Author's Note: Hi y'all! I am glad so many of you enjoyed the last chapter (quietly for most of you it seems, lol). Onto the next chapter (almost 12K words) - some fluff, some cough-cough, little plot. I am feeling awfully indulgent and nice right now, so my Dhaagey babies shall live happily. See you on the other side!

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Meerab wasn't sure what normal was anymore.

Not after all they had been through. Not after the weeks of blood and bruises, hushed voices, sleepless nights. But this, this quiet morning, steeped in sunlight and the distant sound of Maa Begum scolding someone for refusing second helpings of parantha, this she could grow to love.

This, perhaps, was a version of normal she could belong to.

Armaan and Hamza had returned home earlier that morning. The harvest called, as did their family. Both men pulled away reluctantly, like stitches tugged from a seam they hadn't meant to be sewn into. They had given too much already: weeks of worry, nights spent near her side, nights spent near him. They had watched her fall apart and held her together, and now they deserved to return to their own lives.

And yet the house hadn't fallen quiet in their absence.

Rumi remained, her laughter a ribbon that wove through the halls like incense. Maryam had dragged her to the village market again this morning. Arsalan loitered somewhere near the kitchens, undoubtedly angling for leftover mithai. And Maa Begum was in her element, feeding everyone to her heart's content, ruling over breakfast with a ladle like a queen with her scepter.

Even without the full crew, it felt...full.

It was the kind of noise that hummed with life, not tension. The kind that wrapped itself around her spine and whispered, everything is okay now.

And perhaps the reason it felt normal was because Murtasim had returned to his desk.

Because he was working again.

The great weight of responsibility had crept back onto his shoulders and he had allowed it, strong enough to carry it. She loved seeing him where he belonged, not just by her side, but back in the role he had carried so fiercely most of his life. And he wore it again, this crown of land and people, as though he had never been forced to lay it down.

Yet, the room he worked in now seemed different, lighter.

It bore newer signs of life. A new normal.

A stray pair of her earrings glinting on the corner of the desk. Her lip gloss beside his ink pot. A shawl she'd forgotten, still draped on the back of the second chair. The scent of mint, bergamot, sandalwood, and roses – his, hers, theirs – hung in the stillness of the room.

When she had peeked in earlier that morning and asked, softly, if he needed help, he hadn't refused.

He had simply looked at her, held her gaze with a small smile, and patted his lap.

And that was how she'd ended up like this.

Perched in his lap, her legs draped comfortably on either side of his thighs, the hem of her pale pink shalwar kameez spilling around them like pooled silk.

Her arms were wound around his shoulders, her chin tucked just beneath his jaw, the soft scruff of his beard brushing her cheek every time he shifted.

His pen moved across paper with slow precision. Contracts. Land records. Harvest calculations. She wasn't sure. His mind was elsewhere. But his body... his body was entirely hers.

His left hand rested absently on her thigh, thumb tracing idle circles into the fabric. The other moved only to flip pages or underline something in that script she had grown to read almost as fluently as her own.

Occasionally, when he needed to reach across the desk, he would tap her thigh gently and mutter, "Pardon my reach," in a tone so formal, so utterly Murtasim, it made her giggle every time.

It was mildly inconvenient. She wouldn't deny that. She was warm, pliant, and hopelessly in love, and he was trying to concentrate. But neither of them had wanted to give up the closeness.

So, they made do.

She didn't really help. Not in any significant way. Sometimes she handed him a file. Sometimes she traced her finger along the spine of a document he'd asked her to sign, and did so with a little flourish, just to make him smile.

Mostly, she just sat. Held him. Let herself be held.

There was something achingly grounding about the press of his chest against hers, the rise and fall of him. The subtle way he adjusted her when she shifted too much. The smile that played at the corner of his mouth every time she sighed contentedly against his throat.

They didn't talk much. They didn't need to. The sound of rustling pages and distant village life filled the room enough. A bird outside the window chirped insistently. A tractor rumbled somewhere far off, shaking the ground beneath them in the faintest, most familiar way.

She nuzzled closer into his neck, pressing a kiss beneath his ear just because she could.

He hummed, distracted but pleased. "That's not helping," he murmured.

She grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Not trying to."

The silence that followed was comfortable, stitched with the soft sounds of paper.

Then, unexpectedly, he spoke, his voice low, thoughtful, anchoring.

"Did the wheat yield drop this year?"

She blinked. Surprised. But then smiled into his shoulder. "It did. But not by much. The rains were late, but the soil held. Ammar tried to shift some of the supply contracts when you were... away, but Arsalan caught it in time."

Murtasim hummed again, quiet and steady, reaching for another file.

She frowned.

Before he could get too far, she moved away just enough to reach his face with both hands. She cupped his cheeks, squished them gently until his mouth puckered like a child's, and leaned in to kiss one cheek, then the other.

"That's enough paperwork," she declared.

His laugh was warm and unguarded. "Meerab, let me work."

She whined dramatically, kissed him again, this time just beneath the corner of his mouth. "But I'm bored."

He leaned back in his chair then, arms still loosely around her, the chair creaking beneath their combined weight. He looked at her properly, eyes lingering, the corners of his mouth curled in that familiar, fond way that made her chest ache in the most dangerous ways.

"I missed this Meerab," he said softly.

Her smile curled. Coy, knowing. "Enough to stop working and go to our room?"

He laughed, leaned forward to kiss her nose. "There she is. Meri Meerab."

She pouted. Full and deliberate.

He kissed the edge of her mouth, still grinning. "If you want to keep our lavish lifestyle," he said, nudging the files between them with a mock-stern look, "I need to do some work."

She sighed like a woman suffering immeasurable tragedy. "Fine. If you must."

"I must."

She leaned her cheek back against his shoulder, but not before muttering under her breath, "Always working..."

He exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering in his eyes. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

Her head lifted, just slightly, and she grinned. "Shopping for our wedding outfits."

He blinked. "They're coming here?" he asked, brows lifting. "The designers?"

She shook her head, still smiling, her fingers playing with the edge of his collar. "Nope. We're going to Karachi."

"Karachi?" he echoed.

She nodded, determined. "We've all been cooped up inside this haveli too long. Living like we were under siege. We need out. Fresh air. Bright lights. Rumi's already made a list of where she wants to go. Maryam's excited. Even Maa agreed it's a good idea. Normal is overdue."

He hummed, the sound deep in his chest beneath her palm. Thoughtful. Agreeing.

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The living room looked like a wedding exploded in it.

Swatches of silk, bridal magazines, loose jasmine buds, and sequined samples lay scattered across the cushions, the rug, even the wooden armrest where Maryam had claimed her perch with a mug, not a cup, of chai. The sun was high and drowsy in the sky, and through the open jharokas, a breeze carried the smell of frying pakoras from the kitchen, likely the latest thing Maa Begum had decided everyone needed in their stomachs.

Meerab sat cross-legged on the floor, her back resting against the base of the divan, a bridal catalogue spread wide across her lap.

"This one," Rumi said now, dramatically flipping a page and jabbing at a lehenga that glittered with enough sequins to blind a man, and a blouse small enough to almost be a bikini. "This is so sexy."

Maryam choked on her chai.

"Maa Begum will kill us all," she said, laughing, setting her mug down before she spilled it. "Kill us. Revive us. Then kill us again for good measure."

Rumi sniffed. "Worth it."

