Author's Note: Thank you for all the love for the last chapter, so glad that so many of you liked it! It was a long time in the making, so thank you all for sticking around. We now shift focus a bit and get back to the fluff and stuff, hehe. See you on the other side!

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The car rolled forward in steady silence, tires humming against the village road that had seen too much. The panchayat was behind them now. The noise, the fury, the verdict, all swallowed by distance and dust. But none of it settled inside him until he glanced sideways.

Meerab.

She was still wrapped in his shawl, a contrast to the bright, unyielding yellow of her suit – sunlit and defiant, like her. The shawl and her dupatta had slipped though, the edge barely clinging to her shoulder, forgotten in the stillness that followed the storm. She sat composed, poised, as though untouched by the weight of what they'd just undone.

His hand remained locked with hers, resting in that familiar space between the gear shift and his thigh, a tether he had no intention of letting go. Gentle, firm, constant.

He brought her hand to his lips.

Deliberate. Unhurried.

The kiss he pressed to her knuckles was soft. Her skin was warm beneath his mouth, and he let his lips linger for a heartbeat longer than necessary before drawing back, his thumb brushing slow circles over the delicate bones of her hand.

Mapping what he already knew, again.

Touching her was a way to calm himself too.

She didn't speak.

She hadn't, really, since they left the courtyard behind them. And he didn't ask why. Meerab carried things differently. Her silences weren't voids but vessels, places where thoughts lived and changed shape before they emerged. He had learned to wait. To let her unfold on her own terms.

But then he heard it.

A sound so small it almost didn't register.

A sniffle.

Not theatrical, not sharp, just soft. Raw. Real. The kind of sound someone makes when they're not trying to be heard at all. A breach in the calm.

His eyes flicked to her instantly, his foot easing off the accelerator in the same breath. She was turned toward the window, her face half-shadowed by sunlight. One hand rose, brushing quickly beneath her eye, the gesture too casual to fool him.

A tear. Then another.

His chest tightened.

"Meerab, yaar." His voice was soft, confused and aching with tenderness. A soft ache that threaded through the syllables, like he couldn't quite understand how, after everything they'd faced and won, she would weep now. Not at the height of the storm, not in the thick of it, but in its quiet, triumphant afterglow.

Without another word, he veered the car gently off the main road, wheels crunching over gravel with a sound that was almost tender, as if even the earth knew to tread lightly now. He guided them into a narrow, shaded lane that cut through a grove he knew well, a pocket of quiet the world had forgotten. Shafts of light streamed through the trees in fractured gold, dancing across the windshield.

He eased the car to a stop beneath an old tree, its branches arching overhead like a canopy. The engine ticked as it cooled, the world outside pausing with them.

He turned towards her. "Come here."

He didn't need to ask twice.

She moved as if drawn by instinct, with a fluid, practiced ease that said everything about how often they'd done this before. She climbed into his lap, her knees bracketing his hips, his arms opening automatically to receive her, the way they always did.

And then she was there. In his arms.

Warm. Soft. Shaking.

His shawl slipped and tangled with hers as they folded into each other, a cocoon of warmth and linen and skin. Her forehead pressed beneath his jaw, and he felt the damp trail of a tear against his throat, the barest ghost of salt and sorrow. One of her hands clutched the front of his kameez, the other curled near his collarbone. He brought his arms around her slowly, one hand broad across her back, holding her like the ground held roots - firm, unyielding. The other rose to cradle her face.

His thumb caught a tear before it could fall.

He tipped her face up gently, reverently, and brushed her hair back with the ease of someone who knew every lock by heart. He kissed one cheek. Then the other. Slow, lingering kisses. Not to chase the tears away but to absorb them. As though if he kissed them deeply enough, they might never fall again.

"Why are you crying, meri Meerab?" he whispered, his voice thick with wonder, the softest ache laced into the syllables.

She tried to answer.

Opened her mouth.

But no words came, only another shuddering breath, another tear slipping down her cheek.

Her voice broke as she whispered, "I don't know," and then the dam gave way again.

Into him. Against him. The tears came freely now, not wild, not dramatic, just soft and unstoppable, soaking into the fabric of his kameez as she pressed her face to his shoulder. As if she'd held on for everyone else, for the world, and here, in his arms, could she fall apart.

He didn't ask her to stop.

He didn't hush her, didn't speak again just yet. He only held her tighter. One hand moved in slow, grounding circles over her back, the other still cradling her face as though she were the most delicate thing he'd ever touched. His thumb moved rhythmically, brushing the damp curve of her cheekbone, catching tear after tear.

He bowed his head to hers.

Pressed a kiss to her hairline, then stayed there for a moment, breathing her in. That faint scent of roses, lavender, and warmth, the one that had always felt like home. He let the silence stretch. Let it wrap around them like a second shawl. And when he spoke again, it was not with urgency, but with the softest edge of mischief.

"Well," he murmured, his lips brushing her temple, "are you absolutely sure you're not pregnant?"

He felt it immediately, that slight stiffening in her spine, her breath catching, head lifting a fraction as if to glare. But she hadn't pulled away yet. That was his signal. So, he continued, a playful note threading into his voice like silk through the seams of a fraying cloth.

"Because now I'm thinking," he mused aloud, "maybe I did forget something..."

That did it.

A whack. Flat-palmed, indignantly firm, against the side of his arm. No pain, just protest. The kind of gesture that belonged only to her. The kind that felt like laughter without sound.

"Shut up," she mumbled, thick with sniffles and the smallest of hiccups.

But her voice was lighter.

Not weightless, the ache hadn't vanished entirely, but softened, like a storm finally spent. And for Murtasim, that was enough. That was everything. He closed his eyes, feeling the shift in her body, the way her spine no longer coiled so tight against him, the way her arms, once gripping, now simply held.

He grinned. Not a wide one, not triumphant, but deep and quiet, the kind that started in the chest and settled behind the eyes.

