Author's Note: Thank you for all the love for the last chapter, moving onto the next one. Over 15K words - some plot, and a lot of indulgence because they (and anyone that read that one shot) deserves it. See you on the other side, hehehe. 

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The sun had begun its slow descent into the golden haze of late afternoon when Meerab finally stepped outside, a full two hours after Murtasim had sauntered out of the bridal boutique. Sauntered, not walked, not stormed, no, that would've been too simple for the man who always left just enough room for mystery. He had left like a storm that didn't rage, but lingered in the air. Heavy, electric, a warning.

She emerged into the dying sunlight with a slightly frazzled glance, her lashes blinking against the brightness after the boutique's artfully dim lighting. The heat clung to her skin, but it was the kind that settled like silk rather than a burden. Her hair, which she had taken such time curling into soft waves, now held only the memory of form. Looser, softer, clinging to her temples with the humidity of exertion and stress. She had changed in and out of far too many outfits, stood beneath too many appraising eyes, and spoken too many polite words. She was, in short, tired.

Her gaze flickered instinctively to Maa Begum, who walked outside and stood in the boutique's entrance in the shade of a stately awning, her arms crossed with all the imperious elegance of a woman who had built empires in the absence of her husband. She had been attempting to glare, Meerab was certain of it, but the older woman's mouth had curved ever so slightly at the edges, betraying the amusement she fought to suppress.

Meerab realized then. That look in Maa Begum's eyes, the glint that sparkled beneath the veil of irritation, it wasn't truly anger. It was the kind of begrudging fondness only a mother possessed, the kind reserved for sons who defied her better judgment and yet, somehow, always made her heart soften against her will.

A quiet sigh followed when their eyes landed on the Mercedes parked at the end of the gravel path.

He was still here.

He hadn't driven away in anger. No, Murtasim stood beside the car, his broad shoulders framed against the lowering sun, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the passenger door like he belonged there, like he always did, grounded, immovable, a constant in her chaos.

Maa Begum did not even look at Meerab as she spoke. "Jao," she said softly, not as a command, not even a suggestion, but as a surrender. As if she had laid down her arms in a battle that she no longer had the strength nor desire to fight.

A slow grin tugged at the corners of Meerab's mouth, sheepish and childlike, as though caught red-handed in some mischief. "Sorry, Maa Begum," she murmured, before rising up on the balls of her feet to press a swift, impish kiss to the woman's cheek. There was no apology in it, not really, only affection, and something dangerously close to glee.

As she turned, a shout rang out behind her. "Traitor!" Rumi's voice echoed like a petulant declaration of war.

Meerab burst into laughter as she took off at a light jog, her heels clacking lightly on the sun-warmed stone beneath her. Rumi's betrayal had stemmed from one thing and one thing alone – the dressing room secrets Meerab had refused to divulge. And secrets they would remain, for some things could not be explained in words, not even to Rumi.

Her pace slowed as she neared the car, and she watched, with a strange sort of reverence, as Murtasim moved.

He kicked off from the side of the Mercedes with the casual grace of a man used to motion, his spine straightening to its full height, jaw tense, eyes locked on her with a focus that felt... heavier than it should have. Not angry. Not quite. But laced with something else, something sharp and unyielding that coiled in the pit of her stomach. His steps were measured, silent as he moved around the hood of the car to her side, and with one hand – large, steady, deliberate – he opened the passenger door.

"Hurry up, your mother's in a mood," Meerab said lightly, slipping into the seat with a practiced ease, her tone breezy, meant to diffuse whatever storm lingered behind his eyes.

But he didn't rush.

She turned her face slightly, pretending to look out the window, but her gaze tracked his every movement in the side mirror. He stood just outside the open door, and for a moment, he didn't move. Then his eyes flicked, across the driveway, to where Maa Begum still stood. There was no smile, no nod of respect. Just a long, silent moment, a conversation without words, an understanding layered in glances only mothers and sons could share.

And still, he didn't close the door.

He bent, only slightly, with the same precision he used for everything, and with one hand, he gently, instinctively, moved her dupatta out of the way, smoothing it down over her lap. The fabric had caught near the hinge, and he had noticed, of course he had. He always noticed.

Only once he was sure it would not be caught, only then did he close the door with a quiet click, one that somehow echoed louder than it should have.

Meerab watched him in the reflection as he circled back to his side of the car. His posture was still rigid, his jaw clenched, his brows drawn ever so slightly. It was the look he wore when something had unsettled him, when the world wasn't quite right. But she knew him well enough to read between the lines, to see the flare of protectiveness behind the restraint, the lingering burn of something unresolved.

When he finally settled into the driver's seat beside her, the air inside the car shifted, as though his presence altered the very gravity. Meerab didn't wait. She reached across and whacked his arm with the flat of her hand, the impact dulled by the starched sleeve of his crisp white shirt.

"Do you have to be so obvious?" she hissed under her breath, unable to suppress the exasperated twist of her lips, "And so stubborn?"

He turned his head towards her, slowly, and arched an eyebrow, the nerve of him, the audacity, utterly intact. "I don't know why she makes a big deal out of everything," he muttered.

She gaped at him, whacking him again, this time harder. "Because her son was in the same dressing room as her daughter-in-law," she bit out, "and then walked out like it was the most ordinary thing in the world, alone, leaving me behind to suffer their endless, shrieking giggles! No one has stopped since. Not Rumi, not Maryam and definitely not the shop staff!"

He glanced at her sidelong, and beneath his frustration she caught the barest flicker of amusement dancing in the corner of his mouth, quickly suppressed. He muttered under his breath, "You weren't complaining before."

Meerab folded her arms, slumping against the seat with all the drama of a woman defeated. "Haan, but you didn't stay to handle their teasing like I did," she grumbled. "You made your grand exit and left me in there, holding a dupatta and my dignity, both slipping."

A quiet apology fell from his lips. "Sorry," he said. But his voice was thick, tinged with the gravel of lingering emotion. He was still in a mood, not brooding, no, but watchful. Like a lion who had not yet found the creature that had dared disturb his pride.

So she reached out and took his hand in hers.

The moment their palms touched, warm against warm, fingers instinctively curling, something softened between them. A sigh released from his chest, low and reluctant.

"It's okay," she said gently, running her thumb along his knuckles. "I love you."

His mouth twitched, the corners tugging upward just slightly, and it was enough to make her heart do a ridiculous little flutter in her chest. "There's the smile," she teased. "My grumpy lion."

He didn't speak, but his grin widened, a crooked, reluctant thing that she adored more than she could say.

"Maa Begum picked well when she got Sher for you," Meerab continued, leaning back with a self-satisfied air, referring to the plush lion toy he had clung to throughout his childhood, the one that now resided in her suitcase, its ears threadbare, its mane loved half to death. "Grumpy face and all."

Murtasim turned toward her then, fully, his body angling just enough for her to see the way his brow eased, and his jaw loosened.

He sighed again, long and theatrical, and Meerab pounced on it like a cat with a mouse, repeating the words he always said to her. "Such a heavy sigh," she murmured with exaggerated concern, "for such a handsome man."

That earned her another smile, a real one this time, and the way his eyes lit up in response made something inside her unclench. She had missed that, the lightness he tried to hide from everyone else but couldn't help showing her.

Then he looked at her more seriously. "Should I drop you home?" he asked, voice low, measured. "Or... do you want to come with me?"

The levity dissolved like breath on glass. A cold knot formed in the pit of her stomach. She didn't need to ask where with me meant. She already knew.

Her heart had known the moment his fingers had traced the scar on her back. His sudden disappearance from the boutique was not a whim but a storm waiting to be unleashed.

There had been a time, not so long ago, when Meerab might have told him to let the law handle it. That their case was airtight, the evidence ironclad. That there was a quiet poetry in letting men like Malik rot in the cold, desolate cells of a justice system that finally remembered the names of its daughters. She had believed then that justice, even slow, would come. That the system had teeth, and her belief had been enough to steady her.

But that Meerab, the one who believed in courts and words and carefully filed affidavits, had died the night she found Murtasim left for dead and couldn't do anything about it. When she pressed her hands to his chest, afraid to find the terrifying stillness beneath her fingers. When the world spun and collapsed into red and black and endless screaming silence.

In the weeks that followed, when her mind refused to rest and her dreams turned to blood and brokenness, she had dreamt of Malik. Of wrapping her hands around his throat. Of shooting him. Of watching the life drain from his eyes. Again and again. A thousand times. And Ammar too.

She didn't want justice anymore.

She wanted vengeance, she understood it now.

"I'll come with you," she said, her voice soft but steady, meeting his gaze.

He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes searching, questioning, perhaps hoping she would change her mind. But she didn't. He exhaled slowly, as though he'd been hoping, praying, for the other answer, the safer one, the quieter one.

But then he nodded, a single dip of his chin, and reached forward to start the car. The engine purred to life, and without a word, his hand found hers again, firm and grounding.

And they drove into the dusk together, hearts heavy, hands clasped, no more words needed.

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The tires crackled over uneven gravel, the path beneath them narrowing into something that could hardly be called a road, more a memory of one. The car came to a halt with a soft jolt, the suspension groaning under the weight of stillness rather than movement, and yet the air thrummed with quiet violence, with anticipation that gripped her lungs in a vice, refusing to let her exhale fully. Meerab sat, unmoving, barely breathing, her fingers curled into her lap, knuckles pale beneath the skin.

She hadn't expected to be here.

