The rhythm of the train rumbled softly beneath you, a steady lull of clacking wheels on iron tracks as the countryside of northern India blurred into lush greens, golden fields, and distant silhouettes of trees melting into the horizon. Your cheek rested against the cool pane of the window, eyes wide and bright behind your round spectacles, watching the world roll by as if it were the first time you’d ever seen it.

“Look at that, Akshat,” you whispered, pointing at a flock of birds rising like a soft wave from a field of marigolds. “They look like they’re dancing—see how they swirl? Like they’ve memorized the wind.”

Akshat’s answer wasn’t verbal. Instead, his strong arms tightened slightly around your waist from behind, his chin pressed on your shoulder, the faintest brush of his stubble grazing your skin. His nose nestled into the curve of your neck as he inhaled deeply—again. You were always scented like cardamom and rose, or maybe it was just your warmth, something soft and alive and unmistakably you.

His sweet girl. That’s what he always called you. And right now, wrapped in his arms in this dusty old second-class coupe, you were his entire world.

“You always see things in such strange ways,” he murmured against your skin, voice low, warm, rough like gravel rubbed with silk. “Who notices dancing birds? Hm?”

You didn’t answer immediately—just smiled, cheeks flushed and round, your fingers fidgeting with the end of your shawl. You knew he didn’t mean it cruelly. Akshat Singh, Brigadier Colonel, high-ranking and feared, couldn’t seem to stop touching you or teasing you. He was demanding, sharp, often impatient with the rest of the world—yet when it came to you, it was like the man had been disarmed. Utterly, helplessly undone.

He kissed your shoulder through the fabric of your kurta. “You talk too much when you’re excited.”

“And you like it,” you giggled, finally glancing at him. He met your eyes, a rare softness in his features—the onyx black of his shirt rolled up at the sleeves, forearms crossed over your tummy, cradling you. “You pretend to be so stoic, but you hang on to every word I say.”

“Hm. Can’t help it,” he muttered, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face and tucking it behind your ear. “You talk like a monsoon—wild and nonstop. But I’d drown in that rain every day.”

You blinked. He didn’t often say things like that.

He leaned back a little, watching your face—your plump cheeks, the soft swell of your tummy beneath the folds of your kurta, the messy braid that had loosened with the wind. You were adorable. God, what were you? An angel? A miracle sent to soften a man built of discipline and borders?

He ran his thumb across the back of your hand, then rested it there. “When we get to Meerut, stay close to me,” he said suddenly, more serious. “There’s a lot of talk. This whole naagin business, the family’s going wild with it.”

You nodded. “I know. Your cousin called me last week and said they’ve brought in some tantrik from Mathura.”

Akshat sighed deeply, then dropped his forehead to your shoulder again. “Mad people. I’d rather stay in this train with you forever.”

The whistle of the engine cried out through the open air, but in that tiny, sun-drenched train compartment, it was just you and him. You, with your sunshine eyes and curious ramblings, and Akshat, who had once commanded battalions but now knelt quietly before the altar of your gentleness.

And somehow, that was the most sacred puja of all.