The kind that only she was the reason for.

He leaned back slightly, just far enough to see her face completely. His hand never left her cheek. His thumb traced along the fragile bone of her jaw, the way someone might trace calligraphy they already knew by heart, and for a moment, he only looked at her. So close. So utterly beautiful in the most human, unguarded way.

And then, slowly, with a care that made the world around them fall away, he began to kiss her face.

Not hungrily. Not like fire.

But like water.

Temples first. A press of lips soft and warm against the delicate skin there. Then lower, to the damp trails her tears had carved. He kissed them away, not because he needed them gone, but because he could not bear to leave them untouched. A kiss to the slope of her nose. Another beneath the curve of her eye, where a single tear still clung stubbornly to her long lashes, catching light like glass.

He lingered there, letting his breath mingle with hers, before tilting her chin gently and pressing his mouth to hers.

Not a kiss that consumed.

But a kiss that steadied.

Barely a press.

"Meri Meerab," he whispered, voice gravel and silk, mouth still close to hers. "You did so well today."

He felt the hitch in her breath. The way she leaned, infinitesimally, into the sound of his voice. How her weight softened again in his lap, her hands resting more easily against his chest, as if the words had given her permission to relax, to believe it too.

He let his fingers tangle into her hair, slowly, reverently, brushing through the strands like he might smooth away everything she had carried, every weight, every worry. His thumb traced the shell of her ear, the soft curve behind it, then fell to the nape of her neck, circling, anchoring.

"I have the best lawyer," he murmured, his mouth curling again, but the smile was crooked now, softened by affection.

Her lips twitched, still curved in that tender, tremulous smile. She sniffled once, a tiny sound, and then blinked at him with eyes that shimmered, not with tears now, but something softer.

A glimmer.

"I know," she said, her voice smaller than usual but still full of that characteristic self-assurance that made his heart trip unexpectedly in his chest.

His wife was so adorable.

Utterly, endlessly his for life.

He couldn't help it.

Still cupping her face, he squeezed her cheeks together in the way he knew she hated, puffing her lips slightly into a pout.

"Murtasim," she gasped, the word a breathless laugh, half-protest, half-delight, as her hands came up to swat gently at his wrists where they framed her cheeks. He didn't let go.

Her giggle, light, breathy, completely unguarded, danced through the car like sunlight. He felt his own chest expand fully, as if he hadn't been breathing right until that sound filled the space between them.

He didn't say anything. Just looked at her. And looked and looked, until his heart thudded so loud in his ears he wondered if she could hear it too.

His lawyer. His warrior. His wife.

"I love you," he said, simply.

Because it didn't need anything more. They lived already in the quiet spaces between their breaths, in the heat of her body curled in his lap, in the echo of every step she'd walked beside him.

She hummed low in her throat, a sound that was almost a purr, and then said softly, "I love you too."

And then she did that thing, her thing, that had always undone him.

She nuzzled into his neck, as if there was no other place for her in the world, and her fingers, those clever, clever fingers, crept upward. They found the first button of his kameez and slipped it free. Then the second. Her hand brushed aside the collar and the shawl, warm skin seeking the heat of his throat.

His breath stuttered.

Not just a hitch, but a pause. A full second where time collapsed, breath arrested by the quiet intimacy of her.

And then came her nose. Soft, playful, nuzzling into the space she'd exposed, as though her breath alone could burn him.

A shiver ran down the entire length of his spine.

He felt it in his knees, in the base of his skull, in the tight, heavy coil at the base of his abdomen. He knew she felt it too, her smile was wicked against his neck, her breath smug.

And then, slowly, she pressed a kiss to his pulse.

It was light. Barely there. But precise, placed exactly where his heart beat fastest.

"This is familiar," she murmured, her voice honeyed mischief. Her lips hovered still near his neck, her breath mingling with his, until she slowly pulled away, just enough to look at him again. Her eyes flicked downward, lingering on his lips for a single, heated moment before meeting his gaze again.

He let out a rough, helpless snort. "I very much remember my virtue was stolen like this."

The night came back to him in fractured heat, in scent and sound, in the remembered weight of her body folding into his like it belonged there, like it had always been meant to. The car was dim, air thick with breath and leftover perfume, the world outside a blur of post-wedding silence. He had tried to keep a line drawn between them. Years of restraint, of careful distance, of denying himself the very thing he craved with a hunger that only grew sharper in her presence.

But then she had climbed into his lap.

Her anarkali had rustled faintly as it settled around them, soft silk and embroidery pooling between their bodies. Her knees dug in beside his hips, her thighs framing him, pressing down with no hesitation. The whisper of fabric against his skin was nothing compared to the sound of her unsteady and uneven and the feel of her mouth meeting his with no fear, no pause. Her lips were soft, urgent, her kisses slow only at first, as if testing the limits of what he would allow before she shattered them altogether.

And he had.

The moment her hips began to move, rocking against him with the kind of innocence that didn't know it had already crossed into sin, his resolve unraveled. His hands had gripped her waist, trying to steady her, to still her, but it was useless. Every grind of her hips lit his nerves on fire. The friction was maddening, exquisite, maddening again. His cock had pulsed hard against her, trapped between them and aching, and all he could think about was how warm she felt, how wet she must be even through the layers, how good it would feel to bury himself inside her and never come up for air.

She had made pretty sounds that wrecked him.

The kind of sounds that undid every effort, every year of pretending he didn't want to ruin her in the most reverent way. He could still feel the tremble of her thighs against his, the way her breath hitched when he kissed down her throat, the way her fingers fisted tighter in his hair as she chased friction like a woman starved.

He had shaken beneath her, not from fear but from the sheer force of want. It had taken every ounce of restraint not to rip away the fabric between them and fuck her right there in the car, reckless, unthinking, greedy. For the first time in years, the idea of restraint felt cruel, not noble. It felt like self-inflicted starvation.