Not in this hushed, unseen valley where the world sloped downward and the sun abandoned the sky sooner than it did elsewhere. Not tucked between trees that clawed at the horizon like skeletal sentinels, limbs twisted, bark dark and silent, obscuring them from any watchful eyes above. The dirt road they had travelled was serpentine and reluctant, veering off the paved highway as if in protest, winding through the undergrowth until they reached the shadow of the great cliff that loomed above.

She tilted her head, eyes drawn upward, she could make out the thin ribbon of road that hugged the edge of the hill. The light was fading fast now, that last melancholy shade of violet descending into indigo, the world caught between breath and hush. The vehicles on the cliff were distant enough to look like toys, their headlights winking in and out of sight as they traced the edge with the caution of those who knew what one misstep could mean.

She didn't know why she knew. But she knew.

This was where it had happened.

This was where her father had been run off the road by Malik's men, where the car had tumbled like a lifeless doll through open space, shattered against rock and soil. This was the place.

Her voice was a murmur, not much more than breath. "Why here?" she asked, not looking at Murtasim, her eyes fixed on the cliff above.

There was no immediate answer. Only the sound of leaves rustling in the soft wind, and the distant drone of insects stirring to life in the growing darkness.

Then, without a word, she felt him move.

His arm reached across the console, the familiar sound of her seatbelt unlatching loud in the hush. A moment later, his hands guided her, pulling her across the centre divide until she was tucked sideways into his lap. Her legs folded over the console, her back pressed lightly against the passenger-side door, the window cool against her spine. She leaned into him without protest, without hesitation, as if her body knew the shape of his comfort as surely as it knew the sound of her own heartbeat.

His hand settled on her thigh, grounding. His other slipped into her hair, fingers weaving through the strands, slow and idle, as if they were in their room, or under a tree in summer, or anywhere but here, waiting for death to descend.

He sighed.

It was not a sound of weariness but of resolve. A man who had calculated all the variables and chosen violence anyway.

"They'll know," he murmured, his voice low, threading into the space between them. "The moment the van stops... the panic will start." His fingers paused in her hair, then continued, a rhythm as steady as his breath. "They'll try to open the doors, yell at the driver. They'll think it's a joke, or a mistake. Maybe even scream. I need them to feel it. That they've lost. That it's too late. I need them to try and fail before..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.

Meerab turned her face toward his shoulder, pressing her cheek into the fabric of his shirt, into the warmth of the man beneath it. She inhaled deeply. The scent of him, that familiar, clean, sharp cologne tinged with bergamot and mint, filled her lungs, anchored her. It always did. He was her north star in a world that often spun off its axis.

He turned his head slightly, his jaw brushing the top of her head.

"We don't have to stay," he said after a long moment, softer now. "We can go. You don't have to see it."

But she shook her head, just once, the motion gentle yet unmistakable. "I want to make sure," she said, but the sentence was left incomplete, the final words unspoken, yet echoing all the same.

That they are dead.

She felt his breath catch in his throat. She didn't need to look at him to know.

And so, they sat in silence.

The two of them folded into each other, not speaking, not moving. His fingers continued to tangle in her hair, slow and meditative, like a lullaby without sound. Her face remained tucked into his neck, the soft rise and fall of his chest lulling her.

It was strange, this waiting.

Not frantic, not furious. Just still. Suspended in a quiet that threatened to break at any moment.

It was the stillness that changed first. Not the air, not the trees, not the distant hush of insects or the heaviness of night descending over the valley. No, it was him. Murtasim's body, beneath hers, shifted almost imperceptibly, his spine straightening with the quiet tension of a bowstring drawn taut.

She felt it instantly, like a ripple in calm water.

Meerab, who knew the cadence of his breath and the rhythm of his pulse better than her own, responded to it instinctively.

Her cheek slipped away from the curve of his neck, eyelashes brushing against the cotton of his collar before she lifted her gaze.

And then she saw it.

At the top of the cliff, across the winding ridge road that cut through the granite like a scar, a set of headlights pierced the encroaching dark. They were too high, too square, too severe to be civilian. It was a van, large, heavy, the kind used to transport prisoners between facilities. The van didn't park off to the side, it simply stopped in the middle of the road, idling like a beast in wait.

Its headlights remained on, illuminating the jagged wall of rock across from it, throwing the sparse brush and cracked stone into sharp relief. From the distance, the light was disorienting, casting elongated silhouettes that danced and flickered like phantoms.

She watched as the front doors opened, one on either side, and two figures stepped out. They were men, uniformed perhaps, but the distance distorted detail. She could see the confident gait, the brisk steps, the murmured exchange of words she couldn't hear. They moved toward the back of the van, purposeful, methodical.

And then Murtasim's phone rang.

The shrill, muted vibration jolted her, not because it was loud, but because it was unexpected. In this bubble of silence, even the most ordinary sound felt jarring. He picked it up without speaking.

His phone was connected to the car's Bluetooth.

The sound filled the vehicle, not deafening, but intimate, too close, too real. It surrounded them, pressing in from all sides, as though they were no longer witnesses but participants in what was unfolding above.

No one spoke on the other end.

No greeting. No voice. No explanation.

Just noise.

The ambient sounds filtered in like ghosts: feet scuffing against loose gravel, metal doors creaking open and slamming shut with hollow finality, the hushed murmurs of movement, chaotic, unplaceable, like a room full of men who did not yet realize they were standing in the eye of a storm.

Meerab blinked, and turned her gaze back upward, eyes narrowing against the shadows and the distant, flickering glare of headlights. A second vehicle had arrived. Smaller, sleeker. Its dark frame almost invisible except where it caught the silver glow from the first van's beams.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the two shadows, the ones who had walked to the back of the prisoner van perhaps. They now moved towards the newly arrived vehicle. They passed in front of the high beams, their forms lengthening grotesquely across the rocks, stretched tall and skeletal. She watched as they climbed into the new vehicle and the car pulled away as silently as it had arrived, slipping back into the winding road and out of sight.

She heard it then.

Voices.

Distant. Raw. Human.

Her body went still, every muscle tense. She shifted slightly in Murtasim's lap, not to escape the sound but to brace for it.

Two voices. Male.

"What happened? Why did we stop?"

The fear in the first voice, high, tight, was unmistakable. The second overlapped it, harsher, demanding.

"Oi! Is something wrong? Hello?!"

Meerab's stomach twisted, a nauseating coil of nerves and dread. She could feel it in their tone, the brittle edge of rising panic, the disbelief curdling into fear.

But Murtasim didn't move.

He remained frozen beneath her, a statue carved of flesh and steel, every muscle honed in quiet focus, his ears attuned to every word. The hand on her thigh tightened fractionally, grounding her, anchoring her.

"I told you, they're going to kill us," the voice cracked. Ammar, she thought. His words broke under the strain of hysteria. "Just like you killed her father, just like that."

A harsh slap of words followed, Malik's voice sharp and commanding. "Shut up!"

Then came metal.

The raw, aching sound of it, not sharp or clean but dragging and blunt. Like handcuffs pulled taut. Like desperation made audible. The noise was rhythmic at first, clinking, then frantic, the crash of fists, the rattle of chains. Something was keeping them tethered. Perhaps to the van. The panic mounted, wordless now, just shouting, commands thrown back and forth between them.

"Pull harder!"

"You pull!"

"Do something, do something – "

The van creaked faintly, as if even the metal of it was growing tired beneath their struggle.

Meerab's heart pounded painfully against her ribs, the sound thudding in her ears. Her skin felt too tight, her breathing shallow. She could feel their fear, could almost see it. The two men trapped in a metal cage, hearts thundering, limbs jerking, voices rising with the inevitability of death. She wondered, absently, if this was how Murtasim had felt, the night he'd been left behind.

That barn.

That pool of blood.

The fire.

That silence.

This was how he must have felt. Alone. Helpless. Left behind to die.

And her eyes, with dread, turned from the van to the man whose lap she sat in.

Murtasim's gaze had not wavered. His jaw was locked, tight as iron. His eyes, sharp and unrelenting, were fixed on the cliff above, catching the flickers of light and movement with the focus of a marksman. He hadn't blinked. Not once. He didn't breathe the way others breathed. He inhaled like he was waiting for an answer.

She turned back just as the screaming began.

Ammar was crying.

Full-bodied, incoherent sobbing that punched through the cold night air like the howling of a child. The sound was ugly. Unfiltered. His words collapsed under the weight of his panic.

"We're going to die here. I don't want to – I only did what you told me to do, Malik! MALIK, do something! Do something -- !"

"I said shut up!" Malik bellowed, but there was fear in it now, unmistakable, cutting through his anger like a vein of ice. "You're making it worse, you idiot, pull! Help me! They'll hear us, someone will, pull!"

"It's stuck! I can't move my wrists!"

"Pull harder then!"

More crashing. The sound of knees against metal. The harsh drag of something scraping. The rattle of cuffs fighting against whatever they had been tethered to, perhaps the floor, perhaps the sidewall. Something strong. Something deliberate.

She could see them in her mind's eye. Two grown men, one sobbing, the other snarling, both reduced to a single, universal truth: they were not getting out.

They had been put there to die.

And then she heard it.

Low at first, like a growl in the chest of the earth itself. A truck.

Not just any truck, a big one. Industrial. Angry.

It was the kind that made the ground vibrate.

The screaming hit a new pitch.

"No! NO! MOVE! UNCUFF ME! DO SOMETHING!"

"SOMEONE STOP IT, PLEASE, HELP!"

