A/N: Hello everyone, apologies for the delay, it's wedding season where I am and among all the weddings, I (along with my husband and baby) got sick, so it's been a wild few weeks! Plus, I re-wrote this chapter like ten times, I think I lost my writing mojo for a bit, but hoping it's back now!

Anyways, since it is wedding season, I present to you, their wedding. FINALLY. Hehe. See y'all on the other side. 

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Murtasim wandered through the brightly lit corridors of the haveli with the kind of purpose he tried very hard to disguise. His steps were measured, casual enough not to draw suspicion, but his mind was anything but calm. Beneath the surface, he was humming with the want of her. Every turn of the corner, every passing whisper of fabric or scent made him ache with the need to see her. Meerab.

The night before had been long. Too long. First, there had been the exhausting fallout of Shabana catching Maryam and Armaan together. And just as he thought the night might find its peace, Arsalan had chosen that exact moment to declare, with more emotion than necessary, that he was in love with Ajiya and wanted to marry her.

Hours had slipped by in a blur of questions, reassurances, and emotional landmines. It had been close to 3am when he finally made it upstairs. His feet had automatically followed Meerab to her door, the way they always did, but Maa Begum had been waiting. Sharp-eyed and purposeful. With a soft reprimand and an even firmer hand on his shoulder, she had steered him away toward the other side of the hall.

"You'll see her tomorrow."

But it was tomorrow. And he hadn't seen her yet.

The haveli was already blooming with activity. The staff bustled past, balancing platters and fabrics and fresh flowers. The scent of roses and sandalwood drifted through the hallways. Someone laughed in the courtyard below. Music was starting to rise faintly from the far wing. Mehendi preparations, in full swing.

And still, he hadn't seen his Meerab. He hated it.

He tried to be patient. He really did. But every step he took seemed to take him away from her. Every room had someone else in it, every hallway a set of eyes that tracked his movements. As if the world had decided, for these few days, that he wasn't allowed to simply... have her.

"Bhai."

He looked up.

Maryam stood with one brow arched, arms crossed, the smugness on her face unmistakable.

"You couldn't be more obvious if you tried."

He straightened, feigning innocence. "I'm not doing anything."

"Exactly," she said with a laugh. "You're doing nothing, while staring longingly in the direction of her room like some sad little hero from a drama."

Murtasim rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Maryam."

"She'll be all yours in a day," Maryam teased, leaning in. "Can't you just wait...or call her phone?"

"I tried calling," he muttered. "She didn't pick up."

Her grin widened, insufferable. "I see. So now you must see her?"

He didn't deny it. "I have to run an errand. I wanted to see her before I left."

True. But not the whole truth. The whole truth was that mornings felt wrong without her. His day felt incomplete without the sight of her face, without the sleepy smile she gave him when she wasn't quite awake yet, without her voice saying his name like it belonged to her.

Maryam sighed, relenting. "Her room should be empty in five minutes. She's almost ready to shower, so you have to catch her before she does."

His mind blanked for a beat, and then betrayed him.

He didn't mean to think about that night in the rain. About the way her body had looked drenched, soaked fabric clinging to every curve, the taste of rain and heat and her in the backseat of the Range Rover as she writhed beneath him. But it flashed through his mind like a fever dream just at the mention of her in the shower.

He blinked. Focused.

Not now.

"Thank you," he said, turning to go.

"Nothing is free," Maryam quipped.

He didn't miss a beat. "So this is how you thank me for helping yesterday?"

She scowled. Narrowed her eyes like a true little sister caught red-handed. "You're so annoying," she muttered, stomping away without further demands, making him chuckle under his breath.

It didn't take him long to reach the smaller seating room beside Meerab's. He had never used it for its intended purpose, but he knew it intimately. Its balcony was twin to hers, just far enough to be a challenge, just close enough for a man who had never learned to stay away.

The moment the sounds from her room dimmed, the last shuffle of movement, the last murmur of someone leaving, he moved.

His body remembered the way before his mind could fully catch up. In one fluid motion, he stepped onto the banister, steadying himself with the edge of the trellis that wove between the two balconies like latticework. He stepped across, the muscles in his legs flexing, balance instinctive. Then, in a breath, he landed on her balcony, crouched, silent.

Below, the world carried on. Servants passed, arms full of trays and fabrics. None of them looked up.

He smiled.

He peeked through the lace curtain covering the balcony door.

Empty.

He opened it.

Her room smelled like her before he even stepped in. It wrapped around him, dizzying. That same perfume she always wore: soft and persistent, with a hint of musk. Her presence soaked into the walls. It was like stepping into her skin.

Sunlight poured in through the windows, casting long golden beams across the room. Her mehendi outfit lay spread across the bed, haloed in light, the prettiest yellow shade he'd ever seen, threaded with pink and green, sequins catching fire in the sun.

He could already picture her in it. She would be gorgeous. The sun would pale in comparison.

She would wear it for the world. For the family, for the ceremony, for the guests who would whisper and sigh and smile.

And all he would think about was how he wanted her out of it...his mind didn't think of much else these days. His hands would itch to undo every clasp, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath the fabric, to trace the lines of her collarbone with his mouth, to taste her.

He let out a breath.

Just one more day.

Just one more night.

He heard a soft click. The rustle of movement.

His head turned sharply toward the sound.

The bathroom.

He stepped forward, his hand brushed the brass handle, cool beneath his fingers, and found no resistance. The door gave instantly. Unlocked.

He looked up toward the ceiling with a quiet, beleaguered groan, a silent plea to whatever god or fate or universe had decided to tempt him like this.

But he didn't turn back.

Instead, he pushed the door open.

And sighed in disappointment.

She wasn't in the shower yet.

She stood before the mirror, her back half-turned, a white silk robe wrapped loosely around her frame, falling to mid-thigh, likely due to some sort of beauty ritual that she had subjected herself to, something to explain the warm mist lingering in the air. One hand was in her hair, as if she'd been about to tie it up. She froze when she caught sight of him in the reflection, then turned, her eyes wide.

"Murtasim?" she gasped, alarm blooming across her face.

Before she could finish the sentence, he heard the other door open, the one leading to the bedroom. Without thinking, he stepped inside fully and shut the bathroom door behind him with a soft but final click. Locked it.

"Hi," he whispered.

Her eyes widened further as they heard Shabana Mami outside the door.

She whisper-yelled, arms instinctively pulling the robe tighter across her chest. "What are you doing here? The whole khaandaan is going to find you in my bathroom, a day before the wedding!"

She looked adorable when she was mad.

Usually.

But right now...

Right now, her cheeks were flushed from the heat. Her hair half-damp, curling slightly at the ends. Her legs were bare. Her collarbone and shoulders dewy from steam. And that robe, thin silk clinging to every line, tied in a half-hearted knot that had no intention of staying put.

And beneath it, skin.

He could see the outline of her breast, the soft peak of her nipple through the fabric.

His eyes darkened as they trailed downward, to the subtle dip of her navel beneath the belt, to the slightly parted hem that revealed the inside of her thigh.

His throat dried.

And worse still, his mind wandered. To last night. To the words she'd whispered in his ear, her smile wicked.

He swallowed hard.

"My eyes are up here," she snapped, her voice quiet but biting.

His gaze snapped up guiltily, sheepish despite himself. "I can't help it."

"You must."

He took a step forward, just one.

Then another.

And then, knock knock.

"Meerab?" Rumi's voice rang out through the wooden door to the bedroom. "The hair stylist is here! She's setting up across the hall. She said to just blow-dry your hair halfway dry after you wash it."

Meerab turned to the bathroom door, yelling back in a voice much sweeter than the glare she was aiming at him, "Okay!"

Murtasim said nothing, just smirked from where he had perched himself on the counter, leaning back against the mirror, arms crossed.

His eyes trailed over her again, unapologetic now, low and slow.

The robe was an insult to his patience. Every inch of her screamed at him to strip it away, let it fall to the floor. His chest tightened at the thought of pressing her against the mirror, her legs spread, his mouth buried between her thighs, nuzzling her bare pussy, until she came undone on his tongue. His eyes lingered on the hollow at her collarbone, then trailed lower again, hungry, unashamed.

She took a step toward him, the silk of her robe brushing against her thighs. He didn't wait. His hand shot out, wrapping around hers, warm skin against warm skin, and with a sharp tug he drew her closer until she was standing between his legs. His other hand moved to the tie of her robe, fingers curling around it, tugging once, deliberate.

