Author's Note: Hi all, apologies for the delay! Life got super busy - I went on vacation, things happened in the world, I came back and had tons of work to do. Thank you to everyone for the wonderful comments on the last chapter; perhaps a last one that many people will read in light of recent events. But for people sticking around, thank you! I plan to stick around and finish Dhaagey. Without further adieu, onto the chapter -- super long(13K words), filled with lots of fluff, hehe. See you on the other end!

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The sun shone like it hadn't in weeks.

Golden light filtered through the windows of the white Land Cruiser, catching in the dust motes that drifted lazily in the cabin and pooling warmly across the contours of the man seated beside her. Meerab turned her head slightly, gaze drawn – irresistibly, involuntarily – to him.

Murtasim sat quiet and still in the back seat, his body angled toward the window, but his hand was firmly entwined with hers, their joined fingers resting on the fabric of his shalwar. The familiar weight of his palm under hers was grounding, anchoring, perfect. Her eyes moved slowly, greedily across him. Because how could she not look?

He was wearing a dark-brown shalwar kameez, the cotton soft and pressed, clinging to the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his recovering frame. His beard had grown back, neat and proud, just the way he liked it. His moustache was trimmed sharp at the edges. His face had filled out again, no longer drawn tight with pain and weightlessness.

He looked...like her Murtasim.

It had been seven weeks. Seven long, aching, bruised and breathless weeks since the night she had driven away from the Khan haveli, heart in her throat, the bitter taste of fear coating her tongue.

Seven weeks since the world had splintered beneath her feet.

25 days of hospital rooms and too-white linens, of watching and waiting, of praying to every power she had ever believed in.

24 days of mending. Of steady breath and slow laughter. Of watching him come back to life, one whispered "Meerab" at a time.

And now here they were. His hand in hers, their car easing into the driveway of the haveli.

Home. Finally.

She could feel it before she saw it: the shift in Murtasim's body beside her. Not a movement, exactly, but a quiet energy, an almost imperceptible hum that passed through him and found its way into her bones. Joy. Relief. The tender weight of return.

She knew the feeling. She had felt it herself not too long ago, when she had come home from Karachi, law school finished, pulling up the familiar driveway. Just months ago. She remembered the scent of the courtyard, the particular creak of the haveli gates, the soft echo of her own footsteps on marble. She had missed it then.

She had missed it now.

But more than the bricks and archways, more than the dusty sunshine slanting through latticework, what she had missed most sat right beside her. The way he looked at the house, with a faint smile tugging at his mouth, made her heart twist sweetly in her chest.

Home.

Not just the building. Not just the city. Him. Here.

Murtasim turned toward her then, his eyes catching the sunlight and reflecting something older than memory, something gentler than speech.

His fingers squeezed hers.

Her throat caught.

From the front seat, Arsalan's voice broke the silence, cheerful and warm. "Welcome home."

Maa Begum and Maryam came rushing out towards the courtyard as they pulled up. Just as they had the day Meerab had returned from Karachi, long ago and not-so-long. Their expressions were luminous with relief, glowing with welcome. Maa Begum's dupatta fluttered around her shoulders as she waited in the courtyard, Maryam not far behind, both of them looking as if they had been holding their breath for days and had only just exhaled.

Murtasim sighed beside her, the breath slow and weighty, his chest rising with the ache of it.

Meerab leaned in, brushing her shoulder against his. "What happened?"

He shook his head slowly, and a smile curved his mouth, tired but true.

"It's good to be back," he said, and though the words were quiet, they rang inside her like a bell.

She turned fully toward him just as Bhaktu stepped forward and opened the car door for Murtasim.

And then, Murtasim moved.

No crutch. No walker. Just him.

He stepped out of the car with the same quiet grace he had always carried in his bones, the familiar lines of his body steady, assured. The bright sunlight caught the edge of his sleeve, fluttering against the dark brown fabric of his shalwar kameez. It fit him again, perfectly, not like the weeks before when it had hung too loose on a body too fragile.

If it weren't for the beige sling supporting his left arm, no one would have guessed. No one would have known that this man had been cradled at death's doorstep, kissed by shadows, gripped by the edge of something far too cold.

Her Murtasim was back.

The breath in her chest caught when he looked back at her as he stood outside the car now, the door still open.

"Wait," he said, just as she reached for the handle of her own door.

She blinked. "What?"

He didn't answer, just closed his door gently before beginning to walk, slowly, purposefully, around the front of the car.

She furrowed her brows, confused, until she saw where he was heading.

And then she giggled. Soft, disbelieving, undone.

Because of course.

Of course, he would do this. Because he always did. Because even now, sling-bound and healing, he remembered the smallest things. Like opening her car door.

Her fingers pressed to her mouth to hide the grin growing there.

From the driver's seat, Arsalan groaned loudly, throwing his head back against the headrest. "This is so nauseating."

Meerab didn't hear him, not really. Her eyes were on Murtasim as he reached her side of the car and, with the same elegance he'd always had, opened her door. He angled his head slightly, that familiar little 'chalo' gesture she had come to adore – half command, half invitation, all Murtasim.

Her heart could have burst from the sweetness of it.

God, she loved him.

She slipped her hand into his – his right hand, the strong one, the steady one – and stepped out of the car. His fingers curled around hers at once, warm and sure, as though he had no intention of letting go.

And in that moment, something in her rose like music.

Before she could talk herself out of it, before she could remember decorum or the teasing remarks already piling up behind her, she rose on her toes, leaned in, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

It was soft. Brief. But it held the weight of every day spent in grief, every hour spent beside his hospital bed, every silent plea and whispered promise.

He smiled.

Not the tired, grateful smiles of recovery. But the one that lit his whole face. The one that told her he was happy. That he was whole.

She smiled back, eyes shining.

"Welcome home," she whispered.

From somewhere behind them, Arsalan made an exaggerated retching noise.

She ignored it completely.

Still holding Murtasim's hand, she turned toward the haveli and pulled him with her, step by step, toward Maa Begum, who stood waiting.

The courtyard greeted them like a long-lost friend, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. The air was perfumed with the intoxicating scent of blooming bougainvillea, their vibrant purple bracts cascading over the stone walls, releasing a fragrance reminiscent of jasmine and citrus, enlivened by a smooth musk background. The blossoms swayed gently in the breeze, their delicate petals whispering secrets of homecoming and renewal.

Murtasim muttered under his breath, a wry smile playing on his lips. "She's always ready."

Meerab followed his gaze and giggled softly. Maa Begum stood poised with a wad of crisp notes in her hands, ready to perform sadqa. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and her lips moved in silent prayers as she prepared to ward off the evil eye from her beloved son and daughter-in-law.

As they approached, Maa Begum began to circle the money around Murtasim's head, her voice a soothing murmur of blessings. She then turned to Meerab, repeating the ritual, her hands steady despite the emotion that quivered in her voice. Finally, she circled more notes around both of them together, her eyes closing briefly as she whispered a heartfelt prayer. With a nod, she handed the money to Bhaktu, instructing him to distribute it among the poor.

Murtasim sighed, a mixture of affection and exasperation.

Meerab leaned in, her voice a gentle admonition. "Behave," she whispered.

He turned to her, eyebrows raised in mock offense, but she met his gaze with a pointed look. "She does it because she cares."

As if on cue, a procession of servants emerged, each carrying large platters laden with food, clothing, and other essentials to be donated. Murtasim released her hand momentarily, touching each platter as it passed, a silent acknowledgment of gratitude.

Maa Begum clapped her hands together, her voice warm and welcoming. "Let's go inside. You must be tired from the journey."

Murtasim nodded, a hint of grumpiness in his demeanor, but he reached for Meerab's hand once more, intertwining their fingers as they walked toward the entrance. The path was familiar, one they had traversed countless times, yet today it felt different, more than just a routine.

As they stepped into the cool interior of the haveli, Maa Begum fussed over Murtasim, assuring him that his room had been cleaned and prepared for his return. Meerab smiled, anticipating the comfort of her own room and the chance to freshen up.

She began to step away, but Murtasim's grip tightened around her hand. She turned to him, one eyebrow arched in question.

