Behir 18+

Only You ~

Bela's Pov

I never thought I'd love again-truly love.

After my divorce from Aniket, the world didn't crash the way I thought it would. It just... dimmed. Like someone had turned the volume down on my life. Our marriage hadn't ended with drama, just a slow crumbling of everything we once were. Quiet breakfasts, cold touches, polite smiles in place of affection. I became invisible in my own home.

Leaving wasn't brave-it was necessary.

The first year on my own was a blur of silence, healing, and rediscovery. I moved into a small flat in Bandra with peeling walls, an old balcony, and sunlight that warmed me more than any man had in years. I started sketching again. Eating alone without feeling empty. Laughing when something was genuinely funny-not just because I was supposed to.

But I didn't trust love. Not anymore.

And then... Mahir.

I met him at a poetry panel at a lit fest in Colaba. He was reading Neruda, his voice a deep, warm thing that curled inside my stomach. His words lingered long after the applause faded. I didn't speak to him then-I couldn't. I just watched. The way he stood. The way he saw people when he looked at them.

Two weeks later, fate-or whatever watches over tired hearts-brought us together again. This time at an art opening. I was sipping wine alone, half-listening to someone talk about brushwork, when he stood beside me and said, "This painting feels like it's trying not to cry."

I turned. And there he was. Same quiet fire in his eyes.

We talked that whole evening. And then we kept talking. Texting. Meeting. Laughing. Slowly, he began to feel like a place I could rest in. A person who didn't ask for anything but gave everything in his presence.

He didn't kiss me until our sixth meeting. I liked that. That he waited. That he wanted to mean it.

It was raining the night it happened. We were sitting on the floor of my apartment, an open bottle of wine, old ghazals playing softly. I had told him about my divorce-about how I hadn't been touched in over a year. I expected the moment to go cold.

Instead, he moved closer and whispered, "Then let me touch you like it matters."

His kiss was soft. Warm. No rush. Just lips learning lips. I felt my body remember something it had buried-a hunger, a longing, a knowing.

That was the night everything changed.

---

We didn't fall into bed that first night. He held me, ran his fingers along my back, kissed my forehead, and fell asleep beside me. And yet, I'd never felt more exposed-more... naked.

But the next time he came over, I knew I was ready.

I had cleaned the sheets twice. Lit a candle. Brushed my hair and then messed it up again. I wore an old cotton kurta that clung to my waist and smelled like cardamom. When he arrived, I could barely sit still.

He noticed. He always noticed.

Dinner was forgotten halfway through. He pulled me close, his hands on my hips, his mouth brushing mine, our breath tangling. He pressed me against the kitchen counter, his thigh between mine, and I melted into him.

When he undressed me, it wasn't a frenzy. It was a ritual.

Each button opened with a pause. Each inch of skin was kissed, not grabbed. He whispered things-not dirty, but reverent. "You're so warm." "So soft." "I've never wanted someone like this."