The silk gave a little beneath his pull, loosening.

Her hand came down fast, whacking his away. The sharp sound cracked in the quiet room.

"I want to see," he muttered, voice rough.

She shook her head quickly, damp tendrils clinging to her cheek, a hint of a smile on her face. The minx.

"Meerab," he said again, lower, heavy, her name dragging off his tongue like a plea and a threat at once.

She didn't move back. And that was enough. He leaned forward, slid his hand around to her lower back, and pulled her against him further in one firm motion. Her body fit flush to his now, her breasts pressing into his chest, the faint outline of her nipples sharp even through silk and cotton. His thighs framed hers, holding her in place. His mouth lowered to her ear, breath grazing her skin. "Please," he whispered, raw need leaking through the word.

She shook her head again, though her voice came smaller now, shakier. "Why are you here?"

He pulled back enough to look at her, lips curving, eyes dark and unrepentant. "I missed you. I wanted to see you before I left."

Her glare cut up at him. "Where are you going?"

"I have to run an errand," he said, tone light but layered with the weight of everything he wasn't telling her.

Her lips pushed into a pout. "Where?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

Her whine rose in protest, soft and dragging, her mouth shaping his name in the way that always undid him. "Murtasimmmm."

His heart slammed in his chest. He loved that sound. He loved the way she stretched it, the way it curved upward, sweet and annoyed, all for him. He wanted to hear it again and again, but not like this. He wanted to hear it ragged in his ear, muffled into a pillow, screamed into the crook of his neck when she shattered apart on him.

He grinned, wicked, unable to stop himself, teasing her as his fingers found the tie of her robe again, tugging lightly at the silk. "Tomorrow I'll get to learn new ways that you can say Murtasimmmm."

His cock throbbed painfully at the thought, already picturing it, her back arched under him, her lips wet and trembling, his name falling in broken gasps when he slid into her, deeper each time, harder each time, her voice raw from calling out to him

She smacked his arm again, the robe shifting with the force of her movement. Her brows knit, her lips parted with that little pout that always made him weak. "Where are you going?"

Instead of answering, he lowered his head, nose brushing her ear, drinking in the shiver that ran through her. His lips found the soft curve of her neck and pressed a kiss there, lingering, breathing her in. "It's a surprise, meri jaan," he murmured against her skin, voice so low it felt like a vibration.

She tried to push at his shoulder, to form a protest, but it died as soon as his mouth closed over that place at the base of her neck. The one he had learned unraveled her, the one that made her sigh without meaning to, that made her head tilt back as though he had claimed her spine. He sucked, slow and deliberate, tongue flattening, teeth grazing, and she went slack against him, her breath tumbling in uneven bursts.

Her distraction was his advantage. His hand slid again to the sash of her robe, tugging it open with a slow, sure pull. The silk parted like water spilling away. His mouth continued up her throat, kisses trailing hot and hungry, tasting her, swallowing her gasps.

Normally, he would have given in to instinct, would have lifted his palms to cup the perfect weight of her breasts, to tease the hardened peaks already straining against the robe. But he remembered the words she had teased him with the night before, the promise she had whispered of what lay bare between her legs. His hand trailed lower, sliding down over her waist, across the flat of her stomach, until his fingers found the heat of her.

The groan tore out of him the second he felt her, hot, smooth, bare. Just as she had said. His lips broke from her skin as if yanked, his eyes snapping open. He pulled back as though possessed, moving just far enough to see her.

It was a vision he would burn in his soul forever. Her cheeks were flushed, her chest pink, nipples hard and pointed as the robe gaped open around her. Her stomach was taut, her hips delicate, and between her thighs - bare, soft, glistening faintly. His hand hovered there, trembling with the power of the sight.

He couldn't resist touching her. His fingers traced along her slit, feather-light, sliding through the faint wetness he found there. No curls to block him, nothing but smooth, warm skin. She whimpered at the contact, her knees pressing inward instinctively.

He groaned again, a low, brutal sound, his eyes drinking her in from head to toe. "Fuck, you're so gorgeous," he rasped, every syllable torn from the pit of his hunger.

Her voice came shaky, a soft whimper breaking through. "So, I am only gorgeous naked?"

His mouth tugged into a crooked grin, head tilting as he shook it. "You're gorgeous every way," he said, slow, letting his thumb trace her skin again, "but especially naked."

"You should go."

But her eyes betrayed her, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. He let his fingers slide lower once more, trailing down her slit, then back up, slow and teasing, until he circled her clit. He rubbed gently, watching her eyes flicker, her breath catch. "Are you sure?" he asked, voice thick, intimate. "I can stay."

She shook her head, but her body arched subtly into his touch, betraying her again.

He pressed harder, flicking her clit once with the pad of his finger, making her gasp, his mouth curving in delight. "I can make it worth your while, meri jaan," he murmured, every word a promise of ruin.

She whimpered, soft and broken, and when her eyes lifted to his he saw it, the surrender right there, hovering on the edge of her lashes. She was about to give in, her resolve cracking with every flick of his fingers. He knew it. Another heartbeat and she'd let him push her onto the counter, robe spilling off her shoulders, legs open around him while he buried his face between her thighs, tasting her until she was dripping down his chin. His body was already moving toward that thought when -

A knock shattered it.

"Meerab, hurry up, we don't have all day!" Rumi's voice carried through the door, impatient and far too loud.

Murtasim's jaw clenched, his chest heaving. He wanted to put a knife through the door, through the interruption, through Rumi's useless mouth. Because he had seen it, the change in Meerab's eyes, the way her body had softened, ready to fall into him. And now, just like that, she stepped away, her robe falling closed as her hand came to her waist. She sighed, annoyed but composed. "Okay! Can you go check on the makeup artist?" she yelled back.

"Okay, hurry up, I need to hear the shower going when I come back," Rumi called, footsteps fading, the door shutting again.

Murtasim tried to reach for her, but she was already tugging the robe tight around herself, knotting the sash with deliberate hands. "Out before someone sees you," she said, firm.

He let out a groan of protest, catching her wrist and pressing her palm to the rigid bulge between his legs. His cock jumped instantly against her touch, twitching like it had been waiting only for that heat. "How am I going to jump over from one balcony to another with this?" he muttered, half whining, half desperate.

She shot him a look, though her cheeks flamed, and patted him there like scolding a child. "Should have thought of that before." Then she pulled her hand away, tugged him upright, and started steering him toward the door.

"This is very out of character for you," he teased, resisting just enough to keep his body brushing hers as they walked.

She snorted, eyes flashing. "I got like four hours of sleep, Murtasim. Random women will poke and prod at me for hours on end. Then you tell me you're going somewhere and you won't tell me where - on the day of my Mehendi ceremony. So just go!"

They reached the door, her hand on the lock, when he turned, blocking her for one last second. "Let me stay." His voice was softer this time, pleading under the tease.

Her brows lifted. She shrugged once, light but cutting. "Tell me where you're going."

He sighed, forehead dipping close to hers, breath uneven. "It's a surprise."

"Then you can go," she said, and without hesitation she turned, tugged the door open.

Only he knew the cruelty of it. The torment of touching the one thing he wanted more than his next breath and then being pushed away, denied by silk ties and locked doors. Of being forced to sneak out of his own bride's room with his cock heavy, hard, throbbing, aching for release. He climbed back out onto the balcony like a thief, blood boiling, frustration burning.

And as soon as the hiss of the shower reached his ears again, his mind flooded with the images he had just missed. Meerab naked, wet, water sliding between her breasts, over her stomach, dripping down between her thighs. His imagination painted it in such vivid detail he almost staggered on the trellis. The Haveli bustled below him, unaware of the torture he was subjected to.

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Meerab was tired.

Not the heavy kind of tired that settled into her bones and made her yearn for silence, but the fluttery, restless kind that came from sitting too long in the same position, smiling too many times for too many pictures, and having to pretend she wasn't completely ready to throw one of the velvet cushions at the next person who touched her. Her eyes drooped slightly, the lack of sleep catching up to her, her posture was beginning to curve ever so slightly forward, and the cloying scent of henna was beginning to give her the sort of headache that only weddings could gift a person.

Still, she sat patiently. Bridal mehendi was supposed to take long, hours sometimes, and as the chosen artist worked with almost reverent precision over her outstretched hands, she tried to remind herself that she had waited a lifetime for this. Or at least, for something like this.

