Author's Note: Hi y'all - I know it's been a while, but I've been super busy lately and haven't had time to write as much. This chapter is super long, like 35 pages (which should be three chapters), so I hope that makes up for the delay! I am honestly surprised by how much y'all love this story, thank you for the comments and all the giggles! Enjoy the chapter, see you on the other end!

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Meerab stood before the mirror, her fingers brushing the fabric of her black suit. Her reflection stared back at her, plain and neat, the picture of solemnity. But something about it felt... wrong.

She bit her lip, running her hand over the hem. "Yeh kaun hai?" she muttered, looking at her reflection.

This wasn't her. It wasn't the daughter her Ammi had raised—the one who had learned to see beauty in the brightest, most colourful parts of life.

The ache in her chest tightened. Why did she always do this on this day? The black. The stillness. The sadness. Her gaze flicked to the roses sitting on her dresser, soft pink and full of quiet vibrance. They almost seemed to mock her.

"Ammi ka favourite colour," she whispered, her fingers brushing the edge of a petal.

Something inside her shifted.

Meerab turned to her closet, pulling it open with a determined flick of her wrist. She rifled through the hangers, discarding outfit after outfit until her fingers landed on it: a pink suit.

The fabric shimmered faintly as she pulled it out, holding it up to the light. It wasn't the usual heavily embroidered kind she saw at weddings, but it wasn't plain either—delicate details ran along the neckline and sleeves, soft and celebratory. She'd bought it months ago on a whim, and it had been sitting at the back of her closet ever since.

She smiled faintly. "Perfect."

Slipping out of the black suit, she tugged on the pink one, the cool fabric settling against her skin like a whisper of reassurance. It was still foreign to her, a little too traditional for someone who preferred dresses, and jeans and shirts. But as she stood before the mirror, something about it felt... right.

Her eyes trailed to her hair, still pulled back into that neat ponytail. She reached up, yanking the elastic free with a firm tug. Her dark waves tumbled down, framing her face. She ruffled them with her fingers, letting them fall naturally.

She took a step back, tilting her head as she studied her reflection. The pink suit softened her edges, her hair brought back a bit of her usual flair, and somehow, the combination felt like a bridge between who she was and who she was trying to be.

She nodded at herself, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

"Ammi ka favourite colour," she whispered again, this time with more conviction. "Dukhi hone ka kya faida jab aaj ke din ammi ki life celebrate bhi kar sakte hain?"

She sighed and stepped into the living room, where, of course, Murtasim waited like some silent sentinel carved out of stone.

Leaning against the doorframe, he looked like a magazine cover: crisp white shirt tucked neatly into dark slacks, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that seemed to flex just by existing. His hair was combed back but still deliciously messy, like he'd gotten up and thought, How can I ruin Meerab Ahmed's day today? Ah, yes. Looking like sin and not allowing her to touch me should do it.

His eyes flicked to her the moment she entered, sweeping over her like he was taking stock of something precious—or suspicious. His brow furrowed slightly, just enough to make her roll her eyes. He looked... impressed? Or maybe confused. Probably both. He had never seen her dressed in ethnic wear.

She tugged at her sleeves and muttered under her breath as she walked past him, "Agar itna hi shock ho raha hai toh kuch bol do. Ya phir, ignore karne ka soch hi liya hai, toh mujhe aise dekhne ka kya faida?"

As she brushed past him, she caught the tiniest flicker of a reaction—his lips twitching, just barely. It was so subtle she almost thought she imagined it.

But then again, nothing about him was subtle. Not the way his silence felt louder than any lecture, not the way his gaze stayed glued to her back like a warm, irritating spotlight.

By the time she reached the door, he was already in motion, brushing past her to open the car door. Gentlemanly? Sure. Romantic? Not a chance. This was all part of the Major Moochasim's Big Book of Duty.

She slid into the passenger seat, refusing to meet his eyes. She'd made a vow not to let his kindness—or hotness—get to her. It wasn't real.

But that didn't stop her from muttering under her breath, "Chivalry ka kya faida."

Predictably, he didn't react. No surprise there. He just slid into the driver's seat, buckled his seatbelt with military precision, and turned to her with a silent question in his annoyingly intense—no, infuriatingly ugly—eyes.

"Nathia Gali," she said, glancing out the window, pretending not to notice the faint twitch in his jaw.

"A hill station?" His voice held a note of surprise.

She snapped her head toward him, her eyebrows shooting up. "Oh wow, aap ko bolna bhi aata hai, Major Moochasim?"

He sighed, long and dramatic, because apparently, he was the victim here.

"Just go." She said, she waited for him to argue, to ask more questions, to maybe—just once—do something unexpected. Instead, he raised that stupid communications device to his mouth and informed the tail car of their destination. He could've been talking to her, but no. His energy was reserved for the mic and his secret love affair with silence.

"Professional robot," she muttered, half-hoping he'd hear.

The car pulled onto the main road, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. The silence in the car wasn't just quiet; it was loud—the kind that clung to her chest and dared her to break it.

Meerab clasped her hands in her lap, stealing glances at him out of the corner of her eye.

And, as always, it annoyed her how good he looked.

The sunlight caught on his jawline, casting faint shadows over his stubble. His mooch was thriving, somehow looking less like an outdated fashion choice and more like a deliberate branding strategy. Her eyes went back to his rolled-up sleeves again, his forearms looked like they belonged in a Man of the Year calendar. And for a moment—a very brief, very irrational moment—she forgot to be annoyed.

She turned her head sharply to the window, muttering, "Itne hot hone ka kya faida?"

Honestly. He was wasting his hotness—and hers.

The two of them should've been sneaking kisses behind closed doors, fucking like rabbits, and having dangerously good-looking babies. It was only logical. Instead, he was acting like a first-place winner in the "Men Who Pretend Things Never Happened" championship.

Men. Always the same. Oh no, emotions! Better suppress them and act like nothing happened.

She huffed quietly, glancing at him again. Murtasim wasn't just a man—he was a high-level idiot with a mooch.

Her stomach betrayed her with a flutter when he glanced her way briefly before refocusing on the road. Ugh. Stupid butterflies. They clearly hadn't received the memo.

Meerab sank deeper into her seat, the passing scenery blurring into greens and blues outside the window. She sighed dramatically. If he wasn't going to speak, she'd have to find something else to occupy her thoughts.

The air grew cooler, brushing against her face as she cracked the window open. It carried the sharp scent of pine, and with it, the noise of the capital—its politics, ambition, and endless clamor—seemed to fade. Her mother had chosen well. This was where she had wanted to rest, far from the noise of men and their struggles, tucked into the quiet countryside where she had grown up.

The road twisted higher into the mountains, flanked by dense forests and valleys that stretched endlessly below. Terraced fields dotted the hillsides, interrupted by the occasional red-roofed cottage. It was the kind of place where time slowed, where everything seemed softer, untouched.

Meerab's gaze drifted to the rivulets trickling down the rocky cliffs, to the roadside stalls selling baskets of oranges and cherries. She could almost picture her mother here as a girl—laughing under these same towering trees, untouched by the weight of city life.

"Yahan se left," Meerab instructed as they neared the familiar road. "Flower shop ke paas rukna."

He glanced at her, his brows furrowing slightly. "Hum yahan flowers khareedne aaye hain?" he muttered, like she'd just suggested stopping to adopt a puppy.

"Kyun?" she snapped, rolling her eyes. "Usme bhi aap ko koi problem hai? Shahmeer ke saath aana chahiye tha?"

His jaw tightened, just a fraction. His hands gripped the steering wheel like it owed him money, but he nodded and pulled up outside the tiny flower shop. As expected, his gaze immediately scanned the area, his perpetual hyper-vigilance kicking in. He muttered something into his communications device to the tail car behind them, probably telling them, I'm buying flowers while protecting the nation.

"Kaunse phool chahiye?" he asked, his tone clipped but polite.

Meerab raised an eyebrow. Polite? That was new. She smirked. "Pink tulips. Aur agar na mile toh jo bhi ho... lekin pink hone chahiye." She gave him a pointed look, daring him to argue.

To her surprise, he just nodded again and stepped out, locking the car doors behind him with his usual no-nonsense efficiency.

Meerab leaned her head against the window, staring after him. "Of course," she muttered, catching a faint trace of his scent still lingering in the car. "Duty first, conversation never. Kya problem hai is aadmi ki?"

She sighed, closing her eyes briefly. If the universe had given her an irritatingly good-looking robot instead of a real person, the least it could do was throw in some entertainment. But no. Murtasim Khan was the silent movie of human interactions.

When he returned, her eyes widened. Pink tulips. Exactly the ones she wanted, their soft petals looking almost too perfect to touch. He held them out to her without a word, his expression as unreadable as ever.

She reached for the bouquet, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips as her fingers brushed the cool petals.

Then, out of nowhere, the sadness hit.

She bit her lip, staring down at the flowers in her lap. "Yeh shayad eklaute phool honge jo tum mujhe kabhi doge," she muttered, her voice softer than she intended.

"Shaayad," he replied, so quietly she almost thought she imagined it.

Her head snapped up. Why did he have to talk then? He could have just ignored that too. She blinked at him, her lips pulling down at the corners. Was he being serious? Was this his usual unbothered vibe? Did he... not like her? Her thoughts spiraled faster than she cared to admit – was it just a moment of weakness after all? Induced by whisky and adrenaline?

She cleared her throat, trying to shake it off. "Aage se right... phir sadak ke end tak jaana... wahan ek qabrastan hai," she muttered, her voice suddenly less sharp.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him tense. His knuckles tightened on the wheel for a split second before he glanced her way. His face was unreadable, but his eyes... they looked almost worried. Touched, even.

For a fleeting moment, she thought he might ask something, might actually say the words forming behind those infuriatingly stoic eyes. But no. This was Major Murtasim Khan. He looked away, jaw set, retreating back into the fortress of his silence.

