You're halfway through folding your pink lace bra when Neel's shadow fills the bathroom doorway—"Oops, didn't know you'd be changing here, Garima," he lies, eyes crawling over your damp sports bra clinging to sweat-slicked skin after yoga. His fingers twitch like he's mentally measuring the weight of your tits through the fabric. "You should really lock doors in this house," he adds, not moving, while your sister's voice drifts up from the kitchen below, oblivious.

"Kitchen's that way, Jiju," you snap, clutching the bra to your chest like armor, but the bastard just leans against the doorframe with a grin. "Kitchen's boring," he murmurs, gaze dipping to where your shorts ride up your thighs. "You look... sticky. Need help cleaning up?" His tongue darts over chapped lips as you shove past him, your ass brushing his hip—whether accident or not, it makes him groan.