Aakrit's voice cut through the rain like a blade, low and bitter."What's so special about you and him, Vinnie? What did he give you that I didn't?"
I turned my face toward him, steady, unshaken. No hesitation left in my eyes—only memory, only fire."You really want to know?" I asked softly.
And I told him a story. Not about a husband and wife. About two fire-forged souls who started as enemies—and became something eternal.
I remember being twenty-four, freshly recruited into the CBI. Amish and I—paired on nearly every major case. Love didn't hit at first glance. No. It was irritation, ego, competition. He was brilliant, dangerously confident, always a step ahead. I was sharp, composed, proud. We clashed—on theories, strategies, conclusions. Every insult carried admiration; every eye-roll carried respect. We were rivals who couldn't help noticing how alike we were.
Then came the warehouse raid. The fire. Smoke suffocating me under a steel beam. Panic rising. I thought it was over. And then he was there—Amish, defying orders, lifting steel with his bare hands. Shielding me. Dragging me out. I didn't even get a scratch.
He was almost lost, though. Half-conscious in the ambulance, looking at me with that crooked smile. "Death can't separate us, junior," he whispered.
I cried for him that first time. I saw him as more than a rival.
After that, our bond became infamous. Chaos and sarcasm. We stole from each other's notes, hacked briefings, argued endlessly—but when danger came, we were inseparable. Crime scenes became extensions of each other. I could read his bluffs; he knew when I lied. We weren't lovers yet… but we were undeniable.
Then, the flood-trapped village. Seven days of isolation. Phones dead. Roads blocked. Surrounded by silence and stars. No case, no report—just us. We cooked over wood fires, laughed at local folk tales, slept under makeshift sheets.
One evening, adrenaline still racing from saving a child from the rising river, we looked at each other too long. No script. No rules. Just madness.
We married in a small temple. No priests. Just garlands and gasps. Our hearts pounding like rain on the roof.
Reality stung when we returned. It felt impulsive, unreal. I tried to distance myself. Amish didn't chase. We both played cold. But fate had its claws deep. Parents brought proposals. Rejected. We sat one night on a bench and agreed: maybe that impulsive marriage was an escape. Official vows followed quietly, without fanfare. What began as a fluke became our fortress.
Life after that was chaotic and tender. I learned he liked his towels warm. He discovered I talked to my plants. We fought over TV remotes but shared playlists on late-night drives. I slipped on a wet bathroom floor once, dragging him into the tub—we laughed until we cried. Our love wasn't poetic—it was real, playful, alive. Monsoon evenings, corridor kisses. Winters, sweaters shared. Summers, rooftops and stars. Springs, slow dances among yellow hibiscus.
No candlelight dinners required. Just quiet floors, tangled limbs, laughter in kitchens, and kisses after nightmares. Every time he looked at me, it wasn't as a husband. It was as his favorite accident.