Maryam, ever the observer, teased, "I swear, it's like your hands are magnets."

Arsalan chimed in, "They held hands the whole drive home. I thought I'd have to pry them apart with a crowbar."

Meerab rolled her eyes, her cheeks tinged with a rosy hue. "Chhodo mera haath," she murmured to Murtasim, noting Maryam and Feena's giggles.

Murtasim shook his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Kabhi nahi."

She sighed, a smile tugging at her lips, and turned to Maa Begum, who was watching the exchange with an expression that was both exasperated and amused.

Turning to his mother, Murtasim declared, "Meerab will stay in my room from now on."

Maa Begum stuttered, her eyes wide. "Rukhsati – "

Murtasim shrugged nonchalantly. "Koi rok sakta hai toh rokle."

Arsalan snickered, and Maa Begum opened her mouth to protest, but Murtasim cut her off. "Meri biwi hai," he stated firmly, pulling Meerab along as he headed toward his room. "Wake us up for dinner."

Maa Begum's voice trailed behind them, a soft murmur of disapproval and resignation. Maryam and Arsalan's laughter echoed through the hallway, their amusement at Murtasim's audacity filling the air. Meerab glanced at her husband, and sighed.

"Murtasim," she chided gently, her tone a blend of affection and reproach.

He offered her a mischievous grin, unrepentant and utterly charming.

As they stepped into his, now their, room, a wave of memories washed over Meerab. Her gaze was drawn to the bed, the very bed she had woken up in alone that fateful night. The night he had vanished, leaving her to the terror of his absence and the agony of nearly losing him.

Her heart clenched, the vivid recollection stealing the warmth from the room. The joy of their return was momentarily eclipsed by the shadow of that night.

Murtasim, ever attuned to her, noticed the shift in her demeanor. He stepped in front of her, concern etched into his features.

"What happened?" he asked softly.

She looked up at him, her eyes reflecting the storm of emotions within. Placing her hands atop his, she found solace in the familiar warmth of his touch, his fingers instinctively intertwining with hers, offering comfort.

"If you ever, and I mean ever, disappear from this bed again without telling me exactly where you're going or taking me with you, I will kill you myself," she declared, her voice trembling with determination.

He smirked, the corners of his mouth lifting in amusement. "What if I have to go to the bathroom?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You have to tell me."

He chuckled, the sound rich and soothing. "Acha, and you're not going to get angry when I randomly wake you up at 3 a.m.?"

"Use your judgment," she muttered, half-whining now, her brows drawn in tight, "but don't disappear."

Before the final word had fully left her lips, his right hand lifted. Slowly. Deliberately. With the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred things. It was a gesture she had felt before, one that had anchored her more times than she could count. But this one felt different. More fragile. More necessary.

His palm, warm and calloused, curved gently along her jaw, fingers slipping into the thick fall of her hair, thumb resting just below the high arc of her cheekbone. He held her like that, as if she were something precious, breakable, and entirely his to guard.

Her breath caught.

The pads of his fingers curled slightly, not possessively, not urgently. But with a kind of aching tenderness that made her want to cry. His palm cradled her face as though it were the most natural thing in the world, like he had been doing it every day of their lives and would keep doing it for the rest of them.

And still, he said nothing.

Because he didn't need to.

His eyes spoke the language her soul knew best – love that had survived the edge of ruin.

And for one long, suspended breath, they didn't move.

His hand still cradled her cheek, his thumb brushing in a slow, absent rhythm across her skin. She turned her face slightly, nuzzling into his palm like it was the only thing anchoring her to this earth. Maybe it was. That hand, so steady even in its healing, made her feel small in the safest way.

"I won't," he said softly, voice low and a little rough, like gravel soaked in honey. "Happy?"

She nodded. Wordless. Her throat felt too full for speech.

His mouth curved. Not a smirk. Not quite a smile. Just a soft lift at the corner that made her heart flutter.

"Now stop pouting," he murmured, "and give me a kiss."

Meerab rolled her eyes, slow and dramatic, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. A smile pulled at them, no matter how hard she fought it.

"Murtasim – "

But he wasn't listening. His other arm, still half-tucked in its sling, moved with effort until his hand wrapped around her wrist. It, along with the hand already on her face guided her gently, insistently, forward.

"You'll hurt yourself!" She reprimanded, but he ignored her, holding her to him.

"Please?" he added, like a child asking for candy. Then, more conspiratorially, he added, "It speeds up the healing process. Scientifically proven."

She snorted. "Is that so?"

"I haven't been kissed since we left the hospital," he said, utterly solemn.

She rolled her eyes again but her fingers curled into the fabric of his kameez, steadying herself. She rose onto the balls of her feet and leaned in, her lips brushing against his with the barest pressure, featherlight. A kiss soft as breath, as memory, as prayer. His lips moved beneath hers, tender and unhurried. His good hand tightened slightly at her jaw, his thumb tracing the hollow of her cheek, anchoring her to him.

It was a kiss that didn't ask for more. It just was. Gentle. Full of the kind of sweetness that comes only after grief.

And just when he tilted his head, deepening it ever so slightly, trying to chase more, she pulled back. Breathlessly, her eyes still closed for a moment longer than his.

"Time for you to nap," she whispered against his mouth.

He groaned, dramatically. "But I'm not tired."

"You yawned ten times," she reminded, already leading him toward the bed, "and whined the entire ride over about how tired you were."

He narrowed his eyes, grumbling under his breath. "That doesn't sound like me."

"Oh, it was you," she said, pressing a hand to his chest to guide him down gently onto the bed.

As he sank back into the pillows with a contented sigh, already half-lost in comfort, he grabbed her wrist before she could step away.

"Nap with me," he murmured, his voice low, sleep already tugging at the edges of it.

Meerab nodded, the answer forming before her thoughts could catch up. It was always yes when it came to him.

She moved with quiet familiarity, slipping beneath the covers and crawling gently across the mattress, careful not to jostle him too much. It was a practiced motion now, one that had become instinctual over the last few weeks in the hospital – adjusting her limbs to mold to his, finding the safest places to touch, the softest angles to hold him without pressing against bruises or broken bone.

But here, in their own bed, with no machines, no beeping monitors, no antiseptic air clinging to the walls, everything felt softer. More whole.

He lifted his right arm, the good one, without her asking. It opened like a gate and she stepped into it, settling down until her cheek rested against his chest, the steady drum of his heart immediately soothing something inside her that still hadn't fully unclenched.

She exhaled slowly, her fingers curling into the fabric of his kameez near his ribs. "I forgot how comfy this mattress is," she hummed.

He chuckled, low and warm, and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. "I didn't," he whispered. "I missed this."

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment. The scent of him was here again, mixed with the lingering laundry detergent and the faintest trace of his cologne. It was the scent of comfort. Of coming home.

She sighed. "This is how we were sleeping here last time," she murmured, her voice quieter now, memory creeping in like the breeze through the parted curtains. "Your arm around me, my face right here. And then I woke up alone."

He was silent for a long second. She could feel him inhale, deep and slow, beneath her ear.

"I didn't want to wake you," he said. "I thought it was just another normal trip. There and back. I thought I'd be home in time for breakfast."

She clenched her eyes shut. It hurt. Not because he had left. But because he hadn't known.

"Don't go again," she whispered. "Take me with you."

He didn't hesitate. His lips brushed her temple like a vow.

"Yes, meri Meerab."

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The soft slap of her slippers against the marble echoed lightly through the quiet corridor, weaving through the gentle swish of her dupatta and the low, content hum that slipped past her lips without thought.

There was a spring in her step that she wouldn't have admitted to aloud. Her hands cupped the delicate porcelain bowl of kheer with the care of someone holding a secret too precious to drop. She had let it rest to cool after lunch, tucked away with purpose and foresight, because he never liked it warm. It had to be just right. Cool. Rich with crushed almonds, softened rice, and thick milk. Despite the lid fitted snugly over the bowl and a serving spoon resting neatly atop it, the scent of elaichi still wafted up to meet her, sweet and heady.

