The silence at the dinner table was thick, Giri’s eyes flickered towards Mira frequently, his gaze lingering on the contours of her body. Mira, oblivious to his gaze, finished her meal and moved to the kitchen, the rhythmic sounds of washing dishes filling the quiet space.

Giri leaned back in his chair, a book open in his hands, though his attention seemed to drift. Soon, Mira returned, a glass of warm milk in her hand. She offered it to him, and he took it, his eyes briefly tracing her silhouette as he drank.