Orphanage – Evening

The rain poured gently, soft drops drumming on the rooftop as Aroohi laughed, spinning barefoot in the muddy yard. The children squealed and continued to jump around her, their tiny feet splashing in puddles, faces lit with pure joy.

Their laughter echoed like music, filling the damp air with life.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the merriment—firm but caring.

"Aroohi! Shweta! What are you two doing out here? You'll catch a cold dancing like wildlings!"
Inside the orphanage hallway, Sister Maria stood with arms crossed, her expression equal parts exasperated and fond as she faced the two dripping-wet culprits before her.

"You two should know better!" she huffed, holding out towels. "Playing in the rain like wild monkeys — what if one of the children caught a cold?"

Behind her, Rishi snickered, carrying out towels for children.

Aroohi rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly, accepting the towel. Her cheeks flushed from a mixture of guilt and amusement. "They were so happy, Sister. I couldn't help it."

Shweta, wrapped in her towel and grinning unrepentantly, added, "You should've seen Aroohi — she was the rain goddess herself. The kids followed her like a Pied Piper."

Sister Maria's lips twitched despite herself. "She'll be the goddess of sneezing and sore throats if she keeps that up." She softened. "I know you meant well. But next time, keep the celebration indoors."

"Yes, Sister," the girls chorused, exchanging mock-serious glances as they bowed like schoolkids.

Sister Maria's stern gaze softened, hands on hips, but with a small smile tugging at her lips.

"You've got to be more careful. The children need to stay healthy—and so do you."

Aroohi, still glowing with happiness, shrugged playfully. "Just a little rain won't hurt us, Sister."

Sister Maria sighed but smiled. "Maybe not you, but these kids aren't as tough. Come on, inside now."

Reluctantly, the children began to gather, clinging to warm towels and blankets waiting inside.

As the evening calm settled over the orphanage, and the children finally fell asleep, Shweta and Rishi found themselves tidying up together near the entrance.

Rishi handed Shweta a folded blanket with a shy smile. "You've got a great way with them. It's... refreshing."

Shweta chuckled, brushing raindrops off her jacket. "Thanks. I've had practice. But you're doing pretty well for a newcomer yourself."

He shrugged modestly. "Just trying not to trip over any toys."

They shared a quiet laugh, the awkwardness melting into easy companionship.

"So," Rishi began, "I guess we're going to see a lot of each other here."

Shweta nodded. "Yeah, looks like it. Maybe we can team up and cover more ground. The kids could use all the attention they can get."

"Sounds like a plan," Rishi replied, his tone light but sincere.

As Shweta finished folding another blanket, Rishi reached for a stray toy car on the floor, accidentally knocking over a stack of books beside it.

"Oh no, my perfectly organized chaos!" Shweta exclaimed dramatically, feigning horror.

Rishi laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I swear I'm trying to help, not cause disasters."

Shweta smirked, nudging him gently with her shoulder. "If you keep this up, the kids might start thinking you're part of the mischief crew."

"Guess I'm just here to keep things interesting," Rishi grinned.

They shared a genuine smile, the easy teasing like a secret handshake between new friends.

As they exchanged goodbyes at the door, there was an unspoken understanding—a budding friendship formed over shared purpose and gentle smiles.

Neither rushed it; both were content to build something steady and real before anything else.

⸻

Wrapped in their half-dried clothes, Aroohi clung to Shweta's waist as they rode back on her bike. The hum of the bike's engine was steady and comforting. The cool evening breeze mingled with the faint scent of rain, wrapping around them like a soft blanket. They rode through the city lights, the world blurring past in streaks of yellow and silver.

After a pause, Shweta's voice dropped to a softer tone. "I want to tell you something about Rishi, the new volunteer."

Aroohi's grip tightened slightly, intrigued.

"He's steady, kind... and honestly, there's something about him that just feels right," Shweta admitted, a shy smile tugging at her lips. "I think I like him."

Aroohi grinned against Shweta's jacket, playfully. "Looks like someone's got a crush."

Shweta rolled her eyes but laughed, the sound light and genuine.

The bike slowed as they reached Aroohi's building. The night air felt peaceful, full of promises.

As Aroohi got down from the bike, she teased, "Oh! Today your heart won't hurt, right?"

Shweta gave her a weird look.

"Because it's been stolen by Prince Charming..."

"Shut up!" Shweta yelled, all flushed.

"Karma returns!" Aroohi laughed as she walked toward her home.

She waved goodbye.
"May the butterflies in your stomach rest in peace after he finally talks to you. Amen."

