Have you heard of Palampur? It's awesome little village nestled between the hills and valleys.
A serene village becomes the stage for a story of shattered dreams and newfound hope. Fiery and short-tempered Jiya, separated from her mother and sister...
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(18+ smut written‼️)
The revelation last night had felt like a heavy weight lifted off my chest. I had hoped for a night of serene slumber, draped in the lightest saree I could find. It was supposed to be my sanctuary from the turmoil that had shaken my world. But, as dawn broke, my brief respite came to an end.
It was barely five in the morning when I stirred awake, my surroundings bathed in the soft glow of the pre-dawn light. I turned to find the bed beside me conspicuously empty. Tanishk was gone. I blinked groggily, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, and searched the room with a frown. No sign of him.
Rising from the bed, I pushed aside the canopy curtain with a huff, hoping to catch a glimpse of him in the hallway. But the silence was eerie. Everything was as it should be; neatly arranged, undisturbed. It was as if he had vanished into thin air.
A small pang of worry prickled at the edge of my mind. I wandered downstairs, my steps echoing softly, but found nothing amiss. The living area was perfectly in order, not a single indication of Tanishk's presence. My frustration grew. Where could he be?
Resigned, I trudged back upstairs, the weight of last night's confessions hanging heavily in the air. Just as I was about to collapse back into bed, a sudden thought struck me: the terrace. I hadn't checked there. Maybe he had sought solace in the rain, finding some form of escape in its gentle rhythm. And so, I made my way up to the terrace. The rain was still falling, though it had lightened to a gentle drizzle. The terrace was a welcome sanctuary, the air cool and fresh. There, amidst the rain and the grey light of early morning, I found him.
Tanishk sat on a white-painted wooden chair under a black roof covering him. His posture is casual yet commanding. He was dressed in a white vest and black cotton trousers, the epitome of relaxed nonchalance. One leg was crossed over the other knee, and he seemed completely absorbed in a phone conversation.
I stood for a moment, my frustration giving way to bemusement. Here was Tanishk, so engrossed in whatever business call he was on that he hadn't noticed me yet. I could hear snippets of his conversation, his voice low and serious, a stark contrast to the serene morning around us.
"Well, if that's the case," he said into the phone.
"Then we need to reassess our strategy. It's not just about numbers; it's about impact," I couldn't help but chuckle quietly. The man who had been a whirlwind of calm yet composed demeanour now filled with intensity and anger. It was oddly endearing, and at the same time, it reminded me just how many layers there were to him.
As I stood there, a silent observer of the early morning scene, the sight of Tanishk was almost too much to bear. His hand was raking through his tousled hair, a gesture so casual yet so intimate that it made his biceps pop with every movement. The sight of those defined muscles flexing under his vest was enough to make my breath hitch. My eyes followed the graceful arc of his Adam's apple, moving rhythmically with each measured breath he took.