Meerab giggled, flipping another page. "You're mad."

"No, I'm serious," Rumi said, pointing now to a champagne gold blouse with dramatic cutouts and an even more dramatic neckline. "Meerab, you could pull this off. Look at you. You've got the figure for it. Murtasim bhai would die. Just one look and he'd be a goner."

Meerab rolled her eyes, but she could feel the heat pooling at the back of her neck.

She had thought about it. More than once. She knew exactly which pieces of lace would make his breath stutter. Which cuts would make his hands grip her tighter. But that was them, behind closed doors. That was not... a wedding guest moment. She sighed, lifting her eyes to the next page, where a softer look waited, red and gold, long sleeves, a dipped back, nothing overt, but just enough.

"I know myself too well," she said aloud, half to them, half to the sunlight. "I wouldn't feel comfortable wearing these in front of an audience. Not at a wedding where people are squinting at my neckline between bites of biryani."

Maryam snorted. "The scandal."

"I like the mixed ones," Meerab said softly, fingers brushing the edge of a page. "Covered mostly, but... a little something. A slant of back. A sheer panel. Enough to feel like me."

Rumi flopped onto her back with a groan. "Ugh, why are you so self-aware and mature?"

Meerab smiled.

And then, quieter, a thought came. She said it without thinking, without looking up. "In another life, maybe... some version of Meerab will wear these for her wedding with Murtasim."

Silence. For a beat.

"Oho," Rumi sing-songed. "His in every life, huh?"

Maryam groaned into her cushion. "You both make me sick."

But all three of them dissolved into laughter anyway, warm and loud and entirely theirs.

From the kitchen, Maa Begum's voice rang out, clear and commanding, "Pakoray tayaar hain!"

At once, Maryam and Rumi leapt up like summoned hounds. Rumi yelled something about first dibs, nearly tripping over a roll of fabric, and Maryam chased after her with a muttered "How does she eat so much?"

Meerab shook her head, smiling to herself as she gathered the scattered magazines. Her fingers lingered over a page showing a rose gold bridal jora, delicately embroidered, all soft elegance and silk, before she tucked it beneath the pile and set them aside.

She moved toward the sofa, sinking into it with a sigh, still warm from laughter, still wrapped in the soft cocoon of that earlier moment.

She heard footsteps approaching, she turned, and there he was.

Murtasim, walking in from the west side of the house, his steps slower than usual, the collar of his white kurta slightly rumpled, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, eyes faintly lined with the kind of tiredness she now recognized intimately. The kind that came from long hours buried in land files and ledgers, sorting through the aftermath of a harvest season he had almost missed.

He didn't say anything at first.

Just looked at her.

And then she asked, quietly, "All done?"

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Nowhere near it," he muttered, but still crossed the room toward her.

Without another word, he climbed onto the sofa, leaned into her like gravity was stronger near her, and laid his head across her lap. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her close, and he pressed his face into the softness of her stomach like a man who'd reached home after days of wandering.

Her smile bloomed on instinct.

She let her fingers slide into his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp the way she'd discovered he liked. He sighed into her, warm and content, eyes slipping closed for a moment.

Moments like this, when he sought her like this, always cracked something open inside her. It hadn't been like this before. He had been composed, too careful. But something had changed. Somewhere between the blood and the healing, between her wiping sweat from his forehead and holding him through fevered nights, he had let her in.

All the way in.

Now he whined to her, leaned on her, buried his face in her softness and sighed when she touched him.

Her heart held it all like it had been made for this.

He shifted slightly, his cheek resting more against her hip, eyes opening again. He looked up at her, smile lazy and warm. "Any closer to knowing what you want?" he asked, voice low.

She exhaled a breath that could've been a laugh. "I don't even know what colour I want to wear for the nikaah."

He grinned. The kind of grin that made his eyes crinkle. "Red," he said simply.

She giggled, tapping a finger against his forehead. "I'll consider it."

"Something yellow or orange for the mehendi," he added, thoughtful now, as if he were the one putting the moodboard together.

She narrowed her eyes, amused. "You've thought about this?"

"Of course I've thought about marrying you for a long time."

Her smile softened at the edges. "Acha?"

He hummed contentedly, eyes half-lidded. "For the rukhsati... pink maybe. Or red again. Depends on how dramatic you're feeling."

She laughed. "And for the walima?"

"Gold. Silver. Something flashy. You'll glow in anything."

She didn't say anything, just kept scratching his scalp, letting his words soak into her bones, warm and steady. He hummed under her touch, like a pleased cat.

That was when Maa Begum appeared at the entrance of the room, arms folded, expression unreadable.

"I was wondering why the maids were giggling so much," she said dryly, gaze fixed on her son's face half-buried in Meerab's lap.

Murtasim cracked one eye open, barely lifting his head. "Fire them all," he said flatly.

Maa Begum sighed. "Thodi sharam kar lo, Murtasim."

He shifted again, hugging Meerab tighter, chin now tilted against her stomach. "We're married," he replied without heat. "And I love her. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, really," Maa Begum said with a glance at Meerab, softer now. "But now the whole village will hear about this with a hundred things added to it."

Meerab lowered her gaze with a smile. She understood. Public affection, even within the home, wasn't something that belonged in their world. Men didn't lay their heads in laps outside of the bedroom. Wives didn't run their hands through their husbands' hair in shared sitting rooms. It wasn't improper, but it wasn't done.

And yet here he was. And here she was.

"Who cares," Murtasim muttered, stubbornly.

"Come," Maa Begum said finally, turning back toward the hall. "Eat. Have chai before Rumi finishes everything."

As her footsteps receded, Murtasim looked up at Meerab again, eyes full of something that made her entire chest ache.

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The white shirt he chose was crisp, freshly pressed, the sleeves still slightly warm from the iron. He buttoned it slowly, with the kind of reverence reserved for mornings that promised softness instead of war. The slacks followed. Black, tailored, sitting perfectly on his waist. A simple gold watch, his usual cologne. Nothing dramatic. But he felt sharp. Pulled together.

It had been months since he wore something like this. Months since the accident...though he rarely called it that, not aloud, not even to himself. It wasn't a moment. It was a shift. A fault line. One that cracked straight through the spine of his life.

It was a strange thing to feel eager about going shopping. Such a simple, mundane task. And yet the thought of seeing Meerab dressed up as his bride made his stomach twist with something tender and maddeningly boyish. Butterflies. He scoffed inwardly at himself, but there was no denying it.

He remembered their hastily thrown together their nikaah. The secrecy of it. How quicky it had happened, just overnight. She had worn cream, a bridal lehenga that had shimmered like the sun. No one else had existed in that moment. She had looked ethereal, too radiant for how quickly she had found that bridal outfit. She deserved more. She deserved everything.

He picked up his phone, sliding it into the pocket of his trousers. Then paused, turning slowly toward the door, as if sensing her before he heard her.

She stepped out of the closet like a vision drawn from the smoke of his dreams. In black today. Jet-black lawn stitched with the most delicate filigree of gold thread, subtle and breathtaking. The neckline dipped just enough to remain modest beneath the sharp eye of tradition, but elegant enough to make his breath catch in his throat. Her hair was tied back loosely, as if she had done it in haste, but the effect was artful, strands curling around her ears, softening her cheekbones. And her lips... her lips were already curved in a smile that knew far too much.

"Where are you going?" she asked, tone light but knowing.

He stepped toward her slowly, his voice low. "Shopping...with you."

