STORIYA

I’m 29, unmarried, living in a 3BHK apartment that echoes silence more than laughter. My job pays well. I wear branded clothes, eat what I like, and sleep whenever I want. But… there’s something money doesn’t give — touch. I hadn’t kissed anyone in years. No cuddles, no sex, no raw moments. Just scrolling through life and closing doors behind me. Until he started knocking. My milkman. Dusty t-shirt, tight pants, rugged arms, and the kind of gaze that made me aware of every inch of my skin. He was rough. Raw. Desi. And real. It started on a Sunday. I had a craving for milk cake and told him casually, “Can you bring some extra milk tomorrow?” He looked at me — or more accurately, at my chest — and smirked. “You already have a lot of milk, madam. Want more?” I blinked. That was bold. But instead of anger, I felt… warm. It had been too long since anyone flirted without filters. I laughed. That was his green signal. From then, the daily delivery came with cheeky comments. “Madam, wearing red again? Dangerous color for lonely women…” “Yeh nighty toh kuch zyada hi soft lag rahi hai…” It was cheap. Naughty. Raw. And I was addicted to it. One humid morning, he asked, “Can I get a glass of water?” “Come inside,” I said. “Sofa’s right there.” I walked to the kitchen, but I turned slightly. He was adjusting his pants — and I saw it. Big. Hard. Alive. He caught me watching, didn’t flinch. We said nothing. From that day, he always asked for water. And I always let him in. It became a game. I’d wear something thin. Let my hair down. No bra sometimes. He’d sit… spread his legs slightly… let his jeans do the talking. Then one night — everything changed. It was raining. I was in a satin night dress — backless, sleeveless. I wasn’t expecting him, but the bell rang. I opened the door. He was soaked. Shirt stuck to his chest, water dripping from his jaw. He stared. “You look… beautiful tonight, madam,” he said. His voice was deeper. His eyes darker. I moved aside silently. He stepped in without asking. Water was the last thing on either of our minds. He walked in, slowly. I could feel the heat rise in the room. He looked at my lips, then my neck… then lower. I asked, “Want water?” He whispered, “Only if you feed it to me.” My fingers trembled as I handed him the glass. He didn’t take it. He took my hand instead. Rough. Warm. Tight. And in that moment — all the loneliness, all the restraint — melted. I leaned in. So did he. And in one bold second… his lips were on mine.