Meerab's hands gripped the fabric of Murtasim's shirt, her breath caught in her chest. Her eyes refused to blink. Her limbs refused to move.

The truck came into view then, massive, thunderous, a juggernaut barreling around the curve of the cliff with an urgency that couldn't be contained. Its headlights caught the van, illuminating it fully for a single horrifying instant.

Then the impact.

A shattering of metal. A scream of tires. A shriek of force.

The van jerked, flung violently sideways like a toy knocked over by a careless hand. It tipped, slowly at first, then all at once. Headlights splintered into shards of light. Glass burst outward like falling stars. A door flung open, swinging madly, as the screeching crumple of steel met the full weight of the truck's fury.

And somewhere beneath her, Murtasim finally exhaled. A slow, steady breath against the side of her neck.

The truck's horn blared on, a long, unbroken scream, even as the impact devoured it, folding the sound in on itself, until it wasn't clear what came from machine and what from man.

The van teetered.

And then, like a fallen deity cast from the heavens, it fell.

Off the cliff.

Meerab watched. Frozen, breathless as gravity reclaimed the vehicle. One heavy lurch forward, and it slipped past the edge like it had never belonged there to begin with. The van rolled once, an arc of metal silhouetted against the jagged sky, then began to tumble.

It struck the cliff face with a sickening clang, metal on stone, brutal, direct. The sound echoed down through the valley like thunder, too close and too human. Its descent was not smooth. It was chaotic, jarring, each collision with rock sharper than the last, peeling it open like a tin can.

And the screams.

Dear God, the screams.

She heard them. High, fractured, real. Wails that were not made of words anymore. Pained howls, wild and ragged, the kind that twisted in the gut and stuck in the ribs. Ammar's voice, hoarse, raw, pierced the night first, calling for mercy no one would grant. Then Malik, deeper, rougher, yelling commands, prayers, curses, all tangled together in a language only the dying could speak.

Steel shrieked.

Glass exploded.

The van rolled again and again, each time sounding less like a vehicle and more like a carcass being torn apart by the rocks below.

Meerab's body stiffened in Murtasim's arms, rigid with the knowledge that she was hearing death happen in real time.

The sound of handcuffs scraping metal.

Of bodies slamming against walls.

Of voices begging for air.

Then, the final crash.

A deep, echoing shudder of impact. The kind that ended things. The kind that no one survived.

And then, nothing.

Silence, as complete and consuming as the fall.

The phone still rested in the console, its connection open. But no sound came through it now. No crying. No shouting. Not even breath.

Meerab's hand hovered, trembling slightly over the console. The phone still blinked. The silence sat too heavy, too absolute. She didn't know if it was death, or simply distance. Had the phone been crushed in the final impact? Had the connection broken, or had the men inside simply... stopped screaming because there was no one left alive to scream?

She didn't know.

And yet, somehow she did.

Murtasim moved. Just a shift of muscle beneath her, but it startled her all the same.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice dry, dusted with the ash of what they had just witnessed.

He didn't look at her, just reached for the handle. "Just... give me a moment."

She blinked, dazed, climbing off his lap and into her seat, her body moving before her mind caught up. He was already opening the door, the interior light casting a brief golden glow before vanishing into night. The air outside was cooler now, heavier.

Confused, her breath catching, she opened her door too and stepped out. The earth crunched beneath her sandals.

"I'll go with you," she said, firm.

He turned, eyebrows drawn. "Meerab, you've seen enough," he said it gently, not as an order, but a plea.

But she shook her head, once. Quiet, decisive. "Either we both go," she said, "or we both don't."

He stared at her, just for a second, before sighing in that familiar way, a sound filled with love, defeat, and long-suffering admiration. "Always so stubborn."

His hand reached for hers. She took it. He squeezed.

They walked together.

The incline wasn't steep, but the terrain was rough, the dirt loose with patches of stone that shifted beneath their steps. The trees thinned as they neared the broken edge of the path, and she noticed, not for the first time, how Murtasim slowed his steps. How he looked down more often at her feet than his own.

They walked like that for minutes. In silence, in shadow, hand in hand. Until the dark shape of the van came into view.

It was crumpled beyond recognition, the back collapsed inward, the metal torn open at unnatural angles. The windows were shattered, pieces of glass like scattered diamonds beneath their feet. The van rested half in a ditch, half on a slope, the wreckage sharp against the night.

And then, she heard it.

A sound. Faint, but unmistakable.

A groan.

Pained, guttural. A rasp dragged from somewhere deep in the chest. Then another, higher, broken. Crying. Human.

She froze and pulled at Murtasim's hand, halting him mid-step.

He turned toward her, not surprised, as if he had expected this. His hands came to her waist, grounding her, his eyes dark and unreadable in the shadows.

"We can go back," he said softly, the words a tender offering.

She shook her head.

He stared a moment longer, searching her face, as if hoping she'd change her mind.

Then he sighed. "I need you to stand right here, meri Meerab." His voice was firmer now, protective. "Promise me."

She nodded, even though her throat burned.

He bent, pressed a kiss to her forehead, warm and anchoring, and turned, beginning his slow, deliberate walk toward the van.

But she reached for him again, grabbing his wrist, stopping him once more, worry clawing at her. "What if it catches on fire?"

"I had them make sure the tank was almost empty," he said without turning back.

She released him.

Even though every part of her wanted to follow, she stayed rooted, arms crossed over her stomach, watching. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

He was almost at the wreckage when she saw it, a flash of something small and golden in his hand, glinting briefly in the moonlight. He turned it over with careful fingers. She knew what it was before she had to see it clearly.

His lighter.

The one he no longer used, having given up smoking at her behest.

Her eyes remained fixed on him as he approached the side of the van or what remained of it. One door hung open, and the back looked almost folded in on itself, but there was space enough to crouch.

She heard him then, bending low, his head disappearing beneath the crumpled frame. The groans grew louder.

And then, "Pl-pl-please K-khan –"

She couldn't tell who it was. Malik, or Ammar. It didn't matter.

The voice was hoarse, ruined by pain. There was no venom in it anymore. Just pleading. Just fear.

"I would've left you alive," Murtasim's voice came, steady, low, absolute. "But you caused her harm."

Meerab closed her eyes. And for a moment, she hoped they were still alive. Just enough. Enough to hear that. Enough to know.

Then came the sobbing. Unrestrained, panicked. Followed by more begging, more promises, the kind only cowards make when there's no escape left.

Murtasim stood up.

The lighter clicked in his hand, a brief flick of flame bursting into the air. He stared at it for a beat, then turned away from the van and walked back toward her.

And just before he reached her, without a word, he tossed the lighter over his shoulder.

She turned her head in time to see it land.

A line of fire caught.

Thin at first, a snake of light slithering toward the wreckage, slow and sure.

Then it spread.

Murtasim reached for her hand again. She took it. Together, they walked away.

Not fast. Not triumphant. Just... finished.

But before they reached the car, he stopped.

Turned.

Watched.

She followed his gaze.

The fire had begun to consume the van, creeping up the sides, licking at the metal with greedy hunger. Black smoke poured from the openings. The groans inside had stopped.

She watched the flames grow, licking red and gold and white.

And in the cruelest corner of her heart, the part she never spoke aloud, she hoped they had been alive enough to feel it.

The way he had.

The fire. The helplessness. The pain.

A sudden pop split the air, not huge, but final. An explosion of the cabin, perhaps a tire, or what little fuel remained, and the van was engulfed.

A tower of flame against the night.

Meerab shuddered.

Murtasim turned to her, his expression unreadable, his voice gentle.

"Are you okay?"

She blinked and nodded.

Not because it was easy.

But because it was true.

She should be afraid of a man who had orchestrated this. She should be shaken by what they had done. She should feel guilt pressing into her chest like iron.

But she didn't.

She felt relief.

Because now, now there was no chance. No chance of them crawling back from the depths with some technicality, no loophole in a courtroom, no shifting of power that might set them free.

They were gone.

Permanently.

Forever.

She thought of the woman she had become. The one who had pointed a gun at a man's head, voice shaking, stomach churning, and afterward had run behind a building and vomited. The one who had whispered, I'm not like them.

But tonight, she didn't feel that same disgust.

It felt... deserved.

Maybe she had changed.

Or maybe the world had. And she had only adjusted accordingly.

Or maybe it was because the man in front of her didn't judge her for it, didn't love her less because of it.

Murtasim pulled her into him, arms wrapped tight around her, hand cradling the back of her head. He kissed her hair and whispered into it, his voice almost breaking with the weight of it all.

"That's the last of it," he murmured. "You don't come close to any of this ever again, meri jaan."

She buried her face into his chest and nodded, silent.

The fire still roared behind them, orange and black against the night, but she heard nothing but the beat of his heart beneath her ear.

She would've waged wars for him.

She had, in her own way. Fought and clawed and bled in silence.

She could have killed for him too.

And perhaps tonight she had, again.

But she didn't want that anymore.

Not this war. Not this blood. Not this ruin.

What she wanted, truly, achingly, was peace.

To lie beside him in a quiet room, the window open, the curtains fluttering in a lazy breeze. To laugh again. To be soft. To be safe.

To begin again.

And never look back at the weeks their lives had turned upside down.

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

It was on every news channel that morning. A small, tight segment between political scandals and the cricket score. A scrolling headline, sterile in tone and stripped of significance: "Van struck by truck on narrow highway outside Karachi; two prisoners dead."

There were no names. No photos. No histories.