The look she gave him was part disbelief, part amusement. "Maa Begum won't let you."

"I don't care."

She arched a brow, smile widening like the sun coaxed from behind clouds. He came closer. A step. Then another.

He reached for her waist, fingers curving around it with deliberate slowness, drawing her gently against the doorframe behind her. She didn't resist, only laughed, soft and breathy, as she lifted her arms and looped them around his neck. Her fingers threaded through his hair, tugging playfully at the back.

"You've gotten quite bold, Murtasim Shahnawaz Khan."

His grin was slow and wicked, like honey spilling from a golden spoon. "Is that a problem, Meerab Murtasim Khan?"

Her eyes lit up, and it did something to him. That sparkle. The joy. It made his heart race.

"I don't have a problem," she murmured, fingers still teasing through his hair. "But your mother might."

He groaned, tilting his forehead briefly against hers. "Stop talking about my mother."

And before she could argue, he kissed her.

Not quickly. Not chastely. Just enough. Just long enough for her fingers to fist in his hair and for her breath to falter. His palm found the curve of her waist, pulling her closer, anchoring her against him like she was something to be held steady.

Her breath hitched. He felt it against his lips. Felt it in the way she leaned into him, body molding to his as if she belonged nowhere else.

"Stop," she whispered into his mouth, laughing breathlessly. "Rumi won't stop teasing me if my lips are swollen."

"Worth it," he breathed against her skin.

He kissed her again. Slower this time. Deeper. His hand moved to the small of her back, pressing her more firmly against him as his mouth traced hers with aching patience. He tilted her head slightly, changing the angle just enough to draw a soft, involuntary sigh from her lips. She tasted like mint and heat and something entirely hers.

She sighed, entirely dramatic, and pulled back just enough to straighten his collar. "You're impossible."

"I know." He smirked, watching her fingers linger longer than necessary. "Chalo."

They walked together to the living room, his hand already reaching for hers as they turned the corner. Rumi was there, sitting cross-legged on the rug, earrings half in, half tangled in her hair. Maryam perched on the armrest of the sofa, busy on her phone. And Maa Begum, regal as ever, sat in the central armchair, her dupatta draped just so, commanding the room as if it were her personal courtroom.

All three women looked up the moment they entered.

Murtasim felt the air shift. It was subtle, but it had weight. Anticipation. Alarm.

Maa Begum's eyes narrowed immediately. "Where do you think you're going?"

He didn't miss a beat. "With you."

Maa Begum blinked once. Slowly. Dangerously. "No."

"No?" he echoed, as if the word had failed to translate. "You'll have to say that again. It didn't sound like something I've heard before."

"You cannot go," she repeated, each syllable clipped and measured. "Let Meerab handle this herself. You've been under her feet all week. Do you think she'll want you loitering around while she picks her outfits? You'll just distract her."

"Exactly," Rumi muttered under her breath, earning a glare from both Meerab and Maryam.

Murtasim stepped forward, still holding Meerab's hand. "She's my wife."

"She's also a bride," Maa Begum snapped. "And you don't get to see every outfit before the wedding."

He raised a single brow, eyes dancing. "We're already married. Your superstitions don't make sense anymore."

Maa Begum glared at him with the slow, simmering fury of a woman who'd raised a man as stubborn as him.

"I'm paying for it," he added mildly, like it was a footnote.

Beside him, Meerab sighed. Loudly. The kind that said, here we go again.

Maa Begum's jaw locked.

"I'll sit quietly." He tried to keep a straight face but the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him. "Promise."

Rumi snorted. "As if that's ever happened."

Murtasim turned to her with mock offence. "What's your problem, Rumi? You're usually my number one fangirl."

Rumi let out a full-body groan, flopping back dramatically against the sofa cushion. "This isn't about you, okay? Picking wedding outfits is supposed to be my moment. I am the best friend. This is sacred bestie territory. It's supposed to be just me and Meerab – and Maa begum and Maryam of course – squealing and crying and rejecting everything that's not good enough. Not you hovering in the background looking smug and distracting her with your face."

Meerab pressed her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.

Murtasim crossed his arms, smugness only intensifying. "Too bad. I'm her best friend."

"You're her husband. That's not the same thing!"

"I still outrank you."

"You're not going," Rumi declared, pointing at him like she was delivering a curse.

"I am going," Murtasim shot back, triumphant. "And I'm sitting through every fitting, every twirl. Get used to it."

Rumi looked like she might combust. "You're ruining my vision board."

He winked. "Good. Make a new one. Add me to the center."

Meerab groaned into her hand. Maryam snorted from the armrest.

Maa Begum rubbed her temples like she was regretting every decision that had led to this moment. "You're not going," Maa Begum said, sharper now.

"Meerab wants me to come with her," he countered smoothly, then turned to his wife with a tilt of his head, arching an eyebrow like a silent dare. "Don't you?"

Meerab's eyes widened, flickering between him and Maa Begum. There was a wild, silent panic blooming behind her expression, caught between the devil and the dowager.

She looked so cute and confused, he almost kissed her again just for that.

Maa Begum leaned forward slightly, her gaze pinning the younger woman in place. "Not everyone wants a shadow following them everywhere."

Beside him, Meerab groaned, defeated. "Please don't drag me into this."

But he absolutely was. In fact, he was thriving in it.

"She's not complaining," Murtasim said smoothly, leaning a little closer to Meerab now, voice turned deliberately private. "Are you complaining?"

Meerab gave him a withering look and rolled her eyes. "Behave."

He smiled. Wide. Utterly unrepentant. And leaned toward Maa Begum, eyes twinkling.

Then under his breath, just loud enough for Meerab to hear, he added, "She can't actually stop me."

"You're incorrigible," Meerab hissed.

"And yet, you're still holding my hand."

She tried to pull it back. He didn't let her.

Maa Begum rose then, with the deliberate grace of a woman who had spent decades ruling empires from living rooms. The silence that followed was enough to make Rumi straighten her spine.

"You are not going, and that's final."

He wasn't going to listen.

Because what his mother didn't understand, or maybe did and resented, was that Murtasim no longer cared for tradition for the sake of tradition. Not when it came at the cost of joy.

He wanted to be there. To see the look on Meerab's face when she stepped out of the fitting room. The glee in her voice when she found something she loved. The flush on her cheeks when he leaned in too close.

He wasn't going to miss that.

Not for the world.

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There were many things Murtasim Khan excelled at: negotiating land disputes, breaking a man's will with a single look, commanding a panchayat with less than five words.

But apparently, sneaking into places he wasn't supposed to be came naturally too.

He wondered, idly, why it was always so easy. Was it that no one expected him to slink through doorways like a thief? That his very presence invited deference, not suspicion?

Either way, the staff barely looked at him as he moved past the main floor of the bridal atelier, into the quieter corridors that led to the back chambers. His stride was unhurried, confident, silent. Voices floated in from the front: Meerab's clear, amused tones, Rumi's shrill laughter, Maryam's quieter observations, and his mother's efficient questions about the beadwork. The designer's voice rose above them all, polite but practiced, a woman used to balancing opinions like silk threads on a loom.

He followed the corridor to the far end, where the private changing rooms were housed, a section of the studio hidden from the main showroom. The door to one stood ajar, revealing a purse he recognized. He slipped inside without sound.