Because the last time there had been no ceremony. No colour. No music. Just her and Murtasim, and a nikaah that had arrived like a storm, sweeping her off her feet before she'd had time to understand what it all meant. Her mehendi had been done in haste, in her room, Maryam and Rumi flanking her as Maa Begum sat nearby with a plate of sweets that no one had eaten. Her hands had smelled of henna, her heart had thudded like a warning drum, and her suit had been plain white, her hair braided. Simple.

Now, everything was different.

She wasn't in white. She wore yellow, the shade of ripe mangoes, of summer mornings, of gold spun into sunlight, and pink, the delicate flush of roses at dawn. Her anarkali swept around her like silk water, the skirt pooling gently at her feet where she sat on a throne-like swing framed in marigolds. Bells chimed gently in her jhumkas. Her bangles, removed now for the sake of the mehendi, had earlier made music of their own. And around her, the grand living room of the Shah Haveli that opened up to the outdoor courtyard was overflowing with joy.

The entire space had been transformed into a living, breathing celebration. The air was scented with roses and ittar, the fragrance curling into every corner of the room. There were women everywhere, seated on cushions and stools, their hands outstretched for henna, their laughter bright as glass in the sun. Dhol beats pulsed gently in the background, threaded through by the joyful chaos of conversation, clinking glasses, the occasional burst of loud giggles.

Her friends hovered like honeybees. Rumi, resplendent in a bottle green lehenga, kept leaning in dramatically to whisper exaggerated warnings to the henna artist. "Hide his name. So well that even Google Maps can't find it."

Ajiya nodded solemnly. "Make it impossible."

Maryam, practical as ever, added, "And if he cheats and asks you where it is, Meerab, don't you dare tell him."

The artist smiled, unfazed, her fingers working in deft, fluid movements. "Don't worry. He won't find it easily. I promise."

Their giggles tickled her ears. Meerab smiled faintly, glancing down at her half-finished palms, intricately laced vines, delicate peacocks, minuscule paisleys. All leading, almost imperceptibly, to the letters of his name, tucked somewhere he would have to work to uncover.

Last time, there had been no name. But he had taken some henna and scribbled his name on the inside of her wrist anyway.

This time, he'd have to search.

If only he were here to start looking.

Her smile slipped into a pout, her lips pushing forward like a child denied something sweet. He'd gone off somewhere with Armaan, for some errand, some task, she'd assumed he'd return soon. That had been nearly four hours ago. She had no way of reaching him, her watch had been removed so she couldn't buzz him, her phone was unusable due to the henna on her hands. She had no tools. No weapons. No recourse.

So, she did the only thing she could.

She glared at the door, and quietly cursed herself for pushing him out of the bathroom that morning, it could have been a very different day.

"Yikes," Rumi said cheerfully. "Someone's mad."

"She misses him," Ajiya sang.

"I do not," Meerab sniffed, raising her chin.

"She's pining," Maryam declared.

"I am not -"

"Shut up, you are totally pining," Rumi laughed. "I watched you pine for years, I know what it looks like!"

Meerab rolled her eyes, but the heat in her cheeks betrayed her.

She turned back to her hands, but no sooner had she let out an exasperated sigh than the door opened.

She didn't need to look.

She felt it.

That shift in the air. That tug in her belly.

She looked up slowly, almost dramatically (Rumi would be proud), and there he was.

Murtasim, walking into the chaos like it was a painting he'd been missing from. Dressed in yellow, soft cotton spun into gold, his kurta perfectly tailored, his sleeves rolled up just enough to show the gleam of his watch. His hair was a little messy, missing the hair gel she hated, curling slightly above his ears, and his beard was annoyingly trim and infuriatingly precise.

Her husband was much too gorgeous for his own good.

She could see, even from across the room, how quickly he was swept up. Aunties pulling him into hugs, cousins thumping his back, distant relatives demanding his attention.

And yet, his eyes found hers.

Immediately.

And when they did, he had the audacity to smile.

A slow, apologetic, utterly boyish smile that had no right to make her heart flutter when she was this annoyed.

She narrowed her eyes into a full-fledged glare.

He mouthed, sorry.

She glared harder.

Rumi made a sound like she was watching her favourite drama unfold. "Hai, how are they still so cute?"

She didn't care.

Five full minutes passed.

He was still talking. Still smiling at old uncles. Still nodding politely at relatives she didn't even know. And still not sitting by her side where he belonged. What was the point of wearing matching colours if he was going to stand so far away?

She glared again.

He caught her eye, threw her a helpless look and tilted his head.

She let out a soft, irritated hmph, loud enough for her friends to hear but quiet enough to keep her dignity intact.

The mehendi artist chuckled.

"I've never seen a bride miss her groom this much," she said, not looking up from her design.

Meerab lifted her chin haughtily. "I do not miss him."

"Of course you don't," Maryam murmured. "That's why you've been glaring daggers at the poor man for ten minutes straight."

Rumi grinned. "It's okay. We support your right to pine dramatically."

"I am not pining!"

Ajiya just winked. "We believe you."

But even as she scowled at them, her heart did a quiet skip when she saw Murtasim finally begin to make his way through the crowd toward her, slowly, politely, pausing to speak to people, but always, always inching closer.

She looked down at her hands.

Let him look for his name, she thought smugly.

Let him suffer a little.

Meerab sighed, she needed to get up.

It wasn't just a passing thought or a vague suggestion from her body, it was a desperate plea. Her legs, folded beneath her in the same position for what felt like hours, started prickling with pins and needles so sharp it was as though a colony of ants had taken residence beneath her skin. Her lower back was aching, her spine protesting, and her neck tilting with a weariness born of too many hours of holding herself perfectly straight.

"I need to walk for a bit," Meerab whispered to the artist, Kashaf, trying to sound casual, trying not to sound like she was on the verge of a breakdown. "My leg is asleep."

Kashaf, no older than twenty-two, maybe, glanced up with wide eyes, clearly mid-concentration, but something in Meerab's expression must have sparked sympathy. Or perhaps exhaustion, she had been working for hours now.

"You must be tired too," Meerab added quickly. "Take a break, eat something, please."

Kashaf hesitated for another breath, then nodded, her fingers finally pausing their delicate artistry.

Meerab exhaled a sigh of grateful relief as she pushed herself up to stand, slowly, carefully, not wanting to disturb the fresh trails of henna. Her anarkali rustled softly as she stood, layers of fabric catching the warm air. She flexed her feet, rolled her ankles, felt blood flood back into her limbs. Her bones sang.

"I'll come with you," Maryam said from the corner.

But Meerab shook her head, offering her a small, grateful smile. "I'm just going to walk around a little. I'll be right back."

Maryam nodded, settling back into her seat.

Meerab moved slowly, purposefully, weaving her way through the sea of bodies, women in sequined outfits, henna-dusted fingers, children darting between legs, old aunties laughing as they adjusted their dupattas. People stopped her every few steps – congratulations, mashaallahs, compliments – all of which she accepted with a graceful tilt of her head, a practiced smile.

But something tugged at her. A quiet thirst. Not just for water, though that was there too, her throat had gone dry somewhere between the third set of bangles being removed and Rumi's latest dramatic gasp. She wanted a moment of peace, this wedding business was tiring.

She turned a corner, and another. The deeper into the haveli she wandered, the cooler it became, less noise, more stone. She turned one last corner and stepped into the kitchen, and froze.

Murtasim was there, somehow having beat her there, there was a likely a shortcut she had yet to figure out.

He was leaning against the counter, back slightly arched, a glass of water lifted to his lips, his throat tilted as he drank. The light caught on the curve of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, the arch of his cheekbone. But it was the sight of his throat that undid her. His Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow, tendons taut, the muscles of his neck flexing with that simple, thoughtless act, it made her breath catch.

Her fingers twitched at her sides. Her heart thudded.

Oh, she should have let him stay in the morning. She could feel his lips trailing down her neck, still feel his warmth against her, and his fingers between her legs. It played in her head again and again.

He lowered the glass and looked up.

"Hi," he said, his voice lazy, low. That smile, slow and secretive, bloomed across his face like heat rising from the earth. "I was hoping you were heading here so I could tell you that you look absolutely breathtaking."

For half a second, her instinct betrayed her. Her mouth twitched, something inside her curled toward him like it always did. But then memory caught up with instinct. He'd left. During her mehendi. And he wouldn't tell her why.

She narrowed her eyes.

He saw the shift instantly. That smile of his faltered just slightly, just enough to make her feel better.

