The next morning, sunlight sliced through the half-drawn curtains of Ishani’s bedroom, stabbing straight into Aarav’s skull. He groaned, rolling onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes. His head throbbed like someone had taken a hammer to it—mouth dry, tongue thick, fragments of the night before flickering in and out: wine, her perfume, her laughter, the way the city lights blurred past the car window.

He sat up slowly. The sheets were tangled around his waist. He was naked underneath.