Major's Soft Obsession

Chapter 2: The Room She Did Not Like And The Blanket She Stole

Upstairs, Myra reached her room. She did not lock her door.

Not because she forgot. She wanted to prove she was not scared. That this house, this Major, this cold rain — none of it scared her.

The room on the first floor was small, but beautiful. Low wooden ceiling, small kitchen attached, and a balcony that faced pine trees directly. Rain still hitting glass windows hard — tik tik. There was a bed in the corner, but no bedsheet. Only a folded grey blanket on top, dusty.

She changed out of the wet kurta into dry clothes. Oversized white t-shirt and black shorts. Hair still damp and cold against her neck, dripping on the t-shirt. She dragged the suitcase to the centre and opened it. Inside — books, folded clothes, certificates in a plastic cover, pressure cooker, and small brown guitar at the bottom.

She had not played in two weeks. Since she left home.

She took the guitar out, sat on the bare mattress, and whispered to it like she always did when nervous, "Tara, we are home, I think. Or at least not on the road."

It was her habit. She named her guitar Tara in Class 9 and talked to it when homesick. That was the only friend who never called her spoiled.

She tuned it once. Soft sound. Then started playing — slow, familiar tune. The one she played when nervous. Just low humming with it. Voice tired from the journey, slightly broken, but sweet. It filled the small room.

Wall clock showed 9:07 PM.

Downstairs, Major Veer Singh Rathore was doing push-ups.

One hundred. Without break. Sweat dripping onto the wooden floor. Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Stood up, picked his water bottle, about to drink — when he heard it.

Music. Guitar. And a girl humming.

His jaw tightened instantly.

9:07 PM. Rule Number One broken on Day One.

He had told Lata clearly. No noise after 9 PM. No music. He lived by discipline. Discipline was everything at the Frontier. Discipline kept his men safe.

He pulled his t-shirt back on — it stuck to his sweaty chest — and walked upstairs with long, fast steps. Wooden stairs creaked under his weight. He knocked once, hard, on her door which was already open.

Myra flinched. Fingers slipped and guitar string made a sharp TWANG.

"You are playing the guitar," he said. Not a question. Cold.

"It is not loud," Myra said quickly, defensive. Guitar still in her lap. "It is very soft. And it is only nine-oh-seven. Just seven minutes past nine. That is not late."

"The rule was nine PM, Myra. Not nine-oh-seven," Veer said. His voice calm, but too calm. Dangerous calm. "In my world, seven minutes can decide everything."

Myra felt suddenly small under his gaze. He was standing in her doorway, tall and broad, filling it completely. T-shirt sticking to his chest from workout, breathing heavy, looking at her as if she committed a serious crime.

"I could not sleep. I was feeling homesick," she said quietly. Voice smaller now.

Veer stared at her for a few seconds longer than necessary. Homesick at twenty-one, alone in a new city, first night. He remembered his first posting at nineteen. High-altitude post, minus ten degrees, no heater, no call.

"Keep the guitar down tonight," he said finally. Tone a little softer, but still firm. "You can play tomorrow till nine. Not after nine. Understood?"

"Okay," Myra whispered, looking down at Tara, holding it tighter like he scolded her child.

He turned to leave, but then his eyes stopped on her legs. Knees had small red scratches. Fresh. Blood slightly dried. Probably from dragging the broken blue suitcase through lanes.

"Do you have a first aid box?" he asked, frowning.

"What?"

"Scratches. On your knees."

Myra looked down. "Oh. That. It is nothing. It will be fine."

Veer walked inside without asking permission. Opened the small kitchen cabinet above the sink. Empty. Dust inside. He clicked his tongue.

"You came to live alone with no first aid box, no bedsheet, and no common sense," he said, irritated.

"I am the kind who still managed to get admission in Doon University without any recommendation," she replied quickly, chin up. And she did not ask for help for her knee. Even though it was burning. Because she was too proud to say "please help me." She would rather say it is nothing than ask.

He looked at her, surprised. Then let out a short breath. Almost a laugh.

"Wait here," he said.

Went downstairs and returned within two minutes with a small green army first aid box. Old, scratched, but organized perfectly. He knelt on one knee in front of her. On her floor.

Myra's breath stopped.

