyes.

Because her head was tilted back, she was looking at him upside down. Her lips were parted slightly, her kohl-lined eyes gazing directly up into his face.

“You know,” she said softly, her gaze traveling over his face, stopping at his lips. “You really have grown up. You look so much like your father did when he was young. But better.”

She smiled, a sweet, lazy smile that felt incredibly intimate from this angle.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “It feels too good.”

Dhairya’s hands were frozen on her shoulders for a beat. He was staring down at her face, seeing the faint lines of age that only made her more real, more attainable. Her chest was rising and falling rhythmically with her deep breaths, the floral dress straining with every inhalation.

He resumed the massage, his fingers sliding a little lower, dangerously close to the top of her chest, unable to pull away.