Mahi lay sprawled across the plush mattress, legs up against the bedpost, her damp hair spread like a messy halo. The room smelled faintly of rose soap and old wood. One of the fan blades above creaked lazily.
In her hand, she held the tube of ointment.
The packaging was glossy, unfamiliar — covered in Japanese letters. It felt expensive. The kind of product no regular guy would casually keep around.
> Why not just a local brand?
Her mind kept circling back.
To the way he held her hand.
The towel.
The muscles.
That smirk.
Soumik?!
The boy who once wore SpongeBob pajamas and cried when his phone died?
She groaned and flipped over, burying her face into the pillow.
> "Ughh… what is he even trying to be now…"
Her legs kicked the air in frustration.
Her thoughts were running wild.
And she wasn't sure she wanted them to stop.
Then—a knock.
Soft. Measured.
> "May I come in?"
Her heart skipped.
The voice was calm, familiar. Way too familiar.
That casual arrogance wrapped in honey.
She pushed herself up with one elbow, eyes wide.
> "C-come in…"
The door creaked open.
Soumik stepped in.
Now dressed in a fitted black t-shirt that clung to his chest like a second skin.
His biceps strained against the sleeves, and the shirt rode tight across his pecs, clearly not his size.
> "I forgot to pack cozy clothes," he said with a lazy shrug. "Had to borrow something old from grandpa's closet."
He was walking toward her — slow, relaxed.
Mahi was still on the bed, her tiny frame half-curled, looking up at him like a startled kitten.
He stopped right in front of her.
Leaned down, his voice low:
> "Why haven't you applied it yet?"
She snapped out of her trance like she'd just been slapped by her own brain.
> "Y-yeah! I'm gonna apply it! You don't have to think about me so much!"
But he was already reaching for her hand.
His fingers wrapped around her wrist. Warm. Firm.
His eyes flicked to hers — calm, unreadable.
> "Seems like your curves have grown up…"
His voice dipped.
"…but your brain's still stuck in childhood."
She blinked.
> "Wh-what did you just—"
> "You should've applied something the day you got this injury."
He pressed the tube, and thick gel oozed into his palm.
She watched — frozen.
Then his hand touched her wrist.
A spark.
She actually flinched, barely able to hold back the little gasp that escaped her lips.
His palm was warm, steady, way too intimate.
His thumb moved in slow circles.
Fingers pressing gently into her soft skin.
Rub. Slide. Circle. Press.
The ointment felt cool.
His touch — the exact opposite.
> "I c–can do it—myself—" she whispered, breath catching.
> "Ssssh," he said, not even looking up.
His voice was a lullaby. A command.
A spell.
Mahi stared at him — lips parted, heart doing triple flips inside her chest.
He spoke again — soft, almost nostalgic:
> "These hands… still like childhood. Frail. Fair. Like buttermilk."
Then he paused.
And his gaze flicked — ever so slightly — down.
To her hips.
To that very obvious curve that her kurta couldn't quite hide.
> "What's changed is your… ahm…"
He stopped mid-sentence.
But the smirk said enough.
His eyes slid sideways, shamelessly resting on her butt for a second too long.
Mahi gasped.
> "Y-you pervert!! 😭"
He stood up with the same calm grace, wiping his hands on a towel.
> "Oops. Sorry."
He winked.
Then walked out.
Leaving her sitting there — wrist tingling, cheeks burning, heart racing, and brain absolutely fried.