From that day, Vir slept in her room—a quiet shift born of the twins' needs, his mattress on the floor beside the cribs, the space now shared in intimate proximity that charged the air with unspoken, illicit tension. Almost a month passed with him working in their house, his presence a constant, sensual undercurrent in Ishani's days, the twins' easy affection for him a mirror of her own forbidden pull. Maa and Julia Aunty treated him with all love—warm smiles and extra servings at meals, Maa patting his shoulder maternal as he cradled Soha, Julia cooing over how "the babies adore their Vir uncle," their acceptance weaving him deeper into the family fabric, his blue eyes softening at their kindness, but Ishani's gaze lingered hotter, her body responding with wet heat to his every move, pregnancy's aftermath leaving her core perpetually slick and aching, nipples sensitive to the brush of fabric, breasts fuller and tender, the mangalsutra a cool chain between them like a teasing finger tracing her cleavage.