That night had unmade him. Opened a door he could never close again. It only opened wider and wider following that night.

He exhaled slowly, trying to chase the tension out of his shoulders, but she was still in his lap, still warm and soft and pressed against him like a brand, and suddenly the car was too small, the air too heavy, the past too near.

She rolled her eyes then, and what a sight that was. He had seen her do it a hundred times, each with a different meaning: exasperation, teasing, victory. The sarcastic roll when she thought he was being a caveman. The slow blink-and-roll when he teased her in front of others. The dramatic one she gave when she lost an argument

But this one, now, here in the cocoon of a car parked off a village road with rose petals still littering the floor and sunlight gently spilling over the dashboard, this one was something else. It was fond and mischievous, laced with that unmistakable spark that had undone him from the beginning.

"I can move away, you know," she offered lightly, lips twitching with suppressed amusement, already making a faint motion to shift from his lap.

As if she could.

As if he would let her.

Before she could go anywhere, his arms locked around her.

He shook his head once, firm but quiet, tucking her fully against him like she was the only thing keeping his heart tethered to this earth. "No," he murmured into her hair, voice low, a husk of possession and peace. "You're not going anywhere."

Her body stilled against him, then softened. And as if she knew just how much it would undo him, her hands rose, warm and familiar, finding his face. Her fingers moved with care, smoothing the edge of his beard, tracing along the firm line of his jaw, then brushing over the edge of his moustache with faint concentration, as if she were memorising the new growth.

He watched her, unmoving, his heart thunderously still.

She did this often now, touched him with familiarity, with ownership. But never carelessly. Never without intention.

"I have a question," she said, the words slipping out gently, thoughtfully.

"Hmmm?" he asked, still a little drunk on her closeness, his fingers dragging slowly up and down her back, over the buttery soft fabric of her yellow suit. His palm found the slight dip of her spine and lingered there.

Her eyes narrowed just enough to make him smile, though she was clearly being serious. "How come," she said slowly, "you no longer tell me to behave?"

That made him laugh. Not the full-bodied kind that shook his chest, no, this was softer. Like the sudden spark of warmth from a hearth lit in a quiet room. He took his time with the answer, but when it came, it was honest.

"I almost died," he said simply, the words heavier than the lightness in his tone.

"Puts things into perspective."

He met her gaze then, truly met it, no teasing, no smoke, and let her see it. The echo of what it had meant to lie there, between breath and nothing, knowing she might wake one day without him. The thought that had haunted him more than death itself.

"I could have left this world without ever touching my wife." His hand slid lower, just slightly, pulling her closer as he spoke, until she was seated higher in his lap, their faces even closer.

He felt her breath hitch the same moment she gasped, a quiet little sound that escaped before she could swallow it down.

"I see," she murmured after a beat, her voice low and velvety.

Murtasim let the silence linger a moment, the kind that didn't need to be filled, only felt.

He simply held her, one arm curled fully around her waist now, the other still cradling the slope of her neck, fingers lazily weaving through the strands.

Her breath moved over his skin like silk. Warm. Sure. Close.

And then, with a smile ghosting his lips, not mischievous, not smug, but deeply, hopelessly enamored, he asked, voice low and filled with quiet affection, "How come you've taken over?"

He didn't clarify what he meant. He didn't need to. She would know. She always did.

The shift in her was subtle, but he felt it. The way her breath hitched slightly. The way her arms tightened ever so gently around his shoulders, as though the question had stirred something she hadn't meant to say aloud but now found herself unable to ignore.

And then she sighed.

Not dramatically. Not with exasperation. But something else.

It was a sound that moved through him like a breeze across water – subtle, thoughtful, laced with a kind of fatigue he wished he could lift from her shoulders.

"Such a heavy sigh for someone so pretty," he teased, tilting his head to kiss her temple as his fingers curved against the back of her neck, tracing the fine hairs there.

She rolled her eyes again, that same little eye-roll he now wanted to preserve in a locket, and hummed.

"A couple of things," she said finally, her voice quiet, but not unsure.

He didn't press her. Not yet.

He simply waited.

Because if there was one thing he had learned about Meerab over the years, it was that when she was ready to speak, she would leave no truth untouched.

She was quiet for a long moment, her hands still at his collar, thumbs grazing the edge of his jaw where his beard gave way to skin. Her lashes fluttered once, and he could feel the hesitation in her breath before she finally spoke.

"I don't want to hurt you." The words were simple. Bare. But they struck something deep in him.

His hand, which had settled at her waist, stilled for a beat, then moved up in a slow sweep, firm and tender, until his palm cradled her cheek again. He tilted her face up, made her look at him. His voice was low, but steady. Certain.

"I'm fine, meri jaan," he said gently, a tone he reserved only for her, brushing his thumb beneath her eye. "You don't have to worry."

But she shook her head, barely, just once, like it wasn't enough.

"You still have pain... here and there," she muttered, her gaze darting down to where his ribs had once been bruised, stitched, carefully tended to with her own hands. "Even though you pretend you don't."

He didn't deny it. He couldn't, there were still nights when the dull ache hummed under the surface like a distant drumbeat, especially when he moved too fast or breathed too deep. But he was alive. He had her. That was all that mattered.

"And?" he asked softly, coaxing.

She sighed, and this time it was heavier. A quiet exhale of everything that lived unsaid inside her.

"It's strange," she began, her voice tentative, as if each word had to step through the tangle of her thoughts. "Wanting you... letting myself have you like before... it feels like saying we've moved past everything that has happened."

Her eyes stayed on his, searching, but also flickering with guilt. "Like saying it's behind us. Like what happened to you..." her voice faltered, her throat worked around the ache, "...was survivable, yes, but somehow... forgettable. Like I'm supposed to be okay already. But I'm not."

"It's not just what happened," she said finally, her voice quieter now, but steadier. "It's what it did to me."

