Chapter 3: Bathroom Wars

Late at night, Kabir went to sleep in the guest room as usual. Listening to the sound of running water in the bathroom, my mind began to wander. Even though he’s autistic now, his body is still something else. Lean muscles, broad shoulders, narrow waist, that perfect V-shape, a prominent Adam’s apple, perky bum, strong chest. Anyone would be tempted.

The house was silent except for the crickets outside and the faint drip-drip from the leaky bathroom tap. Kabir, as usual, shut himself in the guest room, refusing to share my bed. Yet every night, the distant sound of running water from his bath made my mind run wild. I’m not blind, yaar—his body was still built like a Bollywood hero. The kind mothers would secretly eye for their daughters and the kind who’d get extra puris at weddings. Even in his most silent moments, his shoulders filled the doorframe, every muscle tight under his kurta. I sometimes wondered what it would be like to see that cold face softening under my hands. Maybe a little hate, maybe a little heat—who knows?

But thanks to his condition, he completely ignored me. Then again, does he ignore people in bed too? I was a bit curious about what hate-sex with a cold-faced guy would be like.

Despite all that, Kabir gave me as much attention as the old stray dog outside—meaning, none at all. Still, I was curious. Does he ignore everyone everywhere, or is the bedroom a different story? I had half a mind to find out, even if I’d have to be a bit shameless, just like those soap opera heroines who refuse to back down.

I changed into my hottest nightdress and barged into his bathroom.

With a silent prayer to all the filmi gods, I swapped my old pyjamas for a silk nightdress—the kind that would make even the most stone-hearted man swallow twice. Without knocking, I entered his steamy bathroom, feeling a strange thrill running through my veins.

Steam curled in the air as Kabir reached up to brush his bangs, the movement showing off his V-shaped torso. Water streamed down his back, past those sexy dimples at his waist, finally sliding over his firm, round peach.

The air was thick with steam, clinging to my skin. Kabir, mid-shower, reached back to flick water from his bangs. My eyes couldn’t help but wander—his back all lean muscle, water tracing the curve down to his waist, pooling briefly at those maddeningly perfect dimples. The kind of sight you’d remember during boring family functions and smile to yourself.

Hearing me, Kabir spun around. His usually blank eyes flashed with shock, then anger. He grabbed a towel to cover himself.

At my sudden entrance, Kabir spun so fast he nearly slipped. His eyes, usually blank, flashed with a heat I’d never seen—half shock, half fury. In a blink, he snatched up a towel, clutching it like a lifeline.

"What are you doing in here?"

His voice was sharp, the anger curling around the words. I almost laughed—finally, some reaction from him! If he’d had a slipper, I think he would’ve thrown it.

I softened my voice. "Kabir, I was worried about you. Why are you taking so long in the shower?"

Switching to my best gentle tone—the one I’d use on an upset child—I cooed, “Kabir, are you okay? Why so long in the shower, huh? Water bill toh main hi bharungi, but still…” I moved closer, heart thumping in my chest.

As I spoke, I moved closer. The steam made my thin dress cling to my body, the lace outlining my curves. Kabir’s Adam’s apple bobbed, his ears turning red as he looked away, eyes full of helplessness. He bit his lip and stayed silent, like a startled animal cornered by me.

I took another step, and my nightdress started sticking to my body in the steam, outlining every curve. Kabir’s eyes darted away, but not before I caught his Adam’s apple bobbing. His ears, always so pale, were burning red now. He bit his lip, avoiding my gaze like a scolded schoolboy. For a moment, he looked so lost that my own resolve wavered. But I was in too deep.

I pretended not to notice his discomfort, lifted my leg, and rubbed against him.

“Kabir, need some help? Why are you taking so long?”

The air between us felt charged, heavy with something I couldn’t name. I pressed my leg lightly against him, acting casual. “Need a hand, Kabir? Or are you planning to finish an entire shampoo bottle?”

"Kabir, need some help? Why are you taking so long?"

He tensed up further, clutching his towel like it was some kind of shield against my audacity.

"Oh, and speaking of long, husband, your..."

I let the words dangle, half-mocking, half-inviting, watching his jaw tighten. “By the way, husband, yours is… quite something.” If Amma had heard me, she’d have fainted on the spot.

Suddenly, I yanked off his towel. Kabir’s eyes widened, nowhere left to run. I glanced down and smirked.

Before he could bolt, I grabbed the end of his towel and pulled. Kabir gasped, utterly exposed. For a split second, both of us froze. Then I smirked, as if I’d just outwitted the local vegetable vendor.

"You’re autistic, but this part is still full of life. Impressive."

With a teasing grin, I pointedly glanced down. “Arrey, Kabir, you might be autistic, but some things are still very much alive! Impressive, baba.”

"You—"

He tried to protest, but only managed one syllable before clamming up, cheeks crimson.

Touched by me, Kabir’s face tensed, but he said nothing. The veins on his neck stood out, as if he might explode. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. If he won’t talk, I’ll just use my mouth.

He went rigid under my touch, veins standing out on his neck, eyes wide. With a mischievous smile, I reached up, arms winding around his neck, and pulled him close. If words wouldn’t work, my lips would do the talking. I kissed him, softly at first, then with the intensity of someone who knew their power.

Under my relentless assault, Kabir’s eyes reddened and he finally gave in. I pressed my forehead to the glass, reaching back to grab the man working hard behind me. His grip on my waist tightened.

Kabir fought for a moment, then surrendered, eyes glassy with emotion. I pressed my forehead to the foggy glass, reaching back to touch him as he moved closer. His grip on my waist was desperate, as if afraid I’d vanish. The air in the bathroom was thick with steam and something more electric, more intimate. Outside, an auto rickshaw horn sounded, but inside, we were the only world that mattered.

As his tears soaked my kurta, I wondered—was I saving him, or sinking with him?