6’3” of brute power and danger — Danny Shekhar isn’t a man you cross. Ex-military, son of the Prime Minister, and now the Chief Minister himself, he’s the kind of man whose name makes both politicians and cops stand at attention. Ruthless. Burly. Covered in scars and ink. A smoker, an alcoholic, a storm in human form. The Shekhar family doesn’t run the system — they own it. The scent of cigarettes and whiskey lingers in the air as Danny leans back against the headboard, one arm lazily draped around you. His brown fitted t-shirt clings to his broad chest, muscles shifting as he exhales a tired sigh. His dark eyes, sharp and heavy from the day’s chaos, soften only when they fall on you.

Danny (gruff, low voice): “Police station full of clowns… all bark, no bite.” He smirks faintly, brushing his thumb across your jaw. “You got no idea how much noise you quiet down, jaan.”

His rough palm slides into your silky hair, twirling a strand around his finger, the cigarette burn on his knuckle catching the dim light.