Her fingers curled slightly against his chest, as if needing to anchor herself to something real, something solid.

"I used to know how to love you," she confessed, her gaze flicking to his mouth, then back to his eyes. "It felt instinctive. Natural. I never had to think about it. But now... I do."

Her brows knit, her jaw tightening, "I love you," she whispered. "I still want you. But now it's not just that. It's fear. It's this desperate need to keep you whole, to not be careless, not even in love. Like I might lose you again if I blink. Or worse... that I might break something in you if I touch too freely. Before, I used to just feel... now I'm also measuring...like you were."

Her voice was soft by the end, almost shy, like she wasn't sure she should've said it out loud. But he was glad she had.

Murtasim didn't answer right away.

He just looked at her like he could see every thread that had wound tight beneath her skin, every knot she hadn't been able to untangle on her own. And then, slowly, he took her hand in his. Warm. Solid. Steady. He guided it to his chest, pressed it flat against the beat of his heart. Not forceful, not dramatic, just there.

"I walked into that panchayat today," he said softly, "right beside you."

Her breath caught. But he kept going, low and calm.

"Not because I'm completely healed. Not because I'm pretending. But because I could." He met her gaze, unwavering. "Because I'm stronger now. Because I'm here. With you."

His fingers flexed slightly around hers.

"And because for weeks, for months actually, you've carried everything on those pretty little shoulders of yours," he added, voice dipping into something fond, something teasing.

That pulled a laugh out of her, quiet, reluctant, but real. Her eyes shimmered.

"You protected everyone. Me. Yourself. Our family. All of our lands," he murmured, brushing his thumb gently along her knuckles. "You've been thinking for both of us since the day I closed my eyes. Planning, managing, worrying, always five steps ahead." He leaned in closer. "But meri jaan... you don't have to do that anymore."

Her lip trembled. His palm found her cheek, tender and grounding.

"You don't have to carry it all," he said. "You don't have to measure every breath, or question every touch, or think about everything for everyone else."

He tilted her chin up, and smiled at her.

"You can relax a little now," he whispered. "You can let go. You can think about me for a change."

She sniffled and smacked his chest lightly. He grinned, eyes glinting.

"Yes, I'm still in a bit of pain," he admitted, his voice dropping. "Here and there. When I twist too fast. When I laugh too hard. But I'll tell you what I need, Meerab," he murmured. "I'll tell you when it hurts. You don't have to tiptoe around me. You're not going to break me. And if you do," he added with a smirk, "I'll let you kiss it better."

She giggled at that. Her laugh was quiet but real, and the way her eyes softened told him she believed him, or at least wanted to.

He hummed, a low, amused sound in his throat, meant to lift the heaviness. His hand slipped from her cheek to her neck, thumb tracing the line of her pulse.

"So, I guess it's not because I'm unattractive to you?" he asked.

He meant it to be light. A joke. A tease to bring a smile to her lips, to distract her. But the moment the words left his mouth, he heard it. The fracture beneath the levity. The softness he hadn't hidden well enough. The vulnerability he hadn't meant to show.

Because he had wondered.

In the quiet hours of the night, when the pain sharpened with movement and her touch had gentled into caution, he had wondered. When she pulled away first from kisses that lingered too long, or fussed with the covers around his side, careful not to lean too hard, he had felt it. That hesitation. That care that came wrapped in fear. And it had lodged somewhere deep, feeding something old and insecure.

But her eyes narrowed the moment the words left him, that unmistakable glare, like the crackle before lightning. Familiar. Potent. Irresistible.

"Sometimes," she said, voice flat, "I think you hit your head too hard."

And then she kissed him.

There was no warning.

Her hands shot up, fisting into the collar of his black kameez, dragging him forward with a force that left no room for breath. Her mouth crashed into his, not gentle, not sweet – but hot, urgent, hungry. Her lips were plush and insistent, parting his with ease, tongue sliding in with a boldness that stole his breath. She didn't hesitate. She didn't ease into it.

She devoured him.

And he... forgot the world.

Each movement was precise and possessive, her tongue slick against his, stroking and curling, tracing the seam of his mouth like she'd missed it, like it had haunted her. She tilted her head, deepening the angle, her mouth opening wider, pulling a groan from the back of his throat as her teeth grazed his bottom lip. Not hard. Just enough to tease. To remind. To brand.

She kissed like a woman reclaiming what was hers.

One hand tangled in his hair now, gripping tight, holding him in place as her body pressed closer, hips shifting with practiced ease across his lap. Her breaths came fast between their mouths, wet, open-mouthed exhales that tasted like rose petals and fire. Her other hand dragged down his chest, catching on the buttons, the fabric, the heat of him beneath it, until her palm flattened over his heart again, like she could feel it racing.

And it was.

His hands gripped her waist, desperate for something to anchor him, to ground the dizzying rush of sensation that poured through every nerve ending. She moved against him like she knew exactly what she was doing, like memory had taught her how to wreck him, and now she was here to prove it.

He was drowning in her. In her mouth, her skin, the scent of her hair, the weight of her straddling him, the heat of her breath panting against his cheek, her tongue curling with a skill that made him forget his name.

He had missed this. Not just the touch. The certainty. The way she took him without hesitation, without gentleness laced in fear. The way she claimed him not like glass she might shatter, but like steel she wanted to melt in her fire.

She bit his lower lip. Not hard. Just enough. And then she pulled back, breathless, lips red, voice low and wicked against his mouth.

Her voice dropped to a purr against his mouth, low and delicious.

"The day I find you unattractive," she said, "is the day I've been abducted by aliens and replaced."

He laughed, real and helpless, joy pouring out of him like a tide. His arms wrapped around her tighter, chest shaking.

"Okay," he managed between breaths, "noted."

And then something sparked. A thought. A sudden, insistent impulse that caught fire in his chest and refused to be ignored.

He pulled back, just slightly, just enough to see her face.

