Aarav woke up before the rooster.
Not because he was used to early mornings—he wasn't—but because the silence felt different here. It wasn't empty. It was full. Full of insects humming in a relentless, vibrating chorus, leaves brushing against each other with soft whispers in the pre-dawn breeze, and something that felt like expectation, heavy and alive in the cool air.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the cracked ceiling of the old house, the faint scent of aged wood and dust lingering in the room, his thin sheet clinging to his sweat-damp skin from the night's lingering warmth.
So this is my life now.
The thought didn't hurt the way he expected it to.
He stepped outside barefoot. The ground was cool, damp with last night's dew that soaked between his toes, slick and refreshing against his soles. The fields smelled of wet earth, raw and honest, a deep, fertile musk that filled his lungs with every breath. Somewhere nearby, a conch shell sounded from the temple—a low, resonant hum vibrating through the air—followed by the slow, metallic ringing of a bell, echoing across the misty fields.
Amavasya.
He remembered Meera's words.
Bad day to plough. Good day to clean.
So he cleaned.
By mid-morning, sweat clung to his back, soaking through his thin cotton shirt, trickling down his spine in warm rivulets. Dust coated his hands, gritty and fine, embedding under his nails as he dragged old furniture out with grunts of effort, swept thick cobwebs that stuck to his fingers like sticky threads, and discovered that the well still worked—though it complained loudly with creaking rope and splashing echoes as he hauled up bucket after bucket of cool, clear water that tasted faintly of minerals.
That was when he heard it.
A throat clearing, soft but deliberate.
He turned, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm.
Meera stood at the gate again, this time with her hair tied back in a loose bun, strands escaping to frame her face, damp at the temples from the rising heat. A simple cotton saree wrapped neatly around her full figure, the pale fabric clinging slightly to her curves where morning sweat had begun to gather. She held a steel plate covered with a cloth, the faint aroma of spiced potatoes and fresh rotis wafting toward him.
"You missed breakfast," she said, her voice warm, carrying over the buzz of flies.
"I didn't know it was mandatory."
She raised an eyebrow, a playful arch. "In villages? Everything is mandatory. Especially eating."
She stepped inside without waiting for permission, her bare feet padding softly on the mud floor, the faint scent of her—sandalwood soap mixed with the earthy warmth of her skin—trailing behind her.
Aarav noticed, with mild surprise, how natural it felt, how his pulse quickened just a fraction at her proximity.
She placed the plate on the rough wooden table and uncovered it—two soft, steaming rotis, a small bowl of aloo sabzi glistening with oil and flecked with cumin, and a vibrant green chilli placed like an afterthought, its sharp scent cutting through the air.
"You work like someone trying to erase himself," she said casually, her eyes lingering on the way his shirt stuck to his chest, outlining the lean muscles beneath.
"Is it working?"
She looked at him then, eyes scanning his tired face, the dust in his tousled hair, the sheen of sweat on his neck.
"No," she said, her voice lowering slightly. "You're still very visible."
His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as a flush of heat—not from the sun—spread through him.
They ate together, standing at first, then sitting on the low bench, their knees brushing accidentally under the table, sending a spark up his thigh.
"You don't ask questions," Aarav said between bites, the roti warm and fluffy against his tongue, the sabzi spicy and comforting.
"About?"
"Why I'm here."
Meera took a sip of water from the steel glass, her lips glistening as she set it down.
"People leave cities for many reasons," she said. "Shame. Exhaustion. Or courage."
She glanced at him, her gaze direct, tracing the line of his jaw. "Which one is yours?"
"Can it be all three?"
A corner of her mouth lifted, revealing a hint of teeth.
"That's acceptable."
Outside, a group of women passed by, their anklets jingling softly, whispering just loudly enough to be heard, their voices carrying on the warm breeze. Meera's posture changed—not stiff, but alert, her shoulders squaring, the saree pallu shifting to reveal the soft swell of her blouse against her breasts. A lifetime of knowing how to stand without inviting comments.
Aarav noticed, his eyes drawn involuntarily.
"They talk about you?" he asked, voice rougher.
"About everyone," she replied. "But widows are easier."
He swallowed hard.
"I'm sorry."
