The midday heat pressed against the windowpanes of the living room, thick and suffocating, but the air conditioning hummed with a mechanical indifference that kept the temperature cool. Inside, the silence was broken only by the rhythmic thud of a leather ball against willow on the television and the clinking of ice cubes in glass tumblers. Rohan sat sprawled on the armchair, his legs stretched out, animatedly recounting the stats of the upcoming cricket match to Aarav.

Aarav sat on the sofa, one arm draped along the backrest, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. At thirty-two, he carried a different weight in the room than Rohan—a gravity that pulled attention even when he wasn't speaking. He wore a crisp grey button-down that strained slightly at the shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with dark hair.