She marched over.

He straightened at once, still holding the glass, sensing the storm in her walk.

"Are you mad I left, meri jaan? Or just annoyed because of all the people and attention?" he asked, cautious but amused, which only made her glare harder. It was a bit of both, but he didn't need to read her for filth like that.

She didn't answer immediately. Just stopped by the counter, her movements stiff. "Who knows?" she muttered coolly, turning her face away.

He chuckled softly.

She scowled, reaching for a glass with the inside of her arms. The mehendi had climbed past her wrists now, still sticky in places, still delicate. She cradled the glass like it was made of silk and shuffled toward the sink, determined to do something as basic as getting herself water without needing him.

She turned awkwardly, balancing the glass between her arms, trying to nudge the tap open with her elbow, stubbornness and pride flaring just as high as her thirst, when his voice came again, quiet but close.

"Let me help."

"No," she snapped, childishly. "Leave."

She didn't mean it. Not really.

He knew.

So, he didn't.

She heard the soft pad of his footsteps. Then, before she could even steel herself, he was behind her.

So close.

Too close.

The front of his body pressed against the back of hers, warm, firm, solid. The soft fabric of his kurta brushed the bare skin her deep-backed anarkali left exposed, her spine stiffened instantly. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath, steady and familiar. Her mouth went dry.

And then, without a word, his arms slid around hers. His forearms, bare and golden-brown, came into view, followed by his hands, large and calloused from all the weight-lifting, as they gently took the glass from where it dangled in her awkward grip.

"I didn't ask for help," she snapped, voice breathless, not quite convincing.

He only laughed, that infuriatingly soft, masculine rumble that always made her toes curl, and murmured against her skin, "Doesn't matter, I'll always help anyways."

He leaned in further, lips brushing her neck in a kiss so featherlight it almost didn't happen.

But it did happen. And her entire body felt it.

He bent with her, one arm still around her waist, the other guiding the glass beneath the tap. The cold water splashed against glass, the hum of the filter machine droning in the background, a domestic sound, an ordinary one.

"I'm still mad," she said, though the protest was weak, her voice uneven.

"Acha?" he murmured, nuzzling into the side of her neck, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin where her shoulder curved.

She wanted to push him away.

She also wanted him closer.

It was dizzying, the way he held her.

She tried to twist away from him, just enough to reclaim a sliver of pride. "Yes, acha. Mad. Furious. Fuming."

"Hmm." He sounded utterly unconvinced, nosing gently into the hollow beneath her jaw. "It's probably the heat and all the noise. You smell so good," he groaned, his nose finding that exact spot on her throat, right beneath her ear, where she'd sprayed her perfume hours ago.

She didn't mean to elbow him.

Well, no. That wasn't true. She did mean to, mostly. Partly because he deserved it. Partly because she needed to do something before her knees gave out.

Her elbow jabbed into his side.

"Oof, meri jaan!" he yelped, dramatically staggering back half a step like she'd mortally wounded him.

She turned, finally. He moved just enough to give her space, though his hands lingered at her waist like he had no plans of letting her go far. When she faced him, her eyes rising to meet his, she immediately wished she hadn't.

Because of that look.

That look.

Open, soft, gentle. And yet, as always, devastating.

His eyes took her off guard the way they always did when he was being sincere. They were beautiful in the sunlight, yes, but they were ruinous in soft light. Pools of warmth and mischief, tenderness tucked behind every blink.

"Why are you so grumpy?"

"You left me at my mehendi," she accused.

"I was told to stay away, and I was only gone for a few hours!" he defended, one hand still hovering behind her back, the other holding the glass like he was on trial. "Also, it was for you."

"And you didn't tell me where you were going," she added pointedly, ignoring the tiny pull in her chest at the words for you.

"That's because it's a surprise," he replied, eyes gleaming. "Do you not like surprises anymore?"

"I like men who don't abandon their almost-wives during once-in-a-lifetime events." She deadpanned.

"Acha," he said again, this time with a note of apology, his brows furrowing. "I'm sorry. I should've been quicker."

Why was he so... cute?

She folded her lips inward, refusing to smile.

"Where'd you go?" she asked again, a little quieter, less accusatory this time.

His lips twitched. "It's a surprise."

"Murtasimmmmmm..." she whined, pouting.

He grinned, lifting the glass toward her lips with practiced care. "Meeeeerabbbbbb," he mocked back, drawing her name out just as petulantly.

She rolled her eyes, but her lips parted on instinct as the cool rim of the glass touched them. He tipped it gently, and the water rushed into her mouth, soothing her parched throat. Her eyes stayed locked on his as she sipped. Trying, failing, pretending to glare. His gaze, the traitor, dropped ever so slightly... to her lips.

She pulled away slightly, enough to break the eye contact, and he seemed to catch the signal. He lowered the glass. But his gaze returned to her mouth, and she felt it before she even realized why.

A droplet of water had clung to her lower lip.

She was about to lick it away when his thumb got there first.

It brushed across her lip, slow. Too slow.

Lingering.

Not wiping. Pulling.

His thumb moved again and though there was no trace of water left, he didn't stop.

"Murtasim..."

"Did you miss me?" he asked, still brushing her lip like it was his job.

"Not at all," she lied, too breathless for conviction.

"Hmm," he murmured, leaning in a fraction. "Lag hi raha hai."

She narrowed her eyes. "I wish I could whack you right now."

He chuckled, eyes gleaming. "I was wondering why my arm didn't feel abused." He tilted his head toward her hands. "Let me see the mehendi."

"Nahi."

"Nahi?" He looked wounded.

She shook her head again, firmer this time.

"Kyun? Dekh bhi nahi sakta?"

She smirked, lifting her chin. "Meri marzi."

He laughed then, low and genuine, and it rippled through her like a caress. His hands moved to her waist again, tugging her closer, and her breath hitched all over again.

"You need to stop acting so cute," he warned, voice low and dark, "or I will pick you up and take you upstairs."

Her stomach dropped.

She blinked at him, heart skipping, blood roaring.

"You wouldn't."

"Do you want to try me?" he asked, his brows lifting.

Meerab had a feeling that this new Murtasim, the one who'd woken from a coma with zero restraint and fucks to give, with this unshakeable, single-minded resolve, might actually do it.

She could already imagine the gasps. And somewhere in the background, Maa Begum fainting in horror.

She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Don't you dare."

He grinned, wide and boyish. "Then stop looking like that."

"Like what?"

"Like that," he said, nodding toward her face. "Pouty. Pretty. Very stealable."

She didn't even have time to respond before his arm wrapped around her again, warm and firm and wholly possessive. He kissed the edge of her temple, then nuzzled the place where her hair met her cheek.

She sighed, giving in.

"Hmmm," he drawled, eyes dancing as he leaned closer. "Scared that I actually just might?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, mouth tightening into a stubborn little line. "I'm not scared of anything."

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, and she felt it more than heard it. It rippled through the air between them, tickling the space where their bodies almost touched except for the way his hand now cradled her hip, warm and solid.

"I told you to try that with someone else, meri jaan," he teased.

She huffed, letting her forehead drop lightly against his shoulder in exaggerated despair. "You're so mean."

He tilted his head, faux sympathy layered beneath the smirk tugging at his lips. "And what were you doing? Hmm?"

"Pouting," she admitted without shame, lifting her face again, "because I am tired and annoyed, and you left. Randomly. One the day of my mehendi."

"For you," he said again, entirely too smug about it.

She whined. "And you still won't tell me where!"

Her voice had risen into a soft whine and she hated how quickly he gave in to it. Or maybe she didn't. Maybe she loved how easily she could undo him with a single pout, a single word.

He snickered, and then cupped her face between both palms, thumbs brushing along the curve of her cheeks.

"So cute," he said, grinning, before leaning in and pressing the gentlest of kisses to her lips.

"Stoppppppp!" she mumbled, cheeks puffed beneath his hands, mouth still half-pursed when he kissed her again, firmer this time, and then pulled away only slightly, enough to leave her blinking up at him, stunned and smiling despite herself.

"I'm also hungry," she muttered, lips still tingling, her voice muffled against his grin.

He laughed, the sound reverberating through the tiled kitchen, warm and full. His hand was still on her waist, the other now dropping to her wrist, careful of the henna.

"So you're hangry, then," he said with mock seriousness.

"Also angry," she corrected primly.

He kissed her forehead this time, right in the centre, the way he always did when trying to end an argument she had no intention of ending. His lips lingered just a breath longer than necessary.

