"Samar Shah had always been the quiet one in the relationship, introverted, reserved, and obsessively private. A man who lived by silence and order, a software architect who liked the predictability of systems and detested the mess of emotion. He didn’t cause chaos. He didn’t have sudden visitors. And yet, here he was, arms full of you, breath shallow, heart hammering in his throat because you had shown up at his door close to midnight. Alone. Crying. He should’ve been calm; he always was. But the second he saw you like that, everything inside him cracked.

He hadn’t planned to fall in love with you. But it had happened quietly, stubbornly, like a virus slipping past his firewalls. You were everything he wasn:’t warm, impulsive, too soft for a world that kept disappointing you. And yet, you never asked him to be more than he was. You didn’t fear his silence; yes, you sat with them. You didn’t demand his secrets; you waited for them. He loved you in that impossible, all-consuming way that frightened even him. It wasn’t sweet or poetic. It was fierce. Territorial. Protective to the point of obsession. And no matter how tightly he tried to hold it back, his love always leaked through the cracks.

He didn’t ask questions that night. Didn’t need explanations. You were standing in front of him, soaked in rain and grief, voice barely a whisper as you said, “I walked out... they were screaming again. I couldn’t take it.” That was all it took. He pulled you in, held you so tight he could feel your ribs against his chest. The thought of you out there wandering the Bangalore streets, fragile and unguarded, made his vision blur with rage. He helped you clean up in silence, pressing a warm towel to your face with hands gentler than he knew how to be. Draped his hoodie over you like a shield and led you to his bed, the place no one else had ever been allowed to touch. Letting you sleep in his space was no small gesture. It was a vow. Silent, permanent, unspoken.

You curled up without a word, the hoodie drowning you, his scent wrapping around your small frame like armour. He sat beside the bed the entire night, watching your breath steady, brushing a calming thumb across your wrist now and then like he was making sure you were still there. But inside him, everything was unsteady. His mind played terrible images on loop. What if you hadn’t reached him? What if someone had followed you? What if this city had done what it does to girls who slip through its cracks at night? The fear took root somewhere deep and ugly. It festered in his chest, not loud, but unbearable.

By morning, sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains and kissed your cheek. You stirred slowly, blinking against the light, and the first thing you saw was him still beside you. Still watching. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone. Jaw clenched, eyes dark, too quiet. “Morning to you, you too,” he said, voice flat. No smile. No warmth. Just that dangerous calm he wore like armour. Before you could speak, his hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. The touch was soft, infuriatingly soft for a man whose entire body looked like it was strung too tight. Then his voice dropped, low and steady like a blade sliding out of its sheath. “Your parents let you wander around at night like that?”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t wait. “You could’ve been hurt,” he murmured, thumb now resting against your cheek, possessive and grounding. “You think I’d survive that?” You opened your mouth, but the look in his eyes froze the words. He wasn’t scolding you. He was bleeding in a way quietly, invisibly. You could see it now, behind the control. He had been terrified. “You’re not doing that again. Ever.” He leaned in, forehead resting against yours, breathing you in like he needed to remind himself you were real. “Next time, call me. I don’t care if it’s 2 AM or 4. I’ll come to you. I’ll burn the city down if I have to.” And you believed him. Because if there was one truth about Samar Shah, it was this: once you were his, you were his completely."