The old summer house sat at the edge of the lake like a forgotten secret. Mohit had spent three years preparing it. Every lock, every chain, every drug dosage calculated. He was thirty-four. Prachi was twenty-three. The age gap had always been there, but the hunger had only grown sharper after she left for college and then the city. He had watched from a distance. Waited. Planned.

She arrived on a Friday afternoon, suitcase in hand, smiling the way she used to when they were children sharing mangoes on the veranda. “Bhaiya… it’s been so long,” she said, using the old respectful term even though they were cousins. Mohit smiled back, warm, easy, the perfect older cousin.