"Go sit, get your mehendi done," he murmured. "I'll bring food for you."

She nodded, because she was hungry, somewhere between all the events, the drama, and the constant prodding, she forgot to eat.

She turned and walked out the kitchen door.

She didn't even make it three steps.

"Well, well, well," came Arsalan's voice, loud, grating, entirely too gleeful. He was leaning dramatically against the doorframe just outside the kitchen, arms crossed, eyebrows doing that theatrical thing they did when he was trying to appear scandalized.

"Shut up, Arsalan," Meerab and Ajiya said at the same time.

Ajiya, who stood beside him with an unmistakable look of long-suffering patience, turned to Meerab with a sigh. "I tried to stop him."

"I stood guard!" Arsalan whined, aghast. "I protected your privacy!"

"You wanted to barge in," Ajiya said, glaring. "You were inches from doing it. I had to physically pull you back."

"Ajiya, yaaaaarrr!" he wailed like a betrayed child.

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

The room was quiet in the way rooms often are at the end of long, extravagant days, the kind of silence that isn't really silent at all, but full of the echoes of laughter, footsteps, music still clinging to the walls.

Meerab lay on her back beneath a gauzy, cotton throw, the soft fabric cool against her skin, her hands awkwardly propped on a pillow. Her arms were swathed in layers of breathable gauze, fingers stiff from hours of drying, her skin smelling sharply of henna, lemon and sugar, a tangy sweetness that had become synonymous with every wedding she'd ever attended, and now, hers.

It had taken a small village, Rumi, Maryam, one of the maids, and at one point even Maa Begum barking instructions from the hallway, to get her through the process of bathing with her arms suspended, plastic bags tied awkwardly around her gauze. She was clean, somehow, and now in soft cotton pyjamas, her hair loose, her feet bare, feeling like a slightly broken doll. Exhausted. Overstimulated. But not even remotely ready for sleep.

She couldn't scroll on her phone, not that she would have wanted to. She couldn't even hold a book. Her arms ached a little from being frozen in one position for so long. But none of it mattered. Because the only thing she could feel, bone-deep, heart-wide, was the unmistakable pulse of joy that hummed under her skin like a secret song.

She hadn't stopped smiling all day. Not even when she'd wanted to. Not even when she'd been blushing so hard it felt like her face would combust.

Because Murtasim had sat beside her, cross-legged like a prince playing servant, feeding her tiny bites of everything she liked. Enduring all the catcalls, the snide teasing, the shameless giggles from every corner of the mehendi ceremony like it was his honour-bound duty.

And then, because he was absurdly adorable, he had gotten her name written across the side of his palm. With a heart.

The image bloomed behind her eyes now, his stupid grin as he held out his palm, the henna still drying, proud as anything. And like all perfect memories, it chased out an older one, the last mehendi, when he'd snuck into her room after everyone had left, lifted her up like she weighed nothing, placed her on the edge of her dresser, and without saying a word, had uncapped a cone of henna and written his name on the inside of her wrist.

A breeze swept in from the half-open balcony, lifting the curtain slightly. And then, not a breeze, a scuffle. A thud.

She didn't even blink.

Her lips curved.

"You could have a career as a thief," she said aloud, still staring at the ceiling. "This is the second time today."

"The only thing I'm interested in stealing," came his voice, slightly breathless, slightly smug, "is you."

She turned her head, just enough to see him step inside, loose white pajama and a kurta, curls still slightly damp from a late shower, his face half-lit by the golden lamplight of her room.

He crossed over to the door and locked it, the click oddly comforting.

"Are you here to discuss my haq mehr again?" she asked, eyebrow raised, voice warm, remembering the last time.

He laughed. "What was it that you said last time? 'What's mine is mine, and what's yours is also mine...'?"

She grinned as he dropped onto the bed beside her, landing with the kind of casual grace only he could manage, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Not sleepy?" he asked, shifting until his head lay on the other pillow, turned completely toward her.

"Not even close," she admitted, her face turned towards his.

"Good thing I came, then."

She smiled.

"We need to start moving on the school," she said suddenly, the thought slipping from her mouth without permission, she had remembered the land he gifted her more today than she had in a while. "You gave me that land... and then so much happened. It got pushed aside. We should start working on it."

His hand, already near her hair, slid into it, long fingers weaving through the strands gently, untangling them with no real purpose except touch. "We will," he said simply.

Then, without a word, he tugged lightly until her body shifted curling toward him until her head rested on his chest, the quiet, steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.

She closed her eyes. Let the moment stretch.

"I missed you," she whispered.

"I was literally there all day," he said, amused.

"Not enough," she murmured.

His arms tightened around her, he pressed a kiss atop her hair.

She settled into him without resistance, the way one might return to their favourite place in the world, the one they found even when they were lost.

She hummed lightly, lazily. "This seems familiar."

He nodded, the gesture more felt than seen.

"Last time..." she continued, her voice quiet in the hush of the room, "we were writing the contract."

She remembered it now, the way she'd giggled so much she couldn't breathe, the feel of his pen tracing words across the page and the skin of her arm, the laughter they'd shared like a secret only they were allowed to keep. It had been chaotic, unplanned, so full of light and mischief. She had felt wildly, wonderfully his, and he had looked at her like he couldn't believe it was happening.

"Do you want to add anything?" he asked, his voice muffled slightly by her hair as his fingers began to toy gently with a strand that lay across her collarbone.

She smiled, trying to remember the words scribbled in her notebook that was still back in Hyderabad. "I think the first one was that we will say I love you to each other every day," she began, her voice firm in that way it only was when she truly meant something, "even when we're mad and fighting."

He let out a small laugh. "I already broke that one."

She frowned, moving her head slightly so she could look at his face. "Huh?"

His eyes opened, meeting hers. There was no jest in them, only a kind of soft, unflinching sincerity. "When I got hurt. When I was in the hospital. I didn't say it then."

She rolled her eyes and nudged his shoulder with her forehead. "I'd whack you right now if I could. You couldn't control that. And you came back to me, that's worth a million I love yous."

He smiled, leaned in, and kissed her cheek.

"The next one," she said, "was no silent treatment."

He chuckled, "That won't ever be a problem. You love to talk to me too much."

She narrowed her eyes, but laughed. "It was pretty close today, no?"

He made a noise in his throat, half amused, half smug.

"And wasn't the next one that I'll never stop you from buying stuff or rush you when you go shopping?"

She giggled, twisting a little in his arms, "You're actually so good about that."

"I know," he said, without shame.

"We also said we'll never lie or hide things from each other," she added, and a shadow passed across her expression. "I'm sorry I hid the Armaan and Maryam thing from you."

"It's okay," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I understood."

"Still. Never again." She meant it. He saw that she did and nodded.

"We will always love and cherish each other above all else," she said softly.

He added, "Even when we have kids."

She laughed, heart soaring. "Yes. Three. Two boys and one girl."

"No. Two girls, one boy," he corrected, gently.

She whined, pouting into his shirt. "Nooo. I had it planned already."

He laughed, a full-body laugh that shook his chest beneath her cheek. "I love how you're so certain here but when the designers asked you how many kids' rooms to do, you blushed and refused to answer."

She kicked his shin lightly with her foot.

"Hmph. You will always take my side," she declared, "even when I'm wrong."

"Of course," he nodded solemnly. "We will always make time for each other, no matter how busy we get."

She hummed her agreement.

"And you will make me biryani, kebabs, and kheer at least once a month," he said, grinning.

"You," she countered, "will always have a stash of chocolate on hand for when I'm upset."

He nodded with mock-seriousness. "I'll be the chocolate dealer...we'll have to figure out how to hide it from our kids."

She giggled and nodded, "I'll let you watch your cricket matches in peace," she said, "with our two sons."

"One son and two daughters." He corrected. "And we'll have date nights at least twice a month," he added. "Have we been doing that?"

She tilted her head. "Yes... I think? Just not formally. I mean, we go out all the time, but..."

He nodded. "We should fix that."

"Agreed," she said. "We'll take turns deciding what movie to watch on movie nights."

He snickered. "When do we actually watch movies these days?"

She blushed. There were more fun things to do. Like not watching movies.

"I promise to be patient when Meerab takes her time getting ready for outings," he said dramatically.

She smiled, eyes full of light.

"And I will always support Meerab in her career and dreams."

She hummed. "I promise to always be there for Murtasim, to comfort him in his sorrows, and celebrate with him in his joys."

