Series: Hollow Soil: Nephew Breeding Sexy Aunt

Dev – The Husband Who Left the Door Open I woke before the light fully entered the room. For a few seconds I lay still, listening. Priya’s breathing was slow and even beside me. The ceiling fan turned with its soft, familiar click. Outside, the first birds had started, but the house itself was still quiet. I turned my head carefully. She faced away from me, one bare shoulder visible above the sheet. The rest of her body stayed hidden under the cotton. I did not reach for her. Last night returned in plain pieces. We had finished dinner late. The relatives had left. Raj had gone upstairs with his books. In our room the air had felt heavy from the day’s heat. Priya had changed into her night clothes. I had watched her for a moment, then switched off the main light. When I touched her shoulder she had turned toward me without words. We had done what we usually did. The bed had creaked in a steady, uninspired rhythm. I had kept my eyes on a thin crack that ran across the ceiling plaster, counting the small dark line each time my body moved. There had been no kissing. Her skin under my hands had felt cool and slightly dry, not the warm slickness of real wanting. She had made the soft sounds she always made — polite, almost automatic. I had finished quickly, the way I often did these days, and rolled onto my back. She had adjusted the sheet, turned away, and within minutes her breathing had slowed into sleep. I had stared at the same crack in the ceiling for a long time afterward, feeling the familiar mix of relief and quiet failure. It was not unkindness. It was simply what remained between us after the clinics and the reports and the money we no longer had. Functional. Necessary. Empty of the heat that used to rise without effort years ago. I sat up slowly so the mattress would not shift too much. The floorboards felt cool under my feet. I pulled on the same half-pants I had left on the chair and walked to the window. The garden below was still grey-blue with early light. Mist hung low over the pond. Somewhere a rooster crowed once and then fell silent. My mind moved to the day ahead in the same practical way it always did. The property manager wanted to re-check the east boundary markers. The papers needed one more signature from the local office. If everything went smoothly we might finish the main work before the heavier rains began. The thought of the work felt safer than the thought of last night. I went into the attached bathroom, closed the door most of the way, and washed my face with cold water from the tap. The mirror showed the same tired eyes, the same small scar on my chin. I rubbed a hand over the rough stubble and decided I would shave after tea. No need to wake Priya with the sound of the razor yet. Back in the bedroom I stood for a moment looking at her. The sheet had slipped a little lower. The curve of her back was smooth and still. In Delhi mornings like this used to make me want to stay longer in bed. Now the wanting felt distant, like something that belonged to a different man. I felt the old guilt rise — the knowledge that my body could not give her the child she still dreamed about, and that even the simple act of sex had become another quiet duty. I pushed the feeling down the same way I always did. There was work to do. The village air was helping her. She smiled more. She walked with Raj to the market and came back looking lighter. That was enough for now. I found a clean shirt in the cupboard, pulled it on, and left the bedroom door open a few inches so the room would not grow too warm. The hallway outside was still dark. I walked downstairs carefully, one hand on the wooden railing. The main hall smelled of last night’s incense and the faint dampness that never fully left the old walls. In the kitchen the house help had not yet arrived. I filled the kettle, lit the small gas stove, and waited for the water to heat. The blue flame made a soft sound in the quiet. I leaned against the counter and looked out at the courtyard. The first real light of morning was beginning to touch the tops of the mango trees. Tea would be ready soon. I would take a cup upstairs for Priya if she was awake, or leave it on the side table if she was not. Then I would go out to meet the manager. The day would move forward in its ordinary way — papers, measurements, polite talk about boundaries and rain. Nothing in the cool kitchen air suggested that anything was about to change. I poured the hot water over the tea leaves and watched the colour deepen, the simple morning still whole and unbroken around me. The house help arrived while the tea was still steeping. I heard the courtyard gate creak and then soft footsteps on the red earth. She was a middle-aged woman from the next lane who came every morning to sweep and prepare the first meal. She stepped into the kitchen, touched her forehead politely, and began taking the covered pots down from the shelf. “Tea is ready,” I told her. “I’ll take one cup up. Leave the rest for later.” She nodded and started the usual work — wiping the stone counter, checking the rice, opening the back window to let the morning air in. We exchanged only a few ordinary words about the weather and whether the mangoes would be ready next week. Nothing important. The kind of short talk that fills the start of a

