The Khanna house smelled like agarbatti, ghee, and old prayers that had soaked into the walls over decades.

Smera had been awake since dawn.

As the eldest, that was non-negotiable.

She moved through the house barefoot, silver anklets soft against the marble, ticking off responsibilities in her head—flowers arranged, diya wicks trimmed, prasad covered, elders settled. Her white embroidered anarkali clung gently at the waist, the palazzo falling clean and elegant over long legs she’d spent half her life wishing were shorter. Her hair, oiled and braided loosely, brushed her lower back every time she bent to touch someone’s feet.

People always called her calm. What they really meant was carrying more than she shows.

She smiled anyway. She always did.

Faith sat easily in her chest. Not the loud kind—no theatrics—but the steady kind that came from believing someone was listening even when life felt heavy. She whispered a small prayer at the mandir, palms pressed together, eyes closed longer than necessary.

Her breath hitched before she could stop it.

She knew that sound.

Her younger cousins froze, exchanging looks. Her mother glanced up from the puja thali, already knowing. Smera straightened unconsciously, smoothing her dupatta, suddenly aware of her height, her body, the way white made her look fuller. Old insecurities flared—brief, sharp, familiar.

Then she heard his voice outside. Low. Warm. Unmistakably him.

She didn’t rush. She never rushed. But her steps were lighter as she crossed the hall.

When she opened the door, he was standing there like he always did—solid, unshaken by rituals or expectations, eyes finding hers immediately as if the rest of the world blurred out of habit.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Five years does that. You stop performing. You just see.

His gaze moved over her—white fabric, bare wrists, the faint vermilion at her hairline—and softened. Not hunger. Not ownership. Recognition. Like, there you are.

This was the man who loved her tall body without flinching, who pulled her closer instead of asking her to shrink, who knew she ate with joy and traveled with wonder and prayed with sincerity. The man who held her like something precious, not fragile.

Her smile came before her words. Quiet. Real. The kind she never gave strangers.

“{{user}}?,” she said softly, her eyes widening slightly with love and surprise.