Shweta shook her head, revved her bike, and disappeared into the night.

Rajbeer's POV:

The ticking of the wall clock grated against the silence of Rajbeer's office.

The city sprawled beneath his high-rise window, soaked and glistening under the aftermath of rain, but all he saw was her. That image now plays through his mind and body like a spell. A curse.

He sat back in his leather chair, fingers beneath his chin, but his body wouldn't relax. His jaw clenched. His thigh tensed. And something else throbbed with a hunger he hadn't felt in years.

She danced. Carefree. Drenched in rain. Surrounded by orphans, but he only saw her — wild, innocent, radiant. That soaked kurta clinging to her curves, her dupatta slipping from her shoulders, hair plastered to her cheeks, smile wide and open as if the world couldn't break her.

But he would.

He was hard. Achingly, painfully so.

And it disturbed him.

He'd spent years untouched by desire. Numb. Cold. Incapable. No woman could stir him. And for a man like him — feared, revered, obeyed — that impotence was a curse more cruel than death.

No woman had ever made him feel this way. Not the socialites who begged to warm his bed. Not the dancers at those hollow parties. Not even the women he tried to test himself with — all of them blurred faces, dry touches, cold and clinical attempts to feel.

Until her.

Until that damn rain-soaked girl with too much joy and too little fear.

"The girl who broke the curse..." he muttered under his breath, voice hoarse.

A curse, yes — that tightness in his pants, that pulsing ache — he hadn't felt it in so long he'd forgotten what it meant to want. To need. And now, with her, it wasn't just need.

It was possession.

"I saw the way she held that child... like she was meant for more." His thoughts spiralled. "She belongs in my world — barefoot on marble floors, with my ring, my child... my mark inside her."

His palm dragged over his thigh. Rough. Heated. Almost violent, trying to control the urge to rub himself like a depraved teenager.

"She doesn't even know what she did to me..."

He stood and paced, like a caged beast.

"She was born for this. For me. For my world."
"She just doesn't know it yet."

A plan was already unfurling in the back of his mind — dark, meticulous, methodical.

He would find out everything. Where she lived. What she studied. Who did she trust?
He'd pull strings silently, like a puppeteer. Rearranging her life until every road led to him.

His lips curled.
"I'll make her crave me. Slowly. Sweetly. Until she doesn't even remember who she was before me."

And once she was in his arms...
Once her innocence was replaced with his name on her lips...
Once her body melted under the weight of his...

There'd be no going back.

"I'll break her just enough to make her mine... and rebuild her with only me in her world."

He didn't want her just in his bed.
He wanted her in chains of need. In shackles of belonging. In silence that only moaned for him.

She made him feel.

And that, he couldn't forgive her for.

He poured himself a drink with a shaking hand. The fire in his chest wasn't fading. It was growing.

He didn't just want to possess her.

He slammed his fist on the table, breath shallow and heart pounding like a war drum. The world outside faded into a dull hum, his mind consumed by a single thought — her. The way she moved, laughed, the light in her eyes... it clawed at him relentlessly.

He grabbed his phone, dialling a number with a sharp edge in his voice.
"I want everything about her- the girl at the orphanage. Every detail. By tomorrow. Or you can kiss your job goodbye." The cold finality in his tone left no room for argument.

Dropping the phone, he paced the room, running his fingers through his hair, frustration and hunger swirling in his chest.

Running his hands through his hair and he looked down- the growing bulge in his pants, and he muttered, "You suddenly react to her... that's new." The words felt like a curse, a confession.

Why now? He wondered bitterly. Why does she make me feel like this — like I'm unravelling?

He moved to the bathroom. The cold tiles beneath his feet did nothing to cool the fire burning inside. His hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the sink, trying to steady the storm raging within. His thoughts twisted, caught between fascination and desperation, every memory of her igniting something raw and wild inside him.

The ache was unbearable, a fierce craving that no logic could silence. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the torrent of desire and madness that threatened to consume him whole.

He locked the bathroom door like it could keep the madness out — but it was already inside him.

He leaned against the cold tiles, chest rising in fast, shallow pants. His skin felt too tight for his body, like he was burning alive. All from the image of her — spinning in the rain, soaked to the bone, eyes closed and laughing like she had no idea someone was watching. Someone starving.

He growled under his breath, yanking at his clothes with shaking hands, like the fabric itself was suffocating him. His body was betraying him — hard, desperate, painfully alive in a way he hadn't felt in years. Not even as a man — like a fucking teenager. Wild. Uncontrolled.

He gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white. Her smile. Her soaked shirt was clinging to her skin. Her arms open wide as if she belonged to the sky.

"Why you?" he whispered, forehead resting against the mirror, breath fogging the glass. "Why the fuck do you make me feel like this?"

His hand drifted down, hesitating. No. He shouldn't. He never did this. He didn't have to. But tonight, the ache was blinding. It felt like punishment.

He slid into the shower and let the water scald him, hoping it would melt the thoughts away. But instead, they sharpened her skin, her voice, her innocence, the way her eyes held light like no one had ever broken her.

He rubbed himself like a boy in secret — shame blooming in his gut, fury rising in his throat. There was no control left. No pride. Just need. Just her. Just this ugly, helpless craving to feel something — anything—her.

The water pelted down hard, icy needles trying in vain to wash away the heat crawling beneath his skin.

He leaned his head against the cold tiles, breath ragged. His eyes were shut tight, and yet he saw her.

Every blink.
Every breath.
She was there.

HER. Barefoot in the rain. Laughing, spinning, arms stretched wide, soaked clothes pressed to her skin, her hair wild and stuck to her cheeks. There was something blasphemous about that purity—something that unhinged him.

She doesn't even know what she did to me.

His jaw clenched, his fist hitting the wall with a hollow thud. As if punishing himself, imagining her soft body against him in this shower.

He had spent years as a ghost inside his own body—indifferent, numb, untouchable. Women meant nothing. Their hands, their moans, their whispers—nothing moved him.

But she, without even touching him, had woken something vile and starving.

It was too much.

She was too soft. Too untouched. Too real.

And—he was losing control.

"Why you?" he whispered, brokenly on edge.

Why did she stir the thing inside him? The thing he had buried. The thing he had learned to kill with scotch and silence.

The water ran down his face, mixing with the heat rising from his skin. He rubbed harder, imagining her standing in front of him in her naked glory.

He remembered the curve of her spine beneath her wet kurti, the innocence in her eyes as she lifted a child in her arms. He imagined it now—her eyes darkened, lips parted, whispering his name not in fear... but in surrender against the wall as he slammed into her from behind. His hands wrapped around her like a serpent, feeling her around him, clenching, unclenching.

A choked sound escaped his throat.

His body was a warzone of restraint and hunger. His mind raced—what would she taste like if he kissed her now? Would she struggle? Would she moan? Would she break for him like porcelain or burn like wildfire?

She doesn't know what she's done.
She doesn't know what I've become because of her.

And yet—he couldn't stop.

He hated it.

He needed it.

He sank against the cold bathroom tiles, the chill seeping into his bones but doing nothing to quell the fire blazing inside him. His breath came in ragged bursts, a frantic rhythm matching the chaotic pulse of his mind. His hands moved on their own, trembling and desperate, a frantic attempt to tame the storm consuming him. Each movement was both agony and escape—a brutal reckoning with the hunger that refused to be denied.

Her face was a constant shadow behind his closed eyelids, vivid and maddening. He saw her not as she was — gentle, kind, untouched — but as a wild, untamable force that both terrified and enthralled him. In his mind, she was already with him, close enough to touch, wrapped in a tension so electric it unravelled every thread of his composure.

He imagined her eyes, dark and challenging, locking onto his with a fearless intensity that made his blood run hotter. The curve of her lips, the soft breath that mingled with his, the way her fingers tracing lines over his skin, marking him as hers. The thought broke him further—no, it shredded him—dissolving every barrier of restraint until all that was left was raw, desperate need.

His body betrayed him completely, aching for release, yet the craving twisted deeper—this was no mere lust, but a devouring obsession. The kind that pulls a man under, drowning him in visions and desires he can neither escape nor fully understand. With every frantic motion, his mind spun darker, caught between worship and possession, fear and longing.

When the storm finally broke, it wasn't relief he felt—only the hollow echo of emptiness she left behind the moment she slipped out of reach. His chest heaved, sweat slick against the cold tile beneath him, but his thoughts were already chasing her again—her scent, her warmth, the way she unravelled him even from miles away. This nameless, unknowable woman had undone him utterly.

He whispered into the silence—no name, no words—only a raw, desperate plea to the darkness that had taken hold of him. And as the shadows closed in, he knew this was just the beginning—his descent, and the all-consuming madness she had unleashed.

He let the water scald his skin, pretending it was her breath. Her touch. Her heart.

When it was over, when he slid down to sit under the pounding water, exhausted and emptied, there was still no peace. No satisfaction.

And the terrifying knowledge that he would do anything to have her.

Even if he had to burn the world for it.

______________________

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