(Priya) – The Sexy Aunt with an Empty Womb The apartment felt larger than it used to. I sat on the edge of our bed, the same bed where we once planned everything. The sheet under my fingers was cool. Outside the window, Delhi traffic moved like a low, endless river. Horns, engines, voices. None of it reached me the way it used to. Dev stood near the small table by the window. He held a glass of water but had not drunk from it. His shoulders were slightly bent, the way they always were these days. He looked older than thirty-two. “The doctor said the same thing again,” he said quietly. “Nothing has changed.” I nodded. I already knew. The second IVF had failed three weeks ago. The clinic had called us in, shown the reports, spoken in careful, soft voices. Dead sperm. No movement. No chance without more procedures, more money, more waiting. We had already spent almost everything we had saved. The first cycle took our emergency fund. The second took the money we kept for a small house one day. After the last injection, after the long nights of hope and the quiet morning when the nurse said the test was negative, something inside both of us had gone still. I looked at the corner of the room where the baby things used to be in my mind. A crib. Soft yellow walls. A small cupboard for clothes. I had never bought any of it. I was too careful. Still, the empty space felt heavy. “I’m tired, Dev,” I said. He turned. His eyes were red at the edges. He had not slept well for many nights. “I know,” he answered. “Me too.” We did not fight. We never did. That made it worse somehow. There was no anger to burn away the sadness. Only silence and the soft sound of the ceiling fan turning above us. I stood and walked to the kitchen. The fridge hummed. Inside were half-eaten containers of dal and rice from two nights ago. I closed the door again without taking anything. My stomach felt tight, but not from hunger. On the counter lay the clinic bill, folded twice. I did not open it. I already knew the number. It was large enough to make my chest hurt every time I thought of it. Dev came and stood behind me, not touching. Just close. “We can try once more,” he said, very low. “If you want. I can take a loan.” I shook my head. The movement was small but firm. “No. I can’t. Not again. Not the injections. Not the waiting. Not the way hope rises and then falls like that.” My voice stayed calm, but my throat felt thick. “It takes something from me each time. I don’t have much left to give.” He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “I’m sorry.” Those two words had become common between us. He said them when he looked at the reports. He said them when I cried at night and tried to hide it. He said them when we passed a park full of children. I never knew what to answer. It was not his fault. The doctors had been clear. Necrospermia. His body made sperm that could not live. No medicine could change it. No operation could fix it. Nature had closed that door. I turned and looked at him. His face was kind, the same face I had married six years ago. Soft eyes. A small scar on his chin from a childhood fall. I still loved that face. But love and longing for a child had started to live in different rooms inside me. “I keep dreaming of a baby,” I told him. “Not every night. But often enough. Sometimes I wake up and my arms feel empty. Like I was holding something and it disappeared.” Dev’s eyes dropped to the floor. He nodded once. We moved to the sofa. The cushions had a small tear on one side. We had planned to change the cover last year. We never did. Money went to the clinic instead. I rested my head against the back of the sofa and closed my eyes. The air smelled of the old curtain and the faint scent of the incense stick I had lit in the morning. Prayer had become a quiet habit. Not loud or hopeful. Just a soft asking for peace. “I don’t know how to stop wanting it,” I whispered. “You don’t have to stop,” Dev said. “But maybe we need to stop hurting ourselves for a while.” I opened my eyes. He was looking at me with that careful expression he used when he was about to suggest something important. “My father called last week,” he continued. “The old house in the village needs papers sorted. Some land borders are unclear. He asked if we could come for a few weeks. Help with the work. Stay for a bit.” The village. I had been there only twice since our marriage. Once for a festival, once for a relative’s wedding. It was quiet. Rice fields. Mud paths. The smell of wet earth after rain. Dev’s family lived simply. His elder brother, the brother’s wife, their son who was studying somewhere. I remembered the boy only as a thin teenager who stayed in his room with books. “A break,” Dev said. “Away from this apartment. Away from the clinic reminders. Just… air. And time.” I sat with the idea. Delhi felt too sharp these days. Every baby in a stroller on the street, every pregnant woman in the market, every family photo on social media cut a little deeper. The village would not have those constant reminders. It would have slow mornings, long afternoons, and the sound of birds instead of traffic. “How long?” I asked. “As long as we need. Two weeks. A month. We can decide later.” I looked around the room again. The walls