Chapter 5: The Forgotten Panty
The morning came too fast.
Ruby woke with the taste of yesterday still in her mouth—the tea, the words, the way he'd said her name. She'd slept badly, tossing through dreams she couldn't remember, waking every hour to the tick of the ceiling fan and the weight of her own thoughts.
Anubhav's side of the bed was empty.
She reached for her phone. No reply to her message. Just the blank screen and the time: 6:47 AM.
He'd come home late. She'd heard him—the creak of the front door, the shuffle of his feet on the stairs, the careful way he'd slid into bed without touching her. She'd pretended to sleep. He'd pretended not to notice.
They were getting good at pretending.
Ruby swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. Her body ached—not from anything physical, but from the tension she'd been carrying for days, coiled in her shoulders, her jaw, the small of her back.
She needed a shower.
She walked to the bathroom, her feet cold against the tile, and turned the tap.
Nothing.
She turned it again. Harder. The brass handle groaned, sputtered, then went silent.
"Fuck," she whispered.
She tried the other tap. The cold water worked fine—a thin, weak stream that dribbled into the sink. But the hot water was dead. Just a dry, hollow click that echoed in the small space.
She stood there for a moment, staring at the useless fixture, her hair a tangled mess, her mouth still sour with sleep.
Anubhav would have left already. He always left early on Thursdays—some meeting, some client, some excuse.
She could wait. She could use cold water. She could—
She sighed.
And then she walked down the hall.
Mr. Dixit's room was at the end, past the small alcove where the family photos hung in crooked frames. She'd never been inside. Not properly. She'd stood at the threshold once, when they'd first moved in, helping him unpack boxes of old books and faded photographs. But she'd never crossed that line.
She knocked.
Soft. Tentative.
A pause. Then his voice, rough with sleep: "Yes?"
"It's Ruby. I'm sorry to bother you. The tap in my bathroom is broken. I just—I need to shower. Can I use yours?"
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then: "Of course. Give me a minute."
She heard the rustle of sheets, the creak of the bed, the slow shuffle of his feet. The door opened.
He was wearing a white kurta, wrinkled from sleep, and his hair was loose around his face. He looked older in the morning light—the lines deeper, the skin thinner, the eyes softer. He blinked at her, once, twice, like he was trying to remember where he was.
"The tap," he said. "Right. Come in."
He stepped aside.
Ruby walked past him. The room smelled like him—sandalwood, old cotton, the faint sweetness of the incense he burned every morning. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled, a book lying open on the nightstand. The curtains were still drawn, and the light filtering through was thin and grey.
"The bathroom's through there," he said, pointing. "Towels are on the rack. Take your time."
She nodded. She didn't look at him. She couldn't.
She walked into the bathroom and closed the door.
It was small—narrower than hers, with a low ceiling and a single window that looked out onto the side garden. The sink was chipped porcelain, the mirror above it speckled with age. A brass faucet gleamed in the dim light, still warm from morning use.
She turned on the shower.
Steam rose almost immediately, fogging the mirror, filling the small space with heat. She undressed quickly, letting her clothes fall to the floor—her nightgown, her underwear, the cotton bra she'd slept in because she couldn't stand the wire.
She stepped under the water.
It was hot. Almost too hot. The kind of heat that made her skin sting and her breath catch. She stood there for a long moment, letting it wash over her, letting it burn away the residue of the night.
She closed her eyes.
And immediately, she saw him.
Not Anubhav. Him.
Mr. Dixit. Sitting in his chair, his cane across his lap, his eyes on her. The way he'd looked at her yesterday—not like the other men, not with that hungry, crude appraisal. But with something else. Something deeper.
She thought about the way he'd said her name. Ruby. Just that. Just her name. But it had sounded like a door opening.
She thought about the way his thumb had pressed against her knuckle. The roughness of his calluses. The warmth of his skin.
She thought about the word she'd said. Papa.
Her cheeks flushed, and not from the heat.
She reached for the soap—sandalwood, the same scent that lingered on his skin—and lathered her body slowly. Her hands moved over her stomach, her breasts, the curve of her hips. She wasn't thinking about anything. She was just feeling. The water. The soap. The steam.
She stayed under the spray until her fingers pruned.
When she finally stepped out, the mirror was useless—fogged and dripping. She reached for a towel and wrapped it around herself, her hair dripping down her back.
And then she realized.
She'd forgotten her underwear.
Her bra. Her panties. Everything. She'd been so focused on getting to the bathroom, so desperate for hot water, that she hadn't thought to grab a fresh set.
She looked down at the floor.
Her used panties were still there. Lacy. Black. Damp from the shower, crumpled in a small heap by the drain.
She stared at them.
She should pick them up. She should take them with her, hide them in her towel, pretend they didn't exist.
But she was tired. And flustered. And the door was right there, and her room was just down the hall, and she could be back in thirty seconds.
She left them.
She wrapped the towel tighter around herself and opened the door.
Mr. Dixit was standing by the window.