She reached the familiar door to their suite and nudged it open with her elbow, balancing the bowl in her hands. No knock, no announcement. She didn't need one anymore.

The room, their room, had slowly begun to shift over the last few weeks. Not with grand declarations, but with small truths. A hairbrush on the wrong side of the dresser. Her books piling next to his cufflinks. Dupattas draped carelessly over the chaise. The servants no longer blinked when her belongings were delivered into the suite one by one. And Maa Begum gave them that sharp-eyed, lips-pressed look of quiet disapproval, but she hadn't said a word. Just pursed her lips tighter with each passing day as Meerab's presence cemented itself with the same inevitability as time.

She stepped into their suite with the easy, unthinking grace of someone who belonged, because she did. Her fingers still curled lightly around the cool ceramic bowl of kheer. She placed it gently on the low table in front of the sofa, beside the tray that had, over the past few weeks, become a fixture, laden with the quiet rituals of shared life: two glasses, always placed close together; small bowls for nuts, dates, or the snacks he never asked for but always finished.

She moved toward the bedroom, her steps soft, unconsciously quiet, past the open closet where her more colorful clothing fluttered rebelliously beside his more neutral pieces. The bathroom door was ajar, light spilling out in a golden arc across the floor, and from within drifted the unmistakable scent of his body wash. Sharp, clean, edged with cedar and something musky that lingered long after he was gone. The scent reached her before the sight of him did.

And there he was.

Standing in front of the dresser with his back to her, framed by the warm late-afternoon light filtering through the curtains, Murtasim Khan was locked in a losing battle with his kurta. The cotton had bunched awkwardly around his chest and shoulder, the neckline twisted and stubborn, half-trapped over his head. His injured arm, still held close to his body in its dark sling, was of no help. And the other flailed with increasing frustration. His muttered curses were low, precise, and very colourful.

The sight made her stop. She tilted her head and just looked at him for a moment.

Even in this moment of thoroughly undignified struggle, he was still the most absurdly beautiful man she had ever seen. Sunlight gilded the line of his neck, the sharp blade of his jaw, caught in the slight sheen of exertion across his skin. His hair, still damp from a quick bath, curled boyishly at the nape of his neck. The muscles of his back rippled with every irritated pull of his good arm.

"Why don't you ever ask for help?" she murmured to herself, shaking her head.

He had been like this since the injury, bristling at offered assistance, prickling under too much attention, his temper closer to the surface.

Meerab leaned against the wall beside the dresser, crossing her arms, the barest hint of a smirk playing on her lips.

"You look like you're fighting with your clothes, Murtasim," she said, tone light and indulgent, mischief threaded through the concern. "And losing."

He froze. Let out a long, tightly controlled breath through his nose, his posture stiff with annoyance...and embarrassment.

"Meerab," he sighed. "Don't start."

She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

He was irritated more these days, she had noticed. Not with her. No, never with her. But with the world, with the constant parade of visitors, the endless hovering of well-meaning family, the suffocating weight of everyone's worry. He tolerated it all with the same calm he'd always worn like armour, but she could see the cracks. She had always seen them, even when no one else did.

And right now, the fabric that clung to his shoulder like a petulant child was another crack in that composure.

She stepped forward, her smile growing. "Start what? I'm simply observing. This is very entertaining."

He turned his head toward her voice, movements stiff with irritation, and narrowed his eyes. But the effect was entirely undermined by the sight of his kurta flopped over one ear like a reluctant turban. It drooped limply, twisted and half-off, its collar caught somewhere between his neck and shoulder like it had given up halfway through the job. He looked utterly ridiculous. Adorable, but ridiculous.

If she hadn't been biting the inside of her cheek, the laugh would have escaped her. As it was, her lips twitched in betrayal, curling upward with affection she didn't bother hiding anymore.

"I'll manage," he said stiffly, with the hollow pride of a man who very obviously could not.

He tugged again, jerking his arm in a way that made him hiss under his breath. The wince that followed pulled at her, more than she'd expected.

"Yes, that's clearly going very well," Meerab said, voice deadpan, as she moved her body to stand in front of him. "Stop moving."

"I don't need help," he grumbled.

"Of course you don't," she murmured. "You're Murtasim Khan, after all. You wrestle fate with one hand and rebuild your empire with the other. But since one of those mighty hands is currently tucked into a sling, allow me, the lowly commoner, your wife, to save you from the villainy of..." she tugged gently at the bunched white cotton "...domestic wear."

He opened his mouth to protest, maybe defend his honour, but thought better of it. Her smirk only widened at his silence.

And he was pouting. He wouldn't admit it, and he wouldn't have called it that even under torture, but she knew. That slight downturn of his mouth, the way he shifted his weight like a sulking teenager, he was pouting. And he looked completely, devastatingly adorable doing it.

She softened.

Without another word, she reached up and gently began working the trapped fabric free from under the sling. The cotton was caught awkwardly, and she had to shift closer, her breath nearly brushing his skin as she leaned in.

Her fingers found the seam where the fabric had folded beneath the strap. She tugged gently, careful not to pull too hard. Her knuckles grazed his skin, and she felt it then – the warmth of him. He was warm everywhere, his shoulder blades solid beneath her touch, the skin slightly damp from the humidity or the effort, she couldn't tell. She felt the way his muscles stilled beneath her hand, how the breath seemed to still in his lungs.

But he said nothing.

"Hold still," she whispered, and her voice came out huskier than she intended. She cleared her throat softly and focused. The sleeve slipped down over his good arm first, he eased it out slowly, obediently now, letting her guide the motion.

The kurta was old and soft, worn at the wrists, a little faded at the collar, something he wore when comfort outweighed appearance. Familiar. Lived-in. Like him.

As she tugged the neckline over his collarbone, he bent forward slightly to help, and the movement brought his nape in line with her eyes. Her knuckles brushed the soft curls that clung to his damp neck. The contact was accidental, but it arrested her all the same.

Her hand paused, barely half a second, but he noticed.

"Taking your time?" he said, voice low and smug.

The corner of her mouth twitched again. The audacity of him.

"Enjoying the view?"

She yanked the kurta the rest of the way off with just enough unnecessary force to prove a point and tossed it onto the bed. "If I was enjoying it, you'd know."

But the truth was...she was enjoying it. Far too much.

The way his skin looked in the golden light pouring through the curtains, bronzed and without bruises now. The slight lines at his waist, the slope of his spine. She had memorised all of him without trying, and yet every glimpse still felt new.

He grinned, a slow curl of amusement at the edges of his lips. The sling still strapped diagonally across his torso, but otherwise, he was bare. And beautiful. Not in the way a poet might say of a man, but in the way that stole breath. Strong, worn, carved from experience and resolve.

She didn't stare. But she looked. And kept looking.

Because he was looking at her, too. In that way he did sometimes, when the world quieted, when he let his guard down just enough to let her in, like he had something he wanted to tell her, something that sat behind his teeth and never quite made it to the air.

"Well?" he said, tilting his head, voice playful but heavy with something warmer. "Now that I'm half-naked and helpless, what do you intend to do with me?"

Meerab snorted. "Feed you. Then threaten to sedate you if you don't stop being a pain."

He didn't miss a beat. "I'd prefer dessert first." His voice dipped lower. A wicked gleam danced in his eyes. "Something sweet. You, preferably."

She didn't flinch. Instead, she took a single, measured step forward, and lifted her hand without warning. Placed it flat against his chest.

He stilled. Breath hitched. Just slightly. Just enough.

Her palm rested over his heart. She felt the heat of him, the thrum beneath her fingers. It made her dizzy.

"You keep saying lines like that," she murmured, looking up at him through her lashes, "and I will sedate you."

"With your kisses?" he breathed.

"With chloroform," she replied sweetly.

He grinned, wide and boyish, but it was short-lived. His body betrayed him, just for a moment, a wince that flickered across his features as his shoulder shifted beneath the sling, pain sharp enough to dull the humour in his eyes.

