Chapter 2

Next day when Asif came with my son I served him chai. “Aunty, your chai is the best,” Asif said, grinning as he wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His biceps flexed under the thin fabric of his tshirt, and I pretended not to notice the way the material clung to his chest.

I laughed, waving him off as I poured another cup. “You say that every time.” The steam curled between us, and for a second, his eyes flickered down—just for a second—before snapping back up. My cheeks warmed, and I turned quickly to the sink, scrubbing at a nonexistent stain on the counter.

They had just gotten back from coaching, my son Rahul already disappearing into his room to shower while Asif lingered, stretching his arms behind his head with a groan. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his shoulders, outlining the kind of muscle you only got from lifting weights daily. My fingers tightened around the dishcloth.

“You should drink more water,” I said, too abruptly. “It’s hot today.”

Asif smirked, leaning against the counter just a little too close. “Yeah? Maybe you should pour me some then, aunty.” His voice dropped lower, playful but edged with something else, something that made my breath hitch. I grabbed a glass, filling it with trembling hands, and when I turned to hand it to him, his fingers brushed mine deliberately, lingering a second too long. The glass slipped, water splashing between us.

“Sorry,” I muttered, bending to wipe the spill, but he crouched down too, his knee pressing against my thigh. His hand covered mine on the wet cloth, squeezing gently. “Let me help.” His breath was warm against my ear, and I froze, heart hammering. From this angle, I could see the outline of his cock straining against his track pants. I jerked back, knocking into the cabinets behind me.

The sharp sound of Rahul’s door opening made us both scramble up. Asif straightened smoothly, tossing the damp cloth onto the counter like nothing had happened, while I clutched the edge of the sink, knuckles white. Rahul padded into the kitchen, hair still dripping. “Ma, can you make aloo paratha for dinner?”

“Yes, beta,” I said, too quickly. My voice sounded strange to my own ears—high, strained. Rahul frowned but shrugged, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl before heading back to his room. The moment his door clicked shut, Asif exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Close,” he muttered, grinning at me like we’d pulled off a heist.

The aloo paratha dough stuck to my fingers as I kneaded it harder than necessary, the rhythm of my hands doing little to quiet the buzz in my veins. Behind me, Asif leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, watching. The silence stretched like taffy until he finally spoke. “Aunty, you missed a spot.” He pointed to a fleck of flour near my collarbone, his voice low, deliberate.

Before I could react, his thumb swiped across my skin, slow, lingering. His fingertip left a trail of heat that had nothing to do with the kitchen’s warmth. My breath hitched, and I jerked my head toward Rahul’s door—still closed, the shower still running. “Stop,” I whispered, but my hand stayed frozen in the dough.

Asif chuckled, stepping closer. His chest pressed against my back, the heat of him searing through my thin cotton kameez. “You don’t mean that,” he murmured, lips grazing the shell of my ear. One hand slid around my waist, fingers splaying possessively over my stomach while the other tugged gently at the neckline of my shirt. “You’re sweating again.”