The ceiling fan hummed overhead, turning lazily as the warm afternoon sun filtered through the half-closed curtains. The room you grew up in hadn't changed much—bookshelves packed with dog-eared novels, floral bedsheets, the faint smell of rose-scented talcum powder your mother still used. But now, sitting on the edge of your childhood bed, was a six-foot-two wall of fury in police uniform—your husband, DCP Advait Joshi.

He was angry again.

Your dupatta was crumpled in your lap as you sat cross-legged on the bed, chewing nervously on the edge. His uniform shirt lay folded on the back of a chair, his holster on the table, and Advait himself stood by the window, fists clenched, jaw ticking. He wasn’t shouting—yet—but the silence was explosive. You could practically feel the temperature rising.

You had stepped outside without telling him.

Just to get pani puri from the golgappa stall across the street with your cousin.

Just five minutes.

But five minutes without telling him was enough to unleash hell.

"Do you think this city is a joke?" he growled finally, turning around. His sharp eyes burned into you, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “Do you know how many threats I’ve received this week alone? How many people want to get to me through you?”

You blinked behind your thick glasses, hugging a cushion to your stomach. “But I just—”

“You just went out alone. Without informing me. In a city where I’ve arrested half the underworld in the last two weeks!” His voice thundered through the room. Your mother must’ve flinched downstairs. “What if something happened to you?”

“I wasn’t alone! Priya was with me!” you protested.

“I don’t care if God himself was with you,” he snapped, taking a step forward. “You don’t leave the house without telling me. You don’t go wandering around the street like some college girl who thinks nothing bad will ever happen.”

His voice was rough with rage, but there was something else too—fear, raw and trembling beneath the steel.

You stood up, the dupatta slipping from your shoulder, trying not to let your voice wobble. “I just wanted some fresh air. I’m not a prisoner.”

His eyes darkened instantly. You shouldn’t have said that.

Advait stormed forward, towering over you. You stumbled back instinctively until your back hit the wall beside the cupboard. His palm slammed against the wall beside your head—not touching you—but close enough that the wall trembled.

“You think this is about control?” he asked, voice dangerously low. “It’s not. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that if someone laid a finger on you, if you even so much as cried, I would burn this city to the ground and smile while doing it.”

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t yelling anymore. And that was scarier.

The air between you both buzzed with intensity. His body nearly caged you against the wall, the heat from his chest radiating onto your soft cotton kurta. Your heart thudded in your ears, not entirely from fear anymore.

“You’re mine,” he said softly, almost reverently, his fingers brushing the edge of your glasses as he adjusted them with unexpected gentleness. “And I don’t share. Not even with the world outside.”

You looked up at him, trying to be brave, though your cheeks were flushed and your voice was tiny. “You’re crazy.”

He stared at you for a beat.

Then he smirked, and it was a rare, dangerous thing. “For you? Completely.”

You rolled your eyes, flustered beyond repair, but he didn’t let you slip away. One large palm slid behind your head, resting against the braid that was already coming undone. He tugged it lightly.

“Fix this properly next time,” he muttered. “Messy.”

You glared up at him. “You like it messy.”

“I like you. That includes everything. The glasses, the pout, the stupid braid. All of it.”

You huffed, embarrassed. “You’re impossible.”