Just a brief description, as hollow as the eyes of the anchor who read it aloud, a tale reduced to a shrug.

A van, allegedly out of fuel. The assigned officers had stepped away to search for help, and in that sliver of absence, the transport vehicle had been struck by an oncoming truck. Two inmates died instantly. No further details were offered. No follow-up was promised. It was, as far as the public was concerned, a tragedy of logistics.

Murtasim stared at the screen as it flickered across the wall-mounted television. His mother sipped her tea and muttered something about the fragility of government vehicles, but there was a knowing look on her face. She had lived long enough in their world to know.

And that was that.

Just another morning in Pakistan.

It had been easier than he thought it would be.

He had paid for the arrangement, not in blood or conscience, but money, and not even an overwhelming sum. A few discreet transfers. A favour from a favour. The rest handled itself. He had paid for precision, and he had received it. Not too clean, not too dramatic. Just enough.

And it was worth every penny.

He let the thought settle quietly as he turned from the television and walked towards the dining room, the smell of chai and buttered paratha grounding him in a reality far removed from fire and wreckage. Outside the haveli, the sky was cloudless and pale blue, the kind of sky that looked almost shy in the early hours of the day. A bird trilled from somewhere in the inner courtyard.

He heard Meerab's laughter.

Before he saw her, before he turned the final corner and caught sight of her, he heard it, light and bright, the kind that didn't just fill a room but made it feel fuller, as if the walls themselves leaned in to listen.

And there she was.

Perched at the breakfast table, seated in her usual spot directly across from his chair.

She was speaking far too quickly, words tumbling over one another in that familiar rhythm of hers when she was excited, animated, entirely herself. Maryam was in the middle of some elaborate story, her voice exaggerated and theatrical, hands flailing for effect, while Rumi kept cutting in with breathless giggles, shaking her head as if unable to keep up.

Her hair was loose this morning, brushed quickly, not styled, but beautiful in its mess. She was wearing one of his older white kurtas again, rolled at the sleeves, drowning in fabric, paired with her shalwar. There was a spoon in her hand, stirring her chai, but her attention was half on Maryam.

Meerab laughed.

It wasn't a loud laugh, not her deep, untethered one, but it was genuine. Light and warm and entirely ordinary.

He smiled, almost without meaning to as he sat down at the table.

She had been quiet the previous night. Not withdrawn, just quieter, softer. She had curled into his side the way she always did, forehead tucked beneath his chin, breath warm against his collarbone.

He hadn't asked her how she felt.

Not because he didn't care. But because he knew her silence was not a void but a choice. If she wanted to speak, she would. If she wanted to share the weight of what they'd done, she would offer it, not as a confession, but as a truth between them.

She'd fallen asleep quickly.

She was tired.

The day had taken so much from her. The fittings, the noise, the smiling. And then, beneath it all, the drive, the waiting, the crash. The screaming. The stillness that followed. But even as she exhaled into sleep, even as her breathing slowed and her body softened against his, he had wondered -- did the flames still flicker behind her eyes? Would the final, echoing crash still crack through her dreams? Would the ragged sobs from that broken van continue to haunt the spaces behind her quiet?

She had always been soft.

Soft in that quiet, sturdy way. Not like glass, but like water, not fragile, but patient, persistent, flowing around harm instead of through it. Believing in books, in rules, in the structures that were supposed to protect people like her. She believed in law, even though she knew it would fail her at times. She believed in justice, even though she knew it would sometimes turn its face away.

But he could see that she had changed.

Her edges had hardened.

The steel had risen beneath her skin. She was no longer naïve, no longer certain that the world rewarded patience. He hated that this cruel world had chipped away at her hope, piece by piece, until she stood straighter, colder, sharper.

And though he admired her, though he loved this sharp, fire-forged version of her with the kind of reverence men once reserved for saints, a part of him still grieved. For the wide-eyed girl who had once looked at broken systems and said, we can fix this.

He missed her wide-eyed optimism. Her faith in things that had never deserved her faith. He missed the girl who would have whispered, Murtasim, this isn't right.

He missed the girl who walked into rooms like she could change them simply by standing tall.

But there was something deeply, dangerously beautiful about the woman she was now.

The woman who had shot a man's ear off in a warehouse without blinking.

Who had stood, unmoving, as two men burned to ash in the same flames they had once wished for him.

There was power in her now. Not loud. Not boastful. But inevitable.

A reckoning cloaked in soft pastel cottons and long lashes.

Something that both terrified him, and made him fall in love all over again.

Because that was the thing about loving Meerab.

It was never one moment, one falling.

It was constant.

A thousand small, exquisite devastations.

A million, maybe. Each time somehow deeper, heavier, more impossible than the last.

Sometimes, he wondered when it had really started, when the ground first shifted beneath him. But the truth was: it hadn't started with a single moment. It had started with her, and she had always been there.

He had loved her, or something like it, since the first time she'd come crying to him about her father, just four years old, with pigtails, tears streaking her face as she clutched his favourite stuffed animal like it was a lifeline. She held it to her chest like it could protect her from whatever nightmare she'd just woken from. And he hadn't said a word. Had just sat there, watching, this small, furious creature with storm-cloud eyes and trembling lips, and thought -- I don't ever want her to cry again.

And from there, he just kept falling.

Over and over.

He fell in love in moments. Most so small he couldn't catalogue them now, couldn't name them, only feel their imprint. The tilt of her head when she was thinking. The way she said his name when she was tired. The smile she gave him in passing, casual and unremarkable to anyone else, but enough to make his chest tighten as though she'd carved her name into it.

Other times, it was louder. Monumental.

He fell in love when she was fourteen and furious, fists clenched, arguing with the villagers about land reform, her voice cracking with restrained emotion, eyes glittering with conviction. He fell in love again when she was seventeen and ablaze with purpose, standing in the centre of the village square, shouting at a crowd of reluctant men about sending their daughters to school, promising to build more, to do more, to be more for them than anyone had ever dared.

He fell in love with her when she laughed too hard at his grumpiness, when she smacked his shoulder and called him impossible. He fell in love when she refused to move from his side, standing there with nothing but her stubborn spine and open heart, as if that was enough, and it was.

He had fallen in love with her when she held him when his father died, her fingers combing through his hair in endless, wordless comfort, his face buried in her stomach like she was the only place left that made sense.

He had fallen in love with her the first time she touched his shoulder like it meant something.

And the thousandth time she looked at him like he meant everything.

And he would keep falling.

Always.

For every version of her.

With every breath she changed, and with every change, he would love her anew.

This version, this woman forged in fire and ash, who no longer flinched at the darkness, he loved her.

He would love all her ghosts and all her futures.

Even the ones that scared him.

Even the ones that made him ache.

Still, she was smiling now.

Laughing, that laugh that started low and caught fire on its way out. A curl of her hair had slipped forward over her cheek, and she brushed it back without noticing, mid-sentence, too absorbed in her story to see the way he watched her.

He didn't take his eyes off her.

How could he?

When every version of her felt like falling in love for the very first time.

She looked up just then, catching him.

His heart stuttered. A reflex.

She winked.

He nearly choked on his chai.

Across the room, Arsalan, half-eaten toast in one hand, leaned toward Maa Begum. "You'd think," he said casually, "he'd get tired of staring at her eventually."

Murtasim turned his head slowly, giving the man a look sharp enough to slice through cotton.

Maa Begum smiled over the rim of her tea, shaking her head in affectionate exasperation.

Murtasim muttered into his cup, "Biwi hai meri."

Meerab caught it and she grinned wider, leaning into Maryam's shoulder as if she hadn't just made his pulse skip.

Arsalan stood, clapping his hands. "Let's go. Time to work out. Have to look hot for your biwi at the wedding."

Meerab laughed again, this time louder. And though he knew Rumi and Maryam were both giggling beside her, he couldn't hear anything but her laugh.

As though some part of his body had been trained to detect it, to pick her out from a crowd – not by sight, not by touch, but by the particular way her laughter curved through space.

He loved that sound.

The lightness of it. The fact that after everything, after barns and bruises and wreckage and blood, she could still laugh like that.

With the kind of reluctance known only to men dragged away from their wives and warm chai, he set his cup down and stood. "Let's go," he muttered, following Arsalan out and up the staircase that led to the terrace gym set-up that Arslana himself had orchestrated two months ago.

At the time, Murtasim had envisioned serenity, discipline, routine. Solitude under the sun, the sound of birds and iron and breath. What he had not accounted for was Arsalan turning the space into a cardio-confessional hybrid.

By the time they reached the terrace, Arsalan had already unzipped his hoodie and begun lifting, as though the laws of digestion meant nothing to him.

"Warm up?" Murtasim offered.

"No need," Arsalan replied, already curling a barbell. "The trauma keeps me warm."

Murtasim exhaled slowly as he slid his hoodie off and stretched, glancing up at the cloudless sky. This was going to be a long session.

Today was upper body day. His favourite, but also the hardest since the accident. There were still days when the scar on his side felt like a stubborn reminder, taut and pulling beneath the skin, the phantom ache of brokenness. But he was building back. Reclaiming every muscle as if strength itself was a form of revenge.

He lay back on the bench, wrapped his hands around the bar, and exhaled once before pushing upward. Arsalan hovered near his head, spotting him with more attitude than technique.

And then, it started. A sigh. Dramatic. Prolonged.

Murtasim pushed through another rep, jaw tightening. "What now?"

"Nothing," Arsalan said. Another sigh. "Just... nothing."