The room was as regal as any he'd ever seen in a designer house, larger than most living rooms, lined with floor-length mirrors trimmed in gold. One wall bore a row of hanging bridal ensembles, an array of colours and styles. A faint perfume lingered in the air, Meerab's mixed in with something warm and sugary. The floors gleamed. The lights overhead were soft, casting a flattering, glimmering haze.

A velvet couch sat at the centre of the room, upholstered in a soft blush and curved like a throne. He dropped down into it with quiet ease, his long fingers reaching to silence his phone before slipping it into his pocket.

His eyes went to the outfits hanging on one side of the room. Emeralds and golds, blood reds, blush pinks. Everything would look perfect on his Meerab. He heard footsteps approaching, and without thinking, moved to stand behind the heavy wooden door, the wide panel large enough to conceal him completely.

He stayed still.

A woman entered with a swish of fabric, voice still trailing advice as she gently hung another outfit on the brass hook. "This one, I think, will sit beautifully on your frame. The handwork took months."

Meerab's voice floated in behind her. "It's gorgeous. Thank you."

He could hear the fabric rustle as it was laid out. Thick, heavy, ornate. Then a soft creak as the woman turned away. "I'll be just outside, Meerab. Let me know if you need help with anything."

A beat.

"Try the red one next!" Rumi's voice rang out from beyond the hallway, teasing, sing-song. "It's Murtasim bhai's favourite colour!"

His lips curled into a smirk before he could stop it. She should.

He heard the door click softly shut. The lock turned into place.

And then, quiet.

He waited. Leaned his back gently against the wall, arms folded.

And what he saw took his breath away.

He exhaled. Hard.

She stood with her back to him at first, adjusting the edge of the dupatta over her shoulder, the embroidery catching the soft lighting in glimmers. The colour of the lehenga, a muted, ethereal green, wrapped around her like a whisper. Gold and pink beadwork shimmered over every inch of the garment, as if flowers had bloomed across silk in the hush of a royal garden.

When she turned, unknowingly in the mirror's direction, he nearly forgot how to breathe.

The bodice was fitted and ornate, the neckline plunging low enough that it made something in his stomach tighten. Her skin, warm and golden under the light, glowed. Her breasts – high, soft, full – pressed together beneath the stiff curve of the blouse. The sleeves clung to her arms, delicate net overlaid with embroidery. The dupatta draped like gossamer, slipping slightly to reveal the full line of her neck, her collarbone.

His eyes trailed slowly over her face.

The flush to her cheeks. Her lips, just parted, like she'd spoken something softly to herself. She reached up to unpin the dupatta from her head, and the motion caused the skirt of the lehenga to sway, the embroidery catching light like stars.

"Mashallah," he whispered.

It left his lips without thought.

She froze.

Her eyes shot to the mirror.

And there he was.

Behind her, half-shadowed, arms folded across his chest, the smugest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

She whipped around, her dupatta flaring like a banner, and screamed.

Or started to. He crossed the room in two long strides and was upon her, hand pressed gently, but firmly, to her mouth before the sound could travel far.

Her eyes blazed at him above his palm, wide with horror and fury and something else he couldn't quite name.

From somewhere outside, Maa Begum's voice rang through the hallway. "What happened?"

Murtasim didn't flinch. He just tilted his head at Meerab, brows rising in challenge.

"Ab batao," he whispered.

Her glare could have killed a man.

He dropped his hand.

She turned back to the door, her voice louder now, controlled, just this side of cheerful. "Nothing! I almost tripped. Everything's okay!"

Then she pivoted on her heel, eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "What are you doing here?" she hissed. "You can't be here!"

He had the audacity to shrug. The absolute gall to walk back to the velvet couch, sit like a king reclaiming his throne, and lean back with one arm stretched over the curve of it.

"I'm paying for this," he said casually, eyes still on her. "I should get to see it, shouldn't I?"

She gaped.

He smiled.

"You look so beautiful," he added, softer this time, like it was slipping out of him without permission. "Truly."

Her glare deepened, but it only made him grin wider. She looked so gorgeous like that. Livid, flushed, chest heaving slightly under the weight of the dress, arms crossed tightly over her middle. Her anger only made her glow brighter. Like a star on the edge of implosion.

He tilted his head, eyes roaming back down the neckline with pointed appreciation. "Of course, my money is your money," he said thoughtfully, "but since it's our money now, we, including me, should have a say."

His eyes dipped lower again.

"I really like this neckline."

She stomped toward him and whacked his shoulder, the pishwas swaying dramatically around her legs. "Leave."

He caught her wrist easily, smiling up at her. "It's nothing I haven't seen," he murmured, voice low, sinful, eyes dragging, slowly, up her body. From the tips of her jhumka-adorned ears, to the flush blooming at the base of her throat, to the soft rise of her chest.

"Ya Allah..." she muttered, exasperated, spinning away from him, one hand to her forehead.

He laughed, unrepentant.

"They're waiting," he sang lightly, drawing out the syllables as if he were enjoying a private joke.

She turned back to glare.

He stood slowly, walking toward her until she was backed up gently into the corner of the mirror, her reflection surrounding them. He reached up, fingers brushing the edge of her dupatta where it rested precariously on her shoulder.

"Ask me for help if you need it," he said softly, voice dipped in honey. "Like... if you need help taking this off – "

His fingers brushed the side of the pishwas.

She smacked his hand so fast he laughed again, stepping back, hands raised in mock surrender.

She shook her head and pointed toward the door, lips twitching despite herself.

He shook his head.

"Ya Allah, iss aadmi ko aqal de." She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest in that familiar way that lifted her already scandalous neckline. "I should have known you were going to pull this," she muttered under her breath, "with the way you were acting this morning."

She'd laughed, soft and breathless, but she'd left anyway.

He hadn't forgiven her for not siding with him.

"Do you need help?" came Maryam's voice from outside the door, cheerful, unaware.

"No!" Meerab called back, voice an octave too high, eyes wild.

Then she turned to him with narrowed eyes and hissed, "I will call Maa Begum inside, leave!"

He shrugged. Unbothered. "Biwi ho meri."

She looked ready to commit murder.

Before she could flee, he caught her hand and tugged her gently forward. She stumbled, and with practiced ease, he caught her hips and guided her onto his lap. The weight of her settled over him, this time in silk and embroidery and sheer, extravagant volume.

He hummed thoughtfully, adjusting as she sat astride him. Her lehenga fanned out around them in a sea of pale sage and gold, the beading scratching softly against his shirt.

"This lehenga," he mused aloud, "might be too voluminous. I can't feel anything."

Another smack to his shoulder.

"We're not doing that," she snapped, cheeks flushed, "during our wedding."

He tilted his head, faux thoughtful. "But what if you need me?"

"I swear - " she began, squirming in his lap, clearly trying to summon some kind of righteous fury, but her resolve was already cracking. She pressed her hands against his chest to push away, but he didn't budge. His palms found her hips, firm and gentle, anchoring her back down with practiced ease.

"Shhh," he murmured, as if she were making too much noise in a sacred place.

And then he kissed her.

Deep. Slow. Knowing.

His lips moved against hers with that maddening patience he had perfected. No rush, no urgency, just a steady unraveling of every protest she thought she had. He kissed her like he was reminding her. Of him. Of them. Of the fact that she secretly adored when he showed up like this.

She sighed against his mouth, equal parts exasperated and undone, and he knew that she loved this. She lived for the drama of pretending she didn't want him there, for the spectacle of her outrage. Her nakhre were part of the charm. Adorable. Predictable. Entirely hers.