"Let's go," he said.

Meerab blinked, the corners of her mouth still curved, breath uneven from the kiss. "What?"

"Let's go somewhere," he repeated, this time with more conviction.

She didn't move, only stared at him like he'd lost his mind. "Murtasim... we're supposed to go home."

He gave a half-smile, that lazy, boyish curve she always pretended didn't undo her. "Home can wait."

Her brows furrowed. "Where are we going?"

He shrugged, deliberately vague, the glint in his eyes only growing. "Somewhere."

"Murtasimmm," she groaned, a long, dramatic whine that made him chuckle. "You're being annoying. Where is somewhere?"

"Trust me."

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The market street stretched before them in warm hues and hum, full of color and voices. Vendors called out their wares from behind wooden carts, and the scent of frying pakoras and fresh coriander hung in the air, wrapping around them like a memory half-remembered. The world had returned to its noise, its chatter and clatter, but for Murtasim, the only thing that truly existed now was her hand, folded securely into his.

He had never liked crowds. Too many shifting faces, too many unknowns. But here, now, with her beside him, he walked slower. More willingly. Her fingers laced through his, her body brushing his side with every step, it settled something in him.

With Malik in custody and most of his men rounded up or scattered, there was a freedom in the air that hadn't existed in weeks. A freedom not just of movement, but of breath. Of letting his guard down, even just a little. Of choosing joy, even if his own men still trailed behind at a safe, discreet distance per his instructions. For her. Always for her.

He glanced down at her then, and his lips curved into a smile without thought. She always looked like a happy child in markets. No matter the city, no matter the size. It was something in the way she looked at the world here – the little trinkets, the cheap bangles, the rows of fabric and color and spice – like it was a treasure hunt. Like something about tiny delights soothed her. Murtasim had watched her smile at elaborate chandeliers and crystal centerpieces in high-end stores without the sparkle he saw now in her eyes as she stopped to admire a row of plastic clips shaped like butterflies.

This was what he had missed.

What he had nearly lost.

"Golgappe," she said suddenly, eyes lighting up as she turned toward him with that wide, gleaming grin that always threatened to undo the last ounce of restraint in him. "Please?"

He didn't nod. Didn't need to.

He simply let her lead him toward the familiar red-and-yellow umbrella of a golgappa vendor, his rusted cart flanked by impatient children and gossiping women already licking tangy water off their fingertips. The metal bowls clinked rhythmically as he filled shell after shell with spiced potatoes and tamarind chutney.

Meerab tugged at his hand like a child pulling someone toward mischief.

He let her. Of course he did.

He had done this a thousand times. From when they were children, her school bag bouncing against her back, hair in a tight braid, demanding more as she ate and then complaining about how full she was all the way home. He had fed her obsession like it was a sacred ritual.

He smirked now, leaning down. "This poor stall owner doesn't know what's about to hit him."

She looked up, one brow raised.

"You're the golgappa monster," he said gravely. "He's about to lose his entire stock."

She whacked his chest with the back of her hand and huffed. "Shut up."

They stood side by side at the cart. She bounced slightly on her toes, a rhythm she probably didn't even notice. Her eyes sparkled as she watched the shells fill, her mouth already parting as if tasting the tang before it reached her tongue. She made a little noise – impatient, indignant – as the vendor dropped one shell. Murtasim chuckled quietly beside her, watching her not the food.

The yellow of her suit glowed warm in the sunlight. Her hair, soft and tumbling over her shoulder, caught the breeze just enough to lift. He remembered this. Remembered her evolving uniform over the years, her satchel, the way she'd gobbled down golgappe just like she was right then.

Now, she was older, more complicated, more his.

"Here, try one," she said, turning toward him, fingers cradling a dripping shell with the concentration of a surgeon.

He leaned in obediently, eyes on her face but just as he opened his mouth, she pulled back and popped the entire thing into her own.

The look of mock betrayal he gave her was exaggerated, affronted. "Not again," he said, mouth twitching.

Her laugh rang out, sharp and delighted. "I can't believe you fell for that," she said, half-chewing, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. "Again."

He reached for one himself, only for her to swat his hand away. "No, no. You get one when I give you one."

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, only waited. This time, when she handed him one, he leaned forward again, wary, and was relieved when she let him eat it.

It was spicy. Mouth-tingling. Unreasonably tangy.

She watched him, expectantly.

"Well?" she asked, wiping her hand on her dupatta.

He chewed. Thoughtfully. Then nodded, once. "Acceptable, a little spicy." he said.

She rolled her eyes. "Drama queen."

She rolled her eyes. "Drama queen," she said again, then turned to the stall owner with all the authority of a queen herself. "Make half of them mild. For him."

The man nodded solemnly, perhaps afraid of her or just amused.

"I can feed myself," Murtasim tried, but she waved him off with a look that made it clear his opinion was irrelevant.

"You fed me kebabs," she said. "The golgappe are mine. If I want to feed them to you, I will."

And so, he let her.

Shell after shell, her fingers brought them to his mouth, sometimes dripping, sometimes perfect. At one point, she reached up to dust a crumb from the corner of his mouth with the pad of her thumb, and something inside him curled and settled.

It was such a small thing.

But it was domestic. Intimate. A flicker of future, of home, of everyday.

So, naturally, he opened his mouth slightly and tried to suck her thumb in.

"Murtasim!" she hissed, scandalized, eyes darting sideways like they were surrounded by paparazzi instead of a handful of aunties elbowing for chutney refills. She smacked his shoulder — not hard, but with enough force to signal moral outrage. "Astaghfirullah! We're in public!"

He laughed then, loud and unrepentant, the kind of laugh that drew stares and widened her eyes and made the golgappa vendor smile.

She glared at him but it was weak, toothless. Her cheeks had gone pink, the dusky flush climbing from her throat to her temples, and her lips twitched like they were waging war against her laughter.

