They ate at the small table by the window. She asked about the service, and he found himself sharing the real thing, not the version he gave people who hadn’t served. He wasn’t sure why—yet.

She told him about the job, the postgraduate degree, last year’s trip to Gujarat, the time spent with family and friends back home. He found himself asking questions, and listening, discovering someone he knew, but not quite. She answered in a way that was distinctly hers—just said what she thought, simply, with the occasional dry aside that made him smile, the real smile, not the formal one. She was different, so refreshingly different. How the hell hadn’t he noticed her in college?

She got up to clear the plates—there was a naturalness to how she moved in her own space—and he kept noticing every movement without intending to. She had a way of carrying herself that was different from the girl he half-remembered from college—or maybe he’d never looked properly then.

She reached across the table for his plate and the dupatta shifted from her shoulder. A glimpse of the line of her collarbone, the curve below it, the strap of her bra, the bulge of her breasts, the valley between. She didn’t notice or didn’t care—she straightened and turned toward the kitchen without adjusting it. He looked away, and exhaled.

He settled on the couch while she made tea. Returned. Sat next to him with one leg tucked underneath her, which shifted the dupatta again, differently. He was looking at the cup when she settled, but he was aware of her. The awareness had a weight to it now that it hadn’t had an hour ago.

She bent toward the low table to pour the second cup, and he looked—not casually, not quickly—at the fall of her neckline, the shadow there. When she turned to hand him the cup, she caught his eye. She didn’t look away immediately. Just held the cup that he didn’t reach for. She looked away, setting the cup on the table in front of him. Both of them knew something had just changed.

She excused herself to go to the bathroom.

This was not nostalgia. This was not about filling an evening either. The urgency he was aware of had nothing to do with Amber, nothing to do with the plan he’d arrived with. He wasn’t with Amber’s friend anymore. Fuck! He wanted her.

When she returned, her hair was damp, her face washed, different clothes, her shampoo, and that damn sandalwood perfume again.

“So, what next?” she said handing him Amber’s address. He didn’t even look at it before sliding it into the side pocket of his bag.

“I hope the inn is still there. Guess I will check in for the night.”

He fumbled with his bag, stood and slung it over his shoulder. She stood too and he gave her a hug. She held him like she didn’t want to let go.

“It was nice seeing you Saloni,” he said. Her face was flushed and she looked down, nodding.

He made his way to the door.

“TJ,” she called. He turned. “Please stay.” She held his gaze without wavering. “Just this once. Before life resumes.”

Continue the story in Stay.