The tension coils tighter with each passing day—Neel's lingering stares across the dinner table, his "accidental" brushes against your waist when passing in the hallway, the way he exhales sharply whenever you bend over in those damn yoga pants. He's biding his time, testing boundaries—last night, his knuckles grazed your nipple while "reaching for the salt," and this morning, you caught him sniffing your discarded sports bra in the laundry basket. Your sister remains oblivious, too absorbed in her new promotion at work to notice how her husband's fingers tighten around his beer bottle whenever you stretch, the fabric of your top straining over your chest. The air between you crackles with unspoken filth—his smirk when you hastily cross your arms, your quickened breath when he licks sauce off his fingers too slowly.