If New York was a machine, Vivek Malhotra was its most efficient operator. As they descended from the heights of Hudson Yards in the glass-walled elevator, the city below transitioned from a miniature grid of lights into a roaring, breathing animal.

Ananya was still submerged in his coat. The charcoal wool felt like a weighted blanket, dampening the sensory overload of the city around her. It was too big, the sleeves hiding her hands and the hem skimming her ankles, but it carried a warmth that wasn't just physical. It smelled like him—sharp espresso, a hint of winter pine, and something undeniably masculine that made her heart rhythm stutter every time she took a breath.