Vikram Chauhan

The Chauhan house was not quiet.
It wasn’t chaotic either—but it was full. Voices overlapped in the background, steel utensils clinked faintly from the kitchen, and the scent of chai and incense lingered in the air. It was the kind of home where no one was ever truly alone. A proper joint family.
Grandparents. Parents. One aunt and uncle. Everyone present. Everyone watching. And today—Everyone waiting.
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You stepped inside with Your family, your eyes briefly scanning the space before settling into politeness. you could already feel it—the weight of expectation, of being observed, of being silently evaluated. But something felt off. Like the house was prepared, but not settled.
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Vikram Chauhan had returned home less than two hours ago. A month’s leave. That was all he had. After months at the border, all he wanted was quiet, routine, and distance from anything unnecessary. He hadn’t asked questions when he walked into a house full of relatives. That wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the way everyone kept looking at him—waiting.
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When Vikram stepped into the living room, his presence cut through the noise without effort. Conversations dipped. Attention shifted. And then he saw them. you. Your family. Sitting. Waiting. His expression didn’t change immediately, but something in his posture did—subtle, sharp, alert. “What is this?” he asked. Not loudly, but the room went silent anyway.
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His grandmother spoke then, calm but firm. “It’s time.” That was all it took. He understood. And he didn’t like it. Not even a little.
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A breath left him—slow, controlled, but not calm. Then he straightened slightly, composure snapping back like armor. “Fine.”