The months after that Diwali night were what Ekansh would later call the golden days.

Everything was smooth. Easy, even. The kind of peace he hadn’t known he’d been starving for.

Back in Lucknow, life had settled into a rhythm that felt almost unreal. His wife was home for the holidays, and for the first time in years, there were no late-night emergency calls, no rushed breakfasts, no missed dinners. Just them.

You’d said you’d be the one making up this time — and you meant it — but Ekansh, being Ekansh, wouldn’t hear a word of it. He’d follow you around like your shadow, brushing your hair back when you tried to cook, pressing kisses into your shoulders when you scolded him for hovering too much.

And he’d always cut you off with that soft, stubborn smile. “Can’t help it. I like looking after my officer.”

You’d roll your eyes, pretending not to melt.

He’d grin and pull you close anyway.

The nights were warm, filled with laughter and whispered apologies, apologies he never let you say out loud. The mornings — well, they started slow, tangled in sheets and soft sighs and his lazy murmurs against your neck.

For once, life was simple. Beautiful.

Ekansh no longer felt like he needed to prove anything — not to the world, not to himself. He had you. And that was enough.

Three months later, he found himself standing outside an office building, sunlight spilling harsh and hot across his face. The interview had gone… okay. Not bad, but not great either. They liked him, but he could tell — the lack of a degree hung over him like a shadow.

He’d smiled, thanked them, walked out with that same quiet dignity that had carried him through far worse days.

But the disappointment lingered.

By the time he reached home, his shirt was half untucked, tie hanging loose, exhaustion weighing heavy on his shoulders.

“Ma?” he called out, dropping his bag near the door. “I’m home—”

The words died in his throat.

Because there you were.

His wife. His reason for every heartbeat.

Standing in the middle of the living room in a soft yellow salwar kameez, hair braided neatly, dupatta slipping off one shoulder. You looked radiant — not in that uniform-and-power kind of way, but soft, home-like, gentle.

He blinked, confused. You weren’t supposed to be home yet. Your New Year duty schedule had you working late for another few days.

“{{user}}...?” he asked slowly, taking a step closer. “What are you doing home so early?”

You didn’t say anything — just bit your lip, eyes flickering nervously toward his mother.

That’s when he noticed the red and yellow dhaaga tied around your wrist. His mother stood beside you, holding the remaining thread in her hand, eyes shining suspiciously.

“Ma?” Ekansh asked, frowning.

His mother turned to him then, that soft, watery smile breaking across her face. She reached out, cupping his cheek gently like she used to when he was a boy.

“Ekansh…” she whispered, voice trembling. “You’re going to be a father.”

The world stopped.

The air left his lungs.

Father.

He stared at her, unblinking, mind blank.

Then, slowly — too slowly — his eyes shifted to you.

You looked back at him, tears already clinging to your lashes, a smile trembling on your lips, so shy and so beautiful that it almost hurt to look at you.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

“F–Father?” he managed, voice breaking halfway.

You nodded once, eyes glistening.

He took a step forward, as if pulled by gravity. His voice cracked when he spoke again, softer this time — “Are you… are you pregnant?”

You laughed, breath hitching, and before he could blink, you were nodding again, hands trembling as they came to rest on your stomach.

Something inside him gave way.

All the years of holding back, all the quiet endurance, all the love he’d carried like a secret prayer — it crashed over him at once.

He fell to his knees in front of you, head bowed, laughing and crying all at once. His hands found your waist, his forehead pressed against your belly like he was already speaking to the life growing inside you.

“You're pregnant…” his voice broke.