He nodded, swallowing thickly. "We will take time to appreciate each other every day, no matter how busy we are."

She whispered, "We will always respect and value each other's opinions. Even when we disagree."

He kissed the crown of her head. "Sounds like we did a pretty good job the first time."

She nodded, breath catching in her throat, and in her chest bloomed that familiar, burning ache that had nothing to do with sorrow, only the overwhelming swell of love, of gratitude, of the knowledge that she had been lucky enough to find him in this lifetime.

"We can just skip the nikaah then." She teased.

He stilled for the barest second and then turned his head toward her, mischief practically crackling beneath his skin. "Straight to the –"

She kicked him before he could finish the sentence, her heel landing just sharply enough on his shin to make him yelp in wounded offence.

"Seriously?" he whined, dragging the word out like an exhausted child denied dessert. "As soon as the rukhsati is done, we're gone. I don't want to play stupid games with Rumi."

Meerab giggled, burying her smile into the crook of his shoulder, where his cologne still lingered faintly from the day, dulled now into something warmer. Something that smelled like home. "But it's fun."

He groaned, turning fully toward her so they lay face to face, helping her adjust her hands and arms gently, noses nearly brushing. "Meerab," he said, dragging her name like a complaint, like a prayer, like a plea.

She grinned. "Patience."

He stared at her, incredulous. "I can't believe you are saying that."

"I want cute wedding videos," she said, the pout beginning to form on her lips.

He simply rolled closer, whining and nuzzling his nose against her jaw until she squealed.

"Aww," she teased, voice soft, "my baby."

He scoffed but didn't deny it, choosing instead to wrap his arm tighter around her waist.

And then... neither of them moved. Not for a long while.

They talked. Not about anything grand or monumental. Just little things, like the plans for their penthouse in Karachi, where to put the bookshelf that had her name engraved in tiny script, like how to convince Maa Begum to let them skip the post-wedding formalities after the rukhsati. They whispered about Maryam's shy smile when Armaan spoke her name, and how Ajiya had practically blushed herself into the marble floor when Arsalan pressed a kiss into her cheek. They talked about what colour they should paint their study in the village haveli, and what kind of dog they might adopt one day.

And when her mehendi had finally dried enough to peel off, he sat up and helped, fingers working delicately to scrape the patterns away without smudging the rich stain beneath.

The bathroom was quiet, save for the sound of their breathing, the low hum of the ceiling fan, and the occasional sound as a layer of dried henna flaked off.

"It's so dark," he said, in that awed voice that made her smile. "See? Told you. It means I love you a lot."

She rolled her eyes as he reached for the oil, warming it between his palms before rubbing it gently into her skin, her hands, her wrists, the crook of her elbows. His touch was reverent, almost absentminded, but she could feel every brush of his fingers like it was writing something into her skin.

He tried looking for his name. She could tell. The way he squinted at her palm, turned it this way and that. She yanked it away, giggling. "After the rukhsati," she teased, eyes sparkling.

"I hate you," he muttered, still grinning.

"No, you don't."

He didn't argue.

When the moon had tilted far across the sky and the haveli had stilled into something like silence, he carried her to bed.

Literally.

She yelped, half-laughing, as he swept her up bridal style, one arm beneath her legs, the other cradling her back. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her hair falling loose over his shoulder, her face buried against his throat.

"Put me down," she giggled.

"If you say so," he said, all mock solemnity, the kind that made her heart catch.

He didn't let go right away.

Instead, he hovered for a moment, just looking at her, something soft and still in his expression. His thumb came up to brush her cheek, the pad of it stroking gently beneath her eye.

"You look tired," he said, and his voice was barely above a whisper. Not worried. Just observant. Loving.

She blinked up at him, smiled a little, "I am."

He didn't answer at first. Just hummed, like he already knew. Then, without another word, he moved, rolling her with him so she was atop him, cradled against his chest. His hands adjusted her like she was made to fit there, one guiding her head so her ear rested just above his heart, the other pulling the blanket over them both. Her leg slipped between his, her fingers curling gently against his collar.

His arms wrapped around her fully then, a soft squeeze.

"Sleep, meri jaan," he murmured into her hair. "Tomorrow's a big day."

She didn't move. Just let herself melt into him. His scent surrounded her, warm, familiar, the place she called home now. His heartbeat beneath her ear was steady, anchoring.

But her eyes didn't close just yet.

"It's finally here," she whispered into the dark. "I can't believe it."

His lips pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Feels unreal, doesn't it?"

She nodded against his chest.

"So much happened," he said, his voice more serious now, though he still scratched lightly at her scalp with his fingertips, combing through her hair like he had all the time in the world to love her.

"We almost didn't make it," he added after a pause.

She turned her face into his shirt, the soft cotton muffling her words, but not the certainty in them. "But we did. And we will."

His hand stilled in her hair.

"Tomorrow," she whispered, "and every day after that. Decades. All of them."

She felt him exhale then, not shaky, but deep. Like her words had taken residence somewhere deep inside him.

"Until the end," he murmured.

She smiled, eyes fluttering shut.

And they stayed like that, wrapped in the kind of quiet only people truly in love could share. The kind that didn't need words, because the promises had already been made.

And when it was time to leave, just as the sun started climbing higher in the sky, lighting up the world, he kissed her three times.

Once on her temple, steady and tender, he said for the girl who had always been his best friend.

Once on her lips, soft and lingering, he said for the woman who had become the love of his life.

And once on the space just above her ring finger, where her mehendi curled around the shape of a tiny heart, he said for his wife.

She didn't stop smiling for hours.

And when sleep came, tangled in sheets that still smelled like him, she drifted off like someone utterly, completely loved, the kind of love that lived in her bones now, warm and sure.

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

Maa Begum had witnessed this before.

Not the grandeur, not the orchestration. No, that part was entirely new in its extravagance, its calculated elegance, the hush of awe it inspired. But the moment, the breathless anticipation of hearts about to be tethered together for a lifetime, she had seen that before.

Their first nikaah had been a hurried thing. A ceremony cobbled together in the span of a day, nestled quietly in the garden of the haveli, where the hedges had been trimmed in haste and the flowers had not quite bloomed. The decorations had been simple, barely more than strings of flowers draped along the columns. There had been no formal invitations, no professional lighting, no curated music swelling in the background. Only the muted rustle of rushed preparations, and the thrum of urgency beneath it all.

And yet... even then, even in that simple setting, they had shone.

Now, though, the difference was staggering.

In the distance, the Shah haveli gleamed like something out of a timeless dream. The stone façade was buried under thousands upon thousands of fresh blooms. Rose, jasmine, tuberose, mogra. All cascading down terraces, curling around jharokhas, creeping up the carved archways like vines in a painting come to life. Silk canopies stretched across the sprawling gardens, shielding the guests from the sun's golden insistence. Sheer curtains billowed in the breeze, scented with something floral, diffusing the laughter and chatter that hummed in the air. Cushioned seating was arranged in arcs and clusters, some beneath carved gazebos, others flanking the grand fountains that sparkled at every turn, their soft bubbling a constant, calming undercurrent. Even the grass seemed greener today, as if the earth itself had made itself worthy of what it was witnessing.

The sun blazed high, golden and generous, but a soft, cool breeze danced through the gardens, light against skin and silk alike, as if someone above had ordered the weather to behave. The sky was clear, an uninterrupted canvas of blue, and for a fleeting, aching moment, Maa Begum looked upward and thought of Nazia. Meerab's mother, her sister in every way that counted, was missing from this day, but perhaps not truly. Perhaps it was her hand guiding the wind, her smile tucked into the warmth of the sun, her quiet blessing hidden in the sway of the trees.

It felt like her, this day, this garden, this light.

Maa Begum wished she were here in body. Sitting beside her on the divan, holding her hand the way she had in younger, simpler days. Watching their children become husband and wife in the very place Nazia had once called home.

She was here. She had to be.

And somewhere in the distance, a marigold petal floated from the canopy and landed gently in Maa Begum's lap. She closed her hand around it and said a silent dua.

She took a deep breath, amid all that beauty, so opulent, so painstakingly arranged, sat the true spectacle: the bride and groom.

Resplendent.

Murtasim in cream, sherwani crisp and collar gleaming with understated embroidery, and she in matching shades of ivory and blush, the delicate threadwork catching the sunlight as if woven with gold itself. Their hands were hennaed, their heads modestly bowed, but their eyes had found each other the moment they had arrived and hadn't strayed since. It was both maddening and marvellous to watch.

