Growing up, Anaya had always been my best friend—the loud, reckless, sharp-tongued girl who sat next to me in school, copied my math homework, and dared me to sneak out of the house past midnight. She was the kind of girl who set fire to rules and laughed as she watched them burn.

Her younger sister, Ishani, was different. Quieter. Sweet, with those big, doe-like eyes that always looked up at me like I was something larger than life. I had barely paid her much attention back then. To me, she was just Anaya’s little sister.

She was four years younger than us as well.

But things changed the year we turned eighteen.

Anaya’s Secret

Anaya and I had stayed close after school. We met up often, still teasing each other, still pushing each other’s buttons. One night, we were sitting on the rooftop of her house, sharing a cigarette, the city lights flickering in the distance.

“I had my first time,” she admitted suddenly, her voice teasing, proud.

I raised an eyebrow. “With whom?”

She just grinned. “Why? You jealous?”

I scoffed. “Hardly. Just curious.”

And then she told me. About him—an older man, someone she met through her entrance coaching. About how he had taken her to his place, touched her in ways that had set her body on fire.

I should’ve just laughed it off. Instead, her words did something to me. The way she described it, the way her lips parted slightly when she spoke, the way her fingers toyed with the rim of her glass—it stirred something dark, something I hadn’t expected to feel for her.

And then she leaned in, a challenge in her eyes. “You’ve always acted like you know everything, Vihaan. Maybe you should show me what I was missing.”

She also knew about my story with an older woman but that day we spoke in detail about our experiences like we would exchange notes in school.

I should have walked away.

I didn’t.

I was hiding my boner and was slowly leaving her flat. While I was climbing out of her balcony she teased my boner and in fact just gripped it.

That night, Anaya and I crossed the line. It was rough, hungry, reckless—exactly the way we always were.

I sat down on her balcony kissed her and pulled her close to the wall.

She said “Control Mister, We both know what will happen”.

I kissed her lips like there is no tomorrow. She smelled mint propably she went to bathroom in between and put mouth wash.

Women are like that they get what they want. We are just part of their game.

We kissed then I lifted her T shirt and then told me to sneak back into her room. We got on the bed and then when I lifted her tee the bra came off it was unbuttoned already. The melons that I always admired was in front of my eyes.

She teased my eyes “As if you have not stared at them before”.

Her hand held my tool right and started stroking. I pulled her pyjamas down and there was a mark on her thigh that I always made fun of today I kissed it. I used my tongue and ran it from her thighs to inner thigh and then told her small bush. It was already wet in her panties.

I pulled it aside and put my tongue in and she pushed my head into it even more. She was a horny teenager and I was a horny boy and then We went all out. We tried to moan not so loud not to alert her parents but it was one hell of a night.

We swore it would just be once. But it wasn’t.

For months, we met in secret. In my car, in empty classrooms, even in her bedroom when her parents weren’t home. It was fire and madness, but we knew it couldn’t last.

And so, one day, we just… stopped after I moved to Bangalore. No drama. No tears. Just a quiet understanding that whatever it was between us had run its course.

Enter Ishani

Three years later, Ishani joined my college when I was still there for masters.

At first, I saw her as nothing more than my best friend’s younger sister. She was still that shy, sweet girl with long, ink-black hair and an innocence that made me feel protective over her.

We became close. I helped her with assignments, took her out for chai after classes, made sure no asshole seniors ragged her too hard. She called me bhaiya at first, and I let her.

But something shifted the night she got sick.

Warmth and Something More

She had caught a bad cold during monsoon season. Her roommate was out of town, so I brought her to my apartment to take care of her.

She sat on my couch, wrapped in a blanket, her nose pink from sneezing. “You don’t have to do all this,” she murmured, voice hoarse.

I shrugged. “What kind of brother would I be if I didn’t?”

She looked at me for a long moment. And then, softly—too softly—she said, “You don’t have to be my brother.”

Something in my stomach clenched.

I ignored it. Gave her soup. Tucked her in. Told myself she was just exhausted.

But later that night, when she shivered in her sleep, I lay beside her, offering my warmth. And when she turned into me, her body pressing against mine, something snapped.

She smelled of jasmine and something delicate, something untouched. Her breath fanned against my neck. And when she looked up at me, her eyes wide, questioning, I couldn’t stop myself from kissing her.

It was slow at first, hesitant. Then she whimpered—a small, needy sound—and I lost all control.

Her fingers dug into my shoulders. My hands slid under the thin fabric of her kurti. Her body trembled beneath mine, and when I whispered her name, she whispered mine back.