Swayam sat stiffly at the dining table, spoon hovering over his plate. The smell of home-cooked food was comforting but unfamiliar, and he wasn't used to this kind of attention. Normally, meals were quick, functional, and eaten while monitoring surroundings. This… this was different.
Siya's father leaned forward slightly, a friendly twinkle in his eye. "So… Swayam, tell me a bit about yourself. Hobbies, interests… favorite food? Don't worry, I won't grill you too much," he said with a chuckle.
Swayam froze, fork midway to his mouth. The word favorite was foreign to him in this context. In his life, there were no favorites, no indulgences—only efficiency, planning, survival.
"I… don't really have…" he began cautiously, voice low. "Favorites."
Siya snorted softly, leaning toward him. "Of course you don't, mister. That's why you need family… we'll teach you favorites!"
Her father laughed warmly, shaking his head. "I like this one already. Someone needs to teach you the joys of life outside work, son."
Swayam's lips twitched, almost against his will. A small smile threatened to break through the usual stoicism. He took a tentative bite of his food, trying to focus on the flavor rather than the awkwardness of human interaction.
Siya's mother, watching him quietly, leaned slightly toward him. "You know… you don't have to be nervous here. Just eat. We're happy you're here. Siya seems to like you," she said softly.
Swayam's eyes flicked toward Siya, who grinned mischievously back at him. He almost wanted to groan, but instead, he simply nodded, appreciating the sincerity in her words.
Siya leaned back, folding her arms with a satisfied smirk. "See? Told you… we're not scary. Well… except Dad's jokes sometimes," she added with a playful wink.
Her father mock-offended, laughed. "Hey! My jokes are classic! But fine, maybe I'll go easy today."He looked at Swayam. "Don't worry. You don't have to explain yourself. Just enjoy the food and the company. That's what family does."
Swayam's hand, which had remained tense since arriving, finally relaxed slightly on the table. He took another bite, slower this time, letting the warmth of the room seep in around him. The soft clatter of plates, the gentle teasing between father and daughter, and Siya's radiant energy created a strange but comforting bubble—one he had never allowed himself to enter before.
Siya, sensing the subtle shift, leaned closer. "You know… if you like, you can come over sometimes. We can play board games… or just talk. You don't have to be in serious mode all the time."
Swayam blinked, almost startled by the suggestion. He opened his mouth to respond, then hesitated. For once, he didn't have a rehearsed answer. Instead, he nodded slowly, letting the small act of acceptance speak louder than words.
Her mother smiled softly. "Good. We're glad to have you, truly. You don't have to do anything extraordinary—just be here. That's enough."
For the first time in what felt like forever, Swayam allowed himself to simply be—no plans, no strategy, no calculations—just a quiet presence at a family table, eating food prepared with care and listening to laughter that wasn't forced or tactical.
And in that moment, he realized something profound: maybe family wasn't something you were born into. Maybe it was something you allowed yourself to be part of.
Siya nudged him lightly, whispering teasingly, "See? You're smiling now. Admit it—you like it here."
Swayam's lips twitched into a small, genuine smile. "Maybe… a little," he admitted quietly, the walls around him softening ever so slightly.
And in the warmth of that home, amidst laughter, food, and gentle teasing, Swayam realized—he had found something he never knew he could allow himself to feel: belonging.
(Swayam's POV)
"Call us Mom and Dad," Siya's mom said gently, her eyes kind, her tone leaving no room for argument.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe. The word Mom felt foreign on my tongue, heavy in my chest. Dad… I hadn't let myself imagine that word in years.
Siya's dad nodded with an approving smile, like he had already accepted me without questions. "Yes, son. From today, this is your home too."
I looked at Siya, wide-eyed, searching for a sign of mockery. But she was grinning ear to ear, clearly enjoying my awkwardness. "See? I told you. You're family now."
I tried to fight it. Tried to resist. But every time Siya's mom nudged me to eat more, or her dad pulled me into their lighthearted conversations, something inside me unraveled. Piece by piece, the walls I had built began to crack.
The day slipped by without me realizing. We played a board game Siya pulled out, her dad and I on one team, her and her mom on the other. They cheated shamelessly, laughing when I protested, and for the first time in years, I caught myself laughing too—not the hollow laugh I used with teammates, but a real, unguarded one.
Later, Siya dragged me around the house, showing old photo albums. I saw her childhood, the birthdays, the family trips. Her little victories captured in messy handwriting and photos. She looked at them with fondness, and I… envied her. Envied the simplicity of growing up in such warmth.
When I stumbled on a photo of Siya with her parents holding her between them, I froze. A strange ache pressed against my chest. I didn't know what it was, but I knew I had missed this my whole life.
Evening came, and somehow I was still there. Her mom insisted I try her special kheer, saying, "It's every son's right." Her dad clapped me on the back when I almost spilled the bowl, laughing, "Relax, you're too stiff, Swayam."
