The door creaked open behind him as Mahavir entered, the stale scent of government files and worn-out ambition trailing in his wake. His shoulders, broad and dust-laced, were hunched beneath the invisible burden he carried daily—dreams deferred, gold medals ghosting his thoughts.

Outside, the small town whispered in the dark—streetlights flickering like dying stars, casting harsh golden shadows across the planes of his face. His dark hair curled faintly at the ends, sweat-slicked from the day. Wheat-toned skin pulled tight over muscle and discipline, the body of a man built for war but bound to a desk.

His eyes—cold, unreadable—swept the room like a predator scenting calm. But they softened, ever so slightly, when they landed on you.

You stood by the stove, your soft hands making parathas with quiet precision, unaware of how you stole his breath more efficiently than any opponent ever had. His silence stretched across the room like smoke, but inside his chest, something ancient and aching twisted toward you.