He kissed her until the tension left her body, until her hands stopped pushing and started curling into the fabric of his shirt, until she softened in his arms like she always did when she forgot to pretend she cared for decorum.

Then, just as slowly, he let her go. Not fully but enough for her to catch her breath and glare at him with a pout that made his chest ache.

His hand didn't stray far. It rose instead, brushing the embroidery along her open neckline, fingers tracing the delicate threadwork with reverence, as if memorizing it by touch. His gaze followed, hungry and appreciative.

"Buy this one," he said, his voice low and slightly hoarse.

She pouted harder, clearly determined to hold onto at least a shred of resistance. "You don't get to pick."

"I'm not picking." His fingers still toyed lazily with the edge of her dupatta. "I'm just... making a very strong suggestion."

"You're so annoying."

"You're still sitting on me."

She pouted. "Maa Begum said no," she mumbled, "the neckline is too deep."

His eyes dropped again, reverently, tracing the dip of skin, the delicate line where the bodice clung to her chest. He reached up and brushed a stray thread away from her collarbone.

"It's your wedding," he said, voice low, the kind that settled behind the ribs. "If you like it, you buy it."

"But the neckline is too deep." she pouted.

He hummed, his mouth dipping toward her throat.

"Then wear it for me," he murmured, pressing a kiss against the base of her neck. "Just me."

Another kiss. Lower now.

Then another, lower now, a fraction above the swell of her chest. The brush of his lips against her skin made her suck in a breath.

His hands slid up slowly, cupping her breasts through the heavy fabric, fingers reverent, eyes locked on hers. "So perfect," he whispered, a confession more than anything.

She rolled her eyes with every ounce of fake disdain she could summon, even as her cheeks flushed and her breath stuttered.

She swatted his hand away, half-hearted at best, and turned on her heel before he could say something else that would make her unravel.

She stalked to the center of the fitting room, muttering something under her breath, probably a prayer, possibly a curse, and pretended not to notice the way his eyes followed her every move.

He leaned back into the sofa, arms stretched along the back, utterly at ease as he watched her fingers find the edge of the heavy dupatta and tug it free. She threw it at him and it landed directly in his lap, a soft avalanche of fabric and embroidery. He didn't move to set it aside. He was too busy watching.

The pishwas came next.

It rustled as she peeled it away, careful not to tangle the beading, her fingers deft. She threw that at him too. It landed with a weighty flop against his chest.

And underneath...his mouth went dry.

A delicate beige bra, cut modestly but edged with the faintest trace of lace, hugging her like it had been stitched with her in mind. Her skin glowed under the soft lighting. Warm, golden, unbearably real.

She wasn't posing. She wasn't trying. She was just standing there, undoing hooks, brushing her hair back, half-turned in his direction.

And it wrecked him.

He let out a sound.

It was definitely not a groan.

Except it was.

A low, aching thing pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, like the breath he exhaled could not contain the weight of her.

"Come here," he said, low and hungry.

She shook her head and reached down instead, dragging the lehenga slowly past the curve of her hips, letting the heavy fabric drop to the floor with a soft thud.

Her panties matched.

Of course they did.

Another sound, sharper this time, escaped him. His chest tightened, lungs doing the impossible work of remembering how to breathe.

She giggled.

The evil creature laughed, the sound giddy and light as she moved, walking backwards, toward the rack of outfits, looking right at him the whole time. She reached for a crimson lehenga now, intricately handworked, vines of thread and sequins winding across the thick fabric. She held it with both hands, gathering it carefully and trying to step into it, fumbling slightly.

He was already off the sofa before she could blink.

"Need help?"

She didn't answer, but she didn't stop him either. Her silence was permission enough.

He knelt before her.

Her hands found his shoulders, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt as she steadied herself. He lifted the lehenga gently, guiding it up her legs with a care that bordered on devotion.

The closer he got, the quieter the world became.

His hands trailed up her thighs, slow and reverent, as though he was committing every inch of her to memory. Her skin was soft, impossibly warm. He bent forward, his mouth brushing against the inside of her thigh just below the lace, her breath caught.

But when he tried to press a kiss to the heat of her, she pushed him away with a soft gasp, a warning in her eyes that couldn't quite mask the tremble of anticipation beneath it.

Still, he obeyed.

When the waistband of the lehenga settled against her waist, his hands stilled.

He blinked, once. Twice.

"Why is it so heavy?" he asked, genuinely bewildered.

She rolled her eyes. "Are you blind?"

"Thankfully, no." His voice was a rasp now, breathless as his palms smoothed over her stomach, fingers brushing the soft skin just above the waistline. Her breath hitched. He felt it beneath his hands. The faint tremble of muscle under his touch.

His hands didn't leave her. Not right away.

He reached up, fingers slipping along her side, locating the hidden hooks of the lehenga one by one. As he fastened them with painstaking precision, his other hand continued its reverent exploration, skimming across her ribs, tracing the underside of her bra with a gentleness that was anything but accidental.

Her breathing stuttered again, and he swallowed hard.

He swept her hair back and over her shoulder. She stood there, completely still except for the quiet rise and fall of her chest, dressed in nothing but a ruby red lehenga and a modest scrap of lace, looking like the ruin of empires.

He stepped closer, her chest pushing up against his, and murmured, "Maybe we should move the wedding up."

Another sharp whack. Her signature reply. But the way her body softened into his was not resistance.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her flush against him, his chest rising and falling with the slow, aching need to keep her right there.

His mouth found her neck again, that warm hollow just beneath her ear, and then trailed lower, kissing along the slope of her shoulder, the dip of her collarbone, following the delicate line where skin met lace.

"Stop," she whispered, her hands lifting to his chest, but the protest was half-hearted. Her head tipped back in offering even as the word left her mouth, the long line of her neck exposed. A breathless invitation. She was asking him to stop, yes. But she was asking for more too.

His lips curved into a smile against her skin.

Eventually, reluctantly, she stepped back. The spell broke, just a little, as she reached for the blouse folded neatly on the table. She slid it over her shoulders, arms pushing through the beaded sleeves. It covered her more than the last one.

He pouted.

She saw it. Of course she did. And she giggled, soft and sweet, as she reached back to clasp the blouse.

Still, he helped. Wordlessly, he reached for the dupatta, the rich red organza heavy with gold thread. He shook it gently open, draped it around her shoulders with reverent care. She held it at her elbows while he adjusted it, placing one end over her head like the bride she was about to be.

And when he stepped back, his breath caught in his throat.

His hand came up, resting against the centre of his chest.

"Mashallah," he murmured again, like he didn't trust himself to say anything else.

She smiled, something shy blooming across her mouth as she turned to face the mirror. Her reflection blinked back at her, bright and blushing, glowing in crimson and gold. She reached for her dupatta to adjust it slightly, but his hand came to rest atop hers, steadying it.

He stood behind her now, one arm looping around her waist, his palm settling on her stomach beneath the sheer veil. The fabric between them did little to soften the intimacy of the gesture.

"Buy this one too," he said softly, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror.

She snorted, shaking her head. "I can't buy all of the outfits. And you can't see them all."

"I can see them," he replied, just as gently, just as smug, "and you can buy them."

A sharp knock on the door shattered the quiet.

"Did the lehenga win the fight or what?" Rumi's voice called through the wood, full of exaggerated concern.