By the time the clock ticked late, I had already gotten used to calling them Mom and Dad. It slipped out of me—hesitant at first, but soon it felt natural. Almost dangerously natural.
They didn't treat me like a guest. They treated me like I belonged. Like I wasn't some weapon forged for missions, but a boy—just a boy—who deserved care.
At one point, Siya's mom caught me quietly watching them all and said softly, "See, Swayam? This is how a home feels. It's noisy, it's messy, sometimes it's full of silly fights… but it's love. And you deserve it as much as Siya does."
Her words sank deep. Too deep.
As Siya and I ended up bickering over who cheated in the game, running through the hallway with her laughing behind me, I realized—this house, this day, this family—it was more dangerous than any mission I had ever been on. Because it made me want something I was never supposed to have.
A home.
The night was deep when I finally stepped out of Siya's house. The door closed behind me with a soft thud, and suddenly, the world outside felt colder than it had all day.
Her mom's voice still echoed in my ears: "You can call us Mom and Dad."Her dad's laughter still lingered, filling the empty corners of my mind.And Siya's smile—bright, careless, dangerous—was etched in my vision.
For the first time in years, I didn't want to leave a place. I wanted to stay. To sit back down at that table, to bicker with Siya over silly games, to let myself belong.
But belonging was dangerous. Attachment was fatal. I knew this. It was the first rule etched into me since training: Never get attached. Never let emotions control you. Emotions make you weak. Weakness gets you killed.
And yet… tonight I had broken that rule.
I slid into my car, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. My reflection in the rearview mirror stared back at me—a soldier, an agent, a weapon. But the smile tugging faintly at my lips… that wasn't the agent. That was someone else. Someone softer. Someone I had buried long ago.
As I drove, the silence pressed in on me. The hum of the engine was nothing compared to the echo of Siya's laughter in my head. I replayed the way her father had called me son, the way her mother's eyes had softened when she served me food. The way it felt when Siya grabbed my hand without hesitation, dragging me into her world as if I belonged there all along.
A part of me wanted to slam the brakes, turn the car around, and go back. Just one more hour in that warmth. Just one more stolen taste of family.
But another part of me—the darker, louder part—reminded me of reality. I was not built for homes, or laughter, or love. My world was gunfire, coded missions, shadows in the night. People close to me got hurt. People close to me didn't survive.
What right did I have to sit at their table? To accept the title of son?
I pressed harder on the accelerator, as if I could outrun the thoughts clawing at me. The streetlights streaked past, blurring into nothing. Still, the warmth refused to leave.
For the first time in a long time, I was afraid. Not of bullets or enemies. But of losing something I never truly had—something I wasn't sure I deserved.
I whispered to myself, almost bitterly, "This is a mistake."
But deep down, beneath the layers of discipline and steel, a small voice whispered back—Or maybe… it's the only thing real you've ever had.
(Siya's POV)
The door clicked shut behind Swayam, and I stood there for a few seconds, staring at it as if he might suddenly walk back in. The house felt quieter without him, though Mom and Dad were still around.
Strange. I had only known him for a short while, yet today it felt like he was already a part of our family. The way Dad called him son, the way Mom fussed over him like she always did with me—it was natural. Too natural.
And Swayam… oh, Swayam was impossible to read. At first, he was so stiff, like sitting on the edge of the chair would keep him ready for a fight. He didn't even know how to answer simple questions about food or hobbies. It was almost funny—an agent who could probably disarm a gun blindfolded, but couldn't admit his favorite dish.
But then, little by little, I saw him change. When he laughed during the game, when he relaxed enough to call Mom and Dad by those names, when he actually smiled without realizing it—those were moments I wanted to bottle up and keep forever.
He looked different when he smiled. Human. Vulnerable.
As I helped Mom clear the dishes, she gave me a look. That teasing, knowing look only mothers have."You care for him, don't you?"she asked softly.
I tried to brush it off. "He's just… a friend. He saved me, remember?"
But even I knew my voice lacked conviction.
When I went to my room that night, I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. My phone buzzed with random messages from friends, but my mind was elsewhere. With him.
I replayed every glance, every hesitant smile. The way he pulled his hand away when we first entered the house—like he wasn't used to being touched. The way he looked at our family photos, as though they were something from another world. The way he kept staring at Mom and Dad when they laughed, as if trying to understand what family really meant.
Something about him tugged at me. He carried a weight, a loneliness I couldn't fully grasp, but I could feel it. And for some reason, I wanted to be the one to take it away.
I hugged my pillow, whispering to myself with a grin, "He'll get used to us. He has to. Because I'm not letting him run away."
Sleep came slowly, but it came with dreams of his awkward smile, my parents' laughter, and the strange, fragile bond we had begun to build that day. She promised herself she will never let him go away.