The mansion had gone quiet.
Mahi had just stepped out of her shower, towel-dried hair clinging softly to her neck. The white kurta she wore now stuck faintly to her damp skin, her feet bare against the cold marble floor.
She let out a sigh, one hand brushing the strands of hair from her cheek.
University life had been brutal lately — lectures, assignments, stress. But this… this Eid break? It felt like sinking into clouds.
She stretched her arms, wincing slightly.
Her wrist still hurt — faintly throbbing, like it refused to be ignored.
Whatever. She'd manage.
The hallway was dimly lit — old sconces flickering with golden light, casting long shadows. Mahi wandered slowly, her eyes scanning the ancient portraits along the walls.
Her grandfather had been a man of extravagant taste.
There were paintings of mythical women with impossible curves, children playing in fields of lilies, barefoot village girls holding baskets of roses… Each painting felt like it held some forgotten story.
She smiled softly, trailing her fingers along the dusty frames.
Then — she froze.
Ahead of her, half-hidden in the soft lamplight, was a portrait unlike the others.
It was… raw. Intimate.
A man. Wet hair clinging to his forehead. Towel loosely wrapped around his waist. His skin glistened — droplets trailing down his massive chest, tracing the ridges of his abs like some forbidden artwork. He stood in profile, muscles sharp under the hallway lighting, one hand holding a bathroom door half-open behind him.
> What in the world… Grandpa bought this??!
Her eyes widened. Her breath caught.
But then — the "portrait" moved.
Turned.
Looked directly at her.
Mahi gasped out loud.
> It wasn't a painting.
It was Soumik.
Fresh out of the shower.
Hair messy. Chest bare. Drops still trailing down that sinful torso.
Towel dangerously low.
He blinked slowly… then smirked.
> "Princess," he said, walking toward her. His voice a velvet blade.
"Do you need something?"
She backed a step, flustered.
> "N-no. No-no. I was just—walking!"
He didn't stop. Didn't rush either. Just got closer.
His chest was right there, humid warmth radiating off him.
Water dripped from his collarbone and hit the floor between them.
Then, with maddening calmness, he reached into the drawer nearby, pulled something out —
and took her hand. Gently. Holding her injured wrist.
She gasped again — this time from the contact.
He looked at her hand. Then up at her eyes.
> "You were wincing," he said softly.
"Don't ignore pain."
He placed a small tube in her palm — a pain relief ointment.
Still holding her gaze.
Still shirtless.
Still close enough to hear her heartbeat.
Mahi's fingers closed around the tube, her lips slightly parted.
> "Th-thanks," she managed to whisper, eyes darting everywhere except his torso.
He leaned in, just an inch closer.
> "You're welcome."
And then — he turned, walking away down the corridor…
Each drop of water sliding down his back like a sin.
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