I woke up the next morning with the previous evening still lingering somewhere in the back of my mind—the rain, the fall, my dead phone, your hand, and that strange warmth I had carried home with me even after shutting the door behind you. I went to the temple first. There was something about standing there in the morning quiet that settled me a little. I poured जल over the Shivling, folded my hands, bowed my head and stayed there for a few seconds longer than usual. Om Namah Shivaya. Maybe I was grateful. Maybe confused. Maybe I simply needed something familiar after an evening that had felt so unlike my normal life.

Then real life resumed. I came home, got ready and took the kids for their Parent-Teacher Meeting. School corridors, teachers, notebooks, little conversations about performance and behaviour—the usual things that returned me instantly to being a mother. Afterward, I dropped him home and went straight for grocery shopping. Somewhere between vegetables, cereal boxes and detergent, I remembered him. Not you. Him.

I stopped for a second. I hadn’t even checked on him. That was unlike me. Usually, no matter what was happening in my life, some part of my attention remained attached to him. Was he okay? Had he eaten? Was something wrong? Had he slept properly? Yesterday had somehow consumed me so completely that I had forgotten. The realization came with guilt. I took out my phone. Miraculously, it was working again. Apparently the rice-box technology had not entirely failed me.

I typed a small message. How is your health? And sent it. That was all. No explanation. No long paragraph. No questions about Instagram. Nothing about why he had blocked me. Just the one thing I always wanted to know—was he okay?

I put my phone back into my bag and continued shopping, but while I walked through the aisles, something else kept running quietly through my mind. Coffee. You. 2:30. You were coming. And suddenly grocery shopping felt unbearably boring.

I checked the time. I still had a few hours, so I did something I hadn’t done for myself in a long time. I went to the salon. Not because I needed to. Because I wanted to. I got my hair done, took care of my face, sat there while someone else fussed over me for a change, and somewhere during all of it I realized that I was actually excited. Ridiculously excited.

I still knew almost nothing about you. I knew your name. I knew you had apparently liked me for six years. I knew you played along with my terrible jokes. I knew you were audacious enough to repeatedly ask a married woman with two children for coffee. I knew your hand was warm. That was about it. And yet I wanted to see you again.

There was something almost teenage about the anticipation, which was embarrassing considering I was very much an adult woman with children, responsibilities, a husband and an entire life already built. Still, I was smiling. And then another thought hit me—if my phone hadn’t fallen into that rainwater yesterday, if it hadn’t died, if the auto driver had come to the correct gate, if I hadn’t slipped, I probably wouldn’t have been going anywhere with you today. Sometimes an entire day changes because one stupid thing goes wrong.

By the time I reached home, I had very little time left. And then began the real problem: what the hell was I supposed to wear? I put on my black dress and looked at myself. No. The bandage on my right arm was too visible. I changed into blue. Still wrong. Green. No. Pink. Absolutely not. Every dress made me notice the bandage more. It ruined the look. Or maybe I was simply nervous enough to find something wrong with everything.

I stood in front of my wardrobe wearing half an outfit, staring at clothes like they had personally betrayed me. Finally, I chose white. Simple. Soft. Something about it felt right. I got ready again, fixed my hair, checked myself in the mirror, changed my earrings once, then changed them back, reapplied lipstick for no reason and looked at the clock every three minutes. It had been years since somebody had taken me out for what felt like a proper coffee date. Years. And I hated how happy that thought made me.

At around 2:30, my phone rang. You were downstairs. My stomach did something stupid. I walked towards the balcony and looked down, then frowned. That wasn’t the same car. Yesterday you had been driving an MG. Today there was a white Fortuner standing downstairs. For some reason, that immediately made me suspicious. Of course it did.

I leaned farther over the balcony railing. Then you stepped out. And—oh. Oh, wow.

Sunglasses. White shirt. Blue denim jacket. Jeans. Shoes. You looked annoyingly good. Handsome as hell, actually. Not that I was going to tell you that. I was still staring when you walked towards the back of the Fortuner and opened it. Then you pulled something out.

At first, I didn’t understand what I was looking at. And then I did.

Roses.

A bouquet.

No. Not a bouquet. A fucking floral monument.

Sixty-four giant roses.

I stared from the balcony.

“Holy Moses.”

What the actual fuck?

Every bit of excitement inside me immediately turned into panic. Absolutely not. No. No, no, no. I was married. This was not even my house. There were neighbours. People had balconies. People had eyes. Why were you standing in the middle of the road with sixty-four roses like some deranged Bollywood hero?

I grabbed my phone and called you immediately.

