It was a Sunday afternoon, and for the first time in a week, the rain had paused. The sun peeked shyly through floating clouds, casting a golden tint on damp rooftops. But the eastern sky still brooded-heavy with charcoal gray clouds that hadn't made up their mind.

Ahana was wandering along the terrace barefoot, the breeze tangling her hair. More precisely, she was at the far eastern edge of the vast, shared terrace-an unusual arrangement between two families bound by an old house and older histories.

Three decades ago, her father had bought a portion of the sprawling Chakroborty residence-a once-grand North Kolkata mansion that still bore the scent of old paper, rusted grills, and rain-soaked plaster. What used to be the outhouse had since become their modest but warm home.

The main house, majestic even in its slow decay, was still inhabited by the direct descendants of Dwarakanath Chakroborty-a name spoken with reverence in Bengali history books. A scholar, an idealist, and a companion to freedom fighters, his legacy still loomed over the house like the portraits in its corridors.

Now, his great-grandson Ramakant Chakroborty lived in the main wing with his elegant wife and their only son-Arkojyoti.

While the two families lived on the same land, their lives rarely intersected. Separate entrances, routines, festivals. Two worlds under the same rain-washed roof.

Except for this terrace.

A vast sea of red tiles and mossy corners that connected the past with the present, the house with the sky.

And sometimes... people with each other.

Ahana's fingers tightened around her phone as she scanned the terrace. She was alert-heart quick, ears pricked. This was her one window of freedom. Sundays. When her parents took their weekly trip to Dakshineswar Kali Temple, offering flowers and devotion, returning only after the evening aarti.

This was her time.

The phone buzzed in her hand. A text lit up the screen:

"Can I come through the main gate?"

She typed back quickly, eyes darting toward the iron staircase that led to the rear alley.

"No way. Take the pipelines behind. I don't want people to know , Monty."

"Am I that lafangey? Are you that embarrassed of me?" His reply stung a bit.

She ignored.

And then she waited.

The wind carried the sharp scent of petrichor as Monty emerged from the back terrace-effortless, like he belonged to the weather itself. Sweat clung to him in glistening drops, sliding down the curve of his throat and soaking into the black half-buttoned shirt that clung to every line of him.

He was a walking sin.

Six feet of tightly coiled muscle, drenched and deliberate. Veins tracked his forearms like lightning under skin. His jaw-rough with stubble-tightened as he spotted her, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that maddening, slow-burn smirk that made Ahana's stomach knot.

His jeans hung low on his hips, heavy with masculinity, outlining just enough to make her look away-and then look again.

He didn't speak at first.

Just walked up, wrapped one firm arm around her waist, and pulled her to him like he'd waited a week just to feel her body align with his again.

"Hey, beb," he murmured, voice thick, his lips already trailing toward her neck.

Ahana shoved him back, breath hitched. "Not here."

But her fingers had already curled into his shirt, guiding him-fast-to the attic.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dust, rain, and anticipation. The door clicked shut, and the heat between them detonated.

He pushed her against the wooden beam, his eyes raking over her like a slow fire. His hands were big-capable-the kind that held you down or lifted you up depending on how hard you wanted to fall. He kissed her like he didn't care if the house came down around them. Lips rough, tongue commanding, breath syncing with hers in messy rhythm.

His hands slid beena her t-shirt grabbing her breasts. His fingers mulling her erect nipples.

Her clothes were half-off before she could even register it.

His skin was hot beneath her palms-corded with tension, all muscle and male intent. He tasted like rain and need. Her back arched as he lifted her off the floor, her legs wrapping around him instinctively, her head tilting back as he pressed his mouth to the pulse beneath her jaw.

"Fuck me!" She moaned as his fingers slid into her panties.

"That's what I'm here for-" he whisper against her neck. His hands reached his pocket, grabbing the condom.

Then with a swift motion, he slid it down his dick and entered her.

Rhythmic. Deep. Desperate.

The old divan creaked beneath them as the raindrops started hitting the asbestos roof of the attic, matching the tempo of two bodies colliding in silence.