He followed her directions well, parking outside the small graveyard within minutes. True to form, he was out of the car the moment the tires stopped moving, scanning the area like he expected a sniper to pop out of the nearest bush.

She rolled the window down slightly, "Tumhare level ka koi danger nahi hai yahaan," she muttered, watching him through the window. "Bas ek-doh bhoot ho sakte hain."

Ignoring her, he opened her door, his face unreadable as always.

As she stepped out, she was immediately hit with that smell. The unfair mix of soap and something entirely him. It was warm and grounding, wrapping around her like a blanket on a winter night. He was standing so close, his presence radiating that maddening quiet intensity, and for a moment, her heart betrayed her.

She wanted to reach for his hand, to wrap her fingers around his strong, veined ones and feel the weight of them steady her.

Snap out of it, she told herself.

He stepped back first, his usual stoic self, and her moment of weakness vanished as quickly as it came. She turned sharply and started walking, her heels sinking slightly into the cool earth as she followed the narrow path. The tulips were clutched tightly in her hands, a distraction she desperately needed.

She didn't look back. She didn't have to. She could feel him there—steady, constant, just like always.

When she reached her mother's grave, she knelt, her fingers tracing the engraved letters with the same care she did every year. "Hi, Ammi," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "Main aayi hoon. Jaise har saal aati hoon... par iss saal kuch alag hai."

Her voice cracked, and she paused, glancing over her shoulder. There he was, standing a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, his expression carefully blank. He always stayed just far enough to give her space but close enough to remind her she wasn't alone.

She turned back to the grave, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "Woh idiot dekh rahi hai?" she murmured. "Main usse pasand karti hoon... kaafi hot hai naa?" She let out a small giggle, shaking her head, knowing her mother would have nodded at that question. "Major Moochasim – waise toh uska naam Murtasim hai, par usse zyada uski mooch bolti hai... toh Major Moochasim. Lekin aap ko toh sab pata hi hai na? Upar se dekh kar hass rahi hongi aap."

She hesitated, biting her lip. "Cabin wala scene ignore kar dena... sorry."

She sighed, resting her forehead against the cool stone. "Woh pretend kar raha hai jaise kuch hua hi nahi. Jaise woh kiss... bas ek mazaak tha."

Her fingers brushed the soft petals of the tulips she put down. "Aap hoti toh kuch advice deti, naa? Kehte ke main uski mooch ka mazaak banana chhod doon." She paused, her lips twitching into a smile. "Par main kya karoon? Koi reaction hi nahi deta...actually jab Major Bodyguard mode mein nahi hota toh reaction deh bhi deta hai, par uska off button abhi tak mila nahi mujhe."

The breeze stirred, rustling the leaves around her. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself miss her mother fully, without holding back. "I miss you, Ammi," she whispered, her voice cracking.

When she finally stood, she was startled to find Murtasim closer than before. His gaze was fixed on her, dark and unreadable, with a quiet intensity that made her chest ache.

"Aise kyun dekh rahe ho?" she muttered, raising an eyebrow. "Hug hi karlo."

He didn't reply. Of course not. He just looked away like she'd caught him.

She sighed. "Aa kar meri ammi se milo," she said, almost flippantly. But if part of her was hell-bent on ending up with him—and she was—then introducing him to her mother seemed logical.

To her utter surprise, he stepped forward.

"Ammi, yeh hai Major Moochasim," she said dramatically, biting back a grin.

He shot her a warning look, but before he could open his mouth, she added, "Sorry, galti hogai. Major Moochasim Khan," she teased, emphasizing the name like it was a title of nobility.

"Major Murtasim Khan," he corrected dryly.

"Major Murtasim Khan," she said, her tone softening. "Aur yeh hai meri Ammi."

To her absolute shock, he nodded at the grave and murmured a quiet hello.

Her eyes widened. He'd actually said it. Her lips twitched, and she couldn't help herself. "Kya baat hai," she said, grinning. "Aap ke paas manners bhi hai, Major Moochasim? Mujhe laga saari training sirf ghusse aur silent staring mein thi."

She swore she saw his lips twitch, but he turned his head away too quickly. "Aap kabhi serious nahi ho sakti?"

She shrugged, smirking. "Serious hone ke liye aap hi kaafi hain, Major Moochasim."

And this time, she caught it—the faintest, almost-smile on his face. Victory.

Meerab tried her luck, blinking up at him with her best puppy-dog eyes. "Yahan paas hi ek chota sa restaurant hai, wahan duniya ki best noodles milti hain...Ammi ki favourite thi. Hum noodles khaane chale?" she said, layering her voice with as much pleading as possible. For added effect, she tilted her head slightly and threw in a soft, almost angelic smile.

Murtasim stared at her for a long, unreadable moment, and she braced herself for the usual stone-faced no. But then, to her absolute shock, he nodded.

"Really?" she blurted out, her jaw practically dropping.

He nodded as though he hadn't just done something completely out of character. Eating out at a restaurant was a logistical nightmare for security, rarely allowed unless it was a five-star establishment with private rooms that were heavily guarded.

She grinned up at him, her happiness practically bouncing off the trees around them. Progress! Isko noodles ke liye haan karwa liya toh shayad zindagi mein aur bhi impossible cheezein ho sakti hain!

She spun around, heading toward the car with a spring in her step, when she heard it.

A sound.

A low, menacing bleat.

She froze mid-step. Slowly, like in a horror movie, she turned her head.

And there it was.

A goat. A black-and-white demon with horns that gleamed in the sunlight like it had just come from a goat mafia meeting.

"Cute hai," Murtasim said casually, hands in his pockets, like he didn't just witness the embodiment of evil sizing her up.

"Yeh cute hai?!" Meerab hissed, stumbling back a step. "Dekho kaise ghur rahi hai! Mujhe lagta hai yeh meri jaan lene aayi hai!"

"Tum seriously ek bakri se—"

The goat took a step forward, and she was done. Completely, absolutely done.

Before Murtasim could finish whatever infuriatingly calm sentence he was saying, she screamed, "MURTASIM!" at the top of her lungs and bolted behind him.

The goat bleated again—angrier this time, she was sure—and charged. Meerab shrieked, grabbing onto the back of Murtasim's shirt, but it wasn't enough. She scrambled higher, trying to climb him like a tree, her feet kicking wildly in the air before she wrapped them around his thighs from behind, clinging to him.

"Meerab, calm down!" he yelled, though his voice was already laced with laughter. "Sirf ek bakri hai!"

"Bakri ka dimaag kharab hai!" she yelled back. "Yeh mujhe kaat legi! Tumhari duty hai mujhe bachaana!"

She felt his body shaking as he laughed, but she wasn't about to let go. Not when the goat took another step closer, its beady eyes now locked on her dupatta, which fluttered dramatically like a neon "EAT ME" sign.

"Meerab, bas karo—"

"DEKHA?!" she screeched as the goat jumped, its little horns bouncing with menace. "Yeh mera dupatta kha rahi hai! ISKO ROKO!"

Her hold on him faltered, but before she could fall off, Murtasim grabbed her, his hands firm as they slid under her thighs and hoisted her up effortlessly. "Oh, so dangerous," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he held her in his arms like she weighed nothing.

Meerab clung to his neck like her life depended on it, tucking her legs up as high as she could. "Mujhe upar rakho! Aur bakri ko neeche rakho!"

He adjusted his grip, moving her effortlessly from his back to the front of his body, carrying her bridal style, his chest solid and steady against her frantic heartbeat. She could feel the muscles in his arms flexing with every step he took, and for a moment, the panic dulled—because wow, koi aadmi itna strong kaise ho sakta hai?

"Stop screaming. Tumhare cheekhne se zyada bhadak rahi hai." He muttered, his voice sounding like sin.

She pointed dramatically at the goat, which was now chewing and pulling the end of her dupatta like it was a five-star appetizer. "Dekho! Mere kapda khana shuru kar diya, isse appetizer aur mujhe main course samajh liya!"

Murtasim burst out laughing.

He laughed—really laughed, full and unrestrained, the sound so rare and beautiful that it hit her harder than the goat ever could. His usually serious face was lit up, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement as his smile stretched wide across his face, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

It was the kind of laugh that made her forget everything else. Even the goat.

"Yeh tumhe khaayegi?" he repeated between laughs.

"Yes!" she shrieked, throwing her arms around his neck. "Tum mere bodyguard ho! Tumhari duty hai mujhe bakriyon se bachaana!"

He laughed even harder.

She tucked her legs closer to his chest as if the goat might suddenly learn to jump higher.

Murtasim started walking toward the car, still carrying her like some overly dramatic bride, while the goat followed leisurely, the edge of her dupatta dragging from its mouth.

"Murtasimmmmmm, usse bhagao!" she whined, her grip on his neck tightening.

"Tumhe neeche rakh doon?" he suggested, his lips twitching with another laugh as he made a move to set her down.

"NAHI!" she squealed, clutching him harder, her arms like a vice around his neck. "Mujhe mat chodna!" Then, without thinking, she muttered under her breath, "Hamesha bakriyon se bachaana. Shaadi karlo."

"Kya?" he asked, his brow arching, though his smirk was far too amused.

"Mujhe car tak le chalo!" she shouted, dodging the question entirely as the goat continued its leisurely pursuit of her dupatta.

"Drama queen," he muttered, his voice warm with laughter as he carried her back to the car.

When he finally reached the door, the goat bleated one last time before losing interest and trotting off. Meerab could still feel her pulse racing, but it wasn't because of the stupid animal anymore. It was because of him.

God, he was so pretty.

His laughter echoed in her ears, and she stared up at him, completely distracted. "Yaar, koi itna achha kaise lag sakta hai hanste hue?" she murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

"Hmm?" he asked, looking down at her, his eyebrow quirking in that annoying, devastating way.

"Kuch nahi!" she snapped, her face burning as he set her down gently by the car.

"Of course," he said, the smirk on his face practically glowing. And this time, it wasn't just her heart racing—it was her entire world.