"Right," Murtasim muttered, racking the weights. "Because somehow every workout now doubles as therapy."

"There is no therapy," Arsalan replied at once, indignant. "Because I don't need therapy. Because I'm fine."

Murtasim gave him a look. "She texted you two days ago and you haven't replied."

"It was just 'hi.'"

"Yes," Murtasim said, tone clipped. "Exactly. She said hi. And you've spent forty-eight hours treating it like a letter from the Pakistani army. Just text Ajiya back."

Arsalan threw his towel over his shoulder and muttered, "What do I even say?"

Murtasim rolled his eyes so hard he saw the sky again. He picked up a dumbbell, started his curls with deliberate rhythm. "Say hi. Say what's on your mind. Say anything that doesn't make her think you've been kidnapped."

"You don't get it," Arsalan replied, picking up a kettlebell and swinging it with more aggression than necessary. "It's not that easy."

Murtasim snorted. "Alright, fair. But you can try."

Another sigh.

The seventh of the morning, if he was counting, which he was.

"You'll never get it," Arsalan muttered finally. "You have Meerab. You can say anything to her and she'll always listen. In her eyes, you've hung the stars in the sky, man. You never have to be afraid of saying the wrong thing. If you do mess up, she'll whack you cutely, but she'll still be there. She'll call you out, and she'll still work it through with you. You could kill someone, which you did, by the way, and she was right beside you."

Murtasim was not surprised that Arsalan too connected the dots.

Arsalan sighed, "You never hesitate. It's easy for you. Because you know she's never going to break your heart in any way. Not ever. But it's not like that for the rest of us. For most of us... we don't even know what the other person is thinking."

Murtasim paused mid-rep, lowering the weight slowly.

His tone, when he finally spoke, was low and serious. "You think we didn't have a time like that? We were like that too. So much left unsaid, so many things lost in silence. I get it, we're different. But we had to learn to talk too. To push past the pride, the fear, all of it."

He pointed the dumbbell at him, lips quirking.

"Now you can whine like a little bitch to me, or you can text the girl back. She's going to be at the wedding anyway, so the sooner you do this, the better."

Arsalan looked tragically offended. "I should've just talked to Meerab instead."

Murtasim barked a laugh. "She'd just whack you. So don't."

"You're just possessive about her whacks," Arsalan grumbled.

Murtasim shrugged.

He couldn't deny that.

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

Arsalan had long since vanished, muttering something about showering and protein shakes, leaving behind the ghost of his dramatics and a half-empty bottle of water. The terrace had quieted in his absence, the sun now suspended high and golden in the sky, painting the concrete in sheets of warmth. The silence was companionable. Murtasim liked it this way.

He rolled his shoulders, muscles sore but not finished, a familiar ache lingering in his arms as he reached for the barbell again. His fingers curled around the cool iron, breath measured, deliberate. His body moved with rhythm, each rep drawn with purpose, not just to rebuild what had been lost, but to surpass it. To reclaim the strength his enemies had tried to take from him.

He heard a sound then.

Soft, but unmistakable.

Chappals.

More specifically, her chappals.

He knew their sound like he knew the cadence of his own breath. It was a quick, sharp staccato, a little ungraceful, a little impatient, but utterly, uniquely Meerab. They slapped the stairs with increasing insistence, each step louder than the last, like they were trying to make a point.

He didn't turn right away.

He felt her before he saw her, the shift in air, the quiet hum of her presence blooming at the edges of the space.

Her steps gave her away. Rushed, irritated, bordering on furious. And it made something low in his stomach stir, not in fear, but in anticipation.

Then she appeared.

A vision of divine wrath in cotton and sunlight.

She was still wearing his white kurta, oversized and slouching off one shoulder, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows in reckless defiance. Her shalwar danced in the wind, twisting around her legs like impatient clouds. Her hair was a beautiful, unruly mess, strands stuck to her cheek, some pulled back behind one ear, others flung rebelliously across her forehead. Her eyes locked onto him with a heat that could strip paint from a wall.

Murtasim arched an eyebrow, already amused. "What happened?"

She didn't answer.

Instead, she stomped toward him like a storm in miniature. She came to a halt just before him, lifted her phone with the gravitas of a woman holding a weapon, and shoved it towards his face.

He blinked once, twice.

It took a moment to look away from her, from the flushed cheeks and the pout she was trying so hard to hide, and glance at the screen. It was a video, on Arsalan's Instagram feed. The camera panning between him, in his black Adidas tank, sweating, lifting weights, and Arsalan in front of the full-length mirror he had insisted needed to be on the terrace.

The background music was obnoxious.

"Okay," he said slowly, glancing up at her again. "And?"

She didn't say a word. Just glared.

He watched her lips move, muttering under her breath, something about "thirst traps" and "showing off" and "unfiltered nonsense", but it was so quiet and rapid he couldn't make it out.

Then, with a huff, she turned the phone back around, jabbed at the screen with one finger, and there it was.

The comments.

The first one, from someone named MJ, who had left behind a lot of fire emojis. The second from Haya, four heart-eye emojis and a single word: arms.

Murtasim snorted. Loudly. "How do you know she means my arms?" he teased, biting back a grin.

Her eyes sharpened, a slow, deliberate burn of disbelief.

"Murtasim Shahnawaz Khan," she snapped.

He grinned wider. "Yes, Meerab Murtasim Khan?"

"Stop being cute."

"I'm not," he said, utterly unrepentant. "It's just genetic."

She narrowed her eyes.

He set the weights down gently, the sound a dull thud against the mat. Then, with a movement fluid and certain, he reached for her. One hand wrapped around her wrist, the other at her waist, guiding her gently but firmly onto his lap as he sat back on the workout bench.

She didn't fight him.

Not really.

There was always that half-hearted protest. A little resistance, a token of principle. But her body yielded to his with practiced ease. She landed sideways across his thighs, legs dangling off one side, her knees bumping his. Her arms instinctively looped around his neck, the phone forgotten, dropped somewhere near his feet.

He took a moment.

Just looked at her.

Her chest rising and falling beneath the thin cotton of his kurta, the sweat-glow of her cheeks, the way her eyes – for all their fire – softened the moment she was close enough to touch him.

His hands found her waist, thumbs stroking lazy circles over the fabric. He could feel the curve of her hip beneath the cloth, the warmth of her against his skin, the way her breath caught when he leaned a little closer.

"Are you jealous?" he murmured, voice low and intimate.

"No," she lied.

"Liar."

"I'm not!" she said, indignant.

He tilted his head, brushing the tip of his nose against hers. "You sure?" he whispered.

She tried to glare.

But her mouth twitched.

Just the tiniest bit.

"I hate you," she muttered.

"You don't."

"Sometimes."

"Never."

Her arms tightened around him.

He kissed her temple, breathing her in. Shampoo and stubbornness.

"You're like a cute jealous kitten."

"I am not."

"You are." He grinned, leaning back just enough to look at her again.

She didn't argue.

She was just pouting.

Not dramatically, not with any grand flare of performance, but with the subtlety of someone who didn't quite realise how utterly adorable she was when angry. Her lower lip jutted out just slightly, her brow furrowed, and her fingers tugged absentmindedly at the hem of his kurta that she wore, the one draped across her like a claim, like a flag of conquest.

He couldn't look away.

It was ridiculous, really, how one woman could undo every shred of his composure just by being annoyed.

"I'll tell Arsalan to take it down," he offered, his voice soft and genuine, brushing her temple with the edge of his breath.

She sighed, a long-suffering exhale, and shook her head against his chest.

He blinked. "Then... what?"

Another pause. She wasn't sulking anymore, not exactly, but she hadn't let go of the tension either. Her fingers crept over his arm again, trailing along the slope of his bicep, and when she spoke, it was half-whine, half-declaration: "These are my arms."

And with that, she gave his bicep a firm squeeze, as if to prove ownership by imprint.

Murtasim laughed, an actual, full-bodied laugh that rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest. "All yours," he said, wrapping both arms around her waist and squeezing her right back, lifting her slightly off his lap before setting her down again with exaggerated care. "Always have been."

She didn't answer, not with words.

But her hands kept moving, trailing slow, exploratory paths up and down the thick muscles of his arms. Her fingers danced lightly at first, tracing the definition, the curve of strength earned through pain and persistence. There was reverence in the way she touched him, possessive and unhurried, like she was mapping territory no one else was ever allowed to know.

He let her.

Watched her through half-lowered lashes, caught in the rhythm of her breath and the heat of her hands. His muscles flexed instinctively under her touch, responding without thought, as if they too knew who they belonged to.

Her hands moved higher, from his arms to his shoulders, fingers slipping beneath the sweat-dark strap of his tank top, skimming the edge of skin slick with exertion. The air had grown thick between them, humming with something electric.

And then, she leaned in.

He felt her breath first, warm and deliberate, ghosting over the base of his neck. That precise spot where his neck met his shoulder, where the trapezius muscle rose in a firm ridge beneath his skin, shaped by weeks of rehabilitation and stubborn, silent effort.

Then she bit him.

Not playfully.

Hard.

A low, strangled groan escaped his throat before he could stop it, a sound half-surprise, half-surrender. His head tipped back, eyes shutting briefly as the burn bloomed beneath her teeth. Her bite wasn't cruel, but it claimed. The heat of her mouth, the sting of pressure, it shot through him like a current.

She didn't pull away.

Instead, she whispered against his skin, soft, fierce, and absolutely certain: "Mine."

And something inside him, some tight, wordless knot of restraint, snapped.

