The flat had grown quiet as the winter evening settled over Delhi, a soft quilt of smog and distant traffic sounds muffled by the double-glazed windows. Meera sat on the plush grey sofa, a cup of adrak chai warming her palms, her heart beating a slow, steady rhythm of disbelief and desire. Across from her, Arjun lounged in an armchair, his eyes tracking her every movement with that familiar possessive heat. At her feet, literally at her feet on the thick carpet, sat Rohan, his back against the sofa, his head resting against her knee like a devoted pet.

It had been three weeks since the brothers had made their impossible proposal. Three weeks of tentative dinners, of hands held in different combinations, of learning to breathe in a space occupied by three heartbeats instead of two. They had kissed her, separately and together. They had held her between them on this very sofa, her back to Arjun's chest while Rohan's lips traced patterns on her palms. But they had not yet fully crossed the final boundary, the one that would make this arrangement irrevocably real.