Meerab's teasing evaporated instantly, the curve of her mouth sobering into something tender. Her hand lifted before she even thought about it, instinct overriding everything else. Gentle fingers found the edge of the sling, adjusting the strap near his shoulder with the same care one might use on something fragile. Her touch lingered, soft and certain, her brows furrowed in quiet concern.

"You should've called me," she said, voice low now, intimate. The pads of her fingers brushed over the edge of the strap, her touch featherlight, but her gaze firm.

Murtasim looked at her, something unreadable in his expression, before he shrugged, carefully, with the uninjured side. "Didn't want to bother you."

Meerab rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide the exasperation. "You're never a bother," she said, the words direct, cutting through whatever martyrdom he'd been telling himself in that overstuffed head of his. "You're my... idiot husband," she added, the softest smile tugging at her lips. "Try acting like it."

He didn't reply, but his eyes softened, and the corner of his mouth curled just slightly.

"And," she added, stepping back just enough to look at him properly, "why are you undressing yourself again?"

"I spilled hair gel on the kurta," he muttered, deadpan.

She blinked.

Her eyes dropped to the bed, where the kurta lay in a defeated heap, and there it was. She spotted the damp stain near his collarbone, glossy and slightly darkened. The gel had matted a small section of the fabric into a stiff patch.

She sighed. "You and your styling products."

"Tragic loss," he said solemnly, as if mourning a fallen soldier.

"You need a full-time nanny."

"I don't, I have my wife."

She glared at him. He grinned again.

Her gaze drifted to the fresh kurta lying folded neatly at the edge of the dresser, a warm, earthy brown, soft cotton. Of course it was the brown one. The one he kept reaching for. Her eyes flicked to the matching sling, and she bit back a snicker.

"You keep wearing this kurta," she said, arching a brow. "Because it matches the sling, right?"

He didn't deny it.

She turned toward the bed and picked up the garment, fingers skimming across the fabric as she held it up. "Do you want help?"

"I can dress myself," he sighed, already preparing to stubborn his way through it.

She arched a brow again.

He stared at her.

She didn't blink.

Then, with the most reluctant sigh in the history of sighs. "Fine."

Meerab smiled victoriously, but hid it as she unfolded the kurta. "I'm your wife," she said with mock solemnity. "Not helping you dress...and undress would be a crime against the Constitution."

He let out a short, huffed laugh. "You better remember that later. Is there a clause about helping me into bed too?"

She gave him a slow, sweet smile, dangerous. "Section 144," she teased, eyes dancing. "Forbidden until further notice."

"Coward," he shot back, but his voice was quiet, fond.

She moved closer, close enough to see the faint freckle at the hollow of his throat, to feel the warmth radiating off his bare skin.

"Lift your arm," she said gently.

He did, slowly, carefully. She reached out, unfastened the sling with practiced fingers, and slipped his injured arm into the sleeve first. Her movements were deft but tender, and when her fingertips brushed his ribs, he twitched slightly but didn't pull away.

Then came the other arm, then the careful tug of fabric over his head, which she managed with only the barest rustle. The whole task was accomplished in silence, broken only by the occasional brush of skin and the quiet sound of her breathing.

Once the kurta was on, she put the sling back on and smoothed the kurta down with both hands, fingers brushing over his chest, deliberately. The cotton settled flat beneath her touch.

"Heal faster," she murmured, her hands still on him. "Then we'll negotiate."

His breath caught, just a little, and she didn't miss it.

He shifted beneath her hands as she smoothed the last crease of the kurta, and for a breathless second, they simply stood there, her hands lingering at his chest, his gaze steady and warm, drinking her in like she was the only steady thing in a world that refused to pause.

"I made kheer by the way," she muttered.

He smirked, and then he moved, his lips moving closer to her ear.

"Forget the kheer," he paused, his lips grazing the curve of her ear, "you taste better...we could stay right here."

His breath brushed against the shell of her ear as he said it, barely a whisper, and the implication wrapped around her like heat.

Her mind betrayed her immediately, flashing there, to that night. The one neither of them had spoken of since, because nothing had gone right after. But the memory of her spread out on the kitchen counter, his face buried between her legs, carved itself into the space between them like it lived just beneath her skin. His hands pinning her hips, his mouth between her thighs, her sobbed gasp of his name.

She squealed, truly squealed, and slapped his arm (carefully) on instinct, then did the only thing her dignity allowed.

She buried her face in his chest with a mortified groan.

"Murtasim," she hissed, voice muffled by cotton and sheer panic.

He burst out laughing, the sound rich and delighted, vibrating through his chest where she now had her entire face hidden.

"You're embarrassed by what I said," he teased, voice shaking with amusement, "but still hiding in me? That's some very confusing messaging, Meerab."

She groaned into his chest.

"I should go find someone else to help," she mumbled, words muffled by fabric and pride.

"No," he said immediately, not missing a beat. "You're not going anywhere."

She rolled her eyes and finally peeked up at him, face still warm. He looked far too pleased with himself, and she couldn't decide if she wanted to slap his arm or kiss his face.

Instead, she sighed and looped her arms around his waist, pulling him close. Her hands settled over his back, gentle against the tension there.

"Let's go eat kheer," she murmured, cheek still pressed against him. "Then you're going to take a nap. And I'm not going to hear a word about it."

He leaned back just slightly, just enough to look down at her.

"Will you feed me?" he asked, voice dipped in mischief.

She leaned her head back and looked up at him, face tilted, eyes glinting. "I don't know," she said slowly, her lips curving in mock thoughtfulness. "I thought you could do things yourself."

He pouted, actually pouted, lower lip jutting out in the most insufferable, irresistible way. It was a trick he only ever used with her, and he knew it worked. Every time.

She snickered, entirely immune to her own resistance. "Chalo," she said, unwrapping her arms but catching his hand in hers. "Let's go before you guilt me into spoon-feeding you like a toddler."

He followed, sling tucked close, her fingers curled in his.

He let her lead for a few steps. But then his voice came, low and teasing, a velvet tug on a frayed thread. "Why are you so shy all of a sudden?"

She glanced over her shoulder at him, brows lifting.

"I mean," he continued, that infuriating smirk making an appearance as he leaned a little closer, "you used to pester me to fuck you every time I so much as sat down. I thought you'd be delighted, maybe even spread out on the bed dramatically the second I suggested dessert."

Meerab's gasp was audible. She spun, eyes wide in scandalized disbelief, and whacked him, lightly, carefully, on the shoulder opposite his sling. He grunted, but grinned through it like a man proud of the chaos he'd caused.

"I don't know!" she said, clearly flustered, cheeks blooming crimson. "Don't ask me!"

But she really didn't know. She'd been relentless before the accident. Bold in her want, insatiable in the way she touched him, teased him, whispered things in his ear just to see how fast he'd crumble. There had been no hesitation in her then, only fire.

Before the accident, Murtasim was unshakeably solid to her – physically strong, emotionally grounded, always in control. Her desire came from a place of safety. She could tease him, provoke him, climb into his lap and whisper the filthiest things because, in her heart, she believed he was invincible. Her hunger didn't carry the weight of fear or fragility.

But this, now, it was different. The accident had done something strange and quiet to her nerves, shaken something loose. Seeing him in pain, seeing the blood, watching his body forced still when it had always been strength, motion, life – it had pulled something tight inside her.

Suddenly, his body wasn't just a thing of strength and desire, it was vulnerable. Breakable. The deisre hadn't disappeared. If anything, it burned hotter, more desperate in its quiet moments. But layered over it now was tenderness. She still wanted to crawl into his lap and undo him. But part of her brain kept whispering: What if you hurt him? What if he's not ready?

He tilted his head at her, watching her cheeks burn, her lips press together as she fumbled for words that were only just forming inside her head.

"You don't know," he echoed, clearly amused. "My shameless, bossy wife doesn't know."

"I swear, Murtasim, I am going to —" she began.

He was still smirking. "It's fine. I'll wait for her to come back. The one who climbed into my lap at every opportunity and tried to take my clothes off...who tied me to a chair just to –"

"MURTASIM!" she shrieked, covering his mouth with her hand.

His eyes twinkled above her palm.

"Shut up," she hissed.

He licked her palm.

