VIKRANTH

The mandap smelled of smoke and marigolds.

The moment I tied the thaali, I felt the weight of it. This wasn't just a symbol. It was a line I had crossed into something irreversible. I didn't expect to feel much. But I did. Respect. Responsibility. A strange stillness I hadn't known I was missing.

Maybe it helped that I knew who she was beneath the bridal silk and jasmine. The woman who had restructured an entire tactical approach without blinking. Who had never backed down when she knew she was right. If anyone would understand what came next, it would be her.

And then — the vibration.

I knew that specific, insistent pattern before I even saw the screen.

A split-second later, another vibration buzzed from the guests. And another. And another.

I looked up from my phone. Across the mandap, Rey, Maddy, Sid, and Bala were all looking at their own screens, their expressions hardening. The music faltered. The pandit's chanting stopped. The entire hall went silent.

My team looked at me.

I looked at my wife.

She was already looking at me. Calm. Watchful. Not surprised.

"I have to go," I told her, my voice low and apologetic. "I didn't want it like this."

She didn't flinch. She just took my hand.

"Go."

Not a question. Not a test. Just a truth between equals. Not the word. Not the steel in her voice. Not the way it steadied me — I don't think I'll ever carry anything heavier into a combat zone.

I went to her father. No salute — just words. A soldier's promise to a civilian who'd given me his daughter.

He nodded. "Do what you must, Major."

Ten minutes later, I returned to the mandap in uniform. Boots on granite. Pack slung. Mind cleared.

But I looked back, just once.

And she was still there — bridal red and jasmine — watching me not with sorrow, but with understanding. The stark contrast of my scuffed combat boots against her shimmering red silk was a memory I knew I'd carry with me.

AAROHI

He looked back only once before he left. And it was enough.

I wasn't surprised when the phone buzzed. I saw his stance change before he even said the words. I knew that alert tone — I'd heard it on my own device more times than I could count.

He said, "I have to go," and looked like he hated it.

I didn't. My Appa had taught me — duty doesn't pause for anything.

"Go," I said.

That one word — it almost made him smile. It felt like something we both needed.

Later, his mother sat beside me gently, unsure of what I might need. Maybe comfort. Maybe reassurance. But I wasn't shaken.

"I've left halfway through temple visits to attend briefings," I told her. "I've flown sorties on Diwali. This is our life."

She looked at me, searching for doubt. There wasn't any. She exhaled slowly, and something in her shoulders relaxed.

I went with the rest of the family to what was now my home. The room was quiet — fresh linen, sandalwood, the faint scent of him in the air. His uniforms hung beside civilian shirts. His books were stacked neatly. I noticed the polished gleam of his boots by the door and knew the weight of his battle-pack without having to lift it. The scent of cordite and discipline was universal.

The silence wasn't empty. It was filled with choices, with purpose, with everything we both stood for. This house, this life, this marriage — all of it would take time.

This wasn't a sprint. It was an endurance mission.

And I was just settling in.