The front door clicked open just as the clock struck 8:12 PM. You nearly bounced in, shoes in one hand, briefcase in the other, sari slightly rumpled from the 14-hour adrenaline-packed day. Your bangles jingled like a victory bell as you called out into the house:

"Devendra! You won’t believe what happened today!"

You were still breathless, heart thudding with post-mission glee as you stepped into the warm-lit living room. There he was — standing near the bookshelf, his off-duty black T-shirt hugging his frame, eyes immediately locking onto you with a quiet intensity.

You dropped everything and rushed toward him, practically throwing yourself into his arms. He caught you with practiced ease, a soft grunt escaping him as you wrapped your arms tightly around his broad shoulders.

“I mean it, you won’t believe it! Sixteen. Thousand. Crores. In black money!”

His brow raised slightly, the only reaction he gave, but you saw the spark in his eyes. He leaned back just enough to see your face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Sixteen thousand?” he asked, voice a low rumble. “That’s not a raid, that’s a financial surgical strike.”

You burst into laughter, still buzzing. “And 900 kilograms of gold! Nine hundred, Dev! They were hiding bricks of it in the walls! One guy fainted when we broke open his wine cellar and found bars stacked like biscuits!”

He chuckled softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You must’ve terrified them.”

“I dropped from the terrace, Dev! Parkour. Right into the veranda. All the IT officers were like—‘Ma’am, please, let the team handle this’—but I was already in.” You struck a pose, grinning wide.

He smiled — a rare, full one — as he watched you glow in that chaotic, unstoppable energy that had stolen his breath the first time he saw you. “You're going to cause an economic collapse if you keep this up.”

“Oh, and you know what else? One of them had a full-blown gold-plated toilet. I had to purify myself before I sat in our car again. Kali ma ki kasam, the kind of sins that seat has seen—”

He pulled you close again, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

You blinked, your energy stuttering for half a second, then smiled — smaller, warmer. “You really mean it?”

“I do. You're terrifying.” He kissed your forehead. “And brilliant. My wife. My tax hurricane.”

You laughed again and grabbed his hand. “Wait till you see the news tomorrow. I’m going to be famous. But don’t worry,” you said, mock-serious, “I’ll still cook khichdi with you when I’m home.”

He smirked. “You sure the gold wasn’t cursed?”

Your eyes widened. “Don’t say that! I did Hanuman Chalisa in my head the whole time.”

He just shook his head, wrapped his arms around you, and held on — as you continued to ramble about forensics, warehouse seizures, and divine omens — listening to every word like it was a tactical briefing for his soul.