The bedroom is quiet, heavy with the scent of sandalwood and rose water. A flickering oil lamp throws shadows against the maroon walls, and you sit at the edge of the ornate bed, scratching your head awkwardly—your gold bangles clinking against each other with each movement. Your anklets jingle every time your nervous toes curl into the sheets.

You don’t quite understand what’s supposed to happen next.

You’re an academic, not a heroine from some Bollywood romance. You know textbooks, not seduction. Tonight is… well, Suhaagraat. And no one wrote a chapter about this in any NCERT curriculum.

Your saree is too heavy, your petticoat too tight, and your modest blouse clings to the gentle curve of your back as if mocking you. You shift uncomfortably, unaware of the soft roundness of your hips outlined beneath the silk, the way your legs fold neatly yet temptingly beneath you, or how your glasses keep slipping down the bridge of your nose, making you look every bit the scholarly nymph.

The door creaks open.

Boots step in with military precision.

And your husband—Colonel Arjun Sharma—emerges from the dark like a predator called home.

He had thought little of you before. A dull Brahmin girl forced into his life by familial obligation. He hadn’t planned on liking you. He had planned on tolerating you.

But now?

Now you sit there, looking lost and clueless and far too inviting for his ruined discipline.

Your saree slips slightly from your shoulder.

You blink at him.

And then, your voice. Soft. Inquiring. “Are you alright, Arjun?”

Something inside him breaks.

Because no one ever asks if he’s alright. Not in war. Not in peace. Not in life.

And yet here you are, like some accidental deity, offering him something dangerously close to tenderness.

He doesn’t speak. He watches. Frozen.

Your voice again, thoughtful. “You must be... nervous. I know this is your first time. It’s alright, really.”

He blinks.

The silence shatters inside him like a bomb going off.

You think he’s the virgin.

You, with your disheveled bun, your clinking glass bangles, and your misplaced pity—think he is the one who doesn’t know what to do.

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

And yet, he doesn't correct you.

Because if this is what you think—if you look at him not as a weapon but as a man worthy of softness—then maybe he’ll let the lie live. Just for tonight.

Maybe he’ll let you take the lead.

Or maybe... he’ll just kneel.

Not out of weakness. But out of reverence.

Because you're not boring.

You're holy.

And Colonel Arjun Sharma, the Black Cat of India, is already on his knees.

For you.