She squealed and shoved him toward the couch, he laughed.

---------------------------------

Murtasim stirred from slumber, the dim glow of the study's desk lamp casting long, golden shadows across the familiar landscape of his home. The air was thick with the scent of paper and ink, the soft musk of old leather, and something warm and familiar – lavender and vanilla. His eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the gentle hush of night. It took him a moment to remember he wasn't in their bedroom but curled on the leather sofa of the study. A soft blanket lay over him, tucked around his chest with careful hands, and his heart tightened with the knowledge that she had been the one to do it.

Meerab.

His gaze drifted to the desk, where Meerab sat immersed in her work. Her hair was swept up into a loose bun, the strands too stubborn to stay put curling down to kiss her cheeks. Blue-light glasses perched precariously on her nose, too low, as always. Her fingers moved in rhythmic flourishes across the keyboard, pausing only to scribble a note or push her glasses back up with the back of her hand. She looked exhausted, but not tired. No, she glowed with the kind of quiet, undeterred fire that came from doing something that mattered. And to him, she had never looked more beautiful.

She didn't know he was watching, and for a moment, he didn't breathe.

He simply watched.

The slope of her spine curved over the desk, framed by the soft amber of the desk lamp. Light poured across her face, turning the fine wisps of her hair into threads of gold, outlining the proud arch of her brow, the shape of her cheek, the determined press of her lips.

His wife.

His warrior.

She looked like she belonged in a different century, somewhere in a battle not fought with guns but paper and truth. A woman stitched together with steel and poetry. She was everything their world had failed to prepare for.

The study, once a haven for quiet contemplation, had transformed into a war room. Stacks of notebooks, open laptops, and scattered tapes cluttered the space. The soft hum of hard drives filled the silence, a constant reminder of the battle they were waging.

The television screen was dark now, but Murtasim recalled the disturbing footage they had reviewed earlier. They never watched the tapes that were taken from the brothel in their entirety; many were too vile, others irrelevant. Instead, they fast-forwarded through hours of content, marking timestamps where men discussed illicit deals, land transfers, and whispered names that connected the dots of corruption. Names. Dates. Voices. Amounts. Signatures. Faces.

Murtasim maintained a meticulous notebook, jotting down names and numbers, while Meerab clipped and compiled the crucial footage onto USB drives. They had resolved to share only what was necessary with the authorities, withholding other evidence for strategic leverage.

He watched her now, the soft light illuminating her face as she typed, surrounded by legal documents and affidavits. Her dedication was unwavering, spearheading a legal offensive that no one had anticipated. Civil suits, criminal petitions, and protective orders for witnesses, she managed it all with a tenacity that left him in awe.

She looked like a woman possessed. Not with vengeance but with purpose. And it was, somehow, even more dangerous.

And so beautiful.

By day, they held meetings with politicians, police officers, retired judges, the Shahs and their allies came and went. Plans were made. Cases were built. Strategies debated. But by night, she became someone else. Not someone different, but someone more.

More focused. More brilliant. More his.

His Meerab hunched over legal petitions at 2:00 a.m. with tired eyes and fire in her veins.

He cleared his throat softly.

Not loud. Not abrupt. Just enough to shift the stillness, to let her know he was awake.

Meerab looked up immediately from her laptop, startled, her fingers pausing mid-keystroke. The glasses low on her nose caught the lamplight as she blinked at him, guilt clouding her eyes like she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't. "Did I wake you?" she asked, her voice soft, familiar.

He nodded, slow, watching her closely. "Come back," he said, his voice low, rough with sleep but steady in intent.

Because she had been beside him. That much he remembered. Her breath had been warm against his collarbone, one leg tossed carelessly over his. He had fallen asleep like that, with the steady thrum of her heartbeat against him and the scent of her hair in his lungs.

He expected her to protest. She always did. "Just five more minutes," she'd whisper, eyes trained on whatever document she was dissecting, half-curled on the floor or the edge of a chair, ankle bouncing in thought. Sometimes she'd bribe him with kisses, sometimes with promises of coming to bed "right after I finish this paragraph." He'd learned to take it all with a fond sigh and a resigned heart.

But tonight, she surprised him.

She closed the laptop with a soft click, pulled her glasses off and set them down. And then, without a word, she stood, her bare feet silent against the cool floor, and walked toward him.

She was wearing a loose white shalwar-kameez, one of his favourites, the kind that billowed gently with her movement. Her hair slipped out of its bun as she walked over, tumbling down her back in soft waves, strands clinging to her cheeks, her throat.

She looked like something out of a dream.

And then she was climbing onto the couch, onto him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. One knee pressed into the cushion beside his hip, her arm sliding gently across his waist as she folded herself onto him with careful grace. She rested her head over his chest, sighing quietly as her body curled around his, her limbs threading with his like she belonged there.

She did.

"We should go back to our room," she murmured into the hollow of his throat, the warmth of her breath making his skin tighten.

He hummed in response, too full of her to form words. One arm curled around her back. The other came up slowly, he had taken the sling off earlier, as he did most nights now. It still hurt, a dull ache more than anything else, but it was manageable. And worth it, just to feel her. Just to hold her properly.

Her fingers moved then, deft and unhurried, slipping open the top two buttons of his kurta. The fabric parted beneath her knuckles, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the base of his neck.

She inhaled.

And he felt it, not just the kiss, but the breath that followed it. The way she took him in. As if memorizing the scent of him, the feel of him, was a need.

"You should've woken me," he said after a moment, dragging a hand through her hair, his fingers tangling in the warm strands. "I would've helped."

She shook her head against his chest. "You looked tired," she murmured. "You've got physio in the morning. You needed the rest."

He exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding out of him. Of course she noticed. She always noticed.

"You need rest too," he whispered, his lips brushing her temple. "Keep this up and you're going to start looking like a raccoon."

She scoffed, nuzzling closer into his chest, her nose nudging against his skin. "You wouldn't like me if I looked like a raccoon?"

He smiled, slow and soft. "Raccoons would be my favourite animal if you looked like one."

A snicker bubbled out of her, quiet and delighted, vibrating against his chest. He tightened his hold around her, burying his nose in her hair, letting the weight of her lull his bones into stillness again.

This was what healing felt like. Not just the strength coming back to his body but the way his soul quieted with her in his arms. The way everything softened when she was close.

Murtasim sighed, the breath soft but weighted, curling into the hush of the late hour like smoke curling into lamplight.

"Should I carry you to bed?" he asked, his voice low, hoarse from sleep and affection both.

Meerab moved in his arms, chin still resting on his chest, her gaze flicking upward with sleepy amusement and a hint of concern. "No," she whispered, her brows twitching ever so slightly. "Your arm...and your ribs...you're still recovering."

He let out a soft laugh, the sound vibrating through his ribs into her. "I'm still strong enough to carry my small wife to bed," he murmured, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smirk, playful and sure.

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes at him. "I'm sure you are," she said, drawing out the words. "But we can't take any chances."

And then, as if some mischievous current passed through her, laced with stubbornness, affection, and a touch of madness, she pushed up slightly, bracing her small hands against his chest. "I'll take you to bed," she declared, mock-serious, eyes dancing.

He blinked at her, surprised. And then grinned. "Try it," he said, challenging her.

She rose onto her knees with the confidence of someone who had no business being that confident. He barely stifled a laugh as she hooked her arms beneath his and tried to lift. Not even an inch. He remained rooted, immovable, amused.

She grunted.

He chuckled.

Again, she tried, her jaw set, her face flushed with effort. And again, he didn't move.

The laughter that followed was contagious, helpless. His body shook with it, and so did hers, collapsing against him in breathless surrender.

"I'm strong," she insisted, trying again with less conviction and more giggles.

"You are," he agreed readily, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers trail a little longer than necessary against her cheek. "Exceptionally strong. But maybe not in the upper body."

She narrowed her eyes at him, still breathless from effort, her mouth twitching with the effort not to smile. "It's because I'm tired," she said, lifting her chin, "and I didn't eat enough."

"Of course," he said solemnly, even as his lips twitched. "Let the record show that the defendant lacked sufficient sustenance."

