The next night, the Mumbai humidity felt heavier than usual, pressing down on Ishani like an unspoken warning.

She sat on her bed again, laptop open, the cursor blinking mockingly on a blank page. Her left cheek still carried the faint memory of heat—though the visible mark from Virat’s wet, scorching kiss had faded to nothing. All day she had caught herself touching that spot in lectures, in the canteen, on the train home. Aching. Restless.