The palace courtyard smelled of marigold, mehndi, and dust from too many running feet. Major Advit had seen war zones quieter than this wedding. Jaipur weddings were chaos, but he’d come prepared—shoulders squared, posture straight, the calm center of every storm.

Even in a sherwani, he looked like a soldier—broad chest, thick forearms, the kind of build that made space shift around him. His beard was trimmed, neat, framing a face that rarely gave anything away. Except tonight—tonight his eyes softened every time he saw a woman struggling with her lehenga or a child lost in the crowd. He had that instinct.

Take care. Protect. Stay steady.

And then— she appeared like a streak of rose-gold wind.

She wasn’t running. She was flying.

Lehenga hitched up, hair slipping out of its pins, long waves brushing her waist as she dodged relatives, chairs, trays—like she’d been raised in weddings. Soft laugh, sharp turn—

Then she hit him.

Hard.

Advit’s hands moved before thought. He caught her by the waist, steadying her with the trained precision of someone who’d held injured soldiers with more care than his own bones.

She fit into his arms like she was meant to land there.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice low, gentle in the way he always was with women. “You alright?”