18th June, 2019

The clock struck nine. The soft ticking echoed in the drawing room where Eram sat curled on the couch, her hands loosely wrapped around a cup of half-drunk tea gone cold. The television played something cheerful, but her mind was far from it.

A message from the unknown number still burned in her memory.

"He's beginning to let his guard down. Speed things up. Earn his trust. You're losing time."

Faster.

Trust.

Eram sighed. What did they even mean by "time"? What exactly was she racing against?

She had tried to come up with a plan all day, pacing the room, scribbling half-baked ideas in her notebook and scratching them out seconds later. Every time she thought she could maybe ask Shumail something—anything—guilt would creep up behind her and shove her plans back into the darkness.

Now, sitting in the dim glow of the living room light, she wondered if she should even try.

Eram sat up straight, her heart immediately leaping. She glanced at the clock—past ten.

He's late again.

She stood and walked toward the dining area, where the untouched dinner waited, the aroma long faded. Without realizing, she rested her head on her folded arms on the table, her eyes fluttering shut.

That's how Shumail found her when he walked in—fast asleep at the table, her dupatta slipping off her shoulder, soft strands of hair fanned across her cheek, and a bowl of soup gone cold beside her.

Something shifted in his chest.

His footsteps made a soft thud, causing her to stir. She blinked a few times before slowly lifting her head.

"You're late," she said, her voice hoarse with sleep.

Shumail gave her a tired smile. "Yeah. Got caught in something."

She nodded faintly and sat up straighter, pushing back the strands of hair from her face. "I waited. You didn't text."

"I didn't think you would wait," he replied quietly, taking off his coat. "Didn't expect you to still be up."

"I said I'd wait, didn't I?" Her voice was small but sincere.

He met her gaze for a moment—long enough for something unspoken to pass between them—but said nothing as he walked over and pulled out a chair.

They ate in silence.

The clink of cutlery, the gentle hum of the ceiling fan, and the occasional sip of water were the only sounds that filled the space. It was oddly comfortable—if only it didn't feel like there was a third invisible presence sitting with them. A tension that refused to leave.

Eram stole glances at him in between bites. His face looked tired, eyes dim but distant, like his body had arrived home but his mind hadn't followed.

She decided to risk it.

"Um... Shumail?" she began, trying to sound casual.

He didn't look up from his plate. "Hmm?"

"I was thinking... I might need to go shopping this weekend. For some... groceries and some household stuff. Maybe a few things for the room too. Nothing big. Just little stuff."

"You could've just said you need money," he replied evenly, not once looking at her.

She froze for a moment. "It's not like that—"

Shumail finally raised his gaze, his dark eyes unreadable. "Eram. If you need something, ask. No need to sugarcoat it with excuses."

His words stung—not because they were harsh, but because they were too understanding.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek black card, and slid it across the table toward her.

"Use this. It doesn't have a limit."

Eram stared at it, the guilt crawling up her spine like ice. Her fingers hesitated before she picked it up. "Thank you..."

"You don't need to thank me." He took another bite, then paused, looking at her from under his lashes. "You're my wife. That means you can trust me. With anything."

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

Eram looked up slowly, startled by the sudden weight of his tone. He didn't elaborate. He just took another sip of water, eyes back on his plate as if nothing happened.

She wanted to ask: Did he know?

No. He couldn't.

Could he?

But she couldn't read anything in his expression. It was as if he'd wrapped himself in a blanket of calm detachment, shielding whatever thoughts swirled inside.

After dinner, he stood to clear the plates, but she stopped him. "I'll do it. Go rest."

He nodded and disappeared into the bedroom.

By the time she walked in, drying her hands with a towel, she found him standing near the couch, fluffing a pillow like he did every night.

"Shumail," she called softly.

He looked over his shoulder. "Hmm?"

"You don't have to sleep there."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I mean," she added quickly, "you said you were uncomfortable on the couch... You can sleep on the bed. I won't mind. We can share."

He paused for a moment, assessing her, before walking to the bed. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "Yes."

He grabbed his pillow and settled on his side, keeping his distance. "Don't worry. I won't cross any lines."

"I know," she said softly, lying down herself.

The silence stretched again, but this one was different. It was warm, almost... comfortable. She lay with her back to him, but sleep didn't come.

Minutes passed.

She turned slowly, her gaze landing on Shumail's peaceful face. His breathing was slow, his lips slightly parted, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

He looked nothing like the man who ruled boardrooms and crushed business rivals with calm precision.

He looked... gentle.

Innocent.

And she was the one lying beside him with lies tangled around her heart.

This isn't right.

But she couldn't stop herself.

Her hand moved on its own, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. He didn't stir. She traced her fingertips gently down his cheek. The sensation made something tighten in her chest.

You're a liar, Eram, she told herself.

But even liars need warmth, sometimes.

She shifted closer, one hesitant movement at a time, and gently wrapped her arms around him. He felt warm—solid. Like safety.

Just for a moment, she told herself.

But before she could pull back, his arms moved—like instinct. He wrapped them around her, pulling her closer until her face was buried in his chest.