Her brows rose. "Defendant?"

He smirked, slow and lazy. "Yes. You, standing accused of assault by failed lifting, battery by way of enthusiasm, and... tempting a man past reason."

She gasped. "Objection. False charges. This entire proceeding is a mistrial."

He leaned forward, ignoring the dull pull in his shoulder, delighting in the way her breath hitched when his face hovered a little too close. "Overruled."

"You're the defendant," she said, poking his chest. "You attacked me with that eyebrow raise of yours. I have witnesses."

"Witnesses?" he repeated, tone dripping with mock astonishment. "Then I suppose it's only fair I demonstrate the evidence."

Before she could respond, he shifted quickly, despite the ache, and pulled her down with him, turning just enough that she landed on her back, pinned gently beneath him on the couch.

She squealed, more in laughter than alarm, and looked up at him with eyes that sparkled and dared all at once. Her laughter curled around his ribs and lit something slow and hungry beneath his skin.

Her hair, loosened from its once-neat bun, fanned across the couch like spilled ink. A halo of disarray that made her look like something celestial that had fallen into his arms. Her lips were red from laughter, parted just slightly, and her eyes looked up at him like he'd hung the stars.

Then she said his name, "Murtasim," a gentle chide curled into the syllables. "You're going to hurt yourself," she murmured, palms bracing against his chest. "Move."

She pushed at him carefully, lovingly, and though his first instinct was to refuse, to stay exactly where he was, her insistence softened him. He let her guide him back until he was seated again, the leather cool against his spine, the ache in his arm flaring in a dull hum, easily ignored.

And then she moved.

Shifted.

Lifted herself and swung one leg over him, straddling him with an ease that made his blood go hot.

She settled against him like she belonged there. She did. And he could do nothing but look. Her hands came up to cup his face, her thumbs brushing along the edge of his beard with a tenderness that unmade him. Then they moved higher, fingers sliding through his hair, tucking it back, smoothing the strands away from his forehead as if she couldn't see him clearly enough otherwise.

And all the while, she smiled.

That same smile that had undone him in a hundred different lifetimes.

That smile that still made his heart ache like it was brand new.

He leaned in.

Their mouths met like a promise and a dare.

Soft at first. Reverent.

And then again. Deeper. Slower.

His lips coaxed hers open with a practiced kind of desperation. One hand braced against the couch, the other curling around her waist, holding her closer as her fingers clutched the collar of his kurta and pulled him in until there was no space left to steal.

She made a soft sound, barely a whisper of a moan, but it tore through him like a storm.

So he kissed her again.

And again.

Every kiss a question and an answer and a prayer folded into the shape of her name.

When they pulled apart, lips swollen and breath shared, their foreheads pressed together. His eyes fluttered closed for a beat, just to feel her breath on his face.

"This is highly inappropriate behaviour for a courtroom," she whispered, breathless and grinning, her voice shaking slightly with laughter.

He kissed the corner of her jaw, slow and unhurried. "Good thing it's after hours," he replied.

Her hands smoothed over his shoulders with a touch that was both tentative and achingly familiar, as though she were learning him all over again while still knowing him by heart. Her thumbs moved with slow reverence along the curve where his shoulders met his neck, tracing the fine, warm line of skin just above the collar of his kurta. Each motion was soft, almost shy, but there was no denying the intimacy of it, she touched him like she had the right to, and the wonder of it was that she did.

A tremor moved through him before he could suppress it. His skin prickled where her fingers lingered, heat curling low in his stomach, sharp and sudden. And beneath it all, his heart thudded once, hard, like a gavel coming down with finality. Irrevocable.

"Case dismissed?" she murmured, tilting her head as she pretended to pout, her voice light.

He didn't answer at first. Just leaned in, his breath a slow tease against her skin. Then his lips brushed against the shell of her ear, soft and deliberate, and her body jolted with a violent shiver that betrayed her.

He felt it, smiled into it.

"Verdict rendered," he whispered, his voice a rumble, intimate and low. "The defendant is guilty... of being irresistible."

She shivered, violently and visibly, and he felt a sharp bolt of satisfaction slice through him. The good kind. The kind that curled through the base of his spine and made him want to press her back against the nearest wall just to see how far she'd let him go before pulling away.

But she wasn't pulling away.

She was holding him tighter now, her fingers flexing in the fabric at his sides, breath catching just beneath his jaw. And so he did what any man in love would do. He kissed her.

Not her lips. Not yet.

He trailed his mouth slowly from her ear down the column of her neck, savoring the way her body responded –how her pulse fluttered beneath his lips, how her grip on him clenched like a tide pulling him under. Her skin was warm, flushed, and when he tasted her there, he felt her breath stutter.

Her head tipped back, just slightly, as if offering him more.

"Sentencing?" she managed to gasp, though the word snagged on a breath that trembled through her chest.

He smiled against her skin, his mouth still pressed to the hollow of her neck. "Life."

Then he pulled back just enough to look at her. Her eyes were half-lidded, lashes trembling, and her mouth was already parted. She looked dazed, wrecked, so entirely his it made his chest ache.

He lifted a hand, just one, the good one, and let his knuckles graze the edge of her jaw. She leaned into it like instinct.

And then he kissed her.

Not careful this time.

Their mouths met in a crash of heat and hunger, all restraint stripped bare.

Her hands clutched his jaw, holding him in place as her lips devoured his. Their kisses turned frantic, messy, hot –his hands sliding up her back, tangling in her hair. Her hips shifted on his lap, eliciting a groan so low it rumbled from deep in his chest.

"What am I supposed to do for life?" she breathed against his mouth.

"Kiss me," he rasped, his voice wrecked and desperate.

And she did. Her fingers slid up his chest, clutched his collar, pulled him in deeper.

He groaned, the sound low and ragged, swallowed by her lips as he kissed her back with every ounce of desperation he'd buried under healing and quiet touches. His mouth slanted over hers again and again. Hungry, coaxing, claiming. His teeth tugged at her lower lip, a soft bite that made her gasp, and he drank the sound like it was salvation.

Her hips shifted on his lap, pressing closer, instinctual and breathless, and his hands flew to her waist, anchoring her to him like he didn't trust the world not to take her away. Her weight against him, the heat of her body through the thin cotton of her clothes. It was maddening. Her kiss was maddening. Everything about her was.

He tilted his head, deepened the kiss, his tongue finding hers, coaxing her into a rhythm that was less kiss, more possession. She moaned into his mouth, quiet but helpless, and it undid him completely.

It had been too long. Too long since he'd tasted her like this, felt her melt into him, moan against him, kiss him back like she was trying to crawl inside his skin. Her name echoed like a litany in his head. Meerab. Meerab. Meerab.

His fingers slid up, one hand cradling the back of her neck, the other gripping her waist as if to steady them both. Her hands were in his hair now, pulling, and the sharp tug made him groan again; this time louder, more open. She kissed him deeper for it, teeth grazing his lower lip, and he shivered under her.

She pulled back just barely, their lips still brushing, breaths shared in the sliver of space between them. Her eyes met his, wild and soft all at once.

Her fingertips trembled slightly against his jaw, caught between impulse and restraint.

"We should stop," she whispered, the words more breath than sound.

"No," he said simply.

And he kissed her again.

Because he could.

But she broke the kiss this time, a breathless giggle escaping her lips as she pressed a hand against his chest to hold him back.

"You're healing," she reminded him, her voice gently chiding, though her lips were still red and swollen from his and her cheeks still warm. "Behave, Murtasim."

He let his head fall back with a groan, closing his eyes like her restraint was the cruelest punishment known to man.

"Was it this annoying when I used to say that to you?" he asked, still catching his breath.

"Yep," she grinned, smug and soft at once, brushing her thumb over his bottom lip like she already missed the feel of it against hers.

He caught her wrist, kissed her palm.

Her hands found their way back to his chest, palms flat over the soft cotton of his kurta, fingers warm. His own hands slid over her back, drawing her close, loving the way she tucked herself against him like a second heartbeat.

"I love you," she whispered, brushing her nose against his.

