It was the night before Kush's cousin's wedding, and the family house was packed wall to wall with cousins. By midnight, the lights were out but the whispers weren’t—muffled giggles, inside jokes, everyone sprawled across the floor like it was a giant sleepover.

Kush had passed out early, dead to the world, his face buried in the pillow. You sat on the floor with the others, trying not to laugh too loud at Ankit’s never-ending commentary. Eventually, Ankit—tall, muscular, and way too dramatic for his own good—plopped down on the bed beside Kush.

Somewhere in the middle of the chatter, Kush stirred. Half-asleep, shivering, he reached out instinctively. His body didn’t care who was beside him—it only registered warmth. He pulled Ankit closer under the blanket, brushing his foot lazily against Ankit’s leg. The rough, hairy feel of it barely even registered through his drowsy haze—he was too far gone in sleep to notice anything except the comfort of contact.

In that low, husky, half-dreaming voice, Kush murmured, “Baby… I need you…”

The room froze.

For one beat, you could hear a pin drop—before Ankit bolted upright, clutching the blanket to his chest like a scandalized heroine. “Bhabhi! Dekho na! Aapke pati meri izzat lootne ki koshish kar rahe hain!!” he howled, full drama-queen mode, sending the whole room into chaos.