Years slipped by like soft monsoon rain against our bedroom window.
Our son arrived first—Nikhil in miniature. Same serious dark eyes that crinkled at the corners when he laughed, same stubborn little jaw. But he inherited my smile—the wide, unguarded one that Nikhil says still undoes him after all these years. We named him Arjun. He became our small universe.
Two years later our daughter came.
The delivery room smelled of antiseptic and iron. When the nurse placed her on my chest, still slippery and furious, I looked down—and the air left my lungs.
Brown eyes. Deep, liquid, impossibly familiar brown.
Aditya's eyes staring back at me from a tiny, perfect face.
Nikhil was beside me, tears streaming unchecked. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the delicate shell of each ear. "My miracle," he whispered, voice cracking. "Look at her… our little princess." He cradled her like she was made of glass and starlight. I watched him fall in love with her in real time, and something inside me fractured quietly.
Because those eyes weren't his.
They never would be.
Eight years earlier, everything changed on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon.
The doorbell rang at 3:17 p.m.
I was alone in our new flat—still smelling faintly of fresh paint and possibility—wearing nothing but a thin cotton nightdress because the August heat clung like a second skin. Nikhil was at the office. I expected the usual delivery boy, some college kid who barely looked up.
Instead, when I opened the door, the hallway light caught on a face I hadn't seen in six years.
Aditya.
Older now. Leaner. Sharper cheekbones, faint lines at the corners of those unforgettable brown eyes. Still devastatingly handsome in a way that felt like a punch to the solar plexus. He wore a faded blue delivery shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, name tag crooked. A helmet dangled from one hand.
Our eyes locked.
Time collapsed.
"You… live here?" His voice was rougher than I remembered.
"You're a delivery boy now?" The words fell out stupidly.
He laughed once—short, bitter. "Life happens."
Silence stretched between us, heavy and electric.
I should have signed for the package and closed the door.
I heard that Aditya told me that can i get some water? It's very hot out side. She said wait i bring a bottle of water for you. Aditya told you don't even said me to seat in your house. Kalpana feels little bad for him and invite him in her room.
He stepped inside.
The door clicked shut like a confession.
We stood in the living room—our living room, Nikhil's and mine—awkward at first. Small talk. Safe things. Where he'd been. What I'd been doing. How marriage suited me. How single life suited him. Lies wrapped in politeness.
He asked where is your husband? I want to meet the lucky man who got you as a wife.
She said he is at office now, and he will came home after 6 O'clock evening,
Just drink water and go away, no need to meet my husband.
He asked that is he knows about me? He knows what happened between us in the library.
Kalpan said, I just told him that i had an ex nothing else.
Then he looked at my mouth.
"I still remember how your lips tasted in the library," he said quietly. "Third shelf from the back. Rain outside. Your biochemistry textbook forgotten on the floor."
Heat rushed up my neck, shame and memory braiding together into something dangerous.
"Aditya… don't."
He stepped closer.
"Just one kiss. Then I'll go. I swear."
I should have screamed.
Pushed him. Called security. Dialed Nikhil. Anything.
Instead I stood frozen while his thumb brushed my lower lip—slow, reverent, like he was memorizing the shape again.
Then he replaced his thumb with his lips and start kissing me.
Aditya murmured Awww the same sweet and juicy taste of your lips that once drove me crazy in the library.
Soft at first. Testing. A brush of lips, almost polite.
Then deeper. Hungrier.
His tongue slipped past the seam of my lips, stroking mine in long, lazy pulls that made my knees tremble. I moaned into his mouth—betraying everything in one helpless sound. His hands rose, cupping my face, thumbs stroking my jaw while he kissed me like a man drowning and I was air.
I tasted coffee on his tongue.
Felt the faint stubble on his chin scrape my skin.
Felt my body remember him before my mind could protest.
He walked me backward until the backs of my knees hit the sofa—our marital sofa, the one Nikhil and I had chosen together at the furniture market, laughing about how it would hold years of movie nights and Sunday cuddles.
Aditya eased me down.
Never broke the kiss.
His mouth left mine only to trail fire along my jaw, down the column of my throat. He sucked gently at the pulse point until I arched. Teeth grazed my collarbone—sharp enough to sting, soft enough to make me whimper.
Fingers found the thin straps of my nightdress.
He tugged them down slowly—agonizingly slowly—baring my shoulders, then my breasts. Cool air hit my skin and my nipples tightened instantly.
"Look at you," he breathed against my sternum. "Still so fucking perfect."
Then his mouth closed over one breast.
Hot. Wet. Relentless.
He sucked hard—cheeks hollowing—tongue swirling around the peak in tight, teasing circles. Teeth grazed the sensitive tip just enough to make me cry out. His hand cupped the other breast, kneading, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger until it ached and throbbed in rhythm with my heartbeat.
I threaded my fingers through his hair—pulling him closer even as guilt screamed in the back of my mind.
He switched sides.
