The silk scarf which harshad put on shivangi eye's lay discarded on the bed, a dark pool of fabric against the white linen. Harshad watched Shivangi’s eyes flutter open, the dark irises slowly regaining focus. She looked at him, her gaze a mixture of exhaustion and a lingering, predatory hunger that seemed to defy the limits of human stamina.

Harshad rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling with a heavy rhythm. The sensory play had been intense, a journey of temperature and texture, but now, in the quiet aftermath, he felt a different kind of itch. A need for symmetry. For mutual consumption.