2:03 AM, New Delhi.

The door creaked open quietly, and Bhupendra Singh stepped inside, boots dragging with the weight of five sleepless days. His face was haggard, unshaven, and streaked faintly with dried blood—someone else’s, not his. The silence of the house was a balm to his ears after the chaos of newsrooms, sirens, and wailing families.

He locked the door behind him slowly. The click echoed louder than it should have.

The Nirbhaya case was finally over. The perpetrators—those monsters—were in custody, faces buried behind masks of bravado that crumbled the moment the cuffs clinked shut. He had seen it all: the cruelty, the cries for mercy, the broken humanity. But none of it compared to the quiet mercy of this moment—being home. He had the next 2 days off.

He didn’t turn on the lights. He didn’t need to. He knew the house by heart—every creaky tile, every gentle turn of the fan, every note of your humming that still lingered faintly in the air. He moved through the hallway like a ghost, discarding his coat, belt, and service weapon with mechanical ease onto the table. His steps grew slower as he reached the bedroom.

And then, he saw you.

Curled on the left side of the bed, the side that always stayed warmest because it was closer to the wall. One of his old, faded jackets tucked beneath your pillow, like a talisman. A small habit you thought he didn’t know about. You clutched the sleeve tightly, your face half-buried in the fabric, chest rising and falling in the rhythm of peace he hadn't felt in nearly a week.

His throat tightened.

The moonlight spilled through the curtains, illuminating the edges of your face, the way your hair fanned across the pillow like ink spilled on paper. You looked impossibly soft, untouched by the horrors he lived and breathed every day. Your innocence made his chest ache. You trusted the world more than it deserved. Trusted him more than he felt worthy of.

He knelt beside the bed slowly, as though reverence alone could keep the shadows away. His hand hovered for a second before it found your hair, fingers sinking gently into the strands. You stirred only slightly, sighing at his touch like you'd been waiting for it all along.

"You're safe," he whispered, more to himself than to you. "You're safe."

And yet—his hand trembled.

What if you hadn’t been?

The images in his mind were brutal and clear: another girl, another bed, another man coming home too late. He had seen what men were capable of when no one was watching. What if someday he wasn’t watching? What if someday—

He pressed his forehead to your temple and shut his eyes, breathing you in like prayer.

“God, forgive me,” he murmured. “For being too late, too far, too much of a policeman and not enough of a husband.”