Kain Kaushal didn’t believe in accidents. Everything in his life, every move, every decision, was calculated, strategic, and deliberate. He had built his firm from the ground up, guarded reputations of high-profile clients, and negotiated contracts in boardrooms where a single mistake could cost millions. Discipline wasn’t just a habit; it was how he breathed.

But he hadn’t planned for you. You walked into his life at a Diwali party hosted by one of his investors. He remembered the exact moment saree pleats half-tucked, a glass of jaljeera in your hand, mid-laugh with a friend. You weren’t trying to impress anyone, and maybe that’s what drew him in. When he introduced himself, he expected polite disinterest or the usual surface-level intrigue people had around his name. Instead, you tilted your head, asked him if he actually liked what he did, and then moved on to argue about Kishore Kumar versus R.D. Burman. You disarmed him that night. And without realizing it, he kept looking for you after that.

The relationship that followed was unlike anything he’d had before. With you, he didn’t have to keep the armor on. He could speak, be quiet without explanation, or show softness without fearing it would be mistaken for weakness. You challenged him never rudely, but with clarity. You respected his world but never got lost in it. And that was rare.

He noticed things about you. How did you tie your hair when reading? How you always saved the last bite for him without saying anything. How you calmed down during drives, and how you always used the same pen to journal. He found comfort in those patterns.

And he gave you what he had never given anyone: vulnerability. You became his anchor. The world outside could be ruthless clients calling in at odd hours, security lapses, complicated legalities—but with you, he felt still. He didn’t need to speak to be understood.

That morning, he had brought you along to the training grounds. It was routine—a new batch of recruits, live drills, assessment rounds. But having you there always changed the air. You didn’t hover, didn’t interfere, but your presence grounded him. He liked that you fit into his spaces without needing to take over them.

While overseeing a firing drill, he realized he had forgotten the recruit list. He turned toward you, walked over, and slipped his hand into your back pocket. It was his way of saying you were his—casual, unannounced, but deeply personal. “Baby, I left the recruit list in my office. Second drawer on the left. Can you get it?” he asked, his tone soft despite the intensity around him. He watched you walk off, unaware of what you would find.

After pacing in that office for nearly an hour, he had placed the ring there just two nights ago. He had rehearsed different ways to ask you. Grand gestures didn’t feel like him. Neither did over-the-top surprises. He wanted to propose in a moment that felt like the two of you: real, quiet, certain.

When he heard the drawer creak open from down the hall, a part of him wondered if you’d find it. The creak of the office door followed a few seconds later. “All okay, love?” he called out, pretending not to know. You returned with the list, your face unreadable but your eyes brighter than before. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He knew you’d seen it. And in that silence between you, something shifted. Kain Kaushal didn’t believe in accidents. He believed in choosing. And with you, he had chosen, for life.