He groaned, guttural and helpless, escaping without permission from deep in his chest. His grip on her hips tightened reflexively, anchoring her to him like the very idea of letting go was unthinkable. And just as he began to draw breath again, to speak, to move...she giggled.

It was wicked and featherlight and utterly infuriating.

Then, without warning, she began planting a trail of small, playful bites across the slope of his neck and shoulder. Little claiming kisses made of teeth and mischief, as though her mouth had become a brand and she had every intention of marking him down to the bone.

He could feel her smile against his skin, devilish and pleased with herself.

His head fell back, helpless under her hands, her mouth, her heat.

"Not going to say anything?" she whispered against his throat, pausing long enough to murmur, "Aren't you going to tell me I'm playing with fire or something today?"

He blinked, the words slow to register. His brain, addled with arousal and affection both, couldn't quite piece together what she meant.

Until she leaned back, just enough to pout up at him, her brow furrowed like a scolded kitten. "You forgot."

And then, it hit him.

Like a sudden rush of blood to the head.

The memory came crashing down: a familiar moment from what felt like ages go, Meerab watching him work out, her eyes dark with want, her voice low and ragged as she murmured, I need you.

And him, exhausted, trying to be noble, pretending discipline was still possible, had told her to behave. And advised her to use her own fingers.

His groan now was longer, deeper, and absolutely full of regret.

"I was an idiot," he muttered, burying his face in the crook of her neck, ashamed of every inch of restraint he'd ever practiced.

"Glad you realize it," she said sweetly, curling her fingers into his hair and scratching gently at his scalp.

"I should have just had my way with you," he whispered into her skin, not quite apologetic, more like confessing a sin that should never have been one in the first place.

She laughed, that gorgeous, breathy laugh that twisted something inside him.

"You should have," she agreed, with a wicked smile, before leaning in again, this time to kiss the spot she had bitten, her lips soft where her teeth had been sharp.

He pulled her in, no more teasing.

Their mouths met, hot, urgent, hungry. There was no slowness to it, no gentle preamble. Her fingers were in his hair, his hands already spanning the small of her back, pulling her impossibly closer. She sat straddled across him now, thighs snug around his hips, the soft cotton of his kurta slipping further down her shoulder as she tilted her head, granting him deeper access.

He kissed her like he meant to burn.

Like the memory of her pout, her bites, her whispered mine had been stamped behind his eyelids, demanding to be answered. Her body arched against his, chest to chest, heat pouring off her like flame, and he swallowed her little sighs like they were the last sweet thing on this earth.

He could feel her smiling, that half-smile of mischief and provocation, of a plan already forming behind her lashes.

And then, against his mouth, in a breath no louder than a secret, she whispered, "Are you done working out?"

His answer came without thought.

"No."

She stilled.

Not pulling away, not pushing forward, just paused, eyes fluttering open, her brow arching in that beautifully defiant way she had, that half-skeptical tilt of her head like she couldn't believe he had the audacity to still care about reps and routine when she was right there, in his lap, wrapped around him.

"No?" she repeated, incredulous, biting her lower lip in a way that made his pulse trip.

He didn't elaborate.

He didn't need to.

Instead, he shifted beneath her, hands sliding under her thighs as he rose, carrying her with him in a single, fluid movement.

She gasped. "Murtasim! You'll hurt yourself!"

He rolled his eyes, exhaling through his nose. "You're light."

She tried to look stern, but her fingers gripped his shoulders instinctively, balancing herself as he moved. "You were literally hurt, like recently. Put me down before I break you!"

"I'd let you," he muttered under his breath with a smirk, bending just enough to kiss her forehead. Then, with slow and deliberate care, he set her down onto the mat a few feet from the bench.

She landed with a soft, surprised oof, legs splayed gracelessly. Her curls spilled out in every direction, catching the sunlight like unruly threads of fire, forming a halo around her head that made her look like the patron saint of chaos.

She looked up at him, confused at first, until he dropped to the mat above her, one hand planted on either side of her head, and lowered himself into a perfect push-up.

Her breath caught.

"Seriously?" she asked, lips curving into reluctant amusement as she blinked up at him.

He dipped low, nose brushing hers. "I told you. Not done."

He had wanted to do just this the last time.

When she stood before him and said I need you, it had taken every ounce of willpower not to throw discipline and decency to the wind.

But he'd said no.

Now, hovering above her, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she stared up at him like he was a feast she planned to devour, he knew exactly what he'd wanted to do then.

This.

Except with less clothing.

Preferably none.

He'd imagined it more than once. Her flat on the bed, bare and waiting, her thighs parted around him, hands tangled in his hair. And him, naked, sweat-slicked, braced over her, holding himself above her until she was breathless with need.

He would lower slowly, mouth brushing hers, their chests barely touching, the air between them thick and hungry. And then he'd sink further, not just his body, but all of him, into her, stretching her open inch by inch, his muscles trembling not from exertion but from how hard he was fighting not to finish before they'd even begun.

A different kind of endurance.

A different kind of burn.

And she would whisper his name like it was a prayer, and a warning, and a promise all at once.

He'd bite down on his groan, move again, again, one push-up, one thrust, one kiss at a time, until she was wrecked beneath him.

He looked down at her now. Flushed and pouting, still pretending to be annoyed. He let the ghost of that thought flicker in his eyes.

Somehow, he knew she saw it.

Because her breath caught again, and her fingers curled into the hem of his tank like she wanted to tear it off with her teeth.

Another push-up. Smooth. Controlled. Infuriating.

She rolled her eyes, but there was laughter in them now, and something darker, something molten.

On the third push-up, he straightened his elbows a little slower. Let his body hover just a breath above hers. His tank top clung to him, sweat-slicked, the curve of his shoulders gleaming in the light, every muscle taut and straining in the best possible way.

"Stop showing off," she muttered, though her voice had gone decidedly breathless.

"Thought you liked these arms," he said, smug, lowering himself again, close enough for her to feel his breath on her lips.

She reached up, not to shove him away, but to ghost her fingers over his biceps, her nails grazing the edge of his tank, dragging across skin warm from exertion. Her eyes flicked down, then back to his, hunger now barely masked.

He smirked.

And on the next push-up, he kissed her.

Just a brush of his mouth to hers before lifting again, leaving her chasing the taste of him.

Her hands never left him. They stayed wrapped around his biceps, fingers brushing across skin slick with effort, grazing over muscle that flexed and coiled beneath her touch like something alive. She wasn't possessive about it now, not like she'd been earlier, no biting or whispering claims. Just wonder. Admiration. Her eyes trailing over his body like she'd never quite gotten used to him. As if each line of his arm, each dip of his shoulder, was new again.

And he let her.

He drank in the look on her face, the way her lashes swept low as she followed the arc of his jaw, the curve of his neck. The way her brows twitched ever so slightly each time their bodies touched, his chest brushing hers with each descent, her breath hitching in small, uneven gasps.

His Meerab was so pretty.

It hurt to look at her sometimes.

The sunlight caught in her hair, turning it gold at the edges. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips kiss-swollen and curved into that secret little smile she saved just for him. Her eyes gleamed, not just with heat, but happiness – unfiltered, unrestrained. She looked free like this, glowing with mischief, with love.

Every time he dipped, he kissed her. A soft press of his lips to hers, not enough to satisfy, but enough to make her chase after him each time he pulled back. Her mouth would lift off the mat, following him greedily, and it made him grin so wide his chest ached with it.

She was breathless by the time he hit fifteen. Not from exertion, but from wanting.

By the twentieth, she couldn't stop giggling between kisses.

And then, on the thirtieth, she hooked her legs around his waist.

His balance stuttered.

He froze, halfway down, eyes snapping to hers, which were now shining with impish delight.

"What about cardio?" she whispered, her voice feather-light, almost sing-song. Her hands drifted down the ridges of his sweat-slick abdomen, fingers tracing each carved line, skimming the edge of his tank before pausing just where it met the band of his sweats.

He groaned. Loudly. Raw and unfiltered.

"Meerab."

She looked up at him from beneath long, curling lashes, that wickedly innocent smile blooming across her face. "What?" she asked, her fingers slipped lower, curling around the thick outline of his cock through the fabric. She gave it a gentle, maddening squeeze, thumb stroking lazily along the length.

"I just think," she said, saccharine sweet, "you deserve something for working out so hard."

Murtasim's arms nearly buckled. His hips twitched forward instinctively, grinding against her palm. She leaned up, her chest brushing his, and her lips brushed his with infuriating softness, not a kiss, not really. A promise. A provocation.

"Call it... a performance incentive," she murmured.

He didn't make the next move. She did.

Her mouth found his with sudden, searing heat, tongue slipping past his lips before he could fully react. She was pressed against him, moaning into his mouth, rolling her hips up while he lowered himself again, slowly, chest grazing hers.

He kissed her hard, angling his mouth over hers with growing urgency, grinding his hips into her as his tongue slid over hers again and again. Her hands were everywhere, sliding up his shoulders, down his back, gripping the fabric of his tank and yanking it, nails dragging over sweaty skin.

Murtasim's breath was ragged. He buried his face in her neck, mouthing along her throat as he thrust against her deliberately now, cock straining against the soft pressure of her hand and her hips, the heat of her making him lose all rhythm. She was moaning, long and breathy, each sound puffing out against his ear like wind through silk.

She arched under him, wrapping her legs tighter around his waist, grinding up with shameless need. "Let's go," she whispered, biting at his jaw, breath fogging hot against his skin.