Murtasim sighed, dragging his hand down his face. Then with a quick pivot, he moved behind the large wooden door, hiding himself just as Meerab adjusted her dupatta again and began waddling in the voluminous outfit toward the door.

She cracked the door open.

He stayed hidden.

He heard the hallway erupt into life – gasps, claps, delighted squeals. Someone said something about "a vision in red." More fabric swished, dupattas were adjusted, someone cursed under their breath about how she looked too good, and Maryam swore she was going to cry.

She stayed out there far too long.

He shifted from one foot to the other behind the door, arms crossed, eyes wandering toward the outfits still hanging inside. One in particular caught his attention, a burnt orange number with an absolutely scandalous back. Deep. Bare. Just two slim doris holding it all together.

His brow rose. His lips parted. His mind slipped.

She would never wear it in front of others. Maa Begum would call for a shawl before the fitting was done.

But he wanted to see her in it.

Only him.

Only for him.

Her back bare, the line of her spine exposed, his fingers tracing it down, down to the waistband of the skirt, tugging gently. Her hips wrapped in silk, the gold threads shimmering against her skin. The beads trembling as she moved, maybe trembling as he moved against her. Her hair up – no, down – so he could slide it aside, bury his mouth in the hollow of her throat and then bite her shoulder when she whimpered.

He could already see it.

Hands sliding around her waist, palms flat over her stomach as he pressed into her from behind, hard and aching, whispering filth into her ear about how fast he was going to undo the knots holding that blouse together.

His cock throbbed at the thought.

He clenched his jaw, one hand twitching at his side like it needed to touch her, even now. His breath hitched.

He groaned as his imagination spiraled faster. The rustle of silk as it pooled to the floor around her feet. Her naked in her jewelry and nothing else.

The door creaked open again.

He barely made it behind it in time, moving fast, head ducked low like a child caught mid-mischief.

Meerab stepped in, the swish of her lehenga trailing behind her in heavy, regal silk. She clicked the door shut with delicate fingers. Her brow was already arched, full of suspicion before she even turned.

"You can't even leave," she said, arms crossed under the swell of her blouse. "How did you get inside in the first place?"

He only shrugged, nonchalant. Like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like rules didn't apply when he was following the scent of her skin.

She turned from the closed door with an expectant glare still warming her eyes, but she didn't have time to speak.

Murtasim stepped forward, slow, purposeful. The silk of her lehenga whispered as she stepped back instinctively, only to find her spine pressed against the same wooden door she had just locked shut. Her breath hitched in her throat.

"Murtasim," she gasped, a warning and a request all at once.

His body pressed into hers with devastating slowness, one arm braced above her head, the other at her waist, fingers skimming the rich embroidery of the blouse like he wanted to memorize it through touch. His chest was hot and solid against the stiff fabric of her blouse, and his head dipped low.

And he kissed her.

Like he had needed to.

Because he had.

His mouth claimed hers with hunger, all molten breath and parted lips and the kind of pressure that left no space between them. She responded instantly, lips parting, arms rising, curling into his shoulders like instinct.

The heavy dupatta slipped from her shoulder as he nudged it aside, fingers weaving into the heavy fabric and then tossing it away with careless ease. His palms spread wide over the stiff, intricately embroidered blouse, mapping her through thread and silk, every bead and sequin nothing compared to the warm press of her body beneath it.

His mouth hovered just over hers. His voice, when it came, was low and molten.

"Maybe all of this stays on when I take you for the first time," he murmured against her lips.

Her whimper was immediate.

That tiny, breathless sound sent a bolt of heat down his spine so fast he had to close his eyes for a second just to stay grounded.

Because now the image was there, vivid and searing behind his lids: her lying beneath him, dressed in red and gold, the lehenga still on. Her breath caught in her throat. Her skin flushed and warm and trembling.

It was better that way. Not undressing her. Not stripping her bare. But taking her as she was now, a bride in full, regal glory. Dressed like a fantasy.

There was something infinitely more intoxicating about it. The weight of the lehenga brushing against his thighs. The scent of her perfume still clinging to the fabric.

He kissed her again. Rougher now, wetter. Her nails dug into his shoulder. He backed her harder against the wood, his lips trailing down her jaw, her throat, tongue dragging across the soft space behind her ear.

She arched into him when his teeth grazed her collarbone, a whisper of pleasure tumbling from her lips.

And then he found the edge of her blouse.

The hidden hooks at the side.

She didn't stop him.

He loosened the blouse, kissing the skin it left behind like worship. His mouth was hot, desperate, reverent.

"Murtasim," she gasped again. "We should stop."

But her hands were already in his hair, anchoring him, pulling him closer, closer still.

And when he stepped back, gently tugging her toward the couch, she followed without hesitation. The massive lehenga trailed behind her like a river of red and gold, swallowing the floor in waves. He sank onto the plush velvet couch and pulled her into his lap, the weight of the fabric ballooning around them like a canopy, enclosing them in a world made of silk and breath and moans muffled into each other's skin.

Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her breasts pressed into his chest. Her mouth found his again, urgent now, the kiss messier, wetter, breathless.

He shifted the folds of her lehenga beneath her, spreading the impossibly heavy, hand-embroidered fabric until it fanned out around her hips like a crimson throne. She sat atop him, perched like something regal and forbidden, her thighs parted over his lap, her arms still looped around his neck, her chest rising and falling with shallow, wrecked breaths. Kiss-bruised, glowing.

His bride.

The thought made his stomach clench, sharp and hungry.

His hand slipped beneath the rich layers of fabric, sliding upward from the bend of her knee, fingers dragging slow over her smooth, heated skin. Each inch he climbed felt like a discovery. The muscles in her thigh jumped under his touch, her breath catching the moment his fingertips brushed closer and closer, until he reached the soft lace of her panties.

And found her.

Soaked.

Scorching.

He groaned, low and guttural, the sound tearing from deep in his chest. Her wetness had no right to feel that good through a scrap of lace. The heat of her, the pulse of her, the barely-there barrier between them, it nearly made him light-headed.

"Do you think," he murmured, voice rough against her jaw, "I can get you off before someone comes knocking, wondering where their bride's gone?"

Her thighs tensed around his hips. A soft whimper spilled from her lips, shaky and broken, and she shook her head once, as if even that small rebellion cost her something.

He grinned.

The kind of grin that tasted of victory and hunger.

His lips brushed her ear. "Are you sure?" he asked, even as he let his fingers trail up, slow and deliberate, dragging along the soaked seam of her panties to the slick, swollen bud of her clit. He circled it, once, then again, teasing pressure building with every pass.

She gasped, sharp and high, her hips jerking in his lap.

He grinned.

God, she was so beautiful like this.

With her blouse hanging loose, revealing her beige bra straps; with the opulence of her wedding lehenga surrounding them both like a halo of silk and sin; with her hair loose and wild, her cheeks flushed, her mouth trembling.

He watched her as he rubbed her clit through the lace, his fingers moving in tight, maddening circles. Her breaths were quick now, shallow, her head tipping back, lips parting as her hands clutched tighter at his shoulders. She ground down without realizing, her body chasing the friction with helpless instinct.

"You're not being fair," she gasped, voice shaking. "Since you started this – hurry up."

He chuckled, catching her lips with his in a hot, open-mouthed kiss. "Yes, Mrs. Khan," he whispered against her mouth.

