This gay second chance romance follows Nishant Hegde, a 32-year-old coffee-estate manager, and Aviral Shetty, a 29-year-old food photographer, who reunite at a remote plantation in Chikmagalur, Karnataka, during harvest season. Aviral’s photography assignment brings back memories of their former friendship and the feelings neither man resolved. As old resentment gives way to renewed attraction, they must confront what separated them. When Aviral receives an offer to leave immediately, both men face a choice between repeating past mistakes and giving their relationship another chance.
The rain on the tin roof of the estate office was a relentless, soothing drumbeat. I leaned against the doorframe, watching the downpour turn the coffee terraces into a shimmering, emerald sea. It was my third monsoon managing the sprawling ‘Silver Oak’ estate in Chikmagalur, and the solitude had become a second skin. Or so I’d thought, until this morning.
“Nishant Hegde? It’s been a while, man.”
That voice. Smooth, with a hint of a Mumbai-bred accent layered over a native Kannada base, it sliced through the humid air and twelve years of carefully built composure. I turned, and there he was. Aviral Shetty. Drenched, holding a camera bag over his head, grinning that same lopsided, infuriatingly charming grin. He looked older, obviously. The lanky boy from our college summer, working here as a temporary harvest hand, was gone. In his place stood a man of 29, with a confident stance, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that still held a mischievous glint. His hair, plastered to his forehead by the rain, was longer. He wore a simple grey t-shirt that clung to a torso that was no longer boyish, but lean and defined, and jeans that were artfully ripped at the knees.
“Aviral,” I said, my voice thankfully steady. “The photographer.” The owner had mentioned a food and landscape photographer was coming to do a series for a premium brand. He’d failed to mention the photographer was my past.
“The very one,” he said, stepping under the awning, shaking his head like a dog. Droplets flew. “Small world, huh? Or a very small state.”
The air between us crackled, charged with everything we’d never said. We’d been friends that summer, two guys in their early twenties sharing a cramped room in the worker’s quarters. The attraction had been a live wire, a constant, terrifying pull. We’d flirted, drunk on cheap rum and the freedom of the hills—playful shoves that lasted too long, shared cigarettes in the silent dawn, lingering looks across the fermentation tanks. Then, one night, a drunken, clumsy almost-kiss by the drying beds, followed by a wave of such pure panic we’d both retreated. He’d left for a photography internship in Pune a week later. We’d never spoken again.
“You look good,” he said, his eyes doing a quick, appreciative sweep from my worn boots to my rolled-up sleeves. “Estate life suits you.”
“You look… dry would be a good start,” I deflected, ignoring the heat his gaze sparked. “Come in. I’ll show you your room.”
The assignment was for five days. Five days of forced proximity in a remote bungalow. The professional facade lasted all of eight hours. By the second evening, over a shared bottle of Old Monk on the verandah, the old rhythm returned, laced with a new, adult tension.
“Remember that time you fell into the pulping tank?” he laughed, his foot brushing against mine under the table. He didn’t move it.
“I remember you laughing too hard to help me out,” I said, my leg pressing back, a silent dare.
“You were covered in cherry pulp. Looked like you’d murdered someone.” His smile softened. “I also remember thinking you looked unfairly hot, even then.”
The bluntness stole my breath. This was the new Aviral—direct, unafraid. The flirting escalated. Teasing comments about my hands, calloused from work. “Strong hands, Hegde. I bet they’re good for more than sorting beans.” Accidental touches as I passed him a cup of coffee, my fingers grazing his. Lingering eye contact during dinner silences that grew heavier, more loaded. He’d walk around in just a towel after a shower, his torso on display, and I’d pretend to read reports, every word a jumble. The chemistry was a slow, sweet burn, a promise hanging in the misty air.
On the third night, the dam broke. We were in the living room, reviewing his shots on his laptop. He was leaning over my shoulder, his chest warm against my back, his breath on my neck.
“This one,” he whispered, his voice husky. The photo was of me, unaware, looking out over the estate at sunset. The light was golden, painting my profile. It was intimate, revealing. “This is the one I came for.”
I turned my head. Our faces were inches apart. The pretense evaporated. I closed the distance, capturing his lips with mine. It wasn’t gentle. It was twelve years of pent-up hunger. He groaned into my mouth, his hands coming up to fist in my hair, pulling me closer. The kiss was deep, wet, and desperate. Our tongues tangled, tasting of rum and longing. We stumbled towards my bedroom, a tangle of lips and grasping hands, shedding clothes in a frantic trail.