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Murtasim sat across from her at the tiny, hole-in-the-wall restaurant that looked more like someone's mismatched dining room than an eatery. He was trying to keep his face neutral, but the corner of his mouth kept twitching upward. A barely-suppressed laugh escaped him, turning into a full-on snicker.

"Haan, hass lo," she said, glaring at him, crossing her arms. "Pehle toh kabhi hassi nahi aayi aap ko."

His shoulders shook as he fought to keep a straight face, and she narrowed her eyes.

Before she could unleash another sarcastic comment, the old woman who ran the place approached their table, carrying two bowls on a tray. She set them down with a warm smile, her kind eyes flickering between them.

"Iss saal apne shauhar ke saath aayi ho?" she asked, tilting her head as she looked at them both.

Murtasim's eyes widened, and Meerab bit back a laugh before casually nodding. "Ji," she said, her voice sweet enough to rival sugar syrup. Hone-wala shauhar.

Murtasim immediately started coughing, his composure utterly shattered.

Meerab leaned back in her chair, grinning as she watched him struggle for air. Finally, a moment where he wasn't so annoyingly put together. The old woman smiled approvingly at the two of them before walking off, leaving behind a silence that was heavy with her satisfaction and his disbelief.

He glared at her, his jaw tight. "Shauhar?"

Meerab gave him an innocent shrug. "Inhe nahi pata ki main kaun hoon, pehle itni security bhi nahi hoti thi. Aur waise bhi, main yahan, akele, tumhare saath... kya kehti main? Ki tum mere bodyguard ho?"

She had a point, and he knew it. He sighed, shaking his head but didn't say anything, instead picking up his chopsticks to try the noodles.

She waited, watching him closely, her grin widening when his eyes went wide after the first bite.

"Ache hai naa?" she asked, already knowing the answer as she scooped up her first bite.

He nodded, still chewing.

She took a bite herself, savoring the familiar flavors before saying softly, "Yeh noodles Ammi ke favourite hai. Hum dono har saal unke birthday par itni door aate the inhe khaane."

For once, Murtasim's usual reserved demeanor shifted. "Aur tumhare baba?" he asked, his voice quiet but steady.

She blinked, surprised he'd spoken.

"Woh nahi aate," she said, shrugging. "Kabhi nahi aaye."

He didn't respond immediately, his gaze fixed on her as though waiting for her to say more. She could feel his curiosity, his quiet attentiveness, and for some reason, she didn't mind.

"They never loved each other," she found herself saying, her voice matter-of-fact. "Typical marriage of convenience. Baba politically rise kar rahe the, naanu yahan ke sabse ameer insaan aur party ke member the. Baba ko paise aur support chahiye thi, aur naanu ko naam." She shrugged again, playing with her chopsticks.

His gaze didn't waver, and she felt strangely seen under its weight.

"Miyan-biwi jaise kabhi act nahi karte the," she continued, her words flowing as if they'd been waiting to be said. "More like roommates. Tumne kaafi rumours sune honge... aadhe sach the."

Her mind drifted to the accident, to the whispers that had surrounded it. "Car crash wali baat toh obviously sach thi... aur woh rumours... ki meri ammi kisi doosre aadmi ke saath thi... woh bhi sach tha." Her voice grew quieter as the memories resurfaced. She didn't know why she was telling him this—she never told anyone—but the words kept coming.

"Bahot gussa aaya hoga apni Ammi par?" he asked, his voice gentle but direct, cutting through her thoughts.

"Haan," she said, nodding slowly. "Jab main chhoti thi, mujhe yeh sab bilkul samajh nahi aata tha. Agar woh uss aadmi se nahi milne jaati, toh accident naa hota. Woh marti nahi... mujhe chhod kar nahi jaati."

She sighed, her grip on her chopsticks tightening. "Par jaise badi hoti gayi, shayad yeh sab samajh aane laga. Ammi ko sirf pyaar chahiye tha...joh baba se kabhi nahi mila. Mujhe lagta hai ki ammi uss aadmi se pyaar karti thi – jo unke saath mara – shayad shaadi se pehle. Lekin naanu nahi maane honge. Itne saal ammi sirf mere liye baba ke saath rahi."

Murtasim stayed quiet, but the look in his eyes said everything. There was no judgment there, no pity—just an unspoken understanding.

For the first time in years, talking about her mother didn't feel like a burden. Instead, it felt like sharing a memory with someone who wouldn't try to fix it, wouldn't try to make it better. He was just... there.

And for Meerab, in that moment, it was more than she had ever gotten.

Meerab twirled the noodles on her chopsticks absentmindedly, watching Murtasim. He looked up, catching her gaze, and for a moment, she felt the faintest tug in her chest.

"Tumhare parents?" she asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

He paused, his chopsticks stilling mid-air. His expression softened slightly. "Mere abbu ki death frontline par hui, tab main 15 saal ka tha," he said quietly. "Aur ammi kuch saal baad guzar gayi, heart attack."

Meerab's heart ached at his words. She leaned forward slightly, her voice softening. "Aur koi family member?"

He nodded. "Mera chhota bhai hai. Army mein hai abhi tak."

That caught her by surprise. "Wow, woh bhi army mein hai! Tumne kabhi kuch aur karne ka nahi socha?"

He tilted his head, as if considering her question for a moment. Then he said, "Hamare ghar mein hamesha se yeh tradition tha. Bada beta army join karta tha, aur chhota zameen ka khayal rakhta tha."

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Toh tumhara bhai...?"

A rare smile broke across his face, one that made him look younger, more open. "Agar zameen uske haath mein chhod dete, toh itni peediyon ki saari mehnat doob jaati."

Meerab burst out laughing, clutching her chopsticks. "Toh...?"

"Ab ek manager hai jo sab oversee karta hai," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching upward again. "Main mahine mein ek dafa check karta hoon."

She narrowed her eyes playfully. "Toh technically, tum ek feudal lord ho?"

He shrugged, as if the title didn't faze him one bit.

Meerab grinned. "Zameendar Moochasim."

He rolled his eyes, his lips quirking slightly as he shook his head. Her heart fluttered unexpectedly at the sight, and she quickly turned her attention back to her bowl, trying to ignore the warmth spreading in her chest.

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Meerab hadn't meant to eavesdrop. Really, she hadn't. She'd just been wandering around, trying to get her steps in—10,000 is what they recommend—when she heard his voice.

Low. Gruff. Agitated.

Sexy.

Her brain froze mid-step. Why does he have to sound like that? That voice should come with a warning label. It was the kind of voice she wanted to hear murmuring in her ear while he fuc—no. She squeezed her eyes shut. Nope, not finishing that thought. Absolutely not.

Her feet betrayed her before her brain could stage a coup. She tiptoed toward the slightly ajar door, her pulse kicking up a notch. Be the bigger person, Meerab. Walk away.

She didn't walk away.

Instead, she tiptoed closer.

I'm not nosy, she reasoned, peeking around the corner like a cartoon villain. I'm... fact-finding.

Her heart pounded as she pressed herself against the wall, leaning closer. Through the gap in the door, she could see him—broad shoulders hunched slightly as he stood, his hand gripping his phone like it had personally offended him.

"...uski wajah se mein pagal ho raha hoon," he muttered, his voice low but unmistakably tense.

Meerab blinked, her breath catching. Who's driving him mad? Me? It had to be her. It better be me. If it wasn't her—if it was Zara or someone else—she would stage a full-scale murder. Major Dead-asim.

She inched closer, holding her breath as she pressed her ear to the door.

"Jab who aas paas hoti hai toh focus nahi kar pata," Murtasim continued, his tone frustrated. "Saare din ajeeb harkatein kar ti rehti hai...par agar naa kare toh bhi. It's just her."

Meerab's heart soared. She was pretty sure he was talking about her. Who else could it be? Meerab's heart did an Olympic-level gymnastics routine. She bit her lip, trying not to grin.

"Mujhe aise dekhti hai jaise..." He trailed off, and Meerab clenched her fists. LIKE WHAT, MURTASIM? COMPLETE THE SENTENCE!

Her thoughts spiraled. How do I look at him? Like I'm smitten? Or like I want him to press me up against the nearest wall and ravish me? Probably both. Scratch that—definitely both. Though these days, the ravishing was winning by a landslide. She frowned at herself. That is why I named my vibrator Moochasim. This is exactly why.

There was a pause, and then he sighed. "Yaar, yeh kisi bhi angle se normal nahi ho sakta. The way she gets under my skin. The way she's in my head all the time."

Oh my God, I'm in his head. Rent-free. Amazing. I wasn't wrong – he does like me!

"Main khud ko rokne ki koshish karta hoon..." His voice softened, almost to a whisper. "But it doesn't work."

Meerab pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle the giggle that threatened to burst out. She felt like she was listening to a live audiobook of a forbidden love story, except she was the main character.

"She's too smart for her own good. Too stubborn. Too..." He hesitated, and Meerab leaned so far forward she almost fell into the room.

"Beautiful," he finished, the word barely audible.

Her knees wobbled. He thinks I'm beautiful. And smart! Her brain short-circuited with happiness, a ridiculous smile spreading across her face.

"Lekin main yeh nahi kar sakta. Main nahi karunga." His tone shifted, steely now. "She deserves better than... whatever this is."

Meerab frowned, her giddiness deflating slightly. What does that even mean?

"Mujhe professional rehna hoga," he said firmly, though his voice cracked just slightly at the end. "Bas yeh hi ek tareeqa hai."

If this man thought he could deny himself her, he had another thing coming. She was Meerab Ahmed. She saw problems, researched them, and solved them. And now, she had a mission. A plan was already forming in her head, one step at a time. She was going to make Murtasim Khan give in, no matter how stubborn or professional he thought he was.

But before she could bask in her newfound resolve, the door opened.

She froze.

Murtasim stood there, his brows drawn together, his phone still in his hand. His sharp eyes locked on hers, and her stomach flipped.

"What—" he started, but she cut him off, her voice way too loud.