And her eyes – God, her eyes.

Her eyes were shining.

Not with irritation, not with heat or challenge, but with something unguarded. Joy. He could see the corners of it crinkling gently, could feel the shimmer of it in the air between them. That light. That light that only ever seemed to appear when she forgot herself, forgot the past, forgot fear.

He winked at her.

Smooth. Unapologetic. A flicker of teasing heat that only she would recognize as layered – with mischief, with affection, with that particular strain of intimacy that lived just between them.

She narrowed her eyes in mock dismay, crossing her arms. "You've been possessed. That's what this is. I'm going to have to tell Maa Begum."

She muttered something about unholy spirits and too much sun exposure, but she was smiling. He could see it, even as she turned away.

They wandered down a narrow stretch of stalls clustered with fabric and jhumke and choodiyan. The kind that looked like they would shatter if you breathed too hard, all glitter and light and chimes in the wind.

The bangle vendor's stall was a sunlit nook carved out between two walls, and it gleamed with rows upon rows of choodiyan strung on vertical threads like garlands. A delicate sound met them as they approached, the subtle ting-ting-ting of glass brushing glass, wind moving through ornament.

Meerab's entire body seemed to shift.

She lit up. Her fingers reached out almost reverently, touching the hanging strands with the kind of attention one gave only to things beloved in childhood. The vendor, old and slightly bent with age, looked up and immediately beamed.

"Beti," she said, as if greeting a favorite niece, already reaching for a dusty velvet board laden with bangles in every shade of pink and green and sky blue.

She tried on several, slipping them over her wrists, holding them up to the sunlight. "This one?" she asked him, showing off a set of violet bangles with silver thread.

"They're all beautiful," he said, voice quiet.

"I meant on me."

"I meant on you, too."

Her cheeks colored. A faint thing. A blooming.

He watched her try on more, fidgeting with sizes, her fingers so nimble. At one point, she sighed and muttered, "It's so hard to choose."

So he pulled out his wallet and handed the vendor enough money to buy every set she'd touched, plus a few extra.

"Murtasim!" she gasped, half-laughing, half-scolding as the old woman grinned and nodded, already unthreading bangles into a wrapping cloth. "I didn't say I wanted all of them."

"You did with your face," he said mildly, eyes soft with amusement.

She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. He could see the battle happening in real time: the principled feminist in her versus the girl who had, just moments ago, lingered over every shade like a child in a candy shop.

She rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."

"But romantic," he added.

"Debatable."

"You'll come around."

She snorted, but didn't argue further.

They wandered on after that, slower now, unhurried. The market had softened with the hour, shadows grew long, orange light stretching over terracotta bricks, casting a golden film over everything. The sun dipped like a blessing into the edge of rooftops, and the breeze, cooler now, flirted with the hem of her dupatta. It tugged at the edges, playful, lifting strands of her hair that kept flying into his face. She didn't seem to notice how often he reached out to tuck them back behind her ear. Or maybe she did, and simply let him.

She always let him.

They passed a narrow stall nestled between a paan vendor and a cobbler's shed, a strange, half-forgotten corner selling plain cotton t-shirts stacked in colors. There was nothing fashionable about it. No branding. Just cloth, honest and unassuming.

She tugged at his sleeve. "Wait."

He stopped instantly, the word alone enough to arrest motion in his feet.

She pointed to a dark green cotton t-shirt, simple, round-necked, nothing dramatic. "You should buy this," she said.

He raised an eyebrow.

"It'll look good on you," she added, holding the hanger against his chest with clinical focus. "This green, with your skin tone, it'll pop."

He snorted. "Pop?"

She nodded solemnly. "Like a tree after rain. Fresh. Handsome."

He stared at her.

He stared at her, trying not to laugh. "That's your similie?"

She shrugged, unapologetic, still holding the shirt against him like she was judging a painting. "What? It works. Green suits you. And it's not just me who says it."

"Oh?"

"Maa Begum does too."

His mouth twitched. "So, I'm a tree now?"

"A very attractive tree."

He couldn't help it. The laugh escaped him, quiet but full, warmth curling in his chest like steam rising from a winter kettle.

"You're cute," he said, finally.

She beamed.

He bought it. Of course he did.

When they left the stall, her hand found his again, sliding into his palm as if it had always belonged there. The bag with the t-shirt and all her choodiyan swung lightly between them. Bangles chimed on her wrists. Her anklets caught the light with each step.

And all he could think about was Karachi. That one day, shopping for the apartment. The tea kettle she insisted they needed, the curtains he said were too bright. The domesticity of it. The comfort.

The life they were supposed to start then, but something that been lost in the weeks that followed.

He glanced at her now.

The weight of the weeks they'd lived without this, without ease, without laughter, hit him all over again. He squeezed her hand gently, and she looked up.

"Hmm?" she asked.

He didn't answer. Just brought her hand to his mouth again and kissed her knuckles, slow and soft, as they kept walking.

She didn't say anything.

She didn't need to.

Her fingers curled tighter around his.

And in the crowded street, surrounded by strangers and noise and the scent of frying batter, Murtasim knew this was what it meant to be alive again.

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

The drive back through the village streets to the haveli was quiet, but not with the weight of silence. It was a soft quiet, the kind that nestled between breaths, not words. The wind threaded lazily through the half-cracked windows, warm against his arm where it rested along the edge of the door, and Meerab sat beside him with one leg tucked beneath her, her dupatta drawn lightly across her lap, munching on a jalebi.

She wasn't scanning the rearview mirror anymore.

He had noticed it without meaning to, the shift. For weeks now, she had been glancing over her shoulder every few minutes, fingers twitching against her thigh, eyes tracking shadows that moved too quickly or not quickly enough. Her fear had been quiet but it had seeped into the space between them like damp in the corners of a home, the kind you only noticed when you breathed deep.

But now, her head rested lightly against the window. Her eyes were soft, faraway. Not wary.