He didn't ask where. Her fingers had already hooked into the waistband of his sweats, tugging him off the mat, giggling as they stumbled backward into the far corner of the terrace. Vines trailed thick and tangled along a wooden trellis above them, curling down the corners of the wall like nature's curtain. Old latticework lined the space in uneven slats, hiding them completely from the rest of the terrace. No one could see them here. Not from the house. Not from the garden path below. Not from anywhere.

Meerab didn't wait.

She sank to her knees on the warm concrete; eyes locked on his.

Her hands found his hips, slow and firm, and slid up beneath the hem of his tank before curling around his sweats again. Her eyes, wide, molten, hungry, never left his as she pushed the grey fabric down his thighs inch by inch, her fingers teasing the fine trail of hair that led to where he throbbed beneath.

And when his cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, the tip already wet and glistening from the sheer weight of anticipation, she whimpered, soft and high and sweet, like she'd missed him.

"Fuck," Murtasim breathed, back hitting the wall behind him.

She looked up at him with those wide brown eyes, lust-drunk.

Her lips parted. And then her tongue came out.

She leaned in and dragged a slow, languid lick up the underside of his cock. From the thick base all the way to the leaking head. Lapping at him like he was something decadent, forbidden. And then she did it again, slower, humming against him as she tasted him. The vibration traveled through his shaft like a jolt, making his hips jerk forward helplessly.

And then, she wrapped her pretty little mouth around his head.

He gasped, every muscle locking tight.

Her tongue was hot, slick, purposeful. She circled the crown with maddening thoroughness, flicking and stroking until his thighs trembled, and then she sucked, sealing her lips around him as her hand slid up to cradle the base. She took more of him, deeper, cheeks hollowing as she moaned, greedy and breathless. It had been months. Too many. Months since she'd had her mouth on him like this, wet and wanting and absolutely unrestrained.

His hips jerked forward instinctively, and she moaned around him, the vibration making his knees buckle.

"Meerab – " he rasped, his hand shooting out instinctively, knotting in her hair, tugging the dark strands tight in his fist. Her mouth sank deeper, lips stretched around his girth, spit gathering at the corners and dribbling freely down her chin.

She pulled off with a wet gasp, licking a stripe up the length of him before swirling her tongue around the head again, watching him the whole time.

He whimpered.

She was smiling, lips slick and swollen, hands wrapped around his cock and pumping him in long, slow strokes as she looked up at him through her lashes. Watching his every twitch. Watching his face. His cock twitched violently in her grip, and she grinned wider.

He reached down and cradled her cheek in his palm, thumb brushing softly over the corner of her mouth where her spit glistened. Her eyes fluttered at the touch, her expression turning almost dreamy, so open, so full of worship it made his knees weak.

And then, without a word, she took him back into her mouth.

Deep.

She moaned again, louder this time, the sound muffled and obscene as her lips slid down over him. Her eyes locked on his, and she didn't look away. Not for a second.

"Fuckkk Meerab," he hissed, trying to hold back, trying to listen past the thudding of his pulse and the lewd sounds of her mouth working his cock.

She held him deeper, moaning around his cock. Like she wanted him to lose control completely. His whole body trembled with the effort of staying quiet. Her mouth was divine, hot and tight and swallowing him with rhythmic hunger, and fuck, her eyes, her fucking eyes, locked on his like she was daring him to make a sound.

She guided his hand to her head, fingers curling around his wrist, pressing it down until his palm lay flat over her hair.

Then she stilled. Her mouth open, cock buried deep in her throat, cheeks hollowed as she looked up at him, waiting.

His chest heaved. The control snapped.

Murtasim groaned, loud, primal, helpless, and began to thrust. Slow at first, letting the feel of her take over, the obscene wet friction, the gagging sounds, the way her throat spasmed around him with each inward push. She moaned again and again, louder now, like she needed this as much as he did.

"Fuck, Meerab – " he gasped as her nails dug into his thighs, pulling him closer, gagging around him again, tears springing in the corners of her eyes. Saliva dripped down her chin, glossy and sticky, pooling beneath where her fingers clutched the base of his shaft.

He pulled out with a wet gasp, chest heaving, letting her breathe.

But she wasn't done. Her tongue lapped at his slit like she missed the taste already, and then she opened wide again, wordless and needy.

He plunged back in.

Her moans were muffled now, low and throaty, the sound of suction and breath and pleasure all tangled together. He glanced down, mesmerized by the way her cheeks bulged with each thrust, the way her throat swallowed him, the wet, filthy sounds echoing between them. Her oversized kurta was clinging to her chest now, nipples hard and visible through the fabric.

And then, she pulled back, panting, her face flushed and wet with spit, and reached for the buttons of the kurta she wore – his. One by one, she popped them open, the fabric gaping until her bra was visible. Lace, soft cream, barely containing the swell of her breasts.

She tugged the cups down.

Her breasts were beautiful. Full and perky, jostling with each ragged breath. Her nipples a warm and dusky colour, like her lips, that in-between color of soft flushed brown, touched with rose and heat. The tips stood stiff and needy, practically begging for his mouth, his hands, anything.

His vision went white.

With a growl, he jerked his cock free from her mouth, his grip tightening around the slick base as he pumped himself fast and hard, the pressure snapping like a taut wire. Her face was tilted up toward him, open and flushed, lips red and slick from her effort, spit shining on her chin and down her neck, eyes wide with hunger, waiting for him. It was too much. The sight of her like that, completely undone but still smiling, still watching him like he was the only thing in the world she wanted, sent him over the edge.

He came with a choked, brutal sound that tore from deep inside his chest, louder than he meant, the kind of groan that left his throat raw.

Thick, hot spurts painted her cheeks first, splattering across her lips, her chin, her jaw. Another landed across the bridge of her nose. Then lower, his release streaked across her neck, dripping over the swell of her breasts, cascading down in long, messy ribbons that caught in the lace of her bra and slid between the soft curves, catching light like molten cream.

And she didn't flinch. She smiled.

Meerab giggled, low and breathy and absolutely wicked, as she looked up at him, covered in him, licking a bit from the corner of her mouth like she didn't even realize she was doing it. Her lashes fluttered as she wiped a smear from her cheek with the back of her hand, but her gaze didn't leave his once.

Her lips parted. A soft breath. And she looked so fucking pleased.

His cock twitched again.

She laughed before reaching for the edges of the kurta, his kurta, still hanging open on her shoulders. She pulled the panels together and began buttoning it up casually, sealing his cum against her skin, locking it under the fabric like a secret. She didn't bother wiping it all away, maybe because there was nothing around to do so. Just brushed her fingers over her mouth, catching a little and licking it clean, then swept the rest off her neck and collarbone with lazy indifference.

"Now we're even," she said, sweet and smug.

It took him a beat too long to respond. He blinked, dazed, still trying to catch his breath, ribs heaving. "Hmm?"

She tilted her head, dark hair falling into her face. That grin curved slowly, dangerously. "The dressing room," she whispered.

And then he groaned, long and low and guttural, the memory crashing into him. Her in the red bridal lehenga, skirts fanned out like silk puddles around her, his face buried between her thighs, the smell of roses and sweat and her, her taste all over his mouth. She was the only one who came.

"Fuck," he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

She got to her feet easily, as if she hadn't just been on her knees sucking him dry in the corner of a sun-drenched terrace, and smoothed her hands over the wrinkled kurta, adjusting the hem. His cum was still hidden beneath, hot against her skin.

He was still panting. Still leaning against the wall, barely upright, trying to process what the hell just happened.

Meerab leaned in and pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder, warm and lingering.

"I'm running to the shower," she whispered, voice light but laced with heat, "in case you want to join."

Then, just before she darted off, she turned her head, lips brushing his ear, her breath hot and possessive as she murmured one last word.

"Mine."

And then she was gone.

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

By the time Murtasim could feel his legs properly again, minutes had passed. His lungs still hadn't quite settled, every breath dragging in hot and a little shaky. He could still feel her mouth on him. The pressure. The heat. The goddamn look in her eyes.

He headed inside, feet slow and heavy but determined, climbing down the stairs like a man walking toward destiny, or execution.

Their suite was quiet. He closed the door behind him and turned the lock with a quiet click, the sound final in his ears. No one would interrupt. Not this time.

The soft hiss of water called to him from the bathroom. He moved toward it, his breath quickening again despite himself. The bathroom door stood slightly ajar, just as she'd said. Unlocked. Open. Waiting.

He pushed it wider.

And froze.

She stood beneath the rainfall shower, head tilted back, both hands in her hair as the stream of warm water poured over her. The glass stall blurred only at the edges, steam ghosting up in gentle swirls, but her body was completely visible through the glass.

His mouth went dry.

Her back was arched slightly, hips tilted, as the water cascaded down from her shoulders, slicking her skin to a gleam. Droplets caught the curve of her breasts, the valley between them, tracing every line and hollow before slipping down over her ribs and waist. Her stomach was soft, smooth, just the faintest suggestion of curve, water rolling down it in thin, glimmering rivulets.

His eyes followed it.

Her thighs, long, toned, flushed from the heat, glistened with runoff, water gathering in the crease between them, trailing down the inside of her legs in lazy, sensual drips.

She was bare and radiant, almost glowing in the amber light of the bathroom sconces. Her skin was luminous, kissed with warmth, the water turning her into something unearthly. Her hair was soaked, clinging to her shoulders and spine in wet, tangled ribbons.

He let out a groan. Low. Pained.