"Maine kuch nahi suna!"

His eyes narrowed slightly, and she squeaked, spinning on her heel and bolting down the hallway like her life depended on it.

"Idiot, idiot, idiot," she muttered under her breath as she ran, her face burning with embarrassment.

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

Meerab tiptoed down the dimly lit hallway, the soft glow of the sconces casting long, flickering shadows on the walls. She wasn't intentionally trying to be stealthy; it just came naturally at 2 a.m. when her stomach was staging a full-scale rebellion and demanding immediate attention.

What I wouldn't give for a burger and fries right now. Not the kind her personal chef made either—the man had once tried to "elevate" her request with organic grass-fed beef and sweet potato fries that tasted too good, like they'd been infused with kale or something equally unnecessary. No, she wanted grease. Calories. The kind of food that felt like a warm hug from cholesterol itself.

She sighed dramatically, her steps light against the polished floors. Why can't I just go out and get a burger? Oh, right. Because that would involve waking up ten people, an entire security protocol, and convincing Murtasim himself to come along—and let's be honest, he'd just judge my choices. Even delivery was a hassle. Someone would have to approve it, monitor it, probably scan it for bombs. By the time she got her burger, she'd be too annoyed to enjoy the soggy mess.

Her stomach growled, clearly unimpressed with her excuses.

As she passed Murtasim's room, her internal monologue came to a screeching halt. A sound—low and guttural—came from behind the door. She stopped mid-step, her ears straining to catch it again. Was that him?

Another noise, this one more strained, sent her heart racing. Her mind spiraled. Is he okay? What if he was dying in there? What if he was in mortal danger? What if—her thoughts stuttered to a halt—what if he's... busy?

Her face heated so fast she felt like her brain was melting. Oh no. Was he... was he masturbating?

Is he thinking about me?

She almost ran into the room, excited by her own thoughts, but then she heard another sound—a desperate, pained noise that yanked her out of her spiral. This is serious, she told herself, forcing her legs to move. With a deep breath, she pushed the door open and slipped inside.

The room was dark, the curtains barely letting in the pale moonlight. Her eyes adjusted quickly, zeroing in on the bed where Murtasim lay. His broad chest rose and fell unevenly, his face twisted in anguish.

"Major Moochasim?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

No response.

She stepped closer, her bare feet sinking into the plush rug. Her heart pounded in her chest as she reached for the bedside lamp, her fingers brushing the cool metal switch.

Click.

The soft glow filled the room, illuminating him. Her breath caught. His jaw was clenched, sweat glistening on his forehead, the tendons in his neck taut. His lips, slightly parted, moved as he muttered something—words she couldn't quite catch.

"Please no," he rasped suddenly, his voice raw and broken. "Not him."

Meerab's chest tightened, her heart twisting painfully. A nightmare. The words replayed in her head, and she remembered the story he'd told her—the friend he'd lost.

She stepped closer, her resolve solidifying. "Moochasim," she said softly, her voice a little firmer.

Still nothing.

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as she crouched beside the bed. She hated the helplessness on his face, the sweat soaking his brow. She hated the idea that he—the unshakable, invincible Murtasim—could look like this. Vulnerable. Hurt.

"Murtasim," she murmured, reaching out hesitantly. Her fingers trembled as they brushed his cheek.

His skin was too warm, almost feverish, and her stomach twisted with worry. God, what if this was more than a nightmare?

"Wake up," she whispered, her voice soft and steady. She cupped his face, her thumb brushing over the sharp plane of his cheekbone. His stubble rasped lightly against her skin, grounding her in the moment. "It's a dream," she added gently. "Just a nightmare."

She didn't know if it was her words or the touch of her hand, but something shifted. For a fleeting moment, his pained expression softened, his head tilting ever so slightly into her palm.

Her heart skipped a beat. Even in the middle of this, he makes my heart race. How is this fair?

"Murtasim, wake up," she whispered again, her voice soft but insistent. "It's a nightmare."

His eyes snapped open.

Before Meerab could even process what was happening, Murtasim moved with lightning speed, his instincts honed from years of training. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist in a vice-like hold that sent a jolt up her arm.

"Wait—!" she tried to protest, but her voice was swallowed by a sharp gasp as he yanked her forward with effortless strength.

In the blink of an eye, the world tilted. Her bare feet slipped on the floor, and before she knew it, her back hit the mattress with a soft thud. The cool sheets brushed against her arms, sending a shiver through her as her breath hitched.

But it didn't stop there. His body followed hers, a fluid, predatory motion that left her pinned beneath him. One of his hands pressed her wrists firmly above her head, his grip unyielding, while the other braced against the mattress beside her.

Murtasim. On top of her.

His weight pressed her into the mattress, solid and unyielding, his body a wall of heat. Oh. My. God.

Her thoughts came to a screeching halt, replaced by a symphony of chaos. This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm just pinned to a bed by a man who looks like sin in human form. Totally normal.

Except it wasn't.

He was so warm, his body radiating heat that seeped through the thin fabric of her t-shirt and shorts, his chest rising and falling against hers with shallow, uneven breaths. His muscles were taut, every inch of him coiled like a predator ready to strike.

And those eyes. Dark and stormy, still hazy with sleep and something deeper, boring into hers with an intensity that made her heart stutter. It wasn't just the way he looked at her—it was the weight of it, like he saw through every layer of her bravado and humor, straight to the chaos underneath.

Her brain screamed at her to say something, but the position they were in had turned her mind into complete mush. His hips pressed firmly against hers, and oh, holy shit, there wasn't an inch of him she couldn't feel. Hard. Strong. Overwhelming.

I'm going to combust.

"Murtasim," she whispered, her voice barely audible. She wasn't sure if she was trying to wake him up completely or ground herself. Maybe both.

His grip on her wrists tightened for a moment, sending a jolt of something she refused to name through her system. Then his gaze shifted, clarity replacing the haze as realization dawned.

His hold on her loosened, and the sharpness of his features softened just enough to make her breath catch again.

"Meerab," he rasped, her name rough on his lips, his voice thick with sleep.

She swallowed hard, the sound of her name lingering in her mind like a melody she'd never forget. How dare he say my name like that. Like she was doing the nasty things she wanted to do to him.

She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but her voice betrayed her, stuck somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. And when his gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest of moments, her entire body lit up with a heat she didn't know how to extinguish.

"Uh, hi," she managed, her voice half-nervous, half-teasing. Say something normal, Meerab. Not "fuck me, please." That would be bad. But also... maybe not.

She bit her lip, trying to focus on not thinking about how close they were, about how easily she could slide her fingers into his hair and tug, just to see what he'd do. I bet I could mess up his hair more than this nightmare could. Just once. Or for hours. While he pounds —

He pulled back abruptly, his weight lifting off her as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair, leaving it even messier.

Her breath hitched. That's my job, her brain supplied unhelpfully. I could ruin him. Her fingers practically ached to tangle in those thick strands while he—Nope, nope, focus.

He turned away slightly, muttering something under his breath she couldn't catch. She didn't care. She was too busy biting down on her lip to stifle the moan threatening to escape.

Dear God, Meerab. Get a grip.

"Tum—" Murtasim's voice was still rough with sleep, his tone laced with irritation and embarrassment. "Aap yahan kya kar rahi hain?"

Meerab froze. Not because of his question, but because of his voice. That raspy, deep, sexy-as-hell voice that seemed to bypass her brain and head straight between her legs. Throbbing. Heat. A rush of wetness that made her press her thighs together.

She swallowed hard, her cheeks flaming, but then—thankfully—her wit kicked back in, saving her from spiraling further into fantasy. "Main yahan kya kar rahi hoon?" she repeated, her tone sharp. "Aise hi nahi aayi! Tum—aap ko koi bura sapna aa raha tha. I thought you were dying!"

"I wasn't—" he began, but his words cut off as his jaw clenched, and he turned away, the muscle in his neck ticking with tension.

Meerab crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. What is his problem? I just saved him from the evil clutches of a bad dream. "You're welcome, by the way," she huffed. "Aap ko iss fuzzy kambal se bachane ke liye!"

At her muttered jab, his gaze flicked back to her, unimpressed. "Aap hamesha mere kamre ke bahar kaise hoti hai?"

Her blush deepened as she remembered their earlier run-in. Was this man going to make her relive every embarrassing moment they'd shared? "Aap ka kamra stairs ke paas hai," she muttered defensively, avoiding his gaze.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with her excuse. "Aap iss waqt soh kyun nahi rahi?"

Her brain short-circuited. You could tire me out, her unhinged thoughts supplied helpfully, her mind conjuring vivid images of him pressing her against the bed, his body over hers, taking her apart piece by piece until she was a limp, exhausted mess who couldn't think of anything but him and sleep.

Her cheeks burned hotter, and she cleared her throat, desperate to focus. "Mujhe bhook lagi hai," she admitted, suddenly hyper-aware of how close they still were and how the bedside lamp was doing criminally good work highlighting his tank top-clad body.

"Raat ke 2 baje?" he asked, his voice dipping slightly, almost teasing.

Meerab narrowed her eyes, snapping back, "Bhook time dekh kar nahi lagti."

Except her hunger was now twofold, and one of those had nothing to do with food. She was starving, yes, but not just for a burger. No, now she was hungry for the man standing in front of her like a sculpted god.

Her gaze flicked down despite her best efforts, betraying her entirely. His tank top clung to him in ways that should be illegal—highlighting every muscle, every sharp dip of his chest and shoulders. The fabric stretched slightly across his torso, drawing her eyes to his ridiculous waist. And his neck. Oh, his neck. The faint sheen of sweat glistened there, making it look too tempting, too perfect. I could bite it, she thought wildly. I should bite it.

Her breath caught as her mind ran rampant with thoughts of pressing her lips there, of running her tongue along the line of his collarbone, of—

"Meerab," he said firmly, snapping her out of her daze.

Her gaze shot back up to his, and the smirk playing on his lips embarrassed her.

