They went straight to the club after Aarav finished the last line of code—doors locked behind them, lights switched off, no goodbyes to anyone. Ishani drove again, one hand on the wheel, the other resting high on his thigh the entire way, thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles that made his breathing uneven.

Noir was packed tonight—Friday fever, bass thumping harder, bodies closer. She didn’t bother with the main floor this time. She led him directly to the VIP section—reserved booth tucked in the corner, velvet curtains half-drawn, server already waiting with a bottle of their favorite mezcal and two glasses.