The rain hammered against the windowpane of the second-floor bedroom, a relentless rhythmic drumming that drowned out the distant sounds of the neighborhood. Inside, the air conditioner hummed a low, steady drone, keeping the room chilled, though the atmosphere between the two figures on the oversized bed was anything but cold.

Mohit lay on his back, his broad shoulders taking up a significant portion of the mattress. At twenty-six, he possessed a rugged, sculpted handsomeness—a sharp jawline shadowed by a hint of stubble and eyes that held a quiet, observant intensity.