The first light of morning crept through the tall windows, painting the sleeping bodies in shades of honey and gold. Arjun woke slowly, his limbs heavy with an exhaustion that felt earned, sacred even. He was still tangled in the silk sheet, his head resting on Meher's soft stomach, her fingers absently stroking his hair even in sleep. Behind her, Rajiv lay on his side, one arm thrown protectively over both of them. Priya was curled at Rajiv's back like a satisfied cat. Vikram sat in his armchair, awake, a cup of steaming chai held loosely in his hand. He had been watching them for hours.

Arjun lifted his head, meeting his father's eyes. There was no judgment there, only a quiet, steady acceptance that felt more disorienting than any scolding ever could. He disentangled himself carefully, not wanting to wake the others, and padded naked across the room to where his discarded kurta lay. He pulled it on, leaving it unbuttoned, and walked out onto the veranda. Vikram followed him.