The living room was an adorable battlefield.

Toy cars were scattered like landmines across the carpet, sketch pens had somehow made their way into a flower vase, and Ivaan’s sketchbook—ripped at the corners—was now worn as a “helmet” on Rudra’s head. Aadhya, still fresh from her shower, her damp hair tumbling down her shoulders, was chasing after two barefoot tornadoes who had just stolen her dupatta and declared it a superhero cape.