"Waise aap ko bhi kuch khana chahiye," Meerab said, leaning back on her hands like it was her bed. "Jab pet bhara ho toh bure sapne nahi aate."

Murtasim raised an eyebrow, scoffing. "Aur yeh kisne kaha aap ko?"

"Maine khud!" she replied with faux indignation. "It's called itis—agar protein shake ko chhod kar kuch fatty aur yummy khao ge toh neend ki feeling aaye gi," she added, flashing him a smug smile.

His lips twitched, but instead of giving her the satisfaction of a full smile, he rolled his eyes. "No thank you."

She pouted dramatically, tilting her head like she was in a soap opera. "Mujhe toh burger khana hai... fries aur milkshake ke saath," she sighed, the longing in her tone making it sound like she was mourning a lost love.

"Raat ke 2 baje?" he repeated, his tone half-annoyed, half-amused.

Meerab rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't get stuck. "Aap school jaate bache hain kya? Class mein time seekh rahe hain? 2 baje, 2 baje laga rakha hai!"

"Aap mere bed se uthne ka kya lengi?" he asked dryly, crossing his arms over his chest, his biceps flexing just enough to make her lose her train of thought.

She blinked up at him, her mouth slightly open. What would I take to get off this bed? Her brain was very unhelpful in that moment: To be fucked into this mattress, that arm wrapped around my neck from behind, until I'm a quivering mess and then carried to my own bed... and being fucked into that mattress too.

Her cheeks flushed furiously, and she snapped her mouth shut. She couldn't say that, obviously, so instead, she bit her lip.

He let out a soft "fuck" under his breath, and her eyes narrowed further. Oh, so now I'm the one driving you mad? Good.

Murtasim ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath like he was steeling himself for something monumental. Then, much to her utter delight, he asked, "Burger, fries, aur milkshake kahan milte hain iss waqt?"

Meerab squealed, practically leaping off the bed and onto her feet. Her excitement made her bounce a little on the mattress, and she froze, realizing the movement made her painfully aware of how good the room smelled—like him. Soap, aftershave, and something inherently Murtasim.

"Jinnah Avenue wala McDonald's!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "24 hours khula hota hai!"

But then her face fell, her pout returning with a vengeance. "Par bahar jaane ke liye sab ko uthana padega naa," she mumbled, kicking at the corner of his blanket with her bare foot. "Rehne dete hain." She didn't want to wake up people at an ungodly hour just because she had a craving.

She looked up at him with big, disappointed eyes, only to find him staring at her—really staring.

His gaze roamed over her face, lingering on her lips just a second too long, before flicking back to her eyes. The intensity in his look made her breath hitch. It wasn't the first time he'd looked at her like this, but it still left her flustered.

"Aise kyun dekh rahe ho?" she muttered, feeling her face heat under his scrutiny. She tried to sound annoyed, but her voice came out quieter than she intended.

When he didn't answer, she let out a shaky breath and muttered under her breath, "Kiss hi karlo."

It was barely audible, more for herself than him.

Murtasim sighed deeply, rubbing the back of his neck like he was already regretting whatever he was about to say. "Car se bahar nahi nikal sakti aap," he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Meerab's eyes went wide, sparkling with excitement. Wait. Does that mean... "Hum dono akele jayenge?" she asked, her voice laced with barely contained glee. Like a date? Is this a late-night date? Am I dreaming?

He raised an eyebrow at her enthusiasm but didn't comment. "Hat aur glasses hai aap ke paas?"

She nodded eagerly, her heart doing a little happy dance. I'll wear whatever you want, Major Moochasim. I'll dress like a ninja if it means we're going out together.

"Change karke aaye," he said, already walking toward his closet. "Dus minute mein front door par milte hain."

Meerab grinned so wide she thought her face might split. She bounced off the bed like a child who'd just been promised ice cream, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him tight. "You're the best!"

She felt him freeze.

Before he could recover, she pulled away and skipped toward the door, glancing back briefly. He was still standing there, looking a little stunned, his eyes tracking her every move. She giggled as she disappeared into the hallway. He definitely felt that hug. And since I don't wear a bra to bed...

In her room, she dove into her closet like a woman on a mission. This is basically a date. I need to look effortlessly hot. Like "just rolled out of bed" but sexy...in a "take me back to bed and fuck me until the sun comes up" way. She settled on black leggings that hugged her legs like a second skin and a fitted t-shirt that showed just enough curve to make a statement. Casual, yet calculated.

After fixing her hair into a ponytail and popping on a baseball cap, she grabbed her thick-rimmed glasses for the final touch. Cute, nerdy, and irresistible. Perfect.

She was back outside his room in under five minutes, practically vibrating with excitement. He stepped out just as she arrived, and her brain screeched to a halt.

He was wearing grey sweatpants again—the grey sweatpants—and a black hoodie. Casual, yes. But the kind of casual that screamed effortlessly sexy. The hoodie clung just enough to highlight his chest, and the sweatpants... Dear God, this man needs a PSA about wearing those pants in public.

"Aap ke paas koi oversized hoodie hai?" she asked, tilting her head innocently even though her motives were anything but. She'd read enough romance novels to know men loved seeing women in their clothes, and she wasn't going to miss her chance.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. She swore she saw his jaw clench slightly before he mumbled something under his breath and disappeared back into his room.

When he returned, he was holding a large black hoodie, his fingers gripping the fabric tightly like he wasn't entirely sure about this plan. She grabbed it from him eagerly, resisting the urge to squeal.

In one smooth motion, she pulled it over her head, the scent of him hitting her like a freight train. Soap, aftershave, and Murtasim. Her toes curled involuntarily. I'm never giving this back.

As she adjusted the hoodie, feeling the soft material swallow her whole, she couldn't help but notice the way his gaze lingered. It wasn't subtle, either. His eyes swept over her, slow and deliberate, like he was committing every detail to memory.

He cleared his throat, snapping himself out of whatever spell he was under, and abruptly turned, all but running down the stairs.

Meerab trotted after him, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Like a show horse trotting for the judges, she thought, her smile widening. Except in this case, the only judge she cared about was already watching her like she'd just won first place – he liked her. She drove him crazy. He thought she was beautiful. He couldn't control himself around her. Her heart was practically dancing.

They moved quietly through the shadows, sneaking out of the house like teenagers escaping curfew. Meerab felt her pulse quicken—not from fear, but from excitement. This is a date. It's basically a date. McDonald's at 2am? If that's not romance, what is?

Murtasim led her toward the car she rarely saw him use—a sleek black Land Cruiser instead of the usual flashy G-Wagon. She noted the tinted windows and smirked. Of course, tinted. Stealth mode activated. He thinks of everything.

As she slid into the passenger seat, she noticed him lingering outside her door. Before she could ask what he was doing, he leaned in, tugging the hoodie over her head and hair, cocooning her face like she was the most precious contraband in existence.

"Keep it like this," he said, his voice low and commanding, before shutting the door with a soft click.

She giggled, clutching the edge of the hoodie. Sneaking off into the night. This is absolutely a date.

Murtasim climbed into the driver's seat, and she watched him with undisguised fascination as he spoke into his communications device, ordering the gate to be opened. The gravel crunched beneath the tires as they eased out onto the road, and then—freedom.

"This feels exhilarating!" Meerab squealed, rolling her window down just a crack to feel the rush of fresh air against her face.

Murtasim reached over almost immediately, pressing the button to close it.

"Major Moochasim!" she whined, pouting. "Hawa hi hai."

He shot her a pointed look, his hand shifting back to the steering wheel, but then, to her utter delight, he cracked open the moonroof. A soft stream of night air filtered into the car, teasing the edges of her hair.

Progress. He's softening.

"Waise," she began, turning to him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Aaj aap itne reckless kaise ho gaye?"

His moustache twitched, and for a moment, she thought he might ignore her. But then he muttered under his breath, "Mujhe darr tha ki aap mera bed nahi chodengi."

Her lips curved into a slow grin. He has no idea what I wouldn't give to stay in his bed. "Acha?" she teased, leaning a little closer. "Toh kuch paane ke liye aap ke bed par kabza kar lena chahiye?" Preferably in lingerie...or nothing.

He didn't answer, but his moustache definitely twitched again, and she swore she saw his fingers tighten ever so slightly on the steering wheel.

The teasing smile on her lips faltered as a new thought took hold. After a beat of silence, she asked softly, "Bahot bura khwab tha?"

His jaw tightened briefly before he nodded.

She hesitated. "Aap ke army wali dost ke baare mein?"

This time, he nodded again, surprising her. She hadn't expected him to acknowledge it, let alone so easily.

"Woh hi khwab baar baar aata hai?" she asked gently, her voice almost tentative.

He gave a single nod, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

"Mujhe bhi," she said after a moment, her voice carrying an unexpected softness.

His eyebrows lifted slightly, a quiet hum escaping his lips.

Meerab's smile returned, small but genuine. He's so cute. Broody, but cute.

"Ammi ke accident ka khwab," she admitted quietly, her fingers playing with the hem of the hoodie she'd borrowed from him.

His head turned slightly, his profile shadowed by the dim light from the dashboard. "Aap wahan thi?" he asked, his voice low and confused.

She shook her head. "Nahi... usse pehle start hota hai. Jab Ammi ghar se nikal rahi thi. Mujhe khwab mein pata hota hai ki kya hoga, lekin main kuch kar nahi paati." Her voice wavered slightly, but she pushed through, her words steady. "Woh car mein baithti hain, aur main car ke peeche bhaagti hoon, ghar se bahot door. Main zor se chilate hoon, 'Ammi, ruk jao.' Par car nahi rukti. Phir mere saamne... accident hota hai. Jaisa news mein dikhaya tha. A car on fire."

The words hung in the air as the Land Cruiser rolled to a stop at a red light.

Murtasim turned to her, his gaze heavy as it swept over her face, taking in every detail he could see beneath the hoodie, cap, and glasses. He didn't speak, but his eyes said everything she wanted to hear.