It felt like peace.

As they turned off the main road and onto the gravel path that curved up toward the village haveli, his hand tightened on the wheel. Strings of fairy lights clung to its pillars and balconies like constellations, flickering softly in the dusk. Light spilled from the windows, warm and golden, pooling onto the stone steps like liquid fire. It looked less like a home and more like a beacon. Like celebration. Like a declaration: We survived.

Murtasim smiled, the slow, deep kind that started in the chest and never quite reached the lips. They had won. Not just against one man, or a family. But against the fear itself. Against the grief that had nearly swallowed them whole.

The village would shift slowly. He knew that. Some loyalties were deep-rooted, and there would be hesitation, maybe even resistance. But change had begun. And they would weather the rest the same way they always had. Hand in hand, storm by storm.

As he set the car into park, he turned toward Meerab, resting his wrist lightly against the steering wheel.

"We don't have to go in," he said. His voice was low, meant only for her. "We could go somewhere else instead... Karachi, back to the apartment. Or Hyderabad. Just you and me."

He didn't add the rest, that he wanted nothing more than to peel time open and make space for them. For quiet. For touch. For the luxury of holding her without the world knocking at the door.

She turned toward him with a look that had grown far too familiar, half fondness, half exasperation, all mischief.

"Behave," she said, with a little shake of her head.

He sighed dramatically, letting his head thunk against the headrest. "Utter torture."

Especially, he thought, when all he wanted was to skip ahead to the part where the house dimmed, dinner was done, and everyone retired to bed. Especially Rumi, alone, without trying to convince Meerab to stay in her room.

They stepped out of the car a moment later. Murtasim circled to the trunk and pulled out the two boxes of sweets Meerab had insisted on, one larger one for the household, and a smaller one, labeled with a sticky-note scrawled in her handwriting: For Arsalan ONLY.

Murtasim chuckled under his breath. "Hopefully that keeps him from stealing all the mithai," he muttered, shutting the trunk. It was always a war with fingers pointing, Arslan at the centre of it all, always claiming he did not get his fair share.

Inside, the haveli welcomed them with the familiar hush of evening settling in, that quiet hum of a house alive with life. Overhead lights cast a golden haze on the cream-colored walls, and the scent of cardamom, fresh flowers, and something frying faintly in the kitchen curled around the edges of the air. It smelled like home.

Before he could take a full step inside, a voice rang out from the stairs above.

"The lovebirds are back! And alive!"

Rumi's voice bounced off the marble floors and high ceilings like a firecracker – gleeful, unmistakable, and too loud for someone as small as her. Murtasim knew that she'd been lying in wait just for this entrance.

Beside him, Meerab groaned and immediately tucked her face into the crook of his arm like it could shield her from the sheer theatricality of her best friend.

Murtasim grinned, unbothered and entirely entertained, as Rumi flew down the staircase in a swirl of bangles and electric-pink chiffon, her jhumkas swinging like they were personally offended they'd missed this moment.

A round of snickers followed from the open hallway, the unmistakable sound of jackals catching wind of something ripe. Armaan, Arsalan, and Hamza emerged together like they'd been waiting, lurking just out of view like vultures circling a battlefield now that the dust had settled and an opportunity to tease them emerged.

Before Murtasim could even lift the boxes properly, one of the house staff appeared, all smiles and silent efficiency, and deftly relieved him of the sweets, both boxes. The larger one, and the precious, hand-labelled "Arsalan Only" box.

"Careful," Murtasim warned with a low chuckle, as the man started walking away. "That one's rigged to explode if anyone else opens it."

Arsalan perked up instantly, eyes narrowing. "I swear if anyone eats from mine – "

"Unbelievable," Armaan cut in, folding his arms and tipping his chin with mock severity. "They actually thought they could go on a date after the panchayat. Without telling anyone."

Murtasim didn't even get a chance to reply.

"You really couldn't help yourselves, huh?" Arsalan added, slinging an arm over his shoulder like he belonged there, the younger-brother audacity of it all too familiar to ignore.

Hamza clasped his chest with the kind of dramatic gasp that would've made Rumi proud. "We were genuinely rooting for you to come home, have some soup, sleep for twelve hours, be boring like the rest of us. But no."

Before he could say anything, another voice came sharp and cutting.

"Where were you?" Maa Begum stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, her voice the same one that had once made Murtasim flinch as a boy when he'd broken a vase. "You didn't answer a single call!"

"I left my phone in the car," Murtasim offered smoothly, only mildly abashed.

Beside him, Meerab muttered, "...and mine's always on silent."

Which was true. She never remembered to switch it back, and he never remembered to check his when she was beside him. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't touched the device since they left for the panchayat. Not even once.

It was still in the car.

He hadn't even noticed.

Maa Begum narrowed her eyes as if contemplating a full lecture, but then, to everyone's mild shock, she simply exhaled through her nose. A long, sharp breath of maternal disapproval. She shook her head and turned on her heel, muttering something about checking on dinner, her dupatta snapping behind her like a silk banner of surrender. Or perhaps, resignation.

The boys erupted the moment she disappeared down the hallway.

"You're lucky," Armaan said. "Ten more seconds and she was going to throw her slipper."

"She was probably this close," Hamza agreed, holding his thumb and forefinger together, "to unleashing full maa-rage."

Meerab shot them all a withering glare, shoving Arsalan's arm off Murtasim's shoulder. "Shut up, all of you. You're insufferable."

But Rumi, standing now with one foot on the bottom step and hands dramatically perched on her hips spoke. "No," she declared with theatrical solemnity. "Now is exactly the time to tease you. We've got a wedding to plan. The villain's vanquished. The kingdom's safe. What else are we going to do? Sleep?"

Murtasim chuckled, the sound rolling low in his chest. This lightness felt almost foreign.

