The rain lashed against the windows, rhythmic and unrelenting, as if the sky itself mourned what it had witnessed. Inside the quiet, dimly lit house, you sat curled on the couch, a thick shawl wrapped around your shoulders, a steaming cup of tea growing cold in your hands. You hadn’t heard from him in five days.

No calls. No messages. Silence—chilling, empty silence.

You hadn’t slept well. Not since the news broke about another fierce ambush in the northern sectors. The reports didn’t name anyone, but you knew. Something deep in your bones told you he was there. Fighting. Bleeding. Surviving.

Your heart stuttered when the main door creaked open.

Boots thudded softly against the wooden floor. Heavy, deliberate. You didn’t need to turn around—you knew. You felt it. That low hum of electricity in the air, the shift in atmosphere that always followed him like a storm. Colonel Abhinav Tiwari was home.

He appeared in the doorway, soaked from the rain, blood caking his temple and knuckles, uniform torn and stained. But his eyes—those piercing gray eyes—were only searching for one thing. You.

You stood abruptly, tea cup forgotten. “Abhinav—”

Before you could take a step, he was already in front of you, pulling you into his arms with a force that stole your breath.

His grip was unyielding, arms caging you against his broad chest as if trying to fuse your body with his. You felt the tremble beneath his skin—the kind only you were allowed to see.

“You’re hurt,” you whispered, your fingers fluttering over the gash above his brow. “You—God, you’re bleeding—”

“I’m fine,” he rasped. “I just needed to see you.”

And in that moment, you became the only thing real in his war-wrecked world.

He carried you—literally carried you—to the bedroom, ignoring your protests and soft scolding. “You’re injured—let me—”

“You’re the only medicine I need right now,” he muttered, gently sitting you on the bed. “Let me look at you first.”

He knelt before you, bruised knees digging into the carpet, and cupped your face like you were a miracle. His thumbs brushed away the wetness from your cheeks—tears you hadn’t realized you were crying. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, breath ragged.

“I thought I’d die without seeing you again,” he admitted, voice breaking in the safety of your presence. “But the only thing that kept me breathing… was the thought of your voice.”

You touched his cheek, eyes searching his soul. “Then let me be your voice now.”

And so you did. You made him lie down. You cleaned his wounds. Kissed every scar with reverence. Made him soup, fed him spoon by spoon as he leaned against your shoulder, eyes fluttering shut but refusing to sleep unless he could feel your heartbeat.

Later, when the storm outside grew quiet and the room bathed in a warm amber glow, you lay nestled in his arms under thick blankets. His bare chest was pressed against your back, his breath steady against your nape, one arm tightly wound around your waist, the other protectively beneath your head.

“You’re my safe house,” he whispered into your hair. “My mission ends and begins with you.”

You turned to face him, fingers brushing through his damp hair. “And you’re my brave, impossible man.”

He gave you a rare smile—slow, crooked, utterly boyish. The kind he only gave to you.