#hsluts

Every day, without fail, he was there. Leaning against the grimy wall of the chicken shop, his lungi splattered with stains, the talisman around his neck glinting under the sun like some cheap trophy. His surma-lined eyes followed her with a smirk that made her fingers twitch toward her handcuffs. Just one reason, Pallavi thought. "One excuse to wipe that smugness off his face."

But Pallavi Rajan wasn’t just any cop—she was Inspector Rajan, the youngest woman in the city to command her own thana, and the only officer with a 100% case closure rate. Her reputation was carved in grit: the daughter who defied her family’s protests ("Ladkiyon ka yeh kaam nahi"), the recruit who outshot every male cadet in training, the detective who solved the infamous Jewel Bazaar heist in three days when the rest of the force gave up. Her mother’s sharp tongue and her father’s quiet strength lived in her—unshakable principles, zero tolerance for liars, and a glare that could freeze a mob.

Yet this man—this nuisance with his lazy posture and mocking grin—was the one thing she couldn’t pin down. No record, no charges, just… there. Taunting her. Waiting. And Pallavi hated mysteries she couldn’t solve.

Relief washed over her the moment she passed the shop— but it was short-lived. Because he was there again. Towering at 6’1", his V-shaped frame barely contained by that ragged vest, curls falling carelessly over surma-darkened eyes. He didn’t scurry like the others when her uniform came into view. Didn’t stammer or look away. No, this man leaned—all lazy arrogance and coiled strength—and grinned like he knew exactly how her stomach twisted when their eyes met.

It infuriated her. Weakness. That’s what this was. Her body betraying her with traitorous heat. The time passed slowly while she noticed his gaze, like he was taking her measurements, and this vile thought...

"Why? Why are they so painfully hard?" Pallavi realized. Her nipples were poking hard under her push-up bra and that nearly perfect uniform. A mesmerizing view, of an officer in a tight shirt and pants, with hard areolas.

And she was beautiful, 5'4" tall, with a 34D breast, a flat belly, straightened shoulders, and a perfect round ass. Purely hourglass body with baby fats in all the right places. Her fearless big bold eyes, juicy lips, wide shoulders, a little folded neck with baby fat, toned arms, and beautiful yellow skin. Her family or Men around her wanted her to marry a man and settle down, but nah she was a damn good Lioness.

All this yet "This cannot be right, No, I cannot..." Pallavi thought, "for this unruly bastard."

Her knees felt soft, she didn't have a perfect posture anymore, and suddenly her heart felt, "Oh no, This is so wrong" she peed in her pants. Before it goes noticed, she hurriedly walked to the car. For a second there is lost control while her mind screamed two truths:

He was the "wrong" kind of man— a Muslim, different world, the kind her family spat about at dinner.

He refused to fear her. Every day, he stood there, a living challenge. No crimes to arrest him for, no laws broken—just that look, like she wasn’t Inspector Pallavi Rajan, terror of the thana, but just… a woman. And that humiliation—that she couldn’t put him in his place—burned worse than any desire.

Pallavi quickened her steps toward her car, the morning sun glaring off its polished hood. What is this feeling? Her pulse thundered in her wrists, her grip tightening on her keys. Why is my heart pounding? Why is it so hard to—

"Good morning, Madam!" An old driver saluted, snapping her back to reality.

She gave a curt nod and slid into the passenger’s seat, slamming the door harder than necessary. Through the windshield, he was there again—leaning against the chicken shop’s rusted shutter, one hand draped over his head like some lazy god of chaos. His smirk was a challenge, his surma-lined eyes locked onto hers. Watching. Always watching.