—SOHINI'S POV—
Vedant Khanna was standing at our main gate.
His back to me. Casual as ever—one hand buried in the pocket of his track pants, the other swinging.
Another black T-shirt.
God. Why did he always wear black like it was a threat? It hugged his arms, his back, his shoulders—like it belonged to him and no one else.
My heart punched my ribs.
I slowed my steps. My palms were slick. My voice cracked before it even left my throat.
"Vedant—bhai—ya—"
The "bhaiya" barely escaped. A pathetic whisper. A lie even my tongue refused to believe.
He turned. And our eyes met.
No smile. No frown. Just that unreadable, casual indifference—the kind that makes you feel like background noise. Like a channel he forgot to change. Like I wasn't even worth the pause.
"Sohini," he said, voice flat, "you alright?"
Like he cared. But not really. Not enough to matter.
I cleared my throat. "Yeah. I was just— under the weather." A lie. A stupid, shaking lie. I bit my lower lip, hoping he'd notice. He didn't.
"That why you've been skipping tuition?" he asked, raising a brow.
I wanted to scream—You told me not to come. You humiliated me in front of her. You said I was wasting your time like I was nothing—and now you're here like it didn't break me.
But I just nodded. "Yeah."
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing—not suspicious, not concerned. Just calculating.
"Next time, just text if you're skipping," he said, casual again. Cruel in how little he cared.
"I don't—I don't have your number," I mumbled.
Without a word, he pulled out his phone and handed it to me.
My fingers trembled as I typed my number in. I could feel him watching. Feel the weight of it. My cheeks burned like he'd reached into my mind and found the truth—the fantasies, the fake futures I'd built from his silence.
He took the phone back and gave me a single ring. My phone buzzed in my pocket.
"I want to see you tomorrow," he said. "Five sharp."
An hour earlier than usual.
Before I could respond, before I could even breathe, he lifted his hand and—
Patted my head.
"Good night."
Like I was a child. A good little girl. Something small and harmless.
Then he turned and walked away. Just five steps across the street. Five steps back into his house. Five steps that felt like a thousand miles.
And my knees—my actual, useless knees—shook.
I stood there, staring after him. The scent of his cologne still hung in the air like smoke. I looked down at my phone.
The entire night, it kept playing on a loop in my mind.
The way he'd patted my head so gently, the way his eyes had lingered—not just glanced, but looked, deep and full of things unspoken. His voice, that low, calm tone. The scent of him still clung to my senses—fresh, masculine.
I groaned. "Ugh," I whispered, frustrated, and kicked the sheets off my legs.
The room was dim, bathed in the cold yellow glow of the streetlight sneaking through the curtains. I turned to check the time—2:03 a.m. Of course.
I got up and walked over to the window. His lights were off. Probably curled under his blanket, sleeping peacefully. Dreamless.
And me? Tortured.
"I need to tire myself," I muttered, more to convince myself than anything.
I shut the windows, pulled the curtains closed with one tug, and without a second thought, walked over to the door. I turned the lock—something I was never supposed to do. Not allowed, technically.
But right now, I didn't care. I couldn't risk someone walking in on me like this. Not when my body was this desperate, this soaked in craving.
I stood in the middle of my room, and let my fingers slide up the hem of my oversized tee, lifting it slowly over my head. I wore nothing underneath. The fabric brushed over my breasts, my stomach, raising goosebumps in its wake. My nipples were already hard—just from thinking about him.
I slid my fingers to the waistband of my panties and tugged them down, letting them fall at my ankles. My skin flushed as I stood there, bare, alone—but far from lonely. Not when Vedant's face, his voice, his touch haunted every inch of me.
I lay back on the bed for a moment, closing my eyes.
My hand found the curve of my waist, then my thighs, before I let it drift between my legs. I gasped—already wet. Soaked, actually. My clit throbbed as my fingers brushed over it, slow, tentative.
But I needed more.
I sat up and walked to the study table. The wood felt cool against my skin as I leaned forward, pressing my wet pussy against the edge of the table.
The sharpness of the contact made me moan softly, biting my lip as the pressure hit just right. I rolled my hips, letting the table edge rub my clit, my legs shaking slightly from the intensity.
I cupped one breast, squeezing tight, imagining his hands there instead of mine—bigger, warmer, rougher. My body ached for him.
"Fuck, Vedant—" I breathed. "Why aren't you here?"
My eyes fell on the pencil—his pencil—the one he'd lent me weeks ago. Long, smooth, unused.
I picked it up, stared at it for a beat. Then, with trembling hands, I grabbed a bottle of sanitizer from my shelf, cleaned it carefully, and wiped it again with a wet tissue. It was cold in my fingers, but I didn't care. I needed something. I needed him.
I lay back on the bed, spread my legs, and brought the pencil down to my aching folds. I teased the tip against my slit, biting back a whimper as I ran it between my pussy lips, letting the anticipation build. One hand held myself open, the other guided it slowly in.
The stretch wasn't much, but it was enough to make me moan—a sharp, breathless sound. I pushed deeper, imagining it was his cock instead of a stupid pencil. My legs curled inward, toes pressing into the mattress.
"Fuck—yes—" I whispered, starting to thrust it in and out—slow, then faster, as my hips began to move in sync.
"Ved-ah— fuck me," I moaned, my back arching off the bed. "Ved-ah-ant—"
My walls clenched tight around the pencil as the orgasm washed over me—sudden, sharp, and almost painful in its intensity. My body trembled, sweat beading on my skin as my breath came in short gasps.
I lay there, dazed, the pencil still half inside me. My fingers twitching against my thigh. My body satisfied—but my heart?
Still aching.
"I want him," I whispered to the ceiling, voice barely audible. "I want to be fucked by him—for real."