His eyes didn't leave hers. "I love you," he echoed and tried to kiss her again, lips reaching for hers.

But she pulled back with a giggle, just before he could reach. He tried again. Another peck. She dodged it.

"Meerab," he groaned, chasing her mouth like a starving man, managing only the lightest brush of lips.

Another laugh, bright and breathless, as she leaned just out of reach.

Still, he kept at it, peppering her with soft, fleeting kisses on her cheek, her jaw, her smile, as she half-protested, half-melted against him.

"I'm healing," he muttered between pecks, "not dead."

She laughed again, louder this time, and kissed him once, firm and real and lingering, before pulling back just enough to whisper against his mouth.

"Good. Then keep living for me."

---------------------------------

Murtasim looked far too smug for someone sitting on the kitchen counter.

The black shalwar-kameez he wore was simple, but on him nothing ever quite looked simple. The fabric pulled across the broad plane of his chest, the sleeves pushed up past his elbows in that careless way that was probably not careless at all, revealing forearms that were far more distracting than she was willing to admit aloud.

She tried not to stare.

But there they were those arms again.

They were leaner than before, still marked faintly with the shadows of bruises not yet completely faded, but unmistakably strong. Defined. Solid. Ever since Arsalan had officially moved into the haveli, shoving his things into the west wing like he belonged there all along, the entire terrace had been transformed into what Meerab teasingly called a gym-mahal. Mats, weights, even a punching bag. And now, every morning, a trainer-slash-physiotherapist arrived, promptly at eight, slipping into the routine as easily as the servants. Apparently, recovery meant rehabilitation, and rehabilitation, it seemed, meant exercise. Short 30 minute sessions spread out throughout the day.

Slowly. Cautiously. Deliberately.

But clearly, it was working.

Meerab swallowed and forced her eyes back to the stove, scolding herself silently. Focus. Cooking. Not forearms. Not the way the light brushed the ridge of his bicep every time he moved. Not the slight sheen of effort that lingered after his sessions. Not the -

Focus.

Murtasim's legs dangled from the counter, heels tapping lightly against the cupboard below with idle rhythm. He looked almost boyish like that, like a child waiting for his favourite treat. His hair, still damp from a shower, curled slightly over his brow, disheveled and soft, as if even the day hadn't dared smooth it into place.

But his eyes – those dark, beautiful eyes – were not on her for once.

They were on the frying pan.

Specifically, the kebabs sizzling golden within it.

Meerab moved them around in the pan slowly. The air smelled like coriander and garlic, like browned onions and cumin and memory. She could feel the heat rising off the stove, hear the faint crackle as oil kissed the surface of the meat, the hiss and pop almost as satisfying as the eager, childlike gleam in her husband's eyes.

He looked like a kid in a candy store.

No, not even that. He looked like a man who had dreamt of something for weeks, had begged for it silently in the darkness of sleep and sickness, and had finally been rewarded. His lips parted slightly as he leaned forward, eyes still trained on the pan, like the kebabs might vanish if he so much as blinked.

He'd eaten the breakfast she made with such reverence. A soft, fluffy omelette, sausages, fruits, and chai sweetened just enough. But when she'd asked him what he wanted for lunch, his answer had come immediately.

Kebabs.

"Protein," he'd declared, like he was quoting scripture. "You want me strong again, don't you?"

She'd pretended that it was an inconvenience, but it was far from.

He was eating again.

Eating with joy.

And that, more than any doctor's report, felt like victory.

She smiled in spite of herself. "You know," she began lightly, flipping a kebab over with the flick of a wrist, "the last time I made these, I had just come back home... and you were avoiding me."

The words slipped out like steam, rising from a part of her that remembered far too well what that evening had felt like. How her hands had trembled just slightly as she'd shaped the meat, how she'd watched the oil simmer while stealing glances at the clock, waiting for a man that felt too distant. It seemed like another lifetime now, but not so long ago she had stood in this very kitchen uncertain of her place, unsure whether she was allowed to miss him out loud. She had tiptoed around him, afraid of reaching too far, of revealing too much, of acting like she had a right to him when she hadn't yet known if he'd given it.

His eyes snapped up to her face, guilty and amused all at once.

"I wasn't avoiding you," he said far too quickly.

"You were," she accused, shooting him a narrowed glare.

"Sorry," he offered with a grin so boyish and sweet it made her stomach flip. She tried to hold the glare, but her lips were already twitching with the effort to keep it in place.

That ridiculous, disarming smile paired with the soft tilt of his head, the charm of it all, she hated it. She hated how cute he was. How easy he made it to forgive him. How even pretending to be annoyed felt like an uphill battle against her own heart.

"I was trying to function," he added then, with a sigh so dramatically self-pitying it might have made her laugh if she hadn't been trying so hard to appear stern. He dragged his words out, his tone half-pleading, half-exasperated, as if the very act of surviving while being in love with her had required more strength than he could muster.

She rolled her eyes. "You act like you stopped functioning once you started acting normal."

"I did," he said simply, his tone factual. "Instead of working, I spend most of my day looking at you, thinking about you, following you around, trying to kiss you, and—"

"Shut up," she muttered, but her voice was breathless, colored with laughter.

And maybe she understood what he meant. Not that she'd ever say it aloud. But still. There was something maddening about how easily he turned into the centre of every moment. How a quiet breath behind her ear, a touch of his fingers grazing her back, could reduce her to something barely tethered to this earth.

She flipped another kebab. The underside was a perfect brown now, crispy on the edges, the inside still soft. She tilted the pan slightly and let the oil gather at one edge, spooning it gently over the sizzling meat.

He perked up instantly, knowing that meant the kebabs were almost done.

She could feel his excitement vibrating in the quiet air between them. His legs swung a little faster now.

"It's hot," she warned, eyeing him as she lifted a kebab off the pan with a pair of tongs.

Without missing a beat, he said, perfectly serious: "You're hotter."

She blinked.

Her hand froze mid-air.

"What?" She asked, confused.

But he was already leaning forward, lips brushing hers in the briefest, softest kiss. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't loud. Just... certain. The kind that made her eyelids flutter closed without thought, made her stomach twist like it always did with him. He pulled back before she could even react, and when she opened her eyes, he was smirking like the devil himself.

"See?" he whispered, triumphant. "Didn't get burned."

She whacked his shoulder, very gently.

"I don't know what meds they gave you to make you so...cheesy," she teased, but her cheeks were warm and the corners of her mouth were tugging upward despite her best efforts.

Still holding the kebab with the tongs, she blew on it once, twice, knowing that it wouldn't get a second of rest the moment she put it down.

She set it carefully on the plate beside him.

"You act like you haven't eaten in days," she muttered, already watching his hand reach for it before the kebab had even settled.

"I haven't, not your kebabs, anyway." He said before popping it into his mouth with the eagerness of a child presented with his favorite treat.

Meerab watched, a smile tugging at her lips, as the familiar scene unfolded, just as it had countless times before. His eyes widened, and he began fanning his mouth, making exaggerated faces as the heat of the kebab registered.

"I told you it was hot," she sang, flipping over the remaining kebabs in the pan.

He looked at her, cheeks puffed out, lips pursed, his messy hair falling over his forehead, and his beard slightly longer than usual. He looked utterly adorable, like a pouty child caught in the act.

"I need my protein," he managed to say, reaching for another kebab.

Meerab rolled her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching upward as she watched him execute the same gesture he always did – mildly ridiculous, endlessly endearing – smoothing down his moustache with the back of his fingers after every single bite. As if the kebabs might've disheveled his dignity. It had always amused her, this small, unconscious vanity nestled so deep in the very man who could walk barefoot across gravel if she so much as asked.

She lifted another kebab from the pan and placed it gently on the plate beside him, the tongs clinking softly against the porcelain. Before she could turn back to the stove, he was already breaking off a piece, steam curling upward from the tender centre. She expected him to eat it, of course she did, it was Murtasim. But instead, he surprised her.

He blew on it gently, holding the morsel between his fingers, and then, with the softest smile tugging at his lips, brought it to her mouth.