He turned when he heard her. His eyes moved over her—quickly, politely, then away. But not before she saw it. That flicker. That heat.
"The shower's all yours," she said.
"Thank you."
She walked past him. Fast. Her bare feet slapped against the wooden floor, and she could feel his gaze on her back, on her shoulders, on the damp skin of her legs.
She didn't look at him.
She just kept walking.
---
Mr. Dixit stood by the window for a long time after she left.
He listened to her footsteps fade down the hall. Heard the soft click of her bedroom door. Heard the silence that followed.
Then he turned and walked into the bathroom.
The steam was still thick, curling around the ceiling, fogging the mirror. The air smelled like her—like soap and water and something else, something warm and musky that made his chest tight.
He saw the panties immediately.
They were lying by the drain, a small heap of black lace, damp and crumpled. He stared at them. He shouldn't look. He shouldn't touch.
He picked them up.
The fabric was still wet, clinging to his fingers, and he felt the texture of it—delicate, expensive, the kind of thing his wife would never have worn. Kalpana had been practical. Cotton. Simple. She'd never—
He stopped the thought.
He held the panties in his hand and felt something shift inside him. Something dark. Something hungry. Something he'd spent decades burying under duty and grief and the quiet routines of old age.
He brought them to his nose.
He inhaled.
And the world tilted.
Her scent was everywhere—warm, intimate, raw. It filled his lungs and his chest and his stomach, and he felt his body respond in a way it hadn't in years. Not just desire. Something deeper. Something primal. Something that made him feel young and alive and ashamed all at once.
He stood there for a long moment, his eyes closed, his breath shallow.
Then he folded the panties carefully and slipped them into his pocket.
He didn't know why. He didn't know what he would do with them. He just knew he couldn't leave them there. Couldn't let them sit on the floor like they meant nothing.
They meant something.
He didn't know what yet.
But they meant something.
---
Ruby didn't realize until lunchtime.
She was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, when the memory hit her like a slap. The bathroom. The shower. The towel. The panties on the floor.
She froze.
The knife hovered above the tomato. Her heart stopped. Then started again, faster, harder, pounding against her ribs.
She'd left them. She'd left her used, lacy, damp panties on the floor of her father-in-law's bathroom.
She wanted to die.
She wanted to sink through the floor and never come back. She wanted to run upstairs and grab them and pretend it never happened. But it was too late. He'd already used the bathroom. He'd already seen them.
He'd already—
She couldn't finish the thought.
She set the knife down and pressed her hands against the counter. Her palms were sweating. Her face was hot. She felt like she was going to be sick.
But underneath the mortification, underneath the shame and the panic, there was something else.
Something that felt almost like excitement.
She shook her head. No. No, that was wrong. That was sick. That was—
She picked up the knife and kept chopping.
But the feeling didn't go away.
---
That night, Ruby went to bed early.
Anubhav still wasn't home. He'd texted her back—finally—something about a late meeting, don't wait up. She'd read the message three times and felt nothing.
She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that wouldn't come.
Her mind kept circling back to the bathroom. To the panties. To him.
She wondered what he'd done when he saw them. Had he picked them up? Had he thrown them away? Had he—
She didn't know. She couldn't know.
She just lay there, her heart racing, her body tense, and wished she could stop thinking about it.
At some point, she must have drifted off.
Because when she opened her eyes again, the room was dark and the house was quiet, and there was something on her pillow.
She sat up.
It was her panties. The same black lace. The same damp fabric.
But they weren't crumpled anymore. They were folded. Neatly. Carefully. Like someone had taken their time, had smoothed out every wrinkle, had made sure they looked perfect.
Ruby stared at them.
Her hands were shaking.
She reached out and touched the fabric. It was dry now. Soft. Warm, almost—like it had been sitting somewhere close to a body.
She picked them up.
And then she saw it.
A small note, tucked beneath them. Just a scrap of paper, torn from the edge of a newspaper.
Two words, written in neat, slanted handwriting:
Be careful.
Ruby's breath caught in her throat.
She looked at the note. At the panties. At the folded fabric and the careful script.
And she understood.
He knew.
He'd found them. He'd kept them. He'd folded them and brought them back and left them on her pillow like a secret.
Like a message.
Like a promise.
She pressed the fabric to her chest and closed her eyes.
Her heart was pounding. Her skin was hot. And somewhere deep in her stomach, something was burning—something she'd been trying to ignore for days.
She didn't know what to do.
She didn't know what to feel.
She just lay back on the bed, the panties clutched in her hand, and stared at the ceiling.
The house was quiet. Anubhav was still gone. And somewhere down the hall, Mr. Dixit was lying in his bed, staring at the same ceiling, thinking about the same thing.
Ruby closed her eyes.
She thought about the word she'd said yesterday. Papa.
She thought about the way he'd said her name.
She thought about the note on her pillow. Be careful.
And she wondered if she was capable of being careful.
She wondered if she wanted to be.
The night stretched on, dark and silent, and Ruby held onto the black lace like it was a secret she'd been waiting her whole life to keep.