It hadn't changed, that love.

If anything, it had deepened, become more dangerous in its certainty. There was something unshakable in it now. She'd always known they loved each other. She'd raised them. Watched them grow from children who squabbled over mango slices to young adults who lingered in each other's shadows even when they weren't speaking.

But this was different.

The months between their two nikaahs had not been kind. She still couldn't speak of them without something seizing in her throat. She had feared she would lose Murtasim, his body broken and still in that sterile hospital bed. And alongside that, a quieter, more devastating fear: that she would lose Meerab too. Because if he hadn't come back, Maa Begum knew with horrifying clarity that Meerab would fade like light in retreat, would unravel thread by thread until there was nothing left of the girl she had called daughter.

And yet they had made. Not just survived, but emerged stronger. Closer.

Sometimes Maa Begum wondered what held them so tightly. What thread ran from him to her and back again, binding them in ways even storms couldn't unravel. It was a connection so seamless, so perfectly tailored, that it almost defied reason.

People whispered about soulmates. About cosmic pairings. About fates written in stars.

She didn't know about the stars. She didn't care for poetry.

But she had seen the way he looked at her, and the way she reached for him, and she knew that whatever bound them wasn't flimsy. It wasn't a ribbon. It was something else. Something unbreakable.

A rope. A tether. A promise made in another lifetime, maybe.

They were seated on either side of the curtain, that soft sheer divider raised now more for tradition than mystery. What secrets did they have left between them? What veil could possibly obscure the truth that glowed so plainly on their faces?

Murtasim's mouth wouldn't stop twitching, smile barely suppressed as he looked across the fabric at the soft blur of her.

And Meerab. Her cream outfit shimmered in the morning light, dupatta anchored with jasmine gajras and ancestral pins, hands resting on her lap, the fresh mehendi dark against her skin. She wasn't still. She never was. Her fingers tapped against the brocade of her outfit. Her toes curled against the carpet. And every now and then, her leg stretched forward just a little, just far enough that her foot nudged the curtain, and his foot on the other side.

The first time it happened, Maa Begum had drawn in a sharp breath, worried someone might notice. And they had. The guests had seen. The rustle. The twitch of the curtain. The too-familiar playfulness in their eyes.

But instead of scandal, there had been laughter.

No disapproving tuts or wide-eyed whispers of shame. Only laughter. Fondness. The kind of indulgent mirth reserved for people too in love to pretend otherwise.

Of course they were too familiar. It hadn't escaped anyone's notice. Not today. Not ever. Not during the mehendi, when he'd fed her bite after bite. Not when they had sat next to each other, whispering all night, as the qawwals performed. Not when they had been caught sneaking back from a late-night stroll just before dawn days ago, by her, of course. Not the others.

But even then, she'd said nothing.

A wave of amused whispers, chuckles passed from one row to the next, and the collective indulgence of a family that knew, had always known, how helplessly, irrevocably tangled these two were in each other.

She felt Shabana shift beside her and turned.

"You'll be a grandmother first," Shabana whispered, barely bothering to hide her grin.

Maa Begum only nodded, eyes returning to her children. "I know."

And she did know. Of course she knew.

Because there were many types of love in the world. But this kind of love created homes and children and histories.

As the qazi cleared his throat and recited the opening verses, her children sat with smiles in their eyes and laughter tucked beneath their tongues, glowing in the soft morning light like verses come to life.

The room held its breath as the first question was asked.

And, just like last time, Meerab blurted, "Qubool hai."

Too fast. Too eager.

The room erupted into low, affectionate laughter. Rumi let out a whistle. Maryam groaned and muttered something about "second time and still no chill."

Maa Begum couldn't stop her smile.

But what surprised her even more was Murtasim. Last time, he had teased her for it, drawn it out with that maddening, smug charm.

But this time?

This time, when it was his turn, he didn't wait.

He said it just as fast. "Qubool hai."

Like a mirror. Like a vow meant to echo hers. Like he couldn't wait one more breath to say it again.

A ripple of warmth spread across the gathering. The cousins, aunts, and friends, teased and chuckled, but less riotously than last time. There were fewer jokes, more smiles. Less noise, more knowing. They had laughed before because it had seemed impulsive.

They laughed now because it was inevitable.

As the duas were recited and the curtain was finally drawn back, Meerab and Murtasim turned to look at each other, formally, officially, again.

And it was absurd how nothing had changed.

And everything had.

Meerab's nose wrinkled. She mouthed something that looked like, "Finally."

It was barely a whisper, mouthed across the veil of air between them, but Maa Begum saw it clearly, and so, it seemed, did Murtasim, whose grin broke across his face like the sun blooming across the horizon.

Somehow it was becoming tradition at nikaahs for the groom to get up after the ceremony and kiss his bride's forehead. It had happened during the first one, and now again, the crowd collectively leaned forward, expectant.

But of course, her children had always defied expectation.

Before Murtasim could even move, Meerab was already rising, her cream outfit cascading around her like moonlight come to life. She reached forward. She didn't wait for permission. Didn't falter.

Her hands reached for his face, cupping it gently, reverently, her thumbs brushing his cheeks, her fingers curving along the line of his jaw. And Murtasim looked up at her like a man witnessing a miracle. Like she was the answer to every prayer he hadn't known he'd ever whispered.

The moment stretched, golden and whole, suspended in that pocket of time before the world came rushing back in. And then she leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Soft. Sure. Certain.

A chorus of delighted, tearful sounds rose from the crowd, gasps, laughter, a smattering of claps, even a few sniffles, but Maa Begum heard none of it.

She couldn't look away.

Because while the rest of the world rejoiced in the spectacle of it. How unusual, how sweet, how hopelessly in love, she was watching something else.

She saw the way Meerab's thumbs brushed his cheek as if memorizing him. She saw how Murtasim's fingers curled instinctively around her wrists, not to hold her there, but to feel her there. She saw the way they smiled at each other, as if the entire courtyard and every set of eyes upon them had disappeared. As if it was only the two of them in that moment.

And it was.

She didn't need to hear them to know what came next.

I love you.

I love you more.

Shut up.

They were whispering it with their eyes, with every tilt of the head, every soft laugh that trembled on their lips.

And finally, Maa Begum let out a long, slow breath.

It felt like a release. A letting go.

All these months, she had carried them. She had policed their stolen glances, reminded them of customs, played referee between youthful passion and the eyes of an observant world.

But not anymore.

The world had now seen.

Now she could rest.

Let them love without interruption. Let them build a world in their own image. Let them laugh too loud and touch too often, so long as they did it away from eyes, of course.

She turned to the sky, where the sunlight poured over the garden in rivulets of gold, and the soft wind carried the scent of roses across the courtyard like a benediction. Somewhere, she was sure of it, Nazia was watching. Smiling.

And Maa Begum smiled too, her heart full.

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

As soon as the last of the congratulatory voices faded and the door clicked shut behind the well-wishers called away for lunch, Murtasim turned to her with the desperation of a man who had been holding his breath all morning. No words, not at first, just a step forward and the immediate anchoring of his palms on either side of her face. His thumbs brushed her cheeks, reverent, tender, as though he was trying to memorise her through the warmth of his hands alone.

And then he kissed her.

Not urgently. Not possessively.

Sweetly.

Soft pecks pressed to her cheeks, her forehead, her lips, her nose, her chin, each one murmured with a word or two between. "Meri biwi," he whispered, barely audible, again and again, as if the phrase itself was a prayer he'd never stop reciting. She laughed against his mouth, that familiar, wind-chime sound that loosened the tightest knots in his chest, and kissed him back, their noses brushing, breaths mingling.

It was the kind of laugh he wanted to bottle and keep forever.

But of course, she pushed him. Not hard, just a gentle nudge. He stumbled back two steps, catching himself on the edge of the wide settee behind him.

"Meerab," he began to protest.

But she was already stepping forward, one hand lifting the impossibly heavy skirts of her bridal lehenga, embroidered with a thousand tiny crystals that caught the light like stars. He reached instinctively, catching her waist, guiding her until, somehow, impossibly, he had her settled in his lap, the structured fabric of her lehenga sprawling around them like the petals of a flower, delicate and resplendent.

Her fingers found his face again. She looked down at him with eyes so soft, so full, he felt something stutter in his chest.