Gave the other breast the same worship—long, greedy pulls, tongue flicking, lips tugging, until both peaks were swollen and glistening, dark with his attention.
My hips lifted instinctively.
He smiled against my skin—dark, knowing.
Kisses trailed lower.
Ribs. Belly. The dip of my navel. He spent long minutes there, tongue circling, dipping inside, making me squirm and gasp.
When he reached my thighs he paused.
Nuzzled the soft inner skin. Kissed the trembling muscles. Blew warm breath through the damp cotton of my panties until I jerked.
"Aditya…"
"Shhh." He hooked two fingers in the waistband.
Pulled them down inch by torturous inch—peeling them away like he was unwrapping something sacred.
The fabric dragged over my swollen clit and I whimpered.
He spread my thighs gently.
Kissed the crease where leg met hip.
Then lower.
His first lick was slow—broad, flat tongue dragging from entrance to clit in one devastating stroke.
I cried out.
He did it again.
And again.
Then he focused—tongue circling my clit in slow, perfect spirals.
Light flicks. Firm pressure. Sucking gently. Releasing. Repeating.
Two fingers parted me.
Slid inside—slow, deep, curling upward to stroke that spot that made white light explode behind my eyelids.
He pumped them lazily while his tongue danced—never rushed, never letting me catch my breath.
I came apart on his mouth.
Back arching. Thighs clamping around his head. Hands fisting the cushions.
A broken, keening sound tore from my throat as I soaked his chin, his lips, his tongue.
He drank every shudder, every pulse, murmuring praise against my drenched flesh.
When the aftershocks faded he rose over me.
Freed himself.
Thick. Hard. Already leaking at the tip.
No condom.
No hesitation.
He notched himself at my entrance—rubbed the head through my slickness—then thrust deep in one long, relentless stroke.
I gasped at the stretch.
He groaned like he'd come home.
Then he fucked me.
Hard.
Deep.
Hips snapping.
Hands gripping my waist so tightly I knew I'd bruise.
Mouth on mine again—messy, desperate kisses that tasted of me.
He whispered filthy, beautiful things against my lips:
"You feel so fucking good… still so tight for me… taking me like you were made for it… God, I missed this…"
I wrapped my legs around him.
Met every thrust.
Nails raking down his back through his shirt.
When he came he buried himself to the hilt—pulsing, flooding me with heat that felt wrong and perfect and irreversible all at once.
I clenched around him—milking every drop—silent tears slipping into my hair.
He stayed inside me for long minutes.
Kissing my eyelids. My cheeks. My mouth.
Soft now. Tender.
Then he pulled out.
Dressed.
Looked at me one last time—something unreadable in those brown eyes.
"I'll go," he said quietly.
And he did.
I showered until the water ran cold.
Scrubbed until my skin was raw.
Nine months later—brown eyes.
Now I live inside the lie every day.
Nikhil still brings me roses every Friday—red, always red, because he says they remind him of our first date.
He still kisses me good morning—slow, sleepy presses of lips that taste like toothpaste and home.
He still makes love to me—gentler now, slower, more patient.
He learns my body with quiet devotion—knows exactly how to touch me, how long to linger, how to whisper my name like a prayer when I come apart beneath him.
Our daughter—our little princess—climbs into his lap every evening after dinner.
He strokes her dark hair.
Kisses the tip of her nose.
Kisses those brown eyes that aren't his.
Calls her "my jaan" and "my everything."
And I die a little more each time.
I watch them together—father and not-daughter—and the guilt sits in my chest like wet concrete.
Sometimes at night, when Nikhil is asleep beside me, breathing slow and even, I imagine telling him.
Imagine the exact moment his face crumples.
The silence that would follow.
The way his hands would drop from mine.
The end of us.
I can't.
I won't.
Because whatever else I have become—liar, betrayer, coward—I love him.
I love the small, imperfect life we carved out in this two-bedroom flat.
I love how he sings off-key lullabies to put Arjun to sleep.
How he braids our daughter's hair with clumsy fingers and endless patience.
How he looks at me across the dinner table like I'm still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
So I smile when she runs to him calling "Papa!"
I laugh when he tickles her until she shrieks.
I kiss him goodnight—deep, lingering kisses that taste like gratitude and grief—and pretend the past is buried.
But it isn't.
Every time those brown eyes look up at Nikhil with absolute trust, I remember Aditya's mouth between my thighs.
His fingers curling inside me.
His body claiming mine on the very sofa where Nikhil now reads bedtime stories.
The thorn in my heart twists deeper with every passing day.
I don't know how long I can carry this secret before it tears through everything we built.
I only know that losing Nikhil would hurt more than any truth ever could.
So for now—I hold it close.
Smile through the ache.
Love him harder to make up for the sin he doesn't know I carry.
And every night, when the flat is quiet and the children are asleep, I lie beside the only man I've ever truly loved…
and silently beg forgiveness from the brown-eyed girl who calls him Papa.