In the dim light, I finally saw him. He was beautiful. Smooth skin over taut muscle, a trail of dark hair leading from his navel down to his thick, hard cock, which stood proud and leaking. He pushed me onto the bed, following me down, his mouth leaving mine to blaze a trail down my neck, my chest. He took my nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, biting gently, sending jolts of pure electricity straight to my dick. His hand slid down my stomach, his fingers wrapping around my shaft, stroking me with a firm, knowing grip.
“Fuck, Nishant,” he breathed, looking up at me. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
Then he moved lower, his intention clear. He took me into his mouth, and my back arched off the bed. His mouth was hot, wet, and sinful. He sucked me deep, his tongue swirling around the head, his hand working the base. The sounds he made, greedy moans and hums of pleasure, were the filthiest, most erotic things I’d ever heard. I tangled my hands in his hair, not guiding, just holding on.
“Wait,” I gasped, pulling him up. “I need to taste you, too.”
We rearranged ourselves into a 69, a hungry, messy tangle of limbs. The scent of him, musk and sweat, filled my senses as I took his cock into my mouth. He was thick, velvety steel on my tongue. We fell into a rhythm, sucking, licking, moaning into each other’s skin. The room filled with the wet, sloppy sounds of our mutual pleasure, our groans and curses. “Yeah, just like that… suck my dick… your mouth is fucking amazing…”
It was overwhelming, too much, not enough. I pulled away, flipping him onto his back. I needed more. I reached for the lube in my nightstand, coating my fingers. I kissed him deeply as I pressed a slick finger against his hole, circling, teasing.
“Please,” he begged against my lips, his legs spreading wider. “Don’t be gentle.”
I pushed one finger in, slowly, feeling his tight heat clench around me. He threw his head back, a sharp cry escaping him. I worked him open, first one finger, then two, scissoring, stretching, searching for that spot that made him see stars. When I brushed it, he shouted, his whole body jerking. “There! Fuck, right there!”
When he was ready, panting and begging, I positioned myself. I lined up my cock, the head pressing against his entrance. Our eyes locked. The raw need in his gaze mirrored my own. I pushed in, slowly, surrendering to the breathtaking, tight heat that enveloped me. He was exquisite, clamping around me like a vise. I bottomed out, buried to the hilt, and we both stilled, just feeling the profound connection.
Then I moved. It started slow, deep thrusts that made him whimper. But the hunger quickly took over. The pace became frantic, punishing. I pounded into him, the bed slamming against the wall in a steady rhythm. He met every thrust, his nails digging into my back, his legs locked around my waist. We were a sweaty, desperate mess, skin slapping against skin, the air thick with grunts and the filthy, beautiful sounds of sex.
“Harder… yes, just like that… you feel so fucking good inside me,” he chanted, his voice broken.
I flipped him onto his hands and knees, taking him from behind, driving into him even deeper. The new angle had him crying out, his own cock bouncing, hard and neglected. I reached around, stroking him in time with my thrusts. He was close, I could feel his muscles fluttering around me.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice a ragged sob.
“Come for me,” I growled, my own climax coiling tight in my gut. My thrusts became erratic, brutal.
With a shout, he came, stripes of white painting the sheets below him. The violent clenching of his ass around my dick pushed me over the edge. I drove into him one last, deep time and came, a blinding, white-hot release, filling him as I collapsed over his back, shuddering.
We lay there for a long time, a tangled heap of spent limbs, trying to catch our breath. The rain had stopped. The only sound was our slowing heartbeats. I rolled off him, pulling him against my side. He nestled his head on my chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin.
The next morning, his agent called. A last-minute, lucrative assignment in Paris. A flight that evening. The old panic, the ghost of our past mistake, flickered in his eyes as he told me.
He was packing when I walked into his room. The air was thick with unsaid words. He wouldn’t look at me.
“So, history repeats itself, huh?” I said, my voice quiet.
He finally looked up, his eyes bright. “I don’t want it to.”
“Then don’t get on the plane,” I said, the simplest, most terrifying sentence I’d ever uttered.
He stared at me. Then, a slow smile spread across his face, the one I remembered from a sun-drenched coffee terrace twelve years ago. He dropped the shirt he was holding.
“Okay,” he said simply.
He walked over to me, cupped my face, and kissed me. It was different from the night before—softer, a promise. It tasted like coffee, and rain, and a second chance.