Guys please let me know how it is in comments. You know how hard it is to make nsfw images.
My eyes stayed on the open page, but the words slowly stopped making sense. The quiet sound of Chou’s breathing beside me pulled my mind backward, farther and farther, until the present apartment faded and older days rose up instead.
I saw us at sixteen, standing face to face under the old neem tree near the school gate. Chou’s hair was shorter then, still messy, and he was already taller than most boys in class. I was laughing so hard my stomach hurt because he had just tried to copy my judo footwork and ended up flat on the dusty ground. He sat up, dirt on his cheek, and started laughing too. We shared a single packet of spicy chips that day, taking turns, fingers brushing as we reached for the next one.
Another memory slipped in—hot summer afternoons walking home together after extra classes, both of us carrying heavy bags. Sometimes we bought two ice creams and ate them slowly on the low boundary wall, swinging our legs and talking about everything and nothing. He always gave me the bigger half without saying anything.
We studied side by side for months before the board exams. Late nights, cheap tea, and the same stubborn silence when a chapter refused to make sense. When the results came, both our names were at the very top of the school list. The teachers kept saying our pair was impossible to beat. We just looked at each other and grinned like we had shared a private joke.
Twelfth grade finished the same way—same classrooms, same competition, same quiet support. We both cleared the entrance exams and somehow landed in the exact same engineering college. The first day of bachelor’s we stood at the campus gate again, older now but still side by side, and I remember thinking that some things never really changed.
By the second year of BTech the book prices had become ridiculous. Every semester felt like it was draining our pockets dry. One evening, sitting on the steps of the library, Chou simply said, “We should live together. It will save money.” I looked at him for a long second and then nodded. It felt practical. It felt natural.
A week later we stood in front of a small, slightly old studio apartment with two keys in our hands. The walls were bare, the kitchen was tiny, and the single bedroom had just enough space for a bed and a study table. We stepped inside together. The door closed behind us with a soft click. Chou dropped his bag in one corner. I dropped mine in the other. For a moment we just stood there in the empty room, looking at the same four walls that would now belong to both of us.
That was how it started—the shared place, the shared expenses, the quiet understanding that we were going to get through the expensive years of engineering side by side.
The memory slowly loosened its hold. The present apartment came back into focus, the soft weight of the book still on my stomach, and Chou still sleeping quietly beside me.
The memories kept coming, softer and heavier than before.
I remembered one particular week during the first year of BTech. High fever had knocked me flat for three straight days. My body felt like it was burning from the inside, and every time I tried to sit up the room spun. Chou stayed awake the entire nights. He sat on the edge of the mattress, changing the wet cloth on my forehead every twenty minutes, wringing it out in a small steel bowl, then placing the cool patch back carefully. When the cloth grew warm again he replaced it without a word. Sometimes his fingers brushed my temple, steady and gentle.
By the second night I was too weak to even stand properly. My clothes were damp with sweat. He helped me to the small bathroom, one arm firmly around my waist so I wouldn’t fall. When he started to step back I caught his wrist and muttered through the fever, “It’s not like you haven’t seen them… we used to take bath together when we were kids, khu-khuu—” A sharp cough cut me off.
He looked away for a second, ears slightly red. “Bro, don’t shout. Okay… I’m removing your top then. You were not this big when we were… ahem.”
His hands were careful. He pulled the damp top over my head, then the rest, and guided me under the slow stream of lukewarm water. He washed my back, my arms, my legs, and finally my chest—palms moving in slow, practical circles over the heavy weight of my breasts, cleaning the sweat away without lingering. I was too exhausted to feel shy. When he finished he wrapped a towel around me, carried me back to the bed, and changed the sheets while I drifted in and out of sleep.
That was how close we had always been. Even on ordinary nights, if he rolled over in sleep his arm would sometimes settle across my stomach or rest lightly against the soft curve of my chest. I never minded. He never took advantage. He was simply… Chou.
The memory slowly loosened. The present room came back into focus—the soft weight of the book still on my stomach, the quiet rhythm of his breathing beside me.
Then—
*Bang. Bang.*
Two sharp knocks on the door.
I blinked, the last traces of the feverish memory fading. A small, knowing smile tugged at my lips.
“Oh… looks like she is back.”
I closed the book, slid off the bed, and walked toward the door.
Author note: IF YOU ARE READING THIS THEN YOU READ THE STORY THEN. PLEASE GIVE COMMENT. I AM NOT GETTING ENCOURAGEMENT. IF AT LEAST 5 COMMENTS DOESN’T COME, I WON’T CONTINUE THOS STORY.
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