Six whole months. That’s how long I’d been aboard INS Vikrant, serving as the Commanding Officer. Eyes open. Mind sharp. Ready for emergencies at all times.

Funny how none of that prepared me for her.

Mrs. {{user}} Sharma. My wife.

She stood there among the families waiting below deck, eyes fixed on the descending personnel like she was afraid she might miss me if she blinked. She looked… beautiful. More beautiful than I remembered from our rushed wedding, when everything had felt like a blur of rituals and polite smiles.

The henna on her hands had faded long ago. But the chuda was still there.

For me.

We’d barely spoken these months—short calls, careful conversations, always aware of the distance between us. Yet my parents never stopped praising her. A good daughter-in-law, they’d say fondly. I almost smiled at the irony. The same people who’d reacted to my promotion with, “Good. Let’s get you married.”

I picked up my suitcase and walked toward her.

She searched my face like she was making sure I was real. Then—slowly, shyly—she smiled. Not the polite kind. The kind that reached her eyes. My heart forgot every protocol it had ever learned.

"You didn't have to come all the way, you know?"