She waved it off again, but this time she reached out, adjusting his collar—slowly, deliberately, her fingers brushing the heated skin of his neck, lingering just a breath longer than necessary, tracing the pulse point where his heartbeat thudded visibly. The touch was electric, her fingertips calloused yet gentle, sending a shiver down his spine straight to his groin.
"Don't pity me," she said softly, her breath warm against his ear as she leaned in. "Respect me. That's rarer."
"I do," he said immediately, his voice husky, eyes locked on hers.
She looked up at him, surprised by how quick his answer was, her pupils dilating slightly.
"Good," she said, her hand withdrawing slowly, fingertips trailing down his chest for a fraction of a second. "Then we'll get along."
Later, she walked him to the fields, the sun beating down, heat rising from the soil in shimmering waves.
The soil was uneven, cracked in places, dry and powdery underfoot. She squatted down gracefully, her saree hiking up slightly to reveal the smooth curve of her calves and ankles dusted with earth, picking up a handful of rich, dark earth, rubbing it between her fingers—the grains falling slowly as she let it sift through.
"You'll need to prepare this before monsoon," she explained, her voice steady, though her chest rose and fell a bit faster in the heat. "Green manure. Maybe dhaincha. And don't listen to Ramesh Uncle—he hasn't grown anything except opinions in years."
Aarav laughed, but his eyes were on the way the saree draped over her hips as she squatted, the fabric taut against her thighs.
She smiled, pleased, standing slowly.
As she stood up, her foot slipped slightly on the loose soil. Instinctively, Aarav reached out, catching her elbow—his hand firm on her warm, bare skin just below the blouse sleeve.
They froze.
Her hand rested against his forearm, fingers pressing into the muscle, feeling the heat and strength there. His grip was careful, respectful—but firm, thumb brushing the soft inner curve of her arm, dangerously close to the side of her breast.
For a moment, neither moved. He could feel her pulse racing under his fingers, matching his own thundering heart. The air between them thickened, charged with the scent of sweat and earth and unspoken want—his body responding unmistakably, a hardening ache in his pants that he shifted to hide.
"Thank you," she said quietly, her voice breathy, lips parted.
He didn't let go immediately, his thumb stroking once, deliberately, along her skin.
Neither did she, her fingers tightening, nails digging in just enough to sting pleasurably.
Then she stepped back, smoothing her saree as if nothing had happened, though her breath came quicker, nipples faintly visible against the thin blouse fabric.
But her ears were pink, and lower, he imagined the warmth gathering between her thighs.
In the afternoon, the village gathered near the ancient banyan tree, its aerial roots dangling like curtains, the air thick with the scent of incense and murmured prayers. It was Amavasya—no new beginnings, but plenty of opinions shared under the shade.
Aarav felt the weight of eyes on him. Some curious. Some judgmental.
"He's from the city," someone muttered.
"No caste pride," said another.
"Alone man," whispered a third.
Meera stood beside him, unbothered, her arm brushing his occasionally, the contact sending jolts through him.
"Stand straight," she murmured, her breath hot on his ear. "They smell fear."
"I'm not scared."
"I know," she said. "You're just unused to being seen."
Her fingers brushed his wrist—a quiet reassurance, invisible to everyone else, but her touch lingered, tracing a slow circle on his skin that made his cock twitch.
The touch grounded him—and aroused him deeply.
That evening, as the sun dipped low and the fields turned gold, bathing everything in a warm, sensual glow, Meera stopped at her gate.
"You'll come tomorrow?" she asked, her eyes dark, voice low.
"For?"
"Learning how not to ruin your land," she said. "And maybe… tea."
"Just tea?" he asked lightly, but his gaze dropped to her lips, then lower, imagining the taste of her skin.
She tilted her head, eyes warm, a knowing smile playing as she stepped closer, the heat of her body palpable.
"Let's not rush the land," she replied, her hand brushing his chest briefly, fingers splaying over his heartbeat. "Or ourselves."
She went inside, leaving Aarav standing there, smiling like an idiot, his body thrumming with unspent tension.
He realized then—
This wasn't desire.
Not yet.
It was something slower, building like the monsoon clouds—intense, inevitable.
Something that asked to be earned, but promised to consume them both.