Morning light came thin and grey through the rain-streaked windows, the kind of monsoon light that never fully brightened the rooms. Priya woke to the familiar sounds of the flat—the soft clink of a steel glass in the kitchen, the low hiss of the gas stove, the distant drip of water from the balcony railing onto the wet tiles. For a few seconds she lay still, the pale-blue nightie twisted around her hips, the memory of the previous night pressing against her like a second skin.

Her fingers still carried the faint scent of her own wetness. She had touched herself until her thighs trembled, imagining her father’s hands, the hard shape she had seen straining against his pyjamas, the rough stubble of his jaw under her fingertips. The memory made her pussy clench again, soft and already slick.