The nursery monitor hummed softly on the nightstand, the faint rhythm of their three-month-old baby girl's breaths confirming she was finally asleep after a long evening of fussing. Sri and Abhishar exchanged a glance across the dimly lit bedroom, the weight of exhaustion lifting just enough to spark something deeper. It had been months since they'd been intimate—first the late stages of pregnancy, then the chaotic blur of newborn care. Tonight, with the house quiet, the air between them crackled with pent-up need.

Sri stood by the crib in the corner, her body still soft and curved from motherhood, her breasts heavy and full under her simple tank top, a faint damp spot from leaking milk. She wore loose pajama shorts that hugged her widened hips. Abhishar approached from behind, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. His hands splayed over her stomach, feeling the subtle changes time and birth had wrought. 'She's out cold,' he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. 'Finally.'