The summer air in Kerala was thick with the scent of ripening mangoes. Maya wandered barefoot into the grove behind her grandmother’s old house, her cotton saree clinging to her damp skin. She hadn’t planned to meet him here — and yet, as if the trees had whispered her secret desires, Arjun emerged from the shade, his shirt undone, eyes dark with want.
Neither spoke. Words would only break the spell.
He pulled her gently to him, their breaths mingling, the earth hot beneath their feet. When his fingers brushed the curve of her waist, Maya shivered — not from fear, but from a sweet, aching anticipation that had been building since childhood summers spent stealing glances and secret smiles.
Arjun’s mouth found her collarbone, tracing the trail of a single bead of sweat. She gasped softly, tilting her head back to offer more. The scent of crushed mango leaves and their own rising heat surrounded them, an invisible cocoon.
When he finally laid her down among the roots, the grove seemed to hold its breath. In that golden hush, their bodies spoke a language older than the trees themselves — a rhythm of sighs, of gasps, of skin against skin, until the world dissolved into the beating of two wild hearts.
Later, as she rested against him, a mango dropped from the tree above with a heavy, wet thud. They laughed, breathless and sated, tasting the sweetness of the forbidden fruit — and of each other.