“Flowers वापस रखो.”

You looked around. “अरे, देख कहाँ से रही हो तुम?”

“That is not important. Flowers वापस रखो.”

“अरे कुछ नहीं हो रहा.”

“I am married! This is not my house. बस जाओ यहाँ से.”

“अरे बाहर आओ तुम.”

I could feel my entire face turning red. Part shame. Part rage. Part something I absolutely refused to identify.

I practically stormed down the two flights of stairs. Correction—I attempted to storm. With my injured ankle, it looked more like aggressive limping. You were waiting downstairs with the roses. The moment I saw the bouquet properly, I deliberately ignored it and looked at the Fortuner instead.

“ये किसकी गाड़ी उठा लाए?”

You looked at me as though the question was completely normal. “मेरी है.”

I stared. Yesterday MG. Today Fortuner. Of course. Spoiled brat.

I didn’t say anything, mostly because before I could, you stepped closer, put an arm around my waist and hugged me. I froze. Not because I wanted you to move away. That was the problem. You smelled divine—clean, expensive, warm. Something in that smell hit me before my brain had time to object.

Then you handed me the roses. I instinctively took them with both hands. Jesus Christ, they were heavy.

“ये कितने हैं?”

“Sixty-four.”

“क्यों?”

You only smiled. Before I could interrogate you further, you reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. I stared at you. For one absurd second, I genuinely wondered whether I was dreaming. What exactly was happening? I was a mother of two. I had a husband. And some man I had properly spoken to for the first time only yesterday was standing outside with sixty-four roses, moving my hair away from my face like this was perfectly reasonable behaviour. What did you want from me?

You took the bouquet back before my injured arm could protest, placed it carefully in the back seat, took my purse too, then helped me climb into the absurdly tall Fortuner you had parked almost in the middle of the road.

“You spoiled brat,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The inside of the car smelled as good as you did, which was deeply unhelpful. The moment I settled into the seat, I became far too aware of everything—the cool air, the leather, my dress against my legs, your perfume still lingering around me from that brief hug.

And then, almost perfectly on cue, it started raining.

I turned towards the windshield. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You climbed into the driver’s seat, looked outside and grinned. “मस्त romantic मौसम बना दिया तुमने तो, baby.”

Then you looked at me. “Looking very sexy, by the way.”

I felt heat climb straight into my face. “क्या इरादे हैं तुम्हारे? I am not sleeping with you.”

The innocent expression you made almost made me laugh.

“मैं तुम्हें date पर लेकर जा रहा हूँ और तुम्हें ये सब की पड़ी है?”

I narrowed my eyes. “लड़के इतनी मेहनत क्यों करते हैं फिर?”

You reached for my hand and placed it on your thigh. “क्योंकि कभी-कभी वो सच में लड़की को पसंद करते हैं.”

“Just to fuck her,” I said, laughing.

Your expression changed slightly. Not offended. Just softer.

“No, Onesha. I like you, yaar.”

And there it was.

My name.

Not ma’am. Not some teasing nickname. Onesha.

Hearing it from your mouth did something strange to me. A small electric shiver ran down my spine. I looked at you. You noticed immediately.

“Kya hua? All good? Comfortable?”

I nodded.

Then you added quietly, “तुम्हें नहीं पसंद तो नहीं करेंगे.”

Something about the ease with which you said it settled me. No drama. No persuasion. Just a boundary acknowledged before I had even properly drawn it.

Then you reached towards the side and handed me a tiny gift. My mood changed instantly.

“What is this?”

“खोलो.”

I opened it like a child. Inside was a small bell keychain with a nazar amulet attached to it.

I looked at you. “You got this for me?”

“हाँ.”

“Thank you.”

You took it from my hand. “अब गिरा नहीं करोगी तुम.”

I laughed. Then you began circling it around me dramatically—once, twice, three times. By the seventh round, I was laughing so hard I had forgotten to be self-conscious.

“क्या कर रहे हो?”

“नज़र उतार रहा हूँ.”

I looked at you properly. Your cheeks had dimples when you smiled. Why had I never noticed that? You looked unexpectedly charming. Almost unfairly handsome.

“You don’t usually look like this in office,” I said.

“अरे फिर लड़कियाँ बेहोश हो जाएँगी ना मुझे देख के.”

I shook my head. “Self-obsessed.”

“बस तुम नहीं होती बेहोश.”

“Why?”

You gave me a straight face. “दो बच्चों की माँ हो ना तुम. Married aunty.”

I stared at you, then burst out laughing. “You are such an idiot.”

