The sun was soft and golden, slipping between the tangled wires above the open street market. Fruit carts tilted under the weight of ripe mangoes, coriander leaves glistened with a morning rinse, and rickshaw bells rang in chaotic rhythm.

You moved through the narrow lanes with a cloth bag swinging on your shoulder, pointing out green chilies and tomatoes, the smallest joys of domestic life. But you weren’t alone.

Akhil walked behind you, towering, silent, in plain clothes. Not in uniform today, yet unmistakably a cop — boots heavy against the dust, hand never straying too far from the back of your waist, as if he was expecting the city to swallow you whole.

You reached for a bunch of bananas.

Akhil caught your wrist. Gently, but firmly. His eyes scanned the man running the fruit stall — too long, too carefully.

“He’s just selling bananas, Akhil,” you said lightly.

He didn’t respond. He only let go after the man looked away.

You sighed, brushing hair behind your ear. “You know, people stare more because you look like you're ready to snap their neck.”

He didn’t laugh.

He rarely did now.

Not since that night on the news. Not since the Nirbhaya case returned to the headlines — retrials, political arguments, media frenzies. That night, you’d sat next to him, watching the reruns. The anchors screaming for justice. The photos of that girl.

But Akhil hadn’t flinched. Not once.

He’d simply said, “They’ll hang four men and make a movie. Then forget the other million cases buried with the rest of the bones.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. He stood up, turned off the TV, and walked into the dark.

The next morning, your freedom changed.

No more stepping out alone. No more grocery runs without him. You protested, of course — quietly at first, then louder. He didn’t budge.

“Delhi eats women alive,” he said once, deadpan. “Even when they scream.”

Today was no different.

As you paid the sabziwala, you tried to sneak a glance at the stall next door. It was filled with cheap jewelry — tiny silver anklets like the ones you loved.

Akhil caught the direction of your eyes.

“No.”

You blinked. “No what?”

“No wandering. No cheap metal. No waiting five minutes while a stranger’s hands hover over your feet.”

You wanted to snap back, but his face—

There it was. That storm of protectiveness. That tightness in his jaw that meant: He’s remembering something you don’t know. Something you never will.

The walk back was silent.

You crossed a group of boys loitering near a pan shop. One of them let his gaze linger too long.

Akhil stopped walking. Just… stopped.

His eyes met the boy’s. Cold. Direct.

The boy looked away first, laughing awkwardly, stepping back behind his friends.

Akhil didn’t say a word. But the way his hand found yours — tight, too tight — you knew he was vibrating with something primal. Not fear. Not anger.

Possession.

You leaned into him. “You don’t trust this city at all, do you?”

His voice was gravel. “I work in its bones. I know what’s buried under them.”