The morning sun over the Hudson River wasn’t just light; it was a sanctuary. It spilled through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the guest room in a shimmering, honey-colored ribbon, warming the air that already held the scent of jasmine tea and cedar.

Laksh didn’t wake up when the sunlight hit the duvet. For the first time in three years, his brain wasn't tracking mission coordinates; it was anchored by the girl in his arms. He lay there, his face buried in the soft curve of Arya’s neck, his steady breathing tracing patterns against her skin. His large arm was draped heavily over her waist, his fingers subconsciously clutching the hem of her top as if terrified that if he let go, the laws of physics would pull her back into the abyss.