She blinked, caught off guard, this was new. She leaned forward and accepted the bite. It was hot and fragrant, laced with cumin and garlic, the taste of hours spent in the kitchen. She chewed slowly, thoughtfully, her eyes on his, watching as he prepared another piece, already offering it to her before she'd finished the first.

"You sharing kebabs," she murmured once she swallowed, a teasing lilt in her voice. "This is different."

"Don't say I don't love you now," he said with mock seriousness, feeding her another bite like it was a sacred vow.

She snorted, unable to help herself. "You like them that much, huh?"

He gave a sharp, eager nod, reaching for another. This time he did eat it himself, but far too quickly. And then, of course, it hit him. The burn.

He opened his mouth in a silent gasp, puffing out his cheeks, waving his hand near his lips as he made the trademark hot-hot-hot face he'd perfected over the years. She giggled into her hand, watching him suffer through the bite he hadn't waited for.

"Serves you right," she said, turning back to the pan with exaggerated calm. "I told you they were hot."

She turned off the stove, satisfied that all the kebabs were perfectly cooked on both sides.

She reached for the tongs to plate them, but before she could, Murtasim's hand appeared in her periphery, inching toward the plate with all the stealth of a toddler trying to steal sweets.

She smacked the back of his hand with the flat side of the tongs, not hard, just enough to make her point.

"You made them for me," he protested, his voice pitched in the kind of wounded whine that almost made her laugh. His eyes were wide and pleading, absurdly so for a grown man who stood in front of guns without flinching.

"You're going to burn yourself," she admonished.

"I survived almost getting burnt –" he began, offhanded, thoughtless, but stopped abruptly.

Just like that.

Because he saw her face.

Her hands had stilled, her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the counter. Her expression folded inward, the corners of her mouth trembling just faintly downward, her lashes fluttering as her eyes filled too quickly, too easily with tears. The memory hit her like a tide: the night she had found him, lifeless and broken.

"Meerab, yaar," he sighed, reaching for her instead of the kebabs, pulling her towards him.

He slid forward slightly where he sat on the counter, his legs opening to make space for her in that familiar, instinctive way that said this was where she belonged. His thighs bracketed her hips, anchoring her in place, and his arms – stronger now, no longer wrapped in the confines of a sling – lifted to cup her face. Warm, large palms cradled her cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears before they could spill.

"You get emotional over the smallest thing," he muttered.

She narrowed her eyes.

"Now you're angry," he said.

Her glare intensified.

The hands cupping her face held her tighter, "Even angrier. So many mood swings. Are you sure you're not pregnant?"

She whacked his chest playfully. "I wish I could hit you harder."

He laughed then. Really laughed. The sound rolled out of him, deep and warm and unrestrained. Not the careful chuckles of recovery, not the quiet hums of pain dulled with effort. But a full-bodied laugh that filled the kitchen and filled her chest and felt like sunlight finally hitting the floor after too many grey mornings.

He wrapped one arm around her waist, the other still on her cheek, and tugged her close. No hesitation, no caution. Just warmth and muscle and home.

His lips brushed her nose.

"I love you," he whispered.

"You just want me to say 'I love you too' so you can go back to eating kebabs," she muttered, though her heart swelled with affection.

"I also stare at you while I eat," he retorted, the corners of his mouth lifting into a playful grin.

She rolled her eyes, recalling a memory that seemed both distant and vivid. "Yaad hai... that was the one night you didn't have work to do," she said, her tone laced with sarcasm, remembering him sitting across the table, idly speaking kebabs with his fork, saying very little but watching her far too much. "You were so jealous," she added with a little giggle, letting herself lean back slightly in his hold, her arms draped loosely around his shoulders.

"I was," he admitted without hesitation, his gaze unwavering. "Wanted to smack Arsalan and Hamza."

Her laughter bubbled up, light and infectious, as he pulled her closer. He looked so pleased with himself, so utterly helpless against her amusement, that when he leaned in to kiss her, she barely dodged in time.

She pulled back, just enough to tease, and he chased her lips with mock urgency until she turned her face and he ended up pressing a kiss to her nose instead.

She giggled, trying to pull away, but his arms tightened around her.

"It's been a whole ten minutes since you kissed me," he whined, his voice tinged with mock desperation.

"I just did," she teased, brushing a thumb along the line of his jaw.

"That doesn't count," he pouted, his expression exaggerated.

"Such a whiny baby," she muttered, pressing a quick peck to his lips before pulling away completely. "Eat."

"I am trying," he said, leaning forward in an attempt to chase her lips again. She giggle-gasped, swatting at his chest. "Shaitaan," she scolded, her cheeks flushed with laughter.

"I liked our dynamic before," he muttered dramatically, settling back on the counter, his tone mournful. "When you were the one trying to steal my virtue..."

She gave him a look. Then, with a wicked grin, she reached out and patted his cheek. "Behave," she said sweetly, tossing his favourite word back at him with the kind of teasing triumph that made him groan.

"This is no fun," he whined, releasing her as she stepped out of his hold.

"Eat before everyone realizes there are kebabs," she instructed, her tone firm yet affectionate.

He didn't need to be told twice. With enthusiasm, he polished off the kebabs, one after another, savoring each bite.

"What am I going to get in return this time?" she teased, recalling how kebabs once earned her golgappas and spontaneous car rides when they were younger.

"You already have my heart, what else do you want?" he replied, his tone light and flirtatious.

"So...I didn't have your heart back then?" she pouted, watching with satisfaction as his eyes widened slightly.

"You did... but my heart is bigger now and all of it is yours... even more?" he offered, attempting to recover.

She rolled her eyes, the gesture fond and familiar.

"Should I try again?" he whispered, his voice low and earnest.

She shook her head, stepping closer once more. His legs parted instinctively, making space for her as she wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

He seemed taken aback for a moment, then returned the embrace, his good arm enveloping her in warmth. "What happened?" he asked, concern threading through his voice.

"Nothing, I just remembered something," she murmured, her voice muffled against his chest.

He hugged her tighter, his hand gently stroking her back.

She remembered the last time she had made kebabs, how she had wanted to run up to him and hug him when he stood at the kitchen door, watching her. But she had stopped herself then, telling herself that he hadn't allowed her the liberty. But now, she could hug him just because she wanted to, without thinking, without asking.

Arsalan's voice cut through the warm haze of the kitchen, sharp and teasing. "The kitchen is for cooking, not romance."

Meerab stepped away from Murtasim, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She turned, ready to retort, but paused as she noticed Bhaktu standing beside Arsalan. The older man's expression was grim, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by a somber seriousness that immediately set her on edge.

"What happened?" Murtasim's voice was calm but firm, his eyes narrowing as he took in Bhaktu's demeanor.

Bhaktu cleared his throat, his gaze shifting between them. "They've called the panchayat again. I don't think we can delay it any longer."

Meerab sighed, the weight of the past weeks pressing down on her. The requests for a panchayat had come in multiple times, each more insistent than the last. Malik and his men were panicking at the silence from their end after the brothel had been raided and shut down; they knew tapes were taken, and then nothing had happened for weeks.

They had combed through the tapes, all of them, along with the police officers they trusted –- along with some they now had proof against for working with criminals as a result of the tapes. Everyone was in the palm of their hands; everything was almost ready.

Every day, more and more people were involved, and it seemed that Malik had caught a whiff. The panchayat rarely met this deep into the harvest season, too busy managing their fields and workers; but this was the third meeting called in just a week.

She sighed again, guessing it was time to come out of hiding. They all still thought Murtasim was dead, missing they suggested at times; but she couldn't hide him any longer.

A part of her wanted to grab Murtasim and hide him, to keep him away from it all. But they weren't the type. She knew he would insist on walking into the panchayat himself...and now he could; so there was really no reason to delay further.

"Tell them the Khans will be there," Murtasim said, his gaze steady as he looked at her, arching his eyebrow in question.

She looked up at him, her heart clenching with fear.

Yet she nodded. There was no pushing it further.

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Author's Note: Tadaaaaa! So, what do you think? What was your fave part? In the next part, we'll see the confrontation we're all waiting for -- whatever is Meerab up to? Hehe.