The morning light that filtered through the half-closed shutters was the color of weak tea. Priya woke to the familiar weight of Rajesh’s arm across her waist and the deeper, unfamiliar ache that lived between her legs like a second pulse. Every small shift of her hips reminded her of the night at the guest house—the cumulative stretch of too many cocks, the residual slickness that no amount of hot water had fully erased, the faint bruises that bloomed dark against the soft inner curves of her thighs and the heavy undersides of her breasts. Her nipples felt swollen, overly sensitive; the thin cotton of her nightgown dragged across them with each breath and drew a fresh, unwanted bead of milk that soaked into the fabric in two small dark circles.

Rajesh stirred, pressed a distracted kiss to her shoulder, and rose to prepare for another long day at the bank. He did not notice the marks. He never did. She listened to the shower run, the clink of his coffee cup, the soft closing of the front door. Only when the apartment settled into silence did she throw back the sheet and look at herself in the full-length mirror.