Her head turned slowly, like she'd heard it, even through the water, and a lazy smile curved across her lips when her eyes found him standing there, frozen in the doorway.

She didn't cover herself.

She didn't even flinch.

She just stared, eyes dragging slowly down his body, before lifting again, dark with want, smug with knowing.

He swallowed.

Then he moved.

He bent to untie his shoes slowly, deliberately, even though his pulse was thundering in his ears. Each movement stretched the ache in his muscles from earlier, his workout, her mouth, her. His fingers lingered at the laces a moment too long before tugging off his socks one by one and tossing them aside.

He caught her watching. Still silent. Still steady.

Then his hands went to the hem of his tank.

He pulled it up over his head in a smooth motion, the fabric clinging slightly to his skin before coming free. Her teeth caught on her bottom lip, but she said nothing, just shifted slightly in the shower as if bracing for what she knew was coming.

He dropped the tank. Hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his grey sweats.

And then he pushed them down.

They fell to the tile in a soft heap, leaving him just as bare, just as exposed under the bathroom lights as she was behind that glass.

Still, she didn't look away. And still, she didn't say a word.

He opened the door to the stall and stepped inside, the warm spray greeting him instantly, trailing down the curve of his shoulders and over his chest, washing away the last traces of salt and heat. She moved her body slightly to make room, not much, but enough. An invitation.

She didn't touch him. Didn't speak.

But the air between them was thick.

Murtasim stood behind her, close enough to feel the heat of her skin without pressing into it. Water streamed over both of them, soft and steady, trickling in quiet rivulets over the grooves of his back, his spine, his thighs. He watched a droplet crawl from the small of her back, down the cleft of her ass, before it slipped between her thighs and disappeared.

After a long, heavy pause, she turned.

Slowly.

Her pivot was deliberate, unhurried, the curve of her chin lifting as she faced him. Her hair clung to her shoulders in dark, damp waves, some of it plastered to her collarbone, some trailing like silk down the swell of her breasts. There was something soft in her smile, not seductive, not shy, just sure. Teasing, almost. Like she knew what she did to him and had no intention of sparing him from it.

"You're killing me," he said, voice hoarse.

She giggled, the sound light, wicked, water-laced. "I know."

One hand rose to his chest, fingers splaying over the warm, wet skin like she was grounding herself there. Her touch was languid, affectionate, but her eyes sparkled with heat. And then she leaned in, pressing her mouth to his in a kiss that was gentle at first. Lazy, unhurried. The kind that didn't rush toward hunger, but settled into it, deepened by time, not urgency.

Water dripped from her jaw onto his collarbone, and her hands slid upward to cradle his face. She held him like something precious, like something she was still memorising despite all these years, and maybe she was, maybe they always would. His own hands found her waist, then her back, pulling her closer, skin to skin, wet heat pressed flush. Their bodies moved together like they knew each other's language already.

She pulled back only slightly, lips brushing his, and whispered against his mouth, "I think this is the first time we're in the shower together... except that night."

The words landed with a weight he hadn't expected, a quiet, sudden ache.

Because he remembered.

He had walked in to the bathroom to find her crying, sitting on the shower floor.

Her father had been hurt, and something in her had shattered despite their relationship. Not because of love, perhaps. Not because of closeness. But because grief had its own language, and even fractured relationships left shadows behind.

She had been unreachable, inconsolable. He had just held her. Let her cry. Let her break.

He met her eyes now, fingers tightening slightly on her waist. "This is the first time," he said quietly.

Her lips parted, not in sadness, not in grief, but in quiet acknowledgment. And she nodded. Once.

His hand lifted slowly.

He pushed her wet hair behind her ear, careful, reverent, wiping droplets from her cheek even as more rained down from above. There was nothing to wipe, really, the water never stopped, but he did it anyway, the gesture one of instinct. Of care.

"Are you okay?" he asked, voice low.

She blinked at him, surprised by the question. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He hesitated, thumb brushing her cheekbone. "We did kill two people."

Her stare didn't falter.

Not for a second.

"I know it should bother me," she said slowly. "But it doesn't."

His throat worked around the next question. It shouldn't have mattered, but it did.

"And does it bother you," he asked, quieter still, "that I did it?"

She shook her head. Once. Firm. Unflinching. "I would've stopped you if it did," she whispered. "They deserved it."

He studied her for a beat longer. Then nodded.

No need for anything more.

She smiled then, a soft, secret smile, and began to move.

She reached for the bottle of his bodywash from the little niche in the wall and squeezed a line of it into her palm. The scent bloomed instantly, spicy and clean, familiar. Her palms pressed to his chest, spreading the lather across his skin, her fingers dragging down to his ribs, then his stomach.

"This seems like an excuse to touch me," he murmured, half-laughing, half-melted from the feeling of her fingers sliding across him.

She gave him an exaggerated blink. "Should I stop?"

"Never."

Her grin curved wider, wicked and lovely, as her touch kept moving, tracing him like a map only she was allowed to read. She worked the soap across every inch of his torso, fingers digging just slightly into the curve of his waist, the dip below his navel, then lower, just barely. Her palms slid down his arms, slow and deliberate, washing over the hard muscle like she had every right to linger, and she did.

She reached his wrists, circling them with her hands, before she moved behind him.

He let his head fall forward, eyes closing as he felt her fingers ghost over the line of his spine, skimming the groove that ran down the centre of his back. Down, lower, then up again, her thumbs brushing along the ridges of muscle that flanked his waist. Each movement deliberate. Unhurried.

Her touch was light, curious, careful. Soft. So soft it nearly undid him. Like silk drawn across flesh.

Then, she squeezed his ass.

He let out a startled huff of laughter, startled more by her than anything else, by how impossible she was.

By how someone could look like sin incarnate and still giggle like the world's cutest menace.

"Meerab," he groaned, turning his face slightly toward her shoulder.

"What?" she asked innocently, another giggle slipping out.

She came back around to face him, her grin bright and entirely too pleased with herself. Her hands slid, with remarkable familiarity, down his abdomen again, teasing toward the inevitable, her fingers closing, playfully possessive, around his length.

"Hi," she said to it, as if greeting an old friend.

He barked out a laugh.

She looked up at him through her lashes, utterly unrepentant.

"This," he said, voice warm with amusement, "reminds me of the time you patted it and told it to come back later."

She burst into laughter, the sound echoing in the tiled space like bells, too bright, too pure for what her hands were currently doing. He was laughing too now, eyes crinkled, heart full. Her hands moved to lather him properly this time, though there was nothing proper about the way she touched him. Gentle, teasing, her fingers sliding over slick skin with all the affection in the world. He helped, a little, his larger hands guiding hers at times, not because she needed help but because he needed to touch her too.

When she returned to face him again, she pushed up onto her toes and reached for his hair, shampoo in her hands.

"You're doing my hair too?" he asked, tilting his head back.

"I already washed mine," she said, sliding her fingers through his soaked strands. "Because someone took too long."

He laughed. "Someone made it very hard to walk."

She hummed, digging her nails lightly into his scalp, massaging in slow circles. He closed his eyes, sighing as her touch gentled, the scent of the shampoo wrapping around him like warmth.

"You're spoiling me."

"Good," she whispered.

A quiet moment passed, water beating softly around them.

He poked her side.

She jumped with a startled squeak, slapping his chest. "Murtasim!"

He smiled, slow, smug. "Yes?"

"Don't," she warned.

"Don't what?" he asked, grinning wider now.

And then, he did it again.

This time she retaliated instantly, her fingers darting to his ribs, quick and sharp. He flinched back, half-laughing, half-gasping, grabbing for her wrists. She twisted out of his hold with slippery grace, the two of them slipping and sliding together, their laughter echoing off the tiles.

"Meerab," he gasped, as her hands jabbed mercilessly at his stomach.

"Payback," she sang, face alight with wicked glee.

Their limbs tangled in wet, gleaming chaos, arms flailing, hands grabbing at nothing, both of them laughing too hard to land any real hits. He caught her by the waist, tried to twist away, but she chased him across the narrow confines of the shower, her hands determined and merciless.

He grabbed her face between his palms and kissed her. Quick, messy kisses, half-muffled by laughter. Her mouth, her cheek, her jaw, the slope of her shoulder.

She squealed again, biting his bicep lightly, her teeth grazing the muscle just above his elbow.

"Mine," she mumbled against his skin, biting harder this time, and he groaned, more from amusement than pain.

"Possessive little kitten," he muttered, ducking to nip at her shoulder in retaliation.

She let out a delighted shriek, slapping his ass hard enough to echo. "Murtasim, stop!"

He was grinning, breathless, chest heaving, water still pouring over them as he caught her by the hips and yanked her closer, palms sliding down to cup and squeeze her ass in response.

"Hi," he whispered into her ear, laughing when she squealed again, twisting in his hold.

"Murtasim!" she gasped, half-scolding, half-giggling as he squeezed again, deliberately slow this time. "You're such a – "

"Say it," he taunted, voice warm against her neck, still laughing. "I dare you."

She laughed too hard to finish the sentence.

Their foreheads bumped together, noses brushing, the laughter turning breathless, softer now, quieter.

She was wrapped around him, flushed and soaked, flushed from joy and love and the way his hands were still possessively resting on her backside.

And Murtasim thought, ff this was what peace looked like, he never wanted war again.

------------------------------ 

Author's Note: Tadaaaaa! What was your favourite part? We might be skipping ahead a bit in the next chapter, straight to the wedding rituals, hehehehehe.