There are two kinds of fire.
The kind you escape from.And the kind you become.
Rekha had long stopped escaping.
It began with a scream.
Second floor. 3:47 a.m.
The neighbor's wife — that nervous, soft-spoken Meena — was shouting.
Glass broke. A chair crashed. A man swore.
Rekha opened her bedroom window.
Below, lights turned on in clusters. Windows slid open like eyes startled from sleep.
Whispers, shadows.
She lit a cigarette, naked at her window.
Ishan was asleep in her bed, mouth open, thigh still damp from where she'd ridden him to sleep.
She took a drag and watched the building burn in its own silence.
Because beneath every polite marriage, there's a fire upstairs.
The next morning, the gossip spilled like oil.
"Did you hear?"
"He hit her again."
"She threw a kettle this time."
"She was bleeding."
Rekha didn't ask questions.
She just walked into Meena's flat that evening.
No warning. No phone call.
She knocked. Walked in. Closed the door behind her.
Meena stood in the living room, one eye darkening already.
Rekha walked straight up. Slapped her.
Hard. Loud.
Meena staggered.
"What the—?"
Rekha grabbed her face. Stared into her.
"Next time you throw something, make sure it lands."
Meena blinked.
Then started crying.
Rekha didn't console her.
She poured her a drink.
Lit a cigarette.
And whispered, "You're allowed to want more."
That night, Ishan noticed the change.
"You smell like something's burning," he whispered, mouth at her neck.
She pinned him down on the floor. Harder than before. Rougher.
"Maybe I am," she growled. "Don't try to put me out."
She rode him savagely.
No music. No candles. Just the sound of flesh and breath and curse words echoing off the walls.
She slapped him mid-thrust.
He moaned. "Fuck—do that again."
She did. Again. Again.
She came clenching him so tight he gasped.
Collapsed on his chest.
Both panting.
Both shaking.
He tried to leave.
"Early meeting," he mumbled.
She blocked the door.
Naked. Calm.
"You're not going anywhere."
He stared. "What?"
"You fuck me, you sleep here. That's the rule now."
He didn't argue.
Dropped his bag.
She pulled him by the belt into the shower and blew him against the tiles.
The next day, she wore a red blouse with no back. Just strings. Tiny. Fitted.
She walked to the market like that.
Bangles on her wrist. Toe ring shining. Mangalsutra gone.
The vegetable vendor dropped a cucumber when she bent forward.
She smiled at him.
Picked it up herself.
By afternoon, it began.
The calls. The whispers.
Her cousin called.
"Mummy said Ashok's not home. Are you guys fighting?"
Rekha said nothing.
Then texted Seema:
Rekha: I think the whole world's watching now.
Seema: Then give them a fucking show.
So she did.
That evening, she held Ishan's hand in public.
In the lane outside their building.
He froze.
She didn't.
She stared into the aunty at the temple's eyes and smiled.
The aunty turned away.
Rekha laced her fingers tighter through his.
"You still ashamed?"
He exhaled. "No. Just not used to being touched in the open."
She kissed him. Quick. Dirty. With tongue.
People saw.
She didn't care.
Inside the flat, she undressed him without speaking.
Tied his hands to the bed with her dupatta.
Blindfolded him.
Sat on his face and came twice before untying him.
"Now fuck me like you've earned it," she said.
He did.
Brutal. Fast. Unapologetic.
He bit her shoulder and whispered, "You're making me an animal."
She growled back, "Then roar, baby."
Two days later, it hit.
A letter from the housing society.
"Concerning behavior. Loud noises. Disturbances. Inappropriate attire in common areas."
Rekha laughed.
Framed the letter. Hung it in the hallway.
Seema saw it. Took a selfie with it.
Captioned it: When they write about your orgasms in admin English.
But it wasn't just letters.
Ashok returned.
Knocking on the door. Hair messy. Face pale.
"I want to talk."
She let him in.
He stood there. Silent.
Then said it.
"I want to try again."
She looked him dead in the eye.
"No."
He blinked.
"What?"
"No. I'm not returning to a life I had to lie through just to survive."
He looked like he'd been punched.
"You're not the same."
"No. I'm finally honest."
He left. Slamming the door.
She didn't flinch.
Just lit a candle and got back to her wine.
That night, Ishan found her crying.
First time.
No makeup. Just tears.
She didn't sob. She shook.
He pulled her into his lap.
"What happened?"
"I thought it would feel better."
"What would?"
"Being free."
He held her tighter.
"It doesn't feel better. It just feels true."
They fucked on the floor that night.
Quietly.
Softly.
His face in her neck. Her legs around his waist.
She cried while he was inside her.
And he kissed every tear.
Morning.
Phone call.
Ishan's mother was in the hospital.
He had to leave. Pack. Fly.
She didn't argue.
Just stood by the door.
Pulled him close.
"Come back."
He nodded.
"I always do."
She watched him walk away.
Then whispered:
"But next time, don't."