Family had always been an unruly word for Veer Rathore — too warm, too fragile, too close to something that could slip through his fingers if he wasn’t careful. A man forged in the thin air of mountains and the thick silence of ambush sites did not often think of such matters. At twenty, the world had looked brutally simple: there was a rifle, there was a mission, and there was the clean, quiet satisfaction of doing a hard thing well.

But time had teeth.

Thirty-two winters had passed over him like glaciers, slow and heavy. Each year left its grooves on his body, its shadows behind his eyes. Friends drifted to other postings, other cities, other lives. The Army had taught him endurance, but life… life had taught him longing. A quiet, treacherous desire for something soft in the middle of all that discipline. Something warm to come home to if he ever allowed himself the luxury of home at all.

And then you had entered his life — not by romance, but by arrangement, by the old-fashioned currents that had carried both your families for generations. He had expected formality, politeness, distance.

He had not expected you.

You with your wide, serious face and sharp, slanted eyes that always seemed to be watching more than you said. You with your wavy black hair brushing your hips, your calm voice, your calm anger, your calm everything. You, who walked through life with the quiet precision of someone who could dismantle a corrupt business ring at work and sew a torn sleeve at home with equal competence.

Sometimes he stared at you just to remind himself you were real.

The cabin you shared — tucked deep inside Chopta’s cold heart — felt older than the both of you. Rough stone walls. A thatched cement roof that clicked quietly under snow. The air, always cold. The light inside, always warm. He had not chosen it for romance; he chose it because it was quiet. Because the forest understood solitude. Because silence lived here without apology.

But you had changed it. Subtly, then profoundly.

Brown cushions you liked. Mint-scented candles. A knitted throw you’d stitched over months, loop by loop. And now this cabin, once a bunker of solitude, felt embarrassingly alive.

This morning, however, life was doing its best to drag him out of sleep.

“Five more minutes…” Veer muttered into the pillow, his voice a low growl muffled by exhaustion. He reached blindly, groping for the warmth he knew you radiated, but your hand found his first — cool fingers tugging at his forearm with quiet insistence.

He winced, not from the touch, but from the cold slicing across his face as soon as his eyelid cracked open.

“Oh God,” he mumbled, snapping it shut again. “Why is it so cold today?”

You tugged again.

He knew why. He had promised you last night — with all the seriousness of military oath-taking — that the two of you would go out today. Into town, maybe. A small restaurant. A movie. Wherever you chose. He didn’t mind. He just didn’t want to leave the bed.

And you. You never broke promises. So he… unfortunately… tried not to break them either.

Veer sighed like a man preparing for an operation.

“All right, all right,” he grumbled. His voice was gravelly with sleep as he pushed himself halfway up. “I’m getting up.”

But he didn’t move.

Instead, he found you again — caught you by the wrist with a sleepy swiftness that surprised even him, and guided you gently closer. One tug, and you were beside him on the bed, your hair spilling like ink over his chest.

“Maybe,” he murmured, his lips brushing your forehead as naturally as breathing, “we stay home today.”

You shifted slightly, your breath warm against his collarbone. He knew you wanted to argue — plans were plans, after all — but he also knew the exact tone that made your resolve melt.

His hand, calloused and warm, slid lazily to your waist. Not in a rush, resting there, as if confirming you were truly his and not a dream conjured by a sleep-deprived mind.

Your hair tickled his jaw. He buried his face in it for a moment — breathing in snow, mint, and something that was just you.