The kitchen was bathed in the pale gold of mid-morning light, the city beyond the windows a distant hum of traffic and life that felt utterly removed from the sanctuary of Shivangi's flat. Harshad stood at the counter, barefoot on the cool tile, wearing only a pair of loose grey shorts that hung low on his hips. His torso was still gloriously naked, the muscles of his back shifting with each deliberate movement, the faint red lines of Shivangi's nails still visible on his shoulders—a roadmap of the night's excesses.

Harshad surveyed the ingredients he'd assembled with the focus of a man who took breakfast seriously. A large mixing bowl sat at the ready, a whisk resting against its ceramic rim. He reached for the flour first, measuring out five hundred grams with practiced precision, the fine white powder sifting softly into the bowl. Two spoons of sugar followed, then a single spoon of baking powder that he leveled off with his finger. The milk came next, a full cup that splashed gently against the dry ingredients, and finally two generous spoons of melted butter that glistened as they pooled on the surface.