You were still holding my hand, and somewhere between my laughter and your ridiculous expression, you brought it towards your lips and kissed it. The laughter stopped inside me before it stopped outside.

I looked down. My engagement ring caught the light.

And reality returned. Sharp. Immediate.

This is not right.

I should not be doing this.

My fingers stiffened slightly. You seemed to notice but didn’t say anything. Instead, you turned towards the stereo and played a song. A painfully romantic one. Of course.

Rain continued falling outside. The timing was almost obnoxious.

I looked through the windshield, trying not to think, but you kept holding my hand, and after a while thinking became difficult anyway. The music. The rain. Your warmth. The occasional kiss against my fingers, then my wrist. That ridiculously comfortable car. Your perfume. Everything was conspiring against common sense.

I felt intoxicated without having had a single drink.

“हम कहाँ जा रहे हैं?” I finally asked.

“देख लेना. Nice place चुनी है. You’ll love it.”

“How do you know?”

You shook your head in disbelief. “Baby, just trust it. Relax. You’re safe. कुछ नहीं हो रहा. Just enjoy.”

“कितनी देर में आ जाएँगे?”

You looked amused. “अरे date अभी शुरू हुई है.”

You let go of my hand then, only to reach up and tuck my hair behind my ear again. Your fingers stayed there for a moment, lightly brushing the side of my face. Without thinking, I leaned just a little into your palm.

Warmth.

That was all I wanted.

Just warmth.

I turned my face and kissed your hand once. Immediately, I became aware of how dangerous that felt.

I had been longing for physical touch for months. Not sex. Not even necessarily romance. Touch. Affection. Someone’s hand. Someone’s arm around me. Someone leaning closer because they wanted to. And I didn’t know how much of that hunger I could safely let loose.

So I stopped myself.

Then I noticed the tattoo on your neck. I had seen hints of it in office before, but never properly. I reached towards it. My fingers traced the edge of the tattoo, then wandered lightly across the back of your neck, the nape beneath your ear.

You smiled.

I liked that.

Probably too much.

You caught my fingers and kissed them. Neither of us spoke. Rain poured harder. The song seemed to stretch into every quiet space inside the car.

And suddenly I wanted to kiss you.

The thought arrived whole. No warning.

Before I could decide what to do with it, you removed your seatbelt and leaned across. You kissed my cheek once. Soft. My breath caught.

I don’t know whether loneliness makes you reckless or simply honest. Maybe both.

I removed my seatbelt too. Then I kissed you.

On the lips.

This time I didn’t pretend it had happened accidentally.

You pulled the car safely to the side. Outside, the rain came down hard enough to erase the world beyond the windows. The glass had begun to mist, water droplets crowded the sunroof, and the closed car suddenly felt like its own tiny universe.

You held my face in both hands and kissed me again. I kissed you back. For a few moments I forgot everything else—the ring, the children, the complicated love I carried for someone who wasn’t here, the fact that yesterday I had barely known you.

I just let myself feel wanted.

Your hand moved from my neck down across my body, and when the touch became more intimate, something inside me jolted back into awareness. I pulled away. Not dramatically. Just enough.

I reached for my lipstick.

You looked at me.

I looked into the mirror. “My lipstick is ruined.”

You laughed.

That broke the tension.

I reapplied it carefully while pretending my hands were not shaking. You put Camo Cookhouse into Maps.

Thirty-five minutes.

Good.

Enough time for me to become a normal person again.

I fixed my hair and settled back into the seat. And then, finally, we talked. Really talked. About you. About me. About completely random things.

I have always loved people who talk. People who tell stories. People who share tiny details without being interrogated. I don’t know why, but conversation settles something inside my emotional heart. When someone tells me what they like, where they have travelled, what they want to do, what annoys them, what makes them happy—I listen. I ask questions. I remember.

Maybe because I hadn’t had anyone to really talk to in such a long time. Not like this. Not without measuring every word.

You told me about Kinnaur Kailash. Valley of Flowers. Trips. Mountains. Places you wanted to visit. Little memories that had nothing to do with impressing me. And I liked listening. I gave smaller answers. You gave longer ones. It worked.

But somewhere in between your stories, I missed him again.

Dharamshala.

Mountains.

Him.

My mind wandered to what he might be doing, whether he had seen my message, whether he would answer. I was sitting beside you, but some part of my heart remained elsewhere. With him.

All I had ever wanted with him were normal things. Coffee. An evening. Conversation. A drive. A few quiet hours where neither of us had to defend anything. Things exactly like this.

The thought hurt.

I pushed it away.

Stay present.

At some point you touched my fingers gently. “It’s okay.”

