Their parents, Shyamlal and Sunita, lived a life etched in quiet sacrifice. Shyamlal was a retired railway clerk, whose pension barely kept the household afloat. Sunita managed the home with a strict hand but a soft heart—she believed in discipline, but also in the strength of her children’s potential. Their modest house carried the smell of mustard oil cooking, the sound of temple bells from the lane, and the constant chatter of students from the nearby coaching centers.
Vivek and Akariti shared more than blood; they shared the invisible pressure of being middle-class in Bihar. Every conversation circled back to exams, attempts, cut-offs, results. In those moments of exhaustion, they became each other’s anchor—studying side by side, quizzing each other late into the night, sharing whispered frustrations about the uncertainty of their futures.
Where Akshay and Sonam’s world in Lucknow was framed by quiet discipline and subtle emotional undercurrents, Vivek and Akariti’s life in Patna was more raw, more chaotic—filled with the noise of neighbors, the constant comparison with other aspirants, and the heavy silence of unfulfilled expectations.
Patna’s summer afternoons were heavy, the air thick with heat and the faint smell of dust rising from the streets. The Anand household lived in its own rhythm—pages of books turning in one corner, utensils clattering in the kitchen, and the occasional sound of a scooter sputtering past the lane. For Vivek, the days had begun to blur together, every hour carrying the weight of exams, unfinished notes, and the ache of solitude.
He had always been a man of restraint, someone who drew lines around himself and stayed within them. But restraint has its limits, and his began to crumble one ordinary evening.
Akariti’s room door was half open as he passed by, and it was then that he saw her. She was changing out of her day clothes, unaware of his presence. Her frock slid down her shoulders in one motion, and for a brief second, her body was revealed in the filtered light of dusk. The delicate slope of her cleavage, the soft roundness of her breasts pressing against a thin t-shirt she quickly pulled over her head—Vivek’s breath caught. He froze, guilty yet unable to look away, until she turned, adjusting her shorts, the curve of her ass filling the fabric in a way that made his pulse race.
From that night, his eyes betrayed him.
He began noticing Akariti in ways he hadn’t before. The casual t-shirts she wore at home clung to her chest, her 34B breasts shifting freely without the weight of a bra. Sometimes, when she bent to pick something from the floor, the neckline would fall loose, and he’d catch a teasing glimpse of the valley of her cleavage. The sight stirred a raw hunger inside him, one that no book or note could silence.
Her boxers were worse—they revealed too much and hid too little. When she walked across the room, the fabric hugged the swell of her hips, shaping the firm outline of her ass. Every step was a rhythm that drew his gaze, no matter how hard he tried to resist. At times she curled up on the sofa with her legs folded, the shorts riding up, exposing long, smooth thighs that gleamed softly in the evening light.