The first sensation was warmth. A deep, pervasive heat radiating through Rohit’s chest, stomach, and thighs. Then weight. A pleasant, solid pressure pinning him down. And finally, scent. The unmistakable fragrance of jasmine and skin—Akansha’s scent—woven into the fabric of a pillow and the air itself.

His consciousness returned in fragments. The whisky-induced fog was dissipating, leaving behind a raw, aching clarity. Rohit was lying face-down. His cheek was pressed against soft silk. His arms were sprawled out. And the warmth, the weight… it was her. Akansha. He was on top of her, his body draped over hers on the sofa, his head nestled against her shoulder.