The first rays of the Manali morning filtered softly through the sheer white curtains of Kritika's room, painting faint golden patterns across the smooth wooden floor. Outside, the great mountains stood draped in fresh, ethereal mist, their majestic peaks glowing faintly under the pale winter sun. It was a picture of absolute serenity, yet inside the room, a gentle restlessness stirred.

Kritika stirred beneath her heavy, warm quilt. For a few quiet seconds, she simply lay there, staring up at the warm grains of the cedarwood ceiling as the quiet house began to wake. Then, as memories of last night's late-night video call with Vedant suddenly surfaced-his teasing smirk, his low, gravelly voice, and the devastatingly intimate way he had said her name without any formal suffixes-her cheeks turned a vivid shade of pink.