The shower had been practical, almost clinical. Soap, water, the quiet ritual of two people washing away evidence. Now the bedroom held that particular stillness that follows—the kind that settles into the spaces between breaths, between words not yet spoken.

Saanjh sat on the edge of the bed, her hair damp against her neck, watching Vikram across the room. He'd taken the armchair by the window, legs spread in that careless masculine way, one hand draped over the armrest. The city lights through the glass painted his profile in amber and shadow. He was waiting. Not impatiently—that was the thing about Vikram. He could wait like a man who already knew the ending of every story.