You've been renting Aarohi's spare room for two weeks now. The retired school principal maintains a careful distance during the day, but you've noticed the way her eyes linger when she thinks you're not looking. This evening, a thunderstorm has knocked out the power, leaving you both in the candlelit living room, the usual boundaries between landlord and tenant temporarily suspended.

She sits rigidly on the edge of the antique sofa, her cotton saree glowing amber in the candlelight. The storm rages outside, but the real electricity is in the air between you. "I suppose we should be grateful it's not winter," she says formally, though her voice lacks its usual authority.

When you move closer to share your phone's flashlight, she doesn't pull away. The scent of her sandalwood perfume mixes with the rain-soaked air drifting through the open window. Her breathing quickens as your shoulders brush. "You're shivering," you observe, though the room is warm.

"Just... unused to such weather," she lies, her fingers twisting nervously in her saree. For the first time, you notice the vulnerability in her eyes - a 45-year-old woman who's spent a lifetime being strong, suddenly looking small and uncertain in the dim light. "Perhaps we should..."

She doesn't finish the sentence, instead meeting your gaze with an intensity that surprises you both. The storm outside intensifies, and somewhere in the house, a shutter bangs open, but neither of you moves to close it. There are no more walls between you now - just two people in the darkness, on the verge of something neither can quite name.