She wasn't kissing him back-she was devouring. And he gave it just as fast, just as hard, matching her hunger with his own wicked pace.

Her fingernails dragged down his back. He growled low in his throat. Somewhere in the shadows, an old trunk tipped slightly as her heel kicked it. Neither of them noticed.

It wasn't soft.

It wasn't sweet.

It was just raw fucking.

Ahana didn't love Monty. But she loved to be fucked. Fucked like savage in abandoned attic and empty staircase.

"It's fucking raining again?" Monty looked up, his head still burried between her breasts, brows knitted.

"Shut up, Monty, just fuck!" She groaned.

Ahana had barely registered the rhythm of Monty's grip tightening around her waist when it happened.

Click.

The old wooden door creaked open.

Time stopped.

She gasped and shoved Monty off her with a startled jerk. The sound of their bodies separating echoed far too loud in the tiny room.

Monty cursed under his breath, chest rising and falling, one hand bracing against the wall, the other dragging his jeans up.

But her eyes weren't on him.

They were on the figure frozen at the doorway.

Arko.

Arkojyoti Chakroborty.

He stood there, hand still on the antique brass handle, tall and motionless like a statue struck by lightning. His brows were slightly raised, but his eyes-

Oh god. His eyes.

Wide, stunned, unreadable. A flicker of disbelief, quickly replaced by something quieter. Something colder.

A sharp inhale. Jaw clenched.

Not rage. Not scandal. Just... disappointment. And a faint, unmistakable curl of distaste.

He blinked once.

Ahana's lips parted, but no sound came out.

Her mouth still tasted like Monty. Her hair was a mess. Her shirt was twisted. Everything about the moment screamed caught-and cheap.

No one moved.

For a second, all she could hear was her own ragged breathing, and the rain pelting harder against the attic roof, like the sky itself wanted to drown her in shame.

Arko didn't speak. Not yet.

He simply looked at her, then Monty, then back at her, "What the fuck is happening?"

"Arka da, I can explain," she urged.

"I don't need explanation." He was cold, "God, your taste in men is so cheap -"

With a scoff he just left.

Ahana's heart was still racing. Partly the sex, partly humiliation. Her throat was dry, head throbbing in pain suddenly.

Her eyes fell on Monty who just stood there confused, his jeans drawn up in a haste, his pants still swollen from the raging throb underneath.

"Leave!" She hissed.
The attic door slammed behind Monty.

Ahana didn't wait.

Still breathless, cheeks flushed with heat and shame, she stormed out into the terrace. Rain had stopped, but the sky remained overcast, as if nature itself hadn't decided what to do next.

"Arka da!" she called, breath hitching. "It's not what you think-"

He had reached the edge of the terrace, walking away fast, but her voice made him pause.

She ran after him, barefoot, half-covered-just a loose T-shirt clinging to her damp skin, barely brushing the tops of her thighs. Her nipples still taut, brushing her tshirt lightly. Her legs, flushed and bare, carried the evidence of everything she didn't want him to see.

He turned, but not fully. His eyes stayed fixed somewhere over her shoulder.

"It's none of my business," he said quickly, voice tight. "I wasn't- I was just going to have a smoke. That's all."

His hands were in his pockets. His shoulders tense. His ears faintly red.

She stopped a few steps away, still heaving from the sprint and everything before it.

"I didn't know you still came up here," she said, her voice quieter now, the adrenaline slipping into something slower. Shame, maybe.

He finally glanced at her, just once, and then sharply turned away again.

"You should... put something on."

His voice wasn't harsh. It was almost apologetic. As if he had trespassed.

Ahana swallowed hard.

"I didn't mean to- It just-"

"I said it's fine." His voice was firmer this time. "You don't owe me an explanation."

But she still felt like she did. Not because of what he saw. But because of how he had seen her.

She stepped back.

Arka lit his cigarette with shaking hands. His eyes were still averted, smoke curling upward like a question neither of them could ask.

"Monty? of all people?"

She heard a laugh as she was walked away. Her embarrassment changed into anger.

Enough judgement for a day.

What does he think of himself?

She muttered.

Please support me and don't forget to leave a comment...