"We were already married," she whispered, her voice as breathless as it was teasing, her thumb brushing his cheekbone. "So why does this feel different?"

He caught her hand in his, brought her fingertips to his mouth and kissed them, slowly, one by one.

"Because now," he murmured against her knuckles, "everyone knows you're mine and I am yours."

She hummed in response, half-dreamy, and he couldn't stop himself, he leaned in and kissed the tip of her nose.

"I wanted to do that," he said, "the second I saw you walking toward me."

She giggled, the sound bubbling up, bright and unguarded. "Is that why Armaan was holding you back?"

He nodded, completely unrepentant.

"You're the most beautiful bride the world has ever seen."

And she was. God, she was.

Her lehenga shimmered like the inside of a pearl, not silver, not gold, not cream, but some in-between ethereal shade that looked like it had been spun from moonlight and dreams. Delicate embroidery crept across the fabric like ancient vines, a soft glinting rose-gold against the champagne silk, beads and crystals and threads of pastel blooming across the expanse of her skirt. The dupatta, sheer and edged in floral motifs and antique scalloped embroidery, framed her face like a halo, pinned just so.

And then, of course, there was her face, glowing, radiant, flushed with something deeper than just the sun or the warmth of celebration. Her eyes were lined with kohl but held no shadow, only joy. Her lips, stained the colour of ripe pomegranate, curved as she whispered back, "You might be biased."

"I'm not," he said, shaking his head.

She grinned. "Well, you make a very pretty groom too."

He smiled, unable to help himself, and she leaned down to kiss him again, soft, brief, a flutter of lips against lips.

He let his hands settle on her waist, pulled her closer, and kissed her properly this time, still gentle, but deeper, lingering, like he needed to make sure she was real.

She pulled back a second later, eyes narrowed playfully. "Behave."

He groaned aloud, tilting his head back, already missing the feel of her.

She laughed, delighted, and flicked his forehead. "We have to take wedding pictures to show our kids."

He straightened with a sigh. "Fine."

"Already such a good husband," she said, patting his cheek like he was some dutiful child.

"Am I?" He teased, and then, very slowly, his hand moved.

From her waist to her back.

From her back to her nape.

He curved his fingers there, just under the line where her hair met the skin, and drew her down.

She followed willingly, even though she let out a little warning, Murtasim.

Their mouths met again, softer, slower. He kissed her like he needed her to know something, needed her to feel something, and maybe she already did, because her fingers found his jaw, tracing it, anchoring herself to him as her mouth parted under his.

It was supposed to be just a kiss.

A moment.

A breath.

But it never stayed that way with them.

He deepened it, just a little, and her sigh undid him. His hand slid from her nape down her back again, over the intricate embroidery, the stiff silk softening beneath his palm as he guided her, slowly, carefully. They shifted without speaking, her lehenga rustling like wind over water, and then she was beneath him, her body sinking into the velvet cushions of the settee, her arms pulling him down with her.

Her eyes fluttered open for a second, met his, full of laughter and heat, her lips red from kissing, her breath uneven.

"Murtasim," she whispered, a warning and an invitation all at once.

"I know," he said, his voice a rough hum as he leaned down to kiss her again. "Just a minute."

"You're going to ruin my makeup," she whispered.

"You can fix it again," he murmured back.

She giggled, soft and stunned, like she couldn't believe him.

"Murtasim," she whispered again.

The knock didn't come. The door simply creaked open.

And Murtasim didn't even have the grace to look startled, though he did feel Meerab stiffen slightly beneath him, her breath catching just before she tried (and failed) to squirm away in time.

"I told you," Hamza announced smugly from the threshold, arms crossed, a little too triumphant. "I told you this was going to happen."

Behind him, three heads peered in.

Rumi grinned like the cat that caught the canary, or more accurately, the bride and groom tangled like teenagers in the middle of a public event.

Arsalan whistled under his breath, and Ajiya just groaned, "Oh god."

Murtasim sighed. Long, loud, defeated. Then shifted upright, hands careful as he helped Meerab sit up too, gently adjusting her dupatta, settling her beside him on the couch as if they hadn't just been lost in each other like the world didn't exist.

Which, until five seconds ago, it hadn't.

"Rukhsati abhi baaki hai, Murtasim bhai," Rumi sang, leaning against the doorframe, grinning wide, voice full of faux innocence and unfiltered glee.

"Shut up, Rumi," Murtasim muttered.

He was already smoothing the front of his sherwani, resigned, while Meerab hid her face behind her hands, her shoulders shaking, not from shame but from stifled laughter.

"Fix his face," Ajiya said briskly to Arsalan, pushing past the others, hands already reaching for Meerab. "I have the makeup artist on standby. I knew this was going to happen."

"You knew," Murtasim repeated under his breath, irritated but not really. "And yet still walked in."

He reached for Meerab's fingers one last time, brushing his thumb across her knuckles, but she was already being dragged away, fussed over, adjusted, powdered, teased.

She turned back just once. Just for him.

Her eyes sparkled with something only he could read.

And Hamza, the traitor, snickered again. "Give the woman a chance to breathe, man."

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

The photographs were endless.

First in the gardens, the grass now sprinkled with petals and late-afternoon sunlight. Then in front of the haveli, the stone façade gilded in florals and memories. Some were posed. Some were candid. Most were unbearable.

Murtasim smiled. He had to.

But his eyes found her in every frame. He couldn't look anywhere else.

She stood beside him, radiant, her second outfit even more elaborate, all soft gold and delicate embroidery, a long dupatta trailing like starlight behind her. She laughed with her cousins, posed with her friends, offered shy smiles to their aunts and uncles. But every now and then, every third or fourth picture, her gaze would flick to him, and it would happen again.

That pull.

The invisible thread between them would tug, sharp and sure. And everything else would fade.

"I can run away with you, just tell me when," he whispered during one of the group shots, his mouth just inches from her ear, pretending to adjust his sleeve.

She didn't pretend not to understand. But she didn't say yes either.

So he did all the things she wanted.

He smiled. Stood for too long in the heat. Endured unending instructions from the photographer. Held her bouquet when her hands got tired. Adjusted her dupatta when it slipped. Moved his face a few inches left, then right, then back again, all so some stranger with a camera could 'capture the right angle.'

She barely ate.

He noticed it before anyone else, and by the time lunch was served, her feet were aching and her energy nearly gone. They sat at a smaller table in the corner of the courtyard, just the two of them, at last, and he tore little pieces of naan, fed her bites of kebab and mint chutney, one after the other. She barely protested.

The photographer still followed them, crouched behind a floral pillar like some invasive species.

"Smile," Murtasim said, offering her another bite of pulao.

"I'm dying," Meerab whispered, leaning her forehead briefly against his shoulder.

"I told you we can run," he said quietly. "Just say the word."

But again, she didn't.

So, he held her hand under the table instead.

And then someone came to collect her again, to help her change for the rukhsati.

He stood when she did, followed her toward the steps leading back to the haveli. She turned halfway, her expression unreadable.

"What's the point," he muttered, just for her to hear, "of putting you in clothes you won't even wear for long."

Her steps faltered. She turned, scandalized. "Murtasim!"

"I'm just saying," he murmured, grinning, "it's a waste of effort."

She gave him a look. He took it as encouragement.

"I had one request," he said, lowering his voice again, his mouth by her ear. "No updos. No pins. You remember what happened last time?"

Her eyes widened. She whacked him lightly with her dupatta.

"You're incorrigible."

"But you'll listen."

"I won't."

"You will."

She rolled her eyes, but he saw it, the way the corners of her mouth curled, betraying her. Just the way he liked.

He reached for her fingers, brushing them once before she pulled away with an exaggerated sigh, disappearing behind a veil of cousins and fabric and perfume.

He stood there long after she disappeared from sight.

Smiling like an idiot.

"Meri biwi," he whispered to no one, the words curling with disbelief and devotion.

His smile widened, a low whistle escaping him as he turned on his heel, the sound casual, lazy, utterly content, but his heart, his entire being, thrummed with something far from calm.

The rukhsati was happening today.

This time, no one would pull her away.

This time, she was his. Entirely.

And soon, finally, he'd have all of her.

Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every inch of skin.

Forever.

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

A/N: Soooooo, what do you think? The next chapter if FINALLY going to be what y'all (and Meerab x Murtasim) have been waiting for, hehe. I think I've made it a huge thing and now I don't know what I am doing with it, so I've re-written the outline six times, send help. What makes sense? *cries* Okay, bye.