I looked at you.

You didn’t ask what I had been thinking.

And somehow that made me feel as though you already understood that there were rooms inside me I hadn’t opened for you.

By the time we reached Camo Cookhouse, the rain had softened slightly. I looked outside and immediately loved the place. The interiors were beautiful. Warm. Peaceful. Exactly the kind of place where the weather outside made everything inside feel even cosier.

You drove in and handed the car to valet. Someone brought you an umbrella. You walked around to my side, opened the door and extended your hand.

I stared at it.

Then smiled.

Again.

That hand.

I placed mine in yours and stepped out carefully. My ankle was still sore, so you slowed down without making a big thing of it. You held the umbrella over me. Your shoulder got wet. Mine didn’t.

And for some reason that tiny detail affected me more than the sixty-four roses had.

We walked inside hand in hand. The manager seemed to already know about our reservation. I was impressed. Very impressed.

“Sir, you and your wife can have this table.”

I almost stopped walking.

Wife?

I looked at you.

You were practically glowing.

“काश कि ये सच होता,” you murmured.

I stared. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You are doing all this just to make me sleep with you.”

You laughed. “Again?”

“I am getting all your tips and tricks now.”

“हाँ, बिल्कुल. पूरी conspiracy है.”

I shook my head and sat down. The restaurant was beautiful enough to distract me.

I ordered a tiramisu latte. You ordered food for us. And then we talked some more.

At some point I noticed your eyes properly.

Greenish-brown.

Not a colour I could name exactly.

I had never looked long enough before.

Outside, dense rain fell beyond the windows.

You glanced at my bandaged arm. “दर्द कैसा है अब?”

“दिल का या हाथ का?”

You looked at me. “दिल में क्या दर्द है तुम्हारे?”

I smiled, but it wasn’t really a smile. “था कोई. तोड़ दिया जिसने दिल.”

Your expression changed. “क्यों? क्या किया उसने?”

I looked towards the rain. “कुछ किया ही तो नहीं यार उसने.”

That was the entire problem.

You waited.

I don’t know why I said the next words. Maybe because you had been talking so openly all evening. Maybe because I needed to hear myself say them aloud.

“I love him.”

You were quiet for a second.

“अच्छा.”

No judgement. No visible disappointment. Just that.

Then—“कौन है?”

“क्या करोगे जानकर?”

“देखना चाहता हूँ कौन है जिसने तुम्हारी खूबसूरती नहीं देखी.”

“Oh please.”

I immediately lifted my hand, showing you the ring. “I am just a fat, दो बच्चों की माँ. And don’t forget—I am married.”

Even as I said it, I regretted the defensiveness in my voice. Because somewhere inside me I had become confused.

How was I supposed to behave with you? Did I want you? Did I not? If I didn’t, why had I kissed you? If I did, why was another man’s name still living inside every quiet space in my head?

The food arrived before I had to answer any of those questions.

Thank God.

We returned to lighter things. Travel. Work. People. Mountains. Random nonsense. You kept making comments that made me laugh. I ate. I drank my coffee. I listened.

And after a very long time, I genuinely enjoyed a conversation without feeling like I had to chase it.

You kept taking pictures of me. At first I protested. Then I secretly began liking it.

“बस करो.”

“One more.”

“You’ve taken twenty.”

“अच्छी आ रही हो.”

I rolled my eyes but smiled anyway.

And the truth was—I felt sexy.

Not because of the dress.

Not because of the salon.

Not because somebody had brought me roses.

Because someone was looking at me as though I was worth looking at.

I had forgotten what that felt like.

When the bill came, I paid for both of us before you could turn it into another argument. You objected. I ignored you.

“Coffee मेरी थी.”

“This was not coffee.”

“Too late.”

By the time we drove back, the day had softened into evening. I was tired, but it was a good kind of tired. The kind that comes after laughing more than expected. After talking. After being looked after. After remembering that somewhere underneath being a mother, wife, employee, caretaker and problem-solver, I was still a woman.

When we reached home, you hugged me.

Tight.

Too long.

You didn’t seem eager to let go.

I laughed and pushed lightly against you. “बस. छोड़ो.”

“कल?”

“बहुत हो गया.”

“मतलब हाँ?”

“मतलब जाओ.”

You finally let go.

I picked up my purse, then the ridiculous roses. I looked at you once before walking inside.

And for the first time in a very long time, I came home after spending an evening with someone and felt full.

Not healed.

Not in love.

Not suddenly free of everything I had been carrying.

Just satisfied. Warm. Confused. A little guilty. A little alive.

And maybe that was enough for one evening.