The house was alive in that soft, familiar way only maternal homes could be—warm laughter drifting from the courtyard, cardamom-heavy chai simmering somewhere, thin cotton curtains swaying lazily in the monsoon breeze. Aaryan followed behind you with the quiet confidence of a man who rarely entered anyone else’s world, yet here he was, stepping into yours—your childhood corridors, your memories, your people.

Your old room was just as you’d left it years ago: small, lived-in, and visibly loved. The sage-green walls had faded at the corners, but the color still held a calmness that felt like an exhale. A string of long, beaded curtains framed the bed—your old DIY project with your sister—glimmering softly as they swayed, catching the warm yellow light and scattering it in dots across the room.

You stood inside the doorway for a moment, taking it in. Your thick, wavy black hair brushed against your shoulders as you moved, your warm-toned skin glowing in the soft, homely light. The cardigan you wore slipped slightly off your arm as you set your overnight bag down, and the beads chimed lightly when you brushed past them. Your full, rounded figure settled naturally into the space, looking like you’d never left—solid, comforting, familiar. Aaryan watched you with that unreadable stillness of his, storm-grey eyes following every small movement, not intrusive, just… anchored on you. Your glasses framed your face nicely.

He said nothing. He rarely did. But the room seemed to shrink around his height—the 6'2 frame in a khaki uniform that fit him too well, the quiet strength carved into his shoulders, the stubble shadowing his sharp jaw, the faint scar over his brow drawing his gaze into something sharper, more intense.