She gave him a small smile, her voice softening. "Aap ka khwab bhi aisa hota hai?"

Murtasim's fingers flexed slightly on the steering wheel, his knuckles brushing against the stitching. He nodded, his gaze fixed ahead. "Jaisa asal mein hua tha, bilkul waisa. Par mujhe pata hota hai ki woh mar jayega... lekin mera muh se awaaz nahi nikalti. Mere pair aage hi nahi badte," he said, his voice quiet but edged with something raw.

Meerab's chest ached at the weight of his words, the sheer vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. But she didn't let it linger; it wasn't her style. Instead, she nodded, leaning a little closer. "Iska matlab hai ki aap ke brain ko pata hai ki uss waqt aap kuch nahi kar sakte the. Agar aisa nahi hota, toh apne khwab mein aap usse bacha lete."

The car slowed as her words sank in, and when he finally turned his head to look at her, the expression on his face was... indescribable. There was something so soft, so stunned in the way he looked at her, like her words had reached a part of him he didn't even know existed.

For a split second, Meerab almost lost her nerve. But then, of course, she recovered. "Itni sundar lag rahi hoon?" she teased, grinning at him as she leaned back in her seat, remembering his words from before – beautiful.

His gaze flickered away, but he didn't deny it, his grip tightening slightly on the wheel. The faintest hint of pink colored his ears, and Meerab bit back a giggle. So cute.

The car pulled up to the glowing McDonald's sign, the fluorescent lights reflecting off the hood of the Land Cruiser.

"Kya lengi aap?" he asked, his voice gruff, like he was trying to redirect the conversation entirely.

You, she thought wildly, with a milkshake on the side. I could pour it on you and lick it off. But instead, she reeled herself in. "Spicy chicken burger, no lettuce. Chicken tenders, fries, chocolate shake," she rattled off easily. "Aur aap apne liye bhi kuch lena. It is an order, Major!"

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward in what she swore was a suppressed smile.

"Oh! Lotus Biscoff McFlurry bhi," she added quickly. "If they have it."

"Aap itna kuch kha lengi?" he asked, his eyebrows raised in mock disbelief.

She grinned, tilting her head playfully. "Aap hai naa, help karne ke liye?"

He sighed, exasperated but clearly resigned, as he drove toward the drive-thru. "Kuch kehna mat. Aur idhar dekhna bhi mat," he muttered as they approached the speaker.

Meerab obediently zipped her lips, though her eyes sparkled with amusement as she watched him scan the area like they were on a covert mission. She leaned her cheek against the window, fully enjoying the ridiculousness of it all.

He rolled the window down and placed the order, his voice calm and steady. "Spicy chicken burger, no lettuce. Chicken tenders. Fries. Chocolate shake. A quarter pounder with fries, and a coke."

"Get dessert," Meerab whispered, leaning closer like it was a life-or-death secret.

His head snapped toward her, his glare sharp enough to cut glass.

She stuck her tongue out at him, then promptly looked away, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

The car rolled up to the pickup window, and Meerab's excitement was palpable. Her feet kicked against the mats like an impatient child, and she barely held back a little squeal when the smell of fries wafted into the car.

"Oh my God," she muttered under her breath, her stomach growling in approval.

Murtasim handed over his card to pay, then began grabbing the bags of food from the attendant, passing them to her like she was the designated food holder. She took them reverently, balancing the drinks in the cup holders.

"Wait," she whispered urgently, her voice suddenly serious. "Ketchup nahi hai."

Murtasim let out a long-suffering sigh but turned back to the attendant. "Can I get a couple of packs of ketchup, please?"

"And mayo," Meerab added in a stage whisper, grinning when he shot her a look.

"And mayo," he repeated, his tone flat but his moustache twitching ever so slightly.

Murtasim rolled up the window, letting out a long, suffering sigh. "Maine kaha tha ki kuch mat kehna."

"Ketchup ke bina fries nahi khaa sakti main!" Meerab pouted, crossing her arms like he'd personally wronged her.

"Ghar mein ketchup hai," he pointed out, his tone exasperated.

"Ghar tak nahi jaa sakte!" she argued, clutching the bag of food like it was a treasure chest. "Sara food kharab ho jayega. Kahin car park karo!"

"Bilkul pagal hai," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he turned the steering wheel.

"Sunn liya maine!" she snapped back. "Burger crispy nahi rehta ghar jaane tak!"

"Road ke side par kaun khata hai?" he mumbled, more to himself than her.

"Hum!" she declared triumphantly, her grin widening as she reached into the bag and pulled out a fry.

Holding it up to his mouth, she wiggled it slightly. "Muh kholo."

Murtasim turned to her with an unimpressed glare, his eyes narrowing in that way that made her feel both nervous and ridiculously giddy. To her utter surprise, he complied, parting his lips just enough to take the fry between them.

Meerab watched, utterly transfixed, as his lips closed around the fry. Her stomach did a series of Olympic-worthy flips as he chewed. Oh my God. So husband-wife coded of us. This is basically a prelude to marriage.

He drove a little further before pulling onto a quiet street lined with trees, their branches casting soft shadows under the dim streetlights. Parking the car, he let out another sigh, though this one sounded more resigned than annoyed.

As soon as the car stopped, Meerab was in full attack mode, ransacking the bag with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn't eaten in weeks. She handed him his burger and fries with a bright grin before popping open her own container.

Grabbing a packet of mayo and another of ketchup, she squirted them both onto the corner of her burger container, mixing them together with a fry before popping it into her mouth. The taste hit her instantly—perfectly tangy, creamy, and salty. Heaven.

When she looked up, she caught him watching her, a curious expression flickering across his face.

"It's pink mayo," she explained, dipping another fry into the mixture. "It tastes better like this."

She held the fry out to him, her hand steady despite the butterflies that seemed determined to make a mess of her insides.

He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath about her antics, but leaned forward anyway, taking the fry from her fingers. His lips brushed her fingertips briefly, sending a jolt of electricity down her arm.

Meerab froze for a moment, her breath catching as she watched him chew. Oh God. Oh no. He's too hot to resist.

"Achi hai naa?" she asked, her voice a little breathier than she intended.

He nodded, his movements slow and deliberate, before turning his attention to his own burger.

Meerab leaned back in her seat, watching him as she dipped another fry into her pink mayo concoction. I'm feeding this man fries in a parked car in the middle of the night. This is the peak of romance. Nicholas Sparks could never.

As he took a bite of his burger, her gaze drifted to the way his jaw flexed, the way his lips wrapped around the bun – it was so hot. Why? Why was everything he did so hot?

Murtasim was quiet while he ate, methodically working through his burger like he approached everything in life—with focus and precision. But even in the silence, Meerab could feel his eyes on her.

For a fleeting moment, she felt self-conscious. What if I look like a pig while eating this burger? she thought, holding the massive burger in her hands. But then she glanced down at it, at the perfectly crispy bun, the golden fried chicken, the melted cheese—and all thoughts of decorum flew out the window. Sorry, Murtasim. The burger wins.

She heard him chuckle softly, and her head snapped up.

"Kya hua?" she asked, arching an eyebrow, her lips still glistening with burger grease.

"Kuch nahi," he replied smoothly, but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Kuch toh hai," she pressed, narrowing her eyes at him.

He shook his head, refusing to elaborate, but his eyes twinkled with amusement as he took another bite of his burger.

Meerab glared at him for a moment longer before huffing and returning her attention to her food. She took another bite, savoring the perfect balance of spice and crunch, but her mind stayed annoyingly fixed on the way he'd smiled.

"Waise," she said after swallowing, her tone playful. "You owe me two fries."

His lips twitched, and her heart did a little dance when he snickered. He's snickering. Murtasim Khan, snickering. This is history in the making.

"Acha?" he asked, arching an eyebrow at her.

She nodded, her expression dead serious. "Maine aap ko apni fries di."

He hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head. "Maine maangi nahi thi."

Dil bhi nahi maanga tha, woh bhi le liya.

Then, with maddening calmness, he reached over and plucked another fry from her container.

"Aap ke paas apni fries hain!" she whined, her voice rising indignantly as she watched him pop the fry into his mouth like it was no big deal.

Murtasim looked like he was trying very hard to hold back a smile but failing miserably. The corners of his lips curved upward, and Meerab couldn't look away. Why is he so beautiful?

"Waise..." she said, leaning back in her seat, trying to sound nonchalant even though her pulse was racing. "Mujhe subah ke 2-3 baje wala Moochasim zyada pasand hai."

Meerab was starting to notice a pattern—a maddening, inconsistent, utterly Murtasim-esque pattern. He seemed to go through these inexplicable phases. There were moments—precious, fleeting moments—when she caught him early in the morning, before his defenses were up, or late at night, when the world had quieted, or in rare, vulnerable states. During those times, he let her in. His walls weren't just down; it was like they didn't exist at all. He'd look at her like she was the only person in the world, his words softer, his edges unguarded, and his eyes? God, his eyes—they were dangerous. Like twin portals into his soul, pulling her deeper every time.

But then, like clockwork, Major Moochasim would activate. Professional Robot Mode: Engage. Suddenly, he was all clipped tones, curt nods, and perfectly executed avoidance strategies. No smiles. No warmth. Nothing but steely resolve and those infuriatingly tight-lipped responses. It was as if the man she'd glimpsed—the man, the one who made her heart race and her brain short-circuit—had been replaced by a precision-engineered bodyguard whose only job was to keep her at arm's length.

It was maddening. Infuriating. Sexy. No! Not sexy. Definitely not sexy.

His smile faltered slightly at her pointing it out, replaced by a stare that was as intense as it was unreadable. He didn't say anything, just watched her with those impossibly dark eyes, and she suddenly had the wild urge to climb into his lap and kiss him until they both forgot their own names.

Meerab cleared her throat, desperate to lighten the mood before she did something reckless. She reached for the McFlurry, opening the lid with a flourish. "Aap ne kabhi fries ko ice-cream mein dip kar ke khaya hai?" she asked, holding up the creamy dessert like it was a trophy.

