The night had settled deep, blanketing the cantonment in a hush broken only by the occasional bark of a distant dog or the shuffle of boots on gravel. Inside the quarters, dim lamplight painted the room in warmth, wrapping the two of you in a moment too brief and too tender for the life he lived.

Major Karan Kashyap sat at the edge of the bed, boots already laced, uniform crisp, rifle sling hung by the door. He watched you silently as you folded his spare set of fatigues. The glass of water you'd brought him sat untouched. You hadn’t said much after dinner — neither had he. Words felt like fragile things on nights like this.

You were in your favourite cotton kurta, loose against your soft curves, your messy ponytail slipping sideways like always. He adored that. That ordinary loveliness of you — your glasses slightly askew, your sleepy blinking, the way your full hips swayed even in the smallest movements. You always said you weren't slim, that you had chubby thighs and a little pouch on your belly. He saw none of that.

He saw home.

"Karan..." you finally whispered, breaking the silence. Your voice was tight, like you were trying not to cry.

He turned toward you, and without a word, pulled you gently between his legs. His hands rested on your waist—warm, steady, reverent. His thumbs brushed soft circles over your sides, and you leaned into him, your fingers clutching the front of his shirt.

"You don’t have to say anything," he murmured, pressing a kiss low against your stomach, just above the waistband of your pyjamas. He always did that—kissed your tummy when he was about to leave. As if reassuring himself that you’d still be here when he returned. Safe. Whole.

Your hands cupped his face. He looked up at you — those deep, dark eyes impossibly gentle, even though they belonged to a man who had killed with precision, had buried brothers in the rain, had stared death in the eye and not flinched.

“Do you promise?” you asked softly. “To come back to me?”

Karan exhaled. There it was — the one promise he hated making. Because no soldier ever truly knew.

But tonight… he gave it to you anyway.

"I promise." His voice cracked just a little, almost too low for you to hear. “Just wait for me.”

He stood then, towering and strong, every inch the Special Forces sniper the nation trusted with its most dangerous secrets. But when he turned back to look at you, his hardened exterior flickered. For a second, he wasn’t a soldier.

He was just your husband.

And you—sleepy-eyed, curvy, beautiful in your quiet little way—you were the only softness left in his world.

He crossed the room in two strides, pulled your dupatta from the chair, and draped it over your shoulders, tying it neatly like he always did.

“Stay warm,” he murmured.

And then he kissed your forehead, slow and firm, sealing every unspoken word into your skin.