Arjun woke up to the smell of coffee.
Not the weak machine kind. This was strong, thick, steel-filter Andhra-style coffee. He followed the smell like a detective chasing clues, only to find Sreeja already seated at the table, hair still damp, freshly braided, reading the newspaper like a civil service topper.
She slid his cup across the table without looking up.
He took it carefully, like it might explode.
"Thanks," he said.
She just nodded.
Three sips in, he noticed her left wrist.
A small scar. Diagonal. Clean. Like a cut made with purpose.
He looked up.
She caught him staring. Didn't flinch. Didn't cover it either.
"Cooking accident?" he asked casually.
"No," she said. "Training."
He blinked. "Training?"
"For cutting vegetables," she added, without changing expression.
He laughed nervously. She didn't. Not even a smirk.
He took another sip. The coffee suddenly tasted stronger.
Later that morning, while she was hanging laundry on the terrace, Arjun decided to do what every responsible cybersecurity husband does when suspicious:
He snooped.
Not wildly. Just… subtle checks. Like rearranging the drawer she opened last night. Or opening a zipped pouch that looked too clean.
Inside: a burner phone. Switched off. Untouched. Wrapped in a kerchief.
He closed it instantly. His hands were cold.
Notebooks. Clean. No personal scribbles. No diary. No romantic poems.
She didn't even keep grocery lists.
Even the toothpaste had no squeeze marks — she rolled the tube neatly from the bottom like she was defusing a bomb.
By afternoon, he convinced himself he was overthinking. Maybe she was just ultra-organized.
He needed a break.
He messaged his friend Hari:
"Bro. My wife is either a government robot or a goddess. No in-between."
Hari replied:
"Be happy. Mine fights me for screen brightness."
In the evening, Arjun sat in their small hall, coding on his laptop.
Sreeja walked in wearing a loose cotton saree and adjusting her bangles.
"You busy?" she asked.
"Nope," he said, minimizing three tabs instantly.
She sat beside him. Close. Calm. And for the first time, rested her head on his shoulder.
Arjun stopped breathing.
"Nice shirt," she said softly.
He looked down.
It was an old, oversized GitHub swag tee with a faded octocat.
"You like this?" he asked, confused.
She nodded. "It hides the wire under your collar."
He blinked. "Wire?"
Before he could finish the question — BOOM.
Not an explosion, exactly — but a loud cracking sound from the other side of the building. A streetlight blew out.
Sreeja sat up straight in a split second. Not scared. Just alert.
She looked toward the window, tilted her head like she was listening for footsteps.
Then calmly stood up.
"Backup's here early," she muttered.
Arjun stared at her. "Backup? What backup?"
But she was already walking to the bedroom.
She pulled open the cupboard, reached behind a saree stack, and pulled out—
A matte black duffle bag.
Unzipped it.
Inside:
Tactical glovesA sleek knife in a thigh sheathA device that looked way too much like a mini-grenade
Arjun stood frozen in the hall, holding his coffee mug like a biscuit packet.
She turned to him.
"I need ten minutes," she said. "Don't follow me. And don't call anyone."
He opened his mouth to ask a hundred questions — but nothing came out.
She was already halfway down the stairs.
He looked down at his coffee.
Still warm. Still smooth.
He whispered to himself,
"I married… a Bond villain's calm cousin."
And for the first time in his life, Arjun Vemula..... cybersecurity expert, logical thinker, atheist on paper ..... whispered a genuine prayer.