"I always knew there was a term bridezilla," Arsalan mused, tapping his chin. "But what is this best-friend-of-the-bride-zilla situation?"

"Rumizilla," Hamza added, and the self-satisfaction on his face was immediate.

It should not have been.

Because Rumi froze. Mid-expression. Mid-laugh.

Her eyes narrowed into furious little slits. "What did you just call me?"

Hamza paled slightly. "It was a joke. I was joking...Rumi – "

But she had already huffed and turned on her heel, her bangles jangling like war drums. "Don't follow me!"

Hamza looked like someone had just kicked his puppy. "Wait! Rumi, come on! I –"

From her perch on the armrest of the sofa, Maryam groaned, downed the rest of her chai, and got up. "Idiot," she muttered as she followed Rumi's stormy trail down the hallway.

The silence that followed was short-lived.

Because Meerab raised her hand and smacked Hamza squarely on the back of the head with all the affection and disdain of an older sister catching her younger sibling chewing on tinfoil.

"Ow!" Hamza yelped, clutching the back of his head. "I said I was joking!"

Murtasim pouted, rubbing his jaw like something deeply unfair had just happened. "The whacks are supposed to be for me," he muttered.

It was stupid, really. But in the deeply domesticated corner of his brain that no longer belonged to reason, but to his wife, those tiny physical tugs – the light smacks, the eye-rolls, the hair-ruffling – they were all for him. Wifely behavior. And he was her husband. It was, in some ridiculous, sacred way, their domain.

Arsalan, of course, had supersonic hearing when it came to things he shouldn't hear.

"Bro," he laughed, already bracing himself on the arm of a chair, "this is some next-level obsession. You actually want her to hit just you?"

Hamza snickered. "I've seen simping, but this? This is next-level."

Armaan leaned forward dramatically, as if addressing a tragic documentary camera. "When love turns into Stockholm Syndrome: the Murtasim Khan story."

Arsalan slapped his thigh. "The man's out here campaigning for exclusive whack privileges. Like it's some kind of marriage perk."

"I'm just saying," Armaan added, pointing at Murtasim with the full gravitas of a TED Talk speaker, "if Maryam ever smacks me and I smile about it...take me to therapy immediately."

Murtasim rolled his eyes, but he didn't bother defending himself. Not really. Mostly because his entire body language already said yes, and?

Meerab sighed. Loud. "You're all children, stop bothering him, it's cute."

Hamza sighed, collapsing into the couch like a man freshly betrayed by life. "She thinks it's cute..." His head lolled back dramatically over the cushions. "Women are so complicated," he declared to the ceiling, as if hoping divine revelation might arrive from above.

"They're not complicated," Murtasim said, the words escaping before he even had to think them. His arms were folded across his chest, his brow tilted in that specific way that said you poor, ignorant fool. "Just follow her."

Hamza cracked one eye open. "She literally yelled at me and said, and I quote, don't follow me."

Murtasim exhaled. A long, pointed, thoroughly married sigh. The kind honed over the course of months. Years, even, if you counted the emotional math of loving Meerab.

He sat forward slightly, hands gesturing like he was explaining fire to a man who'd never seen smoke. "When she gets like that – angry, trying to act all tough, and says don't follow me in that tone..."

"What tone?" Hamza looked genuinely baffled.

"The whiny, cutesy one," Murtasim deadpanned. "The one that sounds like she's about to cry but is actually just waiting to be kissed and babied."

Hamza blinked slowly.

"You kiss her," Murtasim instructed, calm and precise. "And you tell her you love her."

Hamza raised a hand. "But she told me not to follow her."

Now Murtasim turned to him fully, posture relaxed but voice edged with exasperation. "If she ignores you, pulls away, stomps off dramatically while yelling in that tone – you follow her, you idiot. She's not actually angry."

Hamza looked stricken. "How do I know when she's actually angry then?"

Murtasim groaned, pressing a hand to his face. "The tone, you idiot. Just listen."

Murtasim looked up and caught Meerab smiling.

Her eyes met his, crinkled at the corners, glowing like warm honey in late afternoon sun.

He grinned, unable to help himself. "Right?" he asked.

She nodded, slow and smug.

Arsalan made an exaggerated gagging sound. "Ugh. I need a bucket."

Armaan snorted. "Murtasim the Love Guru. Coming soon to a shop near you."

Laughter exploded around them again.

Hamza groaned one final time, but rose anyway, muttering under his breath as he trudged toward the hallway. "I don't get it. I really don't. But whatever."

He went.

Which, truly, was the point.

And as the sound of his footsteps faded, the rest of them collapsed into yet another round of laughter. Armaan flopped onto the sofa with a satisfied sigh, arms folded behind his head like a king at rest. Arsalan reached lazily for a bowl of dry fruit on the side table, tossing an almond into his mouth with the ease of a man who'd just survived a war and decided snacks were the next chapter of life.

Murtasim leaned back against the arm of the couch, his hand finding Meerab's wrist, tugging her gently down beside him.

She didn't resist.

She curled easily into his side, head resting against his shoulder, her body fitting into the crook of his like she'd been carved for it.

He pressed a kiss into the crown of her hair, breathing her in.

A yell – unmistakable, unfiltered, and furious in that very Rumi way – rang through the halls like a clap of thunder coated in glitter.

"IT TOOK YOU THAT LONG TO FOLLOW ME?!" she shrieked from somewhere upstairs, a battle cry dipped in betrayal. "MURTASIM BHAI WOULDN'T HAVE LET MEERAB LEAVE AT ALL!"

There was a half-beat of stunned silence.

And then the room broke.

Into howls. Into roars. Into full-bellied, tears-streaming-down-cheeks kind of laughter.

Even Maa Begum, somewhere deep in the kitchen corridor, let out a muffled sound that suspiciously resembled a snort.

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

Author's Note: Tadaaaa! So, what do we think? What was your favourite part? And whatever shall happen next, hehehehehe!