He was too close. Way too close. She could see his eyelashes clearly, small scar near his right eyebrow, sharp line of jaw, sweat on his neck, smell of his sweat and cold rain and metal.

"Give me your leg," he ordered.

"What? No. I can do it myself."

"Myra. Give. Your. Leg."

She slowly extended her right leg. Heart beating very fast — thud thud thud. He held her ankle gently but firmly. Hands rough, warm, much bigger than hers.

He cleaned the scratch with antiseptic. It burned immediately.

"Ah! It is burning," she said, trying to pull leg back, eyes watering, biting her lower lip hard — her habit when scared.

"Do not move," he said, but grip became softer instantly. He blew lightly on her knee to reduce the burning. Soft blow.

Both froze for a second.

Too intimate. Too soft for a man who was all hard edges.

He applied the bandage quickly, as if he touched something he was not supposed to touch, and stood up fast, stepping back.

"Keep it dry. And wear longer clothes in this house, Myra. Dehradun is cold at night. Especially upstairs."

"It is my room. I will wear what I want," she replied, still flushed.

"Your room is above my room. And I can hear everything. And see the balcony from my balcony. Keep that in mind," he said, and left, closing her door properly this time. Click.

Myra sat on the floor, touching the bandaged knee, heart still racing, ankle still warm where he held. She whispered to Tara, "He is rude, Tara, but his hands are warm."

Downstairs, Veer went straight to the bathroom and washed his hands twice. With cold water. Like he wanted to wash away something.

At 11:42 PM, Myra broke Rule Number One again.

But this time not with the guitar.

She was crying. Quietly at first, then louder. Curled up on the bare mattress, phone in hand, mother not picking up the call, rain still pouring outside loudly, house too silent. Too big. Too empty. She felt so alone.

Downstairs, Veer was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Shirtless now, only dog tags. Then he heard it. Small, broken sob from above. Through the ceiling.

His body stiffened.

Sat up and listened again. Another sob, slightly louder.

He told himself to ignore it. Don't get close, Veer. She is just a tenant. Twenty-one-year-old tenant. Not your responsibility.

Another sob. Longer.

He swore under his breath — low, harsh — grabbed his house keys and t-shirt, and went upstairs, fast.

"Myra? Open the door. Now," he said, knocking.

She opened after a few seconds. Eyes swollen, nose red, hair messy, face wet with tears, white t-shirt crumpled.

"Why are you crying?" Voice low.

"I am not crying," she lied, wiping her face quickly with her sleeve. "This house makes weird sounds. And Mom is not picking. And I am feeling cold. And bedsheet is not there."

Veer looked at her, then at the bare mattress, then at her shaking shoulders, then at her phone showing 7 missed calls to Mom.

Without saying a word, he went downstairs and came back with a thick, warm, dark blue blanket. Army blanket. Heavy, warm, smells like him.

"Take this," he said, throwing it on the bed.

Myra stared. "You are giving me your blanket?"

"I have two. And stop crying. Soldiers do not like crying sounds at night. It distracts."

He turned to leave, but Myra grabbed his t-shirt sleeve from behind. Small fingers, cold, holding tightly.

"Do not go. Please. Just five minutes. Sit there. I will not talk. Just do not leave me alone tonight," she said, voice broken. "Please, Major."

Her fingers small and cold, holding his sleeve tightly. Like if she leaves, she will fall.

Veer looked at her hand on his sleeve, then at her face. Twenty-one years old. Alone. Scared. First night.

And Major Veer Singh Rathore, who had not let anyone touch his sleeve without permission in the last five years, did not move his hand away.

He sat down on the chair near her bed. Far from her, but still in the same room. Back straight, like on duty.

"Five minutes, Myra. Only five. Then you sleep. No more crying."

She nodded, hugging her knees. Slowly, with him sitting in that chair across the room, her crying stopped. Breathing slowed.

She did not know he would sit there for one hour and seventeen minutes. Just watching her fall asleep on the bare mattress, wrapped in his blanket, making sure her door was locked from inside this time.

She did not know he would go downstairs after, stand alone in the balcony in the rain, hands on the railing, asking himself one dangerous question he had never asked in 28 years.

Why does a twenty-one-year-old tenant who talks to her guitar and bites her lip when she's scared already feel like home?