Episode 1 : -
Our building in Bandra has that classic Mumbai vibe—narrow corridors, buzzing tube lights, the smell of someone's evening tadka drifting from open doors. Flat 102 is Zara's, right across the hall from my 106. We've been neighbors since we were kids—playing cricket in the compound, sharing earphones on the terrace, sneaking Maggi when parents weren't looking. She was always the bold one: climbing trees faster, laughing louder, never afraid to call me out when I was being dumb.
Then she confessed.
It was last monsoon, rain hammering the windows. She said it quietly in the lift: "Shadow, I like you. Like, more than friends." My stomach dropped. I didn't feel the same—not yet, anyway—and I told her so. Gently, but it still hurt. After that, we barely talked. Quick "hi" in the hallway, awkward smiles when we passed on the stairs. The silence stretched for months.
Until tonight.
The restaurant was one of those family favorites—big glass windows, long tables pushed together, fairy lights strung up for birthdays or anniversaries. Our families had booked it for my cousin's 18th, so it was us (me, parents, cousins), Zara's family (her mom, dad, little brother), and one more neighbor family filling the chairs. Laughter, clinking plates, uncles debating IPL, aunties comparing jewelry. Normal chaos.
I was sitting near the end of the table, half-listening to my cousin ramble about college, when Zara walked in late. She slid into the seat across from me and one over—close enough that if I stretched my leg under the table, our feet might touch.
She was wearing red.
Not some casual kurti or jeans. A one-piece dress, deep crimson, fitted but not too short—perfect for a family dinner, yet somehow dangerous. The fabric clung to her in all the right places: slim waist, gentle curve of her hips, and... fuck. Her ass. Thick, round, perfectly shaped. As she turned to sit, the dress stretched tight across those cheeks, outlining every curve.
Then she lowered herself onto the chair.
The hem rode up instantly—higher than it was when she was standing. The red fabric slid smoothly over her skin, exposing more of her thighs. They were a little thick, soft-looking, the kind that press together slightly when she sits, creating that gentle gap at the top before the dress cuts it off. Smooth, glowing under the restaurant lights, with just enough curve to make my brain glitch.
My cock stirred hard and fast. Heat flooded my face and lower. I crossed my legs under the table so quick I almost knocked my knee on the leg, trying to hide the growing bulge in my jeans. No way anyone else noticed, right? But Zara...
She glanced around the table, saying hi to everyone—sweet smile for my mom, quick wave to her aunt—then her eyes landed on me.
Time slowed.
She didn't say anything at first. Just looked. Then her lips curved. Not a big grin. A small, knowing smirk. The kind that said I see you staring, Shadow. And I know exactly why your face is red right now.
My throat tightened. I forced a casual nod, but my voice wouldn't come out. Under the table, my dick throbbed, pressing painfully against the zipper. Precum was definitely starting to leak—I could feel the damp spot forming.
Zara turned to talk to her little brother, but the way she sat... hips angled slightly toward me, back straight, ass pushed back against the chair so the dress pulled even tighter across those thick cheeks. Her thighs pressed together, the extra exposed skin looking impossibly soft. Every time she laughed or reached for a glass, her thighs shifted, the dress staying hiked up, giving me flashes of more smooth skin.
I couldn't stop looking.
She caught me again. Eyes flicked up, locked on mine. That smirk deepened. Then—slowly—her gaze dropped. Down my chest... to my lap. For one second. She saw it. The obvious outline in my jeans.
Her eyes snapped back to mine. The smirk turned playful, almost wicked. She bit her lower lip—just a quick flash—then looked away like nothing happened.
My pulse hammered in my ears. I shifted again, trying to hide it, but it only made the fabric rub worse.
Zara reached for the water jug in the middle of the table. She leaned forward—ass lifting slightly off the chair, cheeks rounding out more, dress riding up another tiny bit on her thighs. She held the stretch a beat longer than necessary, pouring slowly, then glanced back over her shoulder at me.
That smirk again. Eyes sparkling. Like she was daring me: You like what you see? All of it?
She sat back down, crossed her legs under the table, and her foot brushed mine—light, maybe accidental. But the contact sent a jolt straight through me.
Dinner had just started, and I was already losing my mind.