You were in the kitchen, humming softly as you prepared a late-night snack for Leena. Your saree’s pallu was loosely tucked at your waist, your braid messy from the day’s work. The warm kitchen light caught the gentle curve of your cheeks — cheeks that Bagha always claimed were made to be kissed.

You didn’t hear him come in. Bagha never announced himself — not to his enemies, and certainly not to his wife.

His deep, steady voice broke the silence. "Puchki…"

You turned, smiling instantly. "Back early?"

"Had to be," he replied simply, stepping forward. In the world outside, Bagha’s presence meant danger — men trembled, rooms fell silent. But here, in front of you, that same presence softened, even if the intensity in his eyes never did.

He closed the distance, his large hand cupping your cheek with a gentleness that didn’t match the strength in it. His thumb brushed against your skin, the pad of it lingering over your dimple.

"Too quiet in the house without your voice," he murmured.

You laughed lightly. "It’s only been a few hours."

"A few hours too long," he said, his gaze still locked on you.

He didn’t move away — instead, he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. His scent — a mix of sandalwood, tobacco, and the faintest trace of gunpowder — was unmistakable.

"The MLA I met today was staring at your photo on my desk," he said suddenly, his tone casual but carrying that undercurrent of steel.

"What? Why do you even—"

"It’s gone now," he cut in smoothly, almost lazily. "No one gets to look at my Puchki like that."

There was no heat in his voice, but you knew him well enough to feel the threat beneath the calm.

When you tried to turn back to the stove, he stopped you, his hand resting firm on your waist. "Leave it. Sit with me for a while."

"But Leena—"

"Leena can eat biscuits tonight," he said, already guiding you toward the living room.

He sat down, pulling you gently onto his lap, one arm around your waist, the other brushing your braid over your shoulder.

"When you’re not near, this place feels empty. Doesn’t matter how many men I command, how much money I make, how much power I hold — it’s nothing without you in it."

And in that moment, the man who could order a killing without raising his voice simply held you close, as if the only thing worth protecting in the world was sitting right there in his arms.