He shook his head, looking appalled. "Nahi."

"Itne saalon se aap kar kya rahe the?" she muttered under her breath, reaching over to grab a fry from his container.

But before her fingers could reach, he moved it away with lightning speed, his reflexes impeccable.

She gasped, her jaw dropping dramatically. And then she was leaning over the console, her fingers outstretched as she tried to grab his fries while he moved the container just out of her reach.

He was laughing again, a low, warm sound that made her heart skip a beat. His shoulders shook slightly as he held the fries out of her reach, his amusement spilling into the confined space of the car.

For a moment, all felt right with the world. The laughter, the lightness, the stolen fries—it was a scene straight out of a dream. And Meerab? She was utterly, hopelessly lost in it. But mostly she was lost in him.

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

Meerab walked briskly through the wide, imposing corridors of the Prime Minister's Office, her heels clicking on the marble floor with a confidence that turned heads. She was dressed to impress, as always—her fitted blazer and dress pants giving her an air of effortless authority. She noticed how the staff's eyes followed her, but what irked her wasn't their attention on her—it was how their gazes flicked to the man trailing behind her.

Murtasim strode behind her with his usual steady presence, his sharp jawline and broad shoulders making him look more like a model in a luxury watch ad than a bodyguard. Meerab's jaw tightened as she caught the lingering stares of the women they passed, their eyes shamelessly sizing him up.

Eyes off, ladies. That's my shadow. My personal bodyguard. My problem. Mine. MINE.

She stopped suddenly, spinning on her heel to face him, her brows raised in mock exasperation. "Aap ko yahaan tak follow karne ki zarurat nahi hai," she said, her voice dripping with annoyance.

If she was being honest, her annoyance wasn't entirely about him being here. It was the effect he had on people—women especially. The Prime Minister's Office wasn't meant to be a runway.

"Yeh mera kaam hai," Murtasim replied, his tone infuriatingly calm, his dark eyes locking with hers like they always did when he had his guard up—steady, unwavering, and maddeningly unreadable.

"Yeh Prime Minister ka office hai," she quipped, raising an eyebrow. "Agar yahaan safe nahi hoon, toh aur kahan safe hoongi?"

He sighed, the faintest twitch of frustration at the corner of his mouth. She caught it, of course—she caught everything. But, true to form, he said nothing.

Meerab narrowed her eyes, giving him a look that said, I'm watching you, before spinning back around and marching toward the outer office.

The sight of her father's longtime assistant, Baig Uncle, immediately brightened her mood. He was hunched over a stack of papers at his desk, glasses perched on his nose.

"Baig Uncle! Hello! Aap kaise ho?" she sang, her voice as cheerful as a morning bird.

Baig Uncle looked up, his face breaking into a warm smile. "Meerab beti! Main theek hoon. Tum kaisi ho?"

"Main toh bilkul theek hoon," she replied breezily, her tone deliberately exaggerated. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder at Murtasim, who stood at the doorway, arms crossed, his face the picture of stoic determination. "Bas thoda sa bore ho rahi hoon aaj kal. Mera bodyguard na... bohot hi dull hai." The at times was silent.

Baig Uncle chuckled knowingly, his eyes darting between Meerab and Murtasim. "Woh toh lagta hai."

"Haina?" Meerab pressed, leaning toward Baig Uncle conspiratorially. "Dekh kar hi pata chal jaata hai, na? Sirf mooch ki hi personality hai."

She caught Murtasim's eye at that moment, his brows drawing together ever so slightly. Oh, she was getting to him.

Baig Uncle struggled to keep a straight face. "Barkhurdar kaafi serious lagte hain."

"Serious toh understatement hai, Uncle," Meerab said, her smirk growing. She tilted her head slightly, her voice dropping to a mock whisper. "Pata hai? Yeh aadmi na, hamesha aise hi khada rehta hai jaise yeh koi undercover spy ho."

She turned to Murtasim, her eyes narrowing playfully. "Mujhe lagta hai silent hero banne ka contract bhi sign kiya hua hai, baat bhi bahot kam karte hai."

Murtasim's expression didn't waver, though his jaw shifted ever so slightly. She caught it, of course—she always caught it.

"Dekhiye, Uncle," she continued, tossing her hair dramatically as if she were addressing a courtroom. "Main Baba se milne jaa rahi hoon. Jab tak main wapas aati hoon, yeh yahin khade rahenge, ek statue ki tarah. Aap darna maat, inke liye yeh normal hai."

She turned to find Murtasim glaring at her, his dark eyes narrowed in quiet disapproval, his jaw set like he was physically restraining himself from responding. The intensity made her heart stutter for a split second, but she recovered quickly, giving him an exaggerated wink before turning back to Baig Uncle.

Baig Uncle shook his head, clearly amused. "He's expecting you. Jaao."

With a satisfied grin, Meerab pushed open the heavy oak door to her father's office. The familiar scent of leather and paper greeted her as she stepped inside. Her father sat behind his large desk, his tie slightly askew, the strands of gray in his hair more prominent than she remembered. How long had it been since she'd last seen him? A few weeks, she was sure, but he looked older, like the weight of his position was taking its toll.

He looked up at the sound of the door, and his face broke into a wide grin, the tiredness momentarily fading. "Meerab!" he exclaimed, standing to greet her.

"Baba," she replied warmly, her smile matching his as she crossed the room.

He pulled her into a hug, holding her tightly, and for a moment, she felt like a little girl again. When he stepped back, he studied her with a mixture of affection and curiosity. "Tum yahan kaise?" he asked, gesturing for her to sit across from him.

"Appointment banani padi," she teased, plopping down into the chair across from his desk. "Aap itne busy jo hote ho."

Her father sighed, guilt flickering across his features. "I'm sorry, beta. Main aajkal time nahi nikaal paata hoon."

Meerab shook her head, smiling faintly. She understood. Her father had put his entire career on hold for her when she was younger, turning down offers to lead the party, choosing instead to be at home with her as her only parent. He'd made sacrifices, stepping back while others moved ahead in politics, just to be there for her.

She didn't resent him for being busy now—he'd already done more than enough. He was a good father, and she no longer needed him around all the time.

"I know, Baba," she said softly, her voice warm with reassurance.

Her father smiled at her, some of the guilt easing from his expression. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked, leaning back in his chair, his tone light.

Meerab leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk, mischief glinting in her eyes. "Mujhe mere bodyguard ki file chahiye."

He blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Murtasim Khan?"

"Wahi," she said, nodding firmly.

"Why?" he asked, his confusion evident.

She shrugged, her tone casual. "Soch rahi hoon ki usse aapka damaad bana doon."

Her father groaned, rubbing his temples like he was bracing for a headache. "Seriously?"

"I like him," Meerab said simply, her voice carrying the kind of certainty that left no room for debate.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair with a look of mock exasperation. "Mujhe model jaise dikhne wala bodyguard nahi choose karna chahiye tha."

Meerab rolled her eyes dramatically. "Baba, aap hamesha mujhe aise logon se milwate ho...jo models lagte hain."

"Par tum unhe kabhi importance nahi deti," he teased. His expression softened, a hint of regret flickering across his face. "Shayad meri choices hi galat hoti hain."

Meerab's mind drifted briefly to her failed engagement—a political alliance orchestrated by her father. Her ex-fiancé had been the perfect candidate on paper, until she'd found him with his secretary a week before their wedding. The tabloids had blamed her, of course, twisting the story into something scandalous. It was a disaster her father never pressured her to repeat.

She shook off the memory, leaning forward with a grin. "Aur isiliye, ab main officially duniya ki sabse eligible spinster hoon," she announced dramatically, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Baba...waise agar mujhe ek crown mil jaye na, toh main eligible spinsters ki queen ban sakti hoon."

Her father laughed, his earlier regret replaced by genuine amusement. "Beta, tumhe kisi crown ki zarurat nahi. Tum to waise hi queen ho."

Meerab smirked, tossing her hair. "Haan, bas ek king ki kami hai."

Her father raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. "Aur tumhe lagta hai tumhare bodyguard mein woh king banne ki potential hai?"

"I think so... but aap file de dein. Mujhe jasoosi karni hai." She said, staring at her father.

His brows were drawn slightly, a sign she recognized all too well—this was his "Prime Minister" face, the one he used when weighing important matters. But this wasn't politics. This was about her.

He nodded, but his tone was cautious. "Are you sure?"

Meerab didn't hesitate. "Main ussi se shaadi karungi jisse main pyaar kar sakti hoon."

Her father sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Mujhe pata hai... par Prime Minister ki beti hone ka matlab hai ki tum aise hi kisi se bhi shaadi nahi kar sakti. Sirf security protocol hi kitna complicated hai."

"Woh toh hai," Meerab admitted, though her tone was more resigned than defeated.

"Aur Murtasim Khan apni biwi ke ghar mein shift hone waale insaan nahi lagta," her father remarked, tilting his head as he tried to picture Murtasim in their world.

"Usse karna bhi nahi chahiye," Meerab replied firmly, her voice softening slightly.

Her father's lips curved into a faint, thoughtful smile. "Agar woh tumse shaadi karta hain, toh ek bohot achhi naukri kho dega. Aur Prime Minister ka damaad bann kar woh kisi aur ka bodyguard bhi nahi bann sakta. Woh mujh par ya tum par depend karne wala bhi nahi lagte, he has self-respect."

Meerab let out a sigh, her shoulders slumping slightly. "Woh smart hai, Baba. Kuch na kuch kar lega."

Her father raised an eyebrow, his voice softening as he leaned forward. "Mujhe pata hai tum kaafi...headstrong ho... par yeh bhi ho sakta hai ki usse yeh sab naa chahiye ho, Meerab. Tumhare saath uski zindagi bahot complicated ho jayegi."

Meerab looked down at her hands for a moment before letting out another sigh. "Let me try. Bas mujhe file de do."

