The fragrance of marigolds and lilies hung thick in Delhi's humid air, wrapping the Khanna residence in a cloying sweetness. Outside, a chorus of car horns and scooter engines provided the city's usual soundtrack. Inside the sprawling bungalow, a different kind of noise reigned: the clink of silver platters, the swish of silk sarees, and the overlapping chatter of a hundred relatives.
Aarohi stood near the far wall, posture unconsciously straight, hands clasped loosely behind her back—a relaxed version of the parade-ground 'at-ease' stance. Even in a pastel saree, she looked as if she could step onto a tarmac without missing a beat. Her eyes moved in quick, practiced sweeps—guests arriving, trays passing, the priest adjusting his shawl. It was a habit, scanning her environment, one she'd never quite shaken.
Her gaze softened when it found her daughter. Harshi, in a pastel green lehenga, glowed brighter than the marigolds. She laughed at something Vidyuth had said, her fiancé's earnest, slightly overwhelmed expression betraying how completely he adored her.
"Aarohi! You're just standing there like a statue!" boomed a familiar voice. Sakshi, her sister-in-law, swept in like a monsoon in fuchsia silk, bangles chiming like warning bells. "Come, come! The priest is almost here. The ladoos are ready? The rings?"
"Everything's in place," Aarohi replied evenly, her voice clipped but calm. "Stand down, Sakshi. It's Harshi's day."
"Stand down?" Sakshi laughed. "You and your military-speak..."
"Air Force," Aarohi corrected automatically, a small smile tugging at her lips. "And my team had its own language, too."
Across the room, Vikranth was greeting guests. In a tailored bandhgala, he looked every inch the decorated officer he once was—but his stance was pure Para SF: back to the wall, eyes scanning every exit. He caught her watching and sent a slow, knowing grin. After more than twenty years, he still had that disarming effect on her—the one that could cut through any amount of protocol or pretense.
The ceremony began. Sanskrit chants mingled with the soft hiss of camera shutters. When Harshi and Vidyuth slid rings onto each other's fingers, applause broke out—loud, heartfelt, and a little chaotic, just like the Khanna family.
By the time the last guests drifted away, leaving wilting flowers and half-eaten sweets, the air had shifted from ceremonial to conspiratorial. A pack of sugar-charged cousins swarmed the trio.
"Chachu! Chachi! Harshi Di!" cried young Arjun, practically bouncing. "Come! We need to talk!"
Before Aarohi could protest, a dozen small hands tugged at her saree, at Vikranth's arm, and Harshi's wrist.
"Where are we going?" Vikranth asked, letting himself be led with the indulgent patience of a man used to training raw recruits.
"The old study!" Ria, Sakshi's daughter, declared. "We have a proposition."
The dusty little room at the back of the house smelled of old paper and faint damp. Moonlight spilled through the window, catching floating dust motes like slow-moving flares. The kids collapsed onto makeshift piles of pillows, eyes bright with mischief and anticipation.
Arjun, the self-appointed spokesperson, cleared his throat with mock gravitas. "Harshi's getting married. We know you two have this... epic love story. But you never tell it properly."
"I know you two are the perfect couple now," Harshi added, her voice soft with a hint of worry, "but did you ever doubt it? For a second?"
Aarohi felt a tightness in her chest. Their story wasn't tidy. It was messy, dangerous—full of moments that could have gone very differently.
Vikranth leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Oh, it was a mission, all right," he said, his eyes glinting. "A mission to capture your Mami's heart."
"Papa! No cheesy lines!" Harshi laughed, swatting his arm.
"Come on, Chachi," Kavya, urged, eyes wide. "Harshi Di's getting married! She should know. We all should know."
Aarohi glanced at Vikranth. He reached over, lacing his fingers with hers, his thumb tracing slow, reassuring circles over her knuckles.
"Well," he murmured, low enough only she could hear, "time to tell them, Wing Commander."
She drew a slow breath. The scent of marigolds faded in her mind, replaced by the acrid tang of jet fuel and the metallic crack of gunfire. Her fingers brushed the old pilot's watch she still wore—the same one she'd had the day they met, the day he'd looked at her like a rival and a threat.
"Alright," she said at last, her voice softer, heavier. "But no interruptions until I finish."
A chorus of eager nods.
"It started," Aarohi began, her eyes distant now, "not in Delhi, but in Chennai. And it didn't begin as a love story. We were worse than strangers—we barely tolerated each other."