LOVING ACP SIR - PART 2

Agathiyan's POV

I bit my lower lip and took a deep, steadying breath. Who wouldn’t, given the breathtaking sight before me? She stood there, lost in a moment entirely her own, and I couldn’t help but marvel at her. What exactly was she doing? My curiosity grew as I watched her—a smile tugged at my lips when I realized she was admiring herself. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as though she wanted to soak in every detail reflected back at her.

Her smile was distinct—proud, almost radiant—not the shy or playful grin I’d seen her wear so many times before. It spoke of a quiet confidence, a recognition of her own beauty. For a fleeting second, I wondered if she was truly unaware of my presence. Usually, she’d give some small indication that she knew I was there—a glance, a smirk, or even a teasing remark—but now, nothing. She seemed completely unbothered by me, or maybe that was the impression she wanted to give.

This moment wasn’t about me—it was entirely hers. There was nothing sensual in her actions; she wasn’t touching herself but simply admiring, as though she was content with her body and reflecting on her journey of growing into the woman she is. It felt like she was reliving those moments of self-discovery and pride all over again.

There’s nothing unfamiliar about her anymore—every inch of her body, every detail feels imprinted on my memory.

Everything I have seen, touched, tasted and marked.

I could map the marks on her body with precision, pointing out every scar and tattoo, narrating the stories that lie behind them. And somehow, these stories always connect back to me—whether it’s because I caused them directly, or they occurred as a consequence of something tied to me.

Our relationship has always had its moments of chaos. We’ve fought like cats and dogs, our clashes sometimes escalating to the point where we’d leave each other with scratches, bruises, and even worse fractures. Those incidents feel endless, each etched in our shared history—raw and unfiltered memories of the ups and downs we’ve weathered together. But just as she bears her own share of scars, she’s left marks on me too. Some come from playful moments, others from more heated ones.

As a policeman, many of my scars stem from encounters with criminals or the dangerous realities of my profession. These marks have become symbols of my duty, my pride, and the risks I embrace every day. Yet, her marks are different—they’re a reminder of the connection we share, the life we’ve built together through every quarrel and reconciliation, every victory and setback. At times, she matches those cuts with her nails and teeth—not out of malice, but as part of the untamed and unpredictable dance of our bond. And strangely enough, that’s okay. It’s just another piece of the story we’re writing together, both in love and in conflict.

If I say I’ve watched her grow I fucking mean it in every sense—physically, mentally, emotionally and sexually. I’ve had the privilege of being the constant in her life, Sure, she had her share of crushes and fleeting infatuations, but I’ve always been the one she fantasized about in bed.

How do I know? Let’s just say, I’m no saint—I secretly watched her...heck, I even watched her touching herself moaning my name loud as a teenager....

I’ve watched her in quiet moments, admiring herself when she thought no one was looking. I saw her frustration in the early days, the way she pouted and frowned at her reflection, angry at her body for taking its time to mature while others around her seemed to grow effortlessly. She carried that ruggedness from her years as a volleyball captain, a star on the court who inspired her siblings and earned admiration from her peers. Yet, beneath that strength, there was a vulnerability she rarely let anyone see.

She couldn’t hide it from herself, though—the way she’d check her figure with a mix of disappointment and doubt, feeling like she lacked the femininity she longed for. Those insecurities lingered, even as she grew older. But I also saw the moments that changed her—the shy smile she gave herself when she first noticed her transformation, the quiet pride that began to replace her doubts.

Every phase of her journey unfolded before me, from frustration to hesitation, insecurity to acceptance, and finally, admiration. Watching her embrace herself, piece by piece, was a privilege—a glimpse into her strength, her growth, and the beauty of her self-discovery.

I had access to her house and I did use it to every extent and when I mean I watched her.......I mean exactly like how it's happening now.....

Yeah, I secretly peeked into her room, watching as she noticed and discovered herself(At times naked as well).

I’ve always had the feeling that she knew I was watching her all those years and chose to ignore it, just like she does now. So don’t wonder how I’m managing to control myself despite the overwhelming desire I feel for her—I have over 20 years of experience in this. She’s just as skilled in hiding her emotions; even though every part of her responds to my presence, she carries herself as if I don’t stir anything within her.

“Ratchasi…”

I murmured softly, watching her slip into her petticoat and blouse with a quiet grace. Her fingers combed through her damp, tousled hair, only to get caught in the stubborn strands. The frustration on her face was unmistakable, and I bit the inside of my cheek to stifle a laugh as she pouted at the mess. She finally untangled her fingers and turned her attention to the mirror, her expression shifting to a frown. What now? I wondered.

She reached for the sticker pottu on the edge of the mirror, pressing it perfectly between her brows with practiced ease. “En Azhaghi…” I thought, as she quirked her lips and playfully blew a kiss at her reflection. My heart twisted—I longed to do the same, not with the lightness she showed, but with the kind of intensity and passion that felt right, that kind of kiss she truly deserved. Yet, all I could do was let out a quiet sigh.

Her attention shifted to the knot of her blouse. She wrestled with it, her fingers fumbling slightly, yet her resolve never wavered. Asking for help was clearly out of the question. Madam’s pride wouldn’t allow such a concession—it’s what made her my Ratchasi.

But I was already at my limit, teetering on the edge of losing control, so I finally broke the silence and announced my presence.

"So, how long are you going to pretend I'm not here?" I asked, my voice cutting through the quiet.

She rolled her eyes in exaggerated defiance, turning to meet my gaze with narrowed eyes, a spark of challenge flickering in her expression.

Author's note

📌Target for the next chapter : 100 Votes and 30 comments‼️

I will give you all the time to reach the target no hurry burry....while I update next chapters in scrollstack....

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