Ishaan drifted in a haze of half-sleep and soreness, face turned toward the dim window. His head pulsed with a faint hangover. Not sharp, but sticky and slow, the ghost of too many whiskies still clinging behind his eyes.

The mountains outside were dusted pink; light seeped through the curtains and striped the room in pastel bars. A slow exhale gusted across the back of his neck, warm, steady, familiar. Vikram's arm lay slung heavy over his waist.