A sigh escaped his lips.

"I've been waiting for this," he murmured in his sleep.

Or was he asleep?

Eram's heart stuttered, but she didn't move. Couldn't.

She told herself she'd move away in a second.

Just one more second.

And like that, the night held them both.

But outside the quiet room, beyond the peaceful hush, secrets hung in the air like silent ghosts. And one of them was already wide awake.

The next morning

A sliver of sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting pale gold on the edge of the bed and creeping slowly over the sheets. The first thing Eram registered was warmth—steady, unyielding, comforting.

Then the scent. A subtle mix of cedar, clean cotton, and something distinctly him.

Her cheek was pressed against his chest, his heartbeat a soft thrum beneath her ear. One arm lay draped across her waist, the other loosely curled under his head.

Her eyes fluttered open, confusion knitting her brows until memory rushed back like a sharp whisper: the night... her touch... his words.

"I've been waiting for this."

Was it a dream?

She stilled, breath held, suddenly aware of every point of contact between their bodies. Her fingers were still curled into the fabric of his shirt. One of her knees rested against his leg.

She should move. Immediately.

But she didn't.

Instead, she slowly tilted her head upward—carefully, cautiously—just enough to glimpse his face.

Shumail was awake.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, stared at the ceiling, his expression unreadable. No surprise. No discomfort. Just calm observation, like he'd been lying still for a long time.

Waiting.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence swelled—awkward, intimate, sharp at the edges.

"I..." she started, voice hoarse from sleep. "I must've... moved in my sleep."

He arched a brow faintly. "You think you sleepwalk into hugs?"

Heat flooded her cheeks. She tried to shift away, but his arm didn't move.

"I didn't mean to..." she mumbled.

"I didn't stop you," he said softly, and only then did his arm slide away, allowing her the space she so desperately needed but somehow didn't want.

Eram pulled back, sitting up and tugging the blanket to her chest like it could protect her from the awkwardness swirling in the air.

Shumail sat up as well, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He stretched his arms over his head, casual, unaffected. But something about the way he didn't look at her made her stomach twist.

"You weren't sleeping," she said suddenly.

He glanced at her then, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Guilty."

Her eyes narrowed. "So... last night, when you said..."

He stood before she could finish, running a hand through his tousled hair. "Let's not dissect words whispered between sleep and dreams, hmm?"

"But you weren't asleep."

He gave a nonchalant shrug. "Neither were you."

Eram bit her lip, unsure whether she was more embarrassed or unsettled. There was no teasing lilt in his tone, no flirtation. Just that maddening calm.

"I'm going to make coffee," he said, walking toward the door. "Want some?"

She stared at his retreating back, unsure if she wanted to scream, laugh, or hide under the blanket for eternity.

"Yes," she said finally. "Black."

In the Kitchen

The kettle hissed softly. Eram leaned against the counter, arms folded tightly, watching Shumail from across the kitchen island. He moved with unhurried ease—measuring coffee grounds, pouring water, setting two mismatched mugs in place.

He didn't speak until the coffee was poured and pushed toward her.

"You didn't sleep much," he said.

She blinked. "How would you know?"

"You were awake long before the sun."

She wrapped her hands around the warm mug, avoiding his gaze. "I had a lot on my mind."

He nodded. "You always do."

Something about his tone made her glance up sharply. But his expression was neutral again—pleasant, even. Almost too pleasant.

"I mean," he added, "you always seem like you're carrying something. Something heavy."

Her grip tightened around the mug. "I guess life makes everyone carry something."

"True," he said. "But some people carry what they chose. Others... carry what they're running from."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Eram's breath caught, but she smiled tightly. "What do you carry, Shumail?"

He met her gaze. "Patience."

There was a beat of silence. She didn't know what to say to that. He took a sip of his coffee, eyes lingering on her over the rim.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he changed the subject.

"I have a meeting this afternoon. I'll be home late."

"Right," she said quietly. "Of course."

"Do you need anything? Errands, groceries, blood money?" He smiled teasingly.

She forced a laugh. "Just a new mattress, apparently."

His smile didn't fade, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction. "Maybe I'll get you one. Something softer. Easier to sleep on when you're conflicted."

She didn't answer.

Later

Eram stood by the window, sipping the last of her coffee, watching Shumail's car pull out of the driveway.

Her chest ached with a feeling she didn't want to name.

What had started as a mission was beginning to unravel into something terrifying: attachment. Guilt.

And him.

She placed the empty cup on the table and pressed a hand against her chest.

She had come here to manipulate him.

But he wasn't making it easy.

Not because he was suspicious. But because he was kind.

And that... that was worse.

Because kindness makes you question cruelty.

And love, once it creeps in, has a way of turning spies into sinners.

Assalamualaikum!

I'm back with an update ㅎ_ㅎ

I wonder how was the chap? :/

As the story is proceeding I'm actually feeling like crying because of all the plot twists that are yet to come ㅜ_ㅜ
I don't wanna think about it -_-'

Share the story with your friends and help it grow :)

Until next time...Goodbye!