The kiss was open-mouthed, greedy. Lips dragging. Tongues slipping together with practiced ease. He kissed her like he couldn't breathe without it, like the taste of her mouth was the only thing tethering him to sanity. And she kissed him back like she agreed.

And then, finally, he slipped his fingers beneath the lace.

The heat of her bare flesh met him in a rush, wet and warm and obscene. He groaned again, breath shuddering out of him. His fingers slid along her slick folds, parting her gently, stroking her soaked slit in long, slow drags.

"So warm," he murmured. "Fuck, Meerab..."

He couldn't stop thinking about her grinding her soaked core along the length of his cock, the way she'd glided across it, how her slick lips had dragged along the length of him, coating him, soaking him. His breath hitched just remembering how wet she'd been, how close he'd come to losing control entirely.

She moaned when his fingers stroked her again, her hips canting forward with quiet desperation.

And then he slipped a finger inside.

They both groaned, his low and rough, hers shattered and gasping. Her walls clenched tight around him, wet and pulsing. She dropped her forehead to his, breathing against his lips as he began to move, slow, rhythmic, a steady slide of his finger in and out, curling in that perfect come-hither motion that made her bite back a cry.

His palm cupped her, holding her open for the next thrust. His thumb found her clit again, dragging over it in lazy, circling swipes that made her whole body twitch against his.

"More," she breathed, voice barely a sound, body trembling in his arms.

He grinned against her cheek, kissed her temple.

"Greedy," he said, softly, reverently. "I missed this Meerab."

She didn't meet his gaze. Didn't need to. Her body said it all, rocking into his hand, clenching around his fingers, chasing the friction like oxygen. But she managed a glare, sharp and breathless, and muttered, "Get on with it."

His grin widened. Wicked. Full of teeth.

Then, just when she tilted forward, chasing more, he slid his fingers out of her.

She whimpered. A broken, wounded little sound that hit him right in the gut.

And he shoved her.

Gently, but firm. Just enough to tip her backward onto the velvet of the atelier sofa, her arms sprawling behind her to catch herself, her chest heaving, her lips kiss-bitten and furious.

"I'm going to kill you," she gasped, her voice shaking with the force of it, her thighs still trembling from the edge he'd just abandoned.

He laughed. Low and dangerous. "Hmm."

God, she looked like a wet dream.

Her blouse had slipped almost entirely off one shoulder, revealing the smooth, taut line of her collarbone and the top of her bra. Her lehenga ballooned around her like some kind of decadent prison, crimson and gold, heavy with zardozi and mirrors, pooling around her waist and hips in lush folds.

And he dropped to his knees in front of her.

Her eyes widened. "Murtasim..."

He didn't let her finish.

He pushed her lehenga up, the weight of it staggering, layers upon layers of silk and organza and stitched floral motifs sliding upward with slow, reverent force. The fabric swallowed his arms, his shoulders, his head.

He disappeared beneath it.

And she gasped. "Murtasim, what – "

He reached up, found her hip with one hand, squeezed gently, and then murmured beneath the veil of fabric, "Shhh."

Everything went dark.

The weight of her bridal skirt pressed down on his back and shoulders, a thick canopy of fabric that dulled the sound, muted the air, turned the world into silk and her scent. He couldn't see her anymore but he could feel her. He could smell her. The heat of her. The intoxicating musk of her arousal, soaked into lace, into skin, into the air itself. It pulled him forward like gravity.

He kissed her thigh first. Slow, open-mouthed, wet kisses up the inside, lingering where the muscle quivered. Her skin was soft, impossibly smooth, her legs trembling beneath the brush of his lips.

She writhed above him, the slight creak of the couch barely audible over the sound of her panting.

He reached her center.

His nose brushed the delicate lace again. He inhaled, deeply. Let the scent of her flood his brain, his body, every inch of him.

Then he nuzzled her. Nudged the soaked fabric aside with his nose, his breath hot against her slick folds.

And buried his face between her legs.

Her moan hit the room like thunder.

But muffled. Everything was muffled now, beneath the weight of the lehenga. Her sounds. Her cries. The wet, obscene noise of his tongue dragging through her folds.

He groaned into her as he tasted her, licking a long, greedy stripe from her entrance to her clit.

And then he devoured her.

Lips sealing around her clit, tongue circling, teasing, licking with deliberate pressure. He didn't rush. He savored. Every sound she made only spurred him on. Every stutter of her breath, every whimper, every helpless twitch of her thighs. He wanted all of it.

She tasted like heat. Like need. Like memory.

It hit him like lightning.

That night. The penthouse. Her thighs shaking around his head as he kissed her for the first time like that. How he'd meant to worship her for hours but gotten only a single, searing taste before it had all unraveled too fast.

And then, months of nothing. No mouth. No warmth. No her.

He would savour it now.

He licked her slowly, his tongue dragging up from her entrance to her clit in a slick, reverent line. She jerked beneath him, a strangled sound spilling from her throat. He circled the swollen nub, lips closing around it, sucking gently.

Then harder.

Then again.

His hand slid beneath her thigh, locking around the soft underside of it, keeping her spread open for him, exposed and helpless beneath the weight of his mouth. The other hand reached up and between them, sliding easily into the slick mess between her folds. His finger pushed into her without resistance. Hot, pulsing, soaked for him.

She cried out, the sound pitched and helpless.

Her pussy fluttered around him, soaked and tight, the walls pulling at his finger greedily. He curled it, trying to find that spot again.

Her hips started to stutter, then buck. Her heels dug into the cushions.

He added a second finger.

She sobbed.

His fingers fucked into her in perfect, deliberate rhythm, each stroke curved and firm, coaxing, hitting just right while his mouth never left her clit. His tongue flicked fast now, insistent, lapping at her swollen bud while her hips began to stutter and shake.

He could hear her.

Even through the muffling folds.

Her breath catching, breaking, the pitch of her moans rising, the tremor in her thighs turning violent.

And then she broke.

He felt it, her whole body tensing, shuddering, then snapping with release.

Her moan hit the air, open and loud and shattered.

She came on his tongue.

Her whole body writhed with the aftermath, her thighs twitching, her hips rolling helplessly into his face as wave after wave of release rolled through her. And Murtasim stayed there, buried beneath the dense folds of her bridal lehenga, the world muffled and humid around him, her scent thick in his lungs, his mouth sealed to her, tongue lapping her through it all.

He drank her in like he was dying of thirst and she was the only thing in the world that could save him.

Her moans were broken, half-swallowed by silk and shadows, but he felt every tremor, every squeeze of her slick walls around his fingers, every wet pulse of her release against his tongue. Her thighs tightened, squeezed, relaxed, and he worked her through all of it. Gentle now, coaxing the last of it from her with slow strokes of his tongue, careful nudges of his fingers, lips soft over the oversensitive peak of her clit.

She sagged back into the couch, gasping, spent.

A gasp so deep it sounded like she'd finally remembered how to breathe.

Then, finally, he eased his fingers from her, soft and slow. Pressed one last kiss to her inner thigh. And let the lace fall back into place.

The heaviness of her lehenga made crawling out a task. He shouldered his way free from beneath the voluminous skirt, emerging with effort, with intent. Hair mussed, mouth wet, his jaw gleaming with her slick.

His gaze snapped to her immediately.

And his breath left him in a single, reverent exhale.

Because fuck.

She was beautiful.

