Male pov
The Sahu family courtyard buzzed with wedding chaos—cousins laughing, elders complaining about tea, children darting between the decorated arches. Amid the bright noise stood Abhinav Rajput, thirty years old, tall and composed, carrying the quiet aura of a soldier. He had returned from service for this gathering, but like always, he felt detached. Families had their own politics and whispers; he preferred the battlefield over the suffocating scrutiny of relatives. His uniform might have been replaced by a crisp sherwani, but his rigid stance remained unchanged—disciplined, unreadable, untouchable.
And then came laughter—light, silly, uncontained—cutting through the noise like a spark. Abhinav’s eyes shifted instinctively, and he saw her. Gunnu Sahu. Twenty-five years old, dressed in a simple pastel lehenga, hair tied messily as if she didn’t care for perfection, cheeks glowing. She was standing with her cousins, pulling faces, puffing out her cheeks like a bear. They called her “Gunnu Gummy,” the sunshine of the family, too mischievous for her own good. He would have looked away… should have. But he didn’t.
For the first time in years, his heart stuttered without warning.
She noticed him staring, and instead of looking shy or turning polite like other girls did, she cocked her head and grinned in mischief as if daring him to keep looking. His jaw tightened; he turned away, pretending disinterest, but inside, something cracked.
“Arrey, Gunnu,” her cousin teased, “why are you staring at Rajput ji? He looks like he’s about to file a police complaint against us!” The girls burst into giggles.
Her laughter floated towards him again, unashamed, free. Strange—that such sound could dig under his iron walls. Strange—that her innocence made his hands itch to protect.
He had faced intense moments in uniform—gunfire, late-night ambushes—but this? This ordinary little laugh from a girl five years younger made him restless in ways the battlefield never had.
By evening, he caught himself watching her again. The way she wrinkled her nose eating tamarind candies; the way she jumped to snatch a balloon from a child; the way her joy filled cracks he never knew he carried.
Abhinav Rajput didn’t believe in destiny. He believed in choice, effort, and action. But as night drew in and Gunnu’s laughter still echoed in his mind, he knew something dangerous had begun. The soldier had fallen first.
And he was falling harder than
he ever intended.
Third pov
The courtyard swelled with music and chatter, the pre-wedding rituals alive with colors and chaos. Children darted between dancers, women argued over sweets, and laughter spilt like water across the house. Abhinav Rajput stood silently by the archway, his back straight as if even here, among relatives, he stood guard. Thirty years old, an army officer molded by years of discipline, he rarely allowed himself to relax. To him, family gatherings were battles of gossip and judgment. He wore his armor invisibly, but it was no less real.
And then, he saw her.
Gunnu Sahu. She wasn’t dressed extravagantly—a soft pastel lehenga, hair loosely tied back. But she didn’t need embellishments. She was alive in a way the decorated hall wasn’t. He first heard her before he truly saw her—laughter bubbling over, silly, unrestrained. She puffed her cheeks up in a goofy face, cousins squealing in delight around her. She wasn’t trying to attract attention, yet somehow, she carried the air of sunlight spilling into a dark room.
When her eyes caught his, she didn’t look away. Most women turned shy, but she tilted her head, smiled with a hint of mischief, and raised an eyebrow as if teasing: What are you staring at, soldier?
Abhinav’s throat went dry. He turned his gaze elsewhere, hiding what had flickered inside him, but inside, the walls he had built trembled.
Later, Gunnu leaned to her cousin and whispered, “Why does he stare around like everyone owes him a salute? So serious—like he’ll write me an FIR for breathing too loudly.” They burst into laughter, yet, even as she mocked, her eyes strayed back. There was something about his silence, the weight in his stare, unsettling—but magnetic.
By evening, he found himself watching her play with children, stealing sweets, humming songs while others rehearsed dances. A warmth spread through him, frustratingly alien. It was like a soldier stumbling upon a foreign land where he didn’t know the rules.
He’d faced real enemies. He had endured storms of fire and orders. But a five-year-younger girl with tamarind-sticky fingers and an unfiltered laugh? She was far more dangerous.
Abhinav Rajput never fell easily. Yet, here he was—falling, and falling harder than he could admit.
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