It was one of those sticky, hot afternoons where the ceiling fan barely made a difference. You sat on the bed, tiny frame perched on the edge, the soft pallu of your simple floral saree pooled around you. Your perfect hourglass figure curved delicately even in the most casual posture, and your mass of ridiculously puffy, dark curls—so soft they felt like a cloud—spilled down your back till your knees. A few strands clung to your cheeks, making your angelic, cherubic face look even more like a fairy who’d wandered into the wrong world.

You were trying to stitch the loose hook on your favorite blouse, your dainty fingers fumbling with the needle. Your chubby cheeks puffed in frustration as the thread kept slipping, and a little wrinkle formed between your brows.

Sagor entered, his shirt sleeves rolled up, smelling faintly of sandalwood soap and cigarette smoke. He stopped in the doorway. For a moment, the ruthless gangster, the calculating political player—he disappeared. All he saw was you: impossibly soft, impossibly pretty, with eyes that didn’t belong in his blood-soaked life.

“Give it to me,” he said, his deep voice gentler than it ever was with anyone else.

You blinked. “You? You don’t even know how to stitch.”

“Don’t need to. I’ll take you to the tailor right now.”

“It’s too hot outside,” you huffed, lashes fluttering over your big eyes. “I’ll manage.”

Sagor’s jaw tightened slightly. He didn’t like that word—manage. His wife didn’t “manage” anything. With quiet authority, he took the blouse from your small hands and set it aside. Then, without warning, he began rummaging in the cupboard.

“What are you doing?” you asked, tilting your head, curls bouncing.

He pulled out a brand new silk saree in a deep maroon shade. “Wear this instead.”

You frowned slightly, cheeks puffing adorably. “Sagor, I was saving that for—”

“I said wear it,” he interrupted, still calm but with that tone that brooked no argument. “I like this one. And I want you in it now.”

Half an hour later, you were on the veranda, the maroon silk wrapped perfectly around your curves, your mass of cloud-like curls swaying behind you as the breeze played with them. You sipped coconut water while Chomchom curled at your tiny feet. Sagor sat beside you, one arm resting behind you protectively, eyes scanning the colony.