Laid out across the crushed velvet like some impossible painting, half-undressed and haloed in gold. Her chest rose and fell in uneven pants, her bra visible with the blouse sliding down her arm, forgotten. Her lehenga pooled around her hips in molten folds of red and gold, a sea of silk framing her like a goddess. Her hair was a mess, sticking to her temples in wild, damp curls. Her lips were parted, kiss-bitten and trembling. Her eyes were still shut, lashes fluttering. And her bottom lip was caught between her teeth, like she was still trying to hold back the memory of how hard she came.

He didn't move. Just looked at her. Let the image brand itself into his brain.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly. And locked on his.

He stood, rising slowly to his full height, adjusting his slacks, his hands brushing at the edge of his beard like it might hide the truth of what he'd just done to her.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth.

She whimpered.

And he grinned.

"Now this," he said, voice a low, velvet purr, "is what you'll think about every time you wear something like this again."

She groaned, dragging her hands over her face. "You're insufferable."

"True," he said easily, stepping forward, reaching down to press a kiss to the top of her head. "But tell me I'm wrong."

She didn't. Couldn't.

He sank down beside her again, the couch creaking beneath them. One hand slipped around her waist, the other trailing in slow, lazy circles along the base of her spine. She leaned into it. Into him. Her breath was still catching, chest still stuttering with every inhale, and her limbs were loose now, soft with afterglow.

He watched her.

Studied her like he was cataloguing every inch.

He didn't know if they'd make it to the wedding.

Not really.

Not with how often her hands ended up under his shirt, or how easily her breath stuttered when he so much as kissed her jaw. Not with how wrecked she looked in his arms, or how good she tasted on his tongue.

He knew there'd be a day, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, where he'd lock the door behind them and not stop.

He'd fuck her with the kind of patience only a man who had waited years could possess, and with the kind of desperation that might undo him in minutes.

He'd take her away from everything, maybe even miss their own wedding entirely.

And the worst part?

He knew she wouldn't stop him either.

He'd kiss her once, tell her they didn't have to wait, and she'd go willingly. Breathless. Desperate. Just like this.

She groaned again, dragging the back of her hand over her lips.

He chuckled, unrepentant.

A knock sounded on the door.

Meerab sat bolt upright, grabbing blindly at her dupatta, dragging it across her chest even though the blouse was still hanging crooked, hair still wild.

"Everything okay?" came Maryam's voice, light and teasing through the heavy wood.

Meerab took a moment before replying, her voice still breathy, just on the right edge of believable. "Yes! Just...just felt a little light-headed. Sat down for a minute."

Murtasim bit down on his bottom lip, the effort to contain his laughter threatening to unravel with each passing second. And then Maryam's voice, sharper now with unmistakable mischief, came through the door again.

"Are you FaceTiming bhai in there or something?"

That was it.

He lost it.

The smirk bloomed slow and wide across his face, sinfully smug, uncontrollable. He leaned in close, the scent of her still all over his skin, her warmth pressed so close, it felt like she had burned her shape into his lap forever. He brushed his lips against her ear and whispered, low and wicked, "My face was definitely spending time doing things."

Her gasp was scandalized. She smacked him across the chest, a solid thump that only made his grin grow deeper. He barely flinched.

He caught her wrist, laced their fingers together, and turned her palm up to press a soft kiss into the center. His mouth lingered there a beat longer than necessary, an apology, a tease, a promise.

Outside the door, Maryam giggled again, and Meerab called out, barely managing to string her voice together. "I'll be out in a minute!"

"This is your fault," she hissed, cheeks still flushed, hair wild. "So you're helping me change."

Murtasim didn't move. His eyes traveled over her as she pushed the lehenga down her hips, letting the luxurious red and gold spill to the floor in a slow, silken cascade. She looked devastating, her legs bare and trembling.

He stepped forward and ran his palm slowly over the silk, reverent. "This one's coming home with us," he said, voice low. "For the sake of memory."

She shot him a look but didn't argue. Her fingers went to the tiny hooks on the back of her blouse, fumbling.

He stepped in to help.

His fingers were careful, undoing each clasp with deliberate precision. As he peeled the blouse from her shoulders, her skin came into view, soft, golden, slightly sticky from sweat and heat. But something stopped him mid-motion.

A mark.

A thin, pale scar.

It started just beneath her shoulder blade and curved diagonally down her back, disappearing beneath the band of her bra. It wasn't raised. It wasn't angry. But it hadn't been there before. And it did not belong on her.

His fingers froze. Then moved again, this time, not to undress, but to trace.

"What happened?" he asked, voice low, rough with a confusion he was already trying to bury beneath fury.

He felt her body go still. Her spine locked beneath his touch.

"Nothing," she said too quickly.

He stilled behind her. His voice dropped. Cold, firm.

"Meerab."

She turned. Slowly. Hesitantly. Her eyes found his, wide, rimmed with guilt, a flicker of something afraid inside them.

"Who did this?" he asked, gaze hard now. The words landed heavy. Too calm.

"No one," she said softly. "I...something just... fell on me that night. When I found you. It's okay, it doesn't even hurt anymore and – "

His jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Something fell on her. When she found him. That night.

She had been running through that barn like a woman possessed, desperate to get to him, to save him. She had fought her way through it, through that chaos, the fire. And this had happened. And he hadn't noticed. Hadn't known. Had been too consumed with the horror of what they'd done to him to see the quiet mark left behind on her.

She cupped his face then, both hands rising, thumbs brushing his jaw, trying to pull him back.

"I'm okay," she whispered. "It's nothing."

He wasn't listening.

"Did you get stitches?" he asked, voice stiff.

She nodded once.

"How many?"

She paused. Swallowed.

"I don't remember."

His hands dropped from her waist. Fisted at his sides. Something dark and red bloomed in his chest, too vast for breath. He had let Malik off too easy. That bastard had tried to hurt him, fine. He expected that. But Meerab?

She had been hurt because of him.

And she had bled for it.

His Meerab.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. A long, quiet moment of breath and pain and rage laced with devotion.

"I'll see you later," he murmured.

Her fingers tightened in the front of his shirt, yanking him back.

"He's already in jail," she said quickly. "He's suffering. You know he is. And I know you. I know what's going through your head right now, I've known you as long as I've lived."

Of course she knew.

The men who had once dared to lay a hand on her hadn't survived it.

And neither would Malik.

"It's not enough," he said quietly. A truth he couldn't swallow.

"Murtasim..."

He didn't answer. Just looked at her. Held that gaze.

She sighed, pulling his face closer until their foreheads touched. "Just...wait until I'm done here. Don't do anything rash."

He nodded, once. Eyes still locked on hers.

"Of course, meri jaan," he said softly. Then pressed a kiss to her temple. "I just have a few phone calls to make, I'll wait for you outside."

She let him go with a sigh. "Go," she whispered.

He walked out without another word.

The door clicked shut behind him.

His strides through the atelier were long, deliberate, full of restrained violence. People looked up from mirror fittings. Tailors paused mid-pin. But he didn't slow. Didn't break stride.

And then he heard it. "Murtasim?" His mother's voice. Surprised. Soft. But it barely registered.

Her gasp followed him as he reached the main doors, already pulling out his phone.

His thumb hovered over the contact.

The police officer overseeing the Malik case.

He pressed dial.

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

Author's Note: Tadaaaaa! So, what do you think? What was your favourite part? What is Murtasim up to? Hehehehehe.