He gave her a long, searching look, then sighed in defeat.

"He keeps ignoring me," Meerab muttered, crossing her arms.

"At least he's smart," her father teased, a glimmer of humor in his tired eyes.

"Baba," she whined, her voice stretching the word in protest.

Shaking his head, he opened a drawer and began sifting through the contents until he pulled out a slim file. Handing it to her, he said seriously, "Woh achha insaan hai, Meerab. Lekin aise log, jo achhe hote hain, woh is duniya mein ghutan mehsoos karte hain. Tum achhe se sochna—aur apne se zyada uske baare mein sochna. Agar woh tumse aur iss situation se door rehne ki koshish kar raha hai, toh shaayad uske paas koi reason hai."

Meerab took the file, clutching it tightly as her lips pressed into a thin line. "I know... lekin mujhe pata hai ki woh bhi mujhe pasand karta hai. Agar mujhe aisa na lagta, toh main kabhi bhi—" She trailed off, her voice quieter than usual.

Her father nodded, giving her a moment before gesturing toward the file. She opened it, flipping through the pages, her eyes scanning the text. A soft snicker escaped her lips.

"Baba, jo bhi aap ke background checks karte hain unhein fire kardein please," she said, holding up the file and pointing to the list of assets. "Cottage aur ek motorcycle? Yeh list serious hai?"

Her father arched an eyebrow at her, waiting.

She flipped another page, her brow furrowing in mock concentration. "Uske aur uske bhai ke naam kaafi zameen hai. Hyderabad ke bahar ek gaon mein."

"Shayad usne jhoot bola ho?" her father asked, watching her carefully.

Meerab shook her head confidently. "Usse jhooth nahi bolna aata, jab jhoot bolta hai toh aankhon mein nahi dekh kar baat nahi karta."

Her father hummed thoughtfully. "Shaayad mujhe ek din dinner ke liye tumhare ghar aana chahiye."

Meerab grinned. "Aap bilkul aaiye. Mujhe toh bahana chahiye, pure dinner ke dauran bas usse hi ghoor kar dekhungi."

Her father laughed, shaking his head. "Meerab, Meerab, Meerab. Sach mein itna acha lagta hai?"

She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Kyun?"

"Shakal ke ilava?" she teased, gesturing toward her face dramatically.

Her father chuckled, nodding along.

"Actually..." Meerab leaned back in her chair, the humor in her voice fading as a rare softness took over. "Maine kabhi socha nahi...bas acha lagta hai." She stared at the edge of her father's desk, her words coming slower, quieter, like she was speaking more to herself than to him. "Woh alag hai. Uski aankhon mein ek... sukoon sa hai jo maine kahin aur nahi dekha. Jaise kuch bhi ho jaye, woh sambhal lega. Ek thehrav hai."

She paused, exhaling softly. "Aap toh jaante hain mera dimaag kabhi nahi rukta... lekin jab woh saath hota hai na, toh mera dimaag bhi shaant ho jata hai. Woh bolta kam hai, lekin har baat samajh leta hai...jab naa samajh hone ki acting naa kar raha ho, of course," she added with a slight smirk.

Her father kept staring at her, his expression deliberately unreadable. She knew what he was doing—it was his trick. Silence. He let it stretch just long enough, knowing that people hated it and would rush to fill it. She hated it, and even though she saw through it, she still fell for it.

She sighed, leaning forward again. "Uske saath kisi cheez ka dar nahi hai. Pata hota hai ki chahe kuch bhi ho, woh sambhal lega, khud ko or mujhe bhi. Woh wohi karta hai jo theek hota hai—bina shor machaye, bina dikhawa kiye."

Her voice softened further. "Woh har kaam poore dil se karta hai. Shayad pyaar bhi waise hi karega. Agar saath chalne ka faisla karega, toh saath nibhaayega."

When she finally looked up, her father was smiling at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling with warmth.

"Zyada ho gaya, naa?" she asked, flushing slightly under his gaze.

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Lagta hai pyaar ho chuka hai."

She sighed, rubbing her temples. "Agar woh nahi maana toh?"

"Phir woh utna smart nahi hai jitna tum usse samajhti ho," he teased.

Meerab couldn't help but laugh, shaking her head. "Agar nahi maana toh aap usse Pakistan se hi bahar nikaal dena."

"Done," her father laughed, raising a hand in mock agreement.

Meerab stood, smoothing the front of her blazer. "Mujhe jaana chahiye. Skardu jaane se pehle ghar par dinner," she said pointedly.

Her father nodded solemnly. "Jaisa aap chahein."

She grinned, leaning on the edge of his desk. "Agar awam ko pata lag gaya ki Prime Minister toh sirf meri baat maante hain, toh kya hoga?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Prime Minister baad mein, baap pehle hoon. Sabko pata hai."

Meerab laughed as she headed for the door, file in hand, her heart a little lighter than before.

She had a man to investigate and seduce!

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

"Murtasim Khan. Barlas Khan. Heavy names," Meerab muttered under her breath, flipping through the file on her desk. It was neat, precise—just like the man it belonged to—and entirely too boring for her taste. No drama, no skeletons in the closet, just competence and quiet perfection.

Which, of course, only made her more curious.

She leaned back in her chair, tapping her pen against the edge of the desk before grabbing her phone. His name wasn't exactly common—how many Barlas Khans could there be? She opened Instagram, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she searched.

It didn't take long. There were only a handful of results, and she spotted him right away. The resemblance was unmistakable. While Murtasim had a rugged, manly sort of handsomeness—broad shoulders, strong jawline, a face that seemed carved from stone—Barlas was more boyish, softer around the edges.

Meerab's lips twitched into a smile as she started scrolling through his profile. It was full of picturesque skies, serene landscapes, and the occasional animal photo. She tilted her head, unimpressed. "Dono ke dono boring hain," she muttered.

But then she gasped, her finger freezing mid-scroll as her eyes locked on a picture. There they were—the Khan brothers—standing side by side in army green T-shirts, grinning at the camera like they were auditioning for a military-themed rom-com.

Meerab's heart did something stupid. Not just a flip. No, this was a full gymnastics routine, complete with a gold-medal finish.

So Murtasim did smile outside of work. And not the faint, blink-and-you-miss-it lift of his lips she'd seen at work – when his guard was up. This was a proper smile—wide, dazzling, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made her question every bad decision she'd ever made in life.

God, he is gorgeous.

Her cheeks burned as she stared at the picture, unable to tear her eyes away. Who gave him the right? The strong jaw, the sharp cheekbones, the smile—like he wasn't her overly serious, mooch-twirling, constantly glaring bodyguard, but a whole other person. A devastatingly handsome one.

Meerab giggled, the sound breaking the silence of the room. Without thinking, she quickly screenshotted the photo and cropped out Barlas entirely, leaving just Murtasim's ridiculously attractive face in the frame.

Sadly, there weren't many pictures of Murtasim on his brother's profile. She sighed, looking back to the folder, where a phone number was conveniently listed. His emergency contact.

"I must be crazy," she muttered to herself, shaking her head. Then she hit the call button anyway.

The phone rang twice before being picked up with an enthusiastic, elongated, "Hellllloooo!"

She blinked, caught off guard by the stark difference between the brothers. "Barlas Khan?" she asked, her voice cautious but amused.

"If that is who you called," he replied, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. A flirt, then. Definitely not like his serious, brooding brother.

"Ah," Meerab said, leaning back in her chair. "So, you're the chill brother."

Barlas laughed. "Anyone is chill compared to Bhai. And you are...?"

"Meerab Ahmed."

There was a pause, and then a faintly panicked, "Shit—I mean, sorry—the Prime Minister's daughter?"

Meerab chuckled, unable to help herself. "Yes."

Barlas cleared his throat, recovering quickly. "Well, this is unexpected. I feel like I should be saluting or something."

"Please don't," Meerab chuckled.

"Is Bhai okay?" Barlas asked after a pause, his tone suddenly worried.

Meerab snorted, spinning her chair in a lazy circle. "Haan, he's fine. But he was blending up whey protein into yogurt and water rather than having cake earlier, so I am a little worried." She'd much rather eat cake... off his body, but alas.

Barlas let out a laugh, a rich sound that echoed through the phone. "Sounds about right. So, to what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked, and she could hear the faint clink of glass—probably him taking a sip of something.

She couldn't resist. The words slipped out before she could stop herself.

"I was thinking that you needed a bhabhi," she said, grinning wickedly as she heard a loud choking noise on the other end.

"Excuse me?" he spluttered, coughing dramatically.

Meerab leaned back, trying and failing to keep the glee out of her voice. "I like your brother. Your brother likes me...I think. Except he's pretending he doesn't, and I need help wooing Major Moochasim. And if he hears a word about this from you, remember—I know people who could make you disappear without a trace."

There was a beat of silence, followed by Barlas bursting into laughter. "I—are you always like this?" he asked, his voice brimming with amusement.

"Depends," Meerab replied, twirling a strand of hair around her finger like she was auditioning for a rom-com. "Do you mean fun and delightful or mildly insane?"

Barlas snorted. "I was going with insane, but sure, let's call it delightful."

"Good choice," she quipped, smirking.

"Major Moochasim?" Barlas asked, as if just registering her nickname.

Meerab shrugged, entirely too pleased with herself. "His mooch and I are on good terms. We understand each other." She smiled at the mental image of his mustache twitching in disapproval, or worse, amusement, whenever she said something completely unhinged—which, frankly, was often.

"Oh?" he replied, his voice positively dripping with amusement now.

"Not like that!" she exclaimed, straightening as if to defend herself in court. "We're just acquaintances—if that's where you're trying to go. Though I wouldn't mind a closer relationship," she muttered, narrowing her eyes at absolutely no one in the room. She paused, frowning at herself. Did I really just say that?

Barlas's laughter echoed down the line. "You're fun," he said finally, his words annoyingly genuine.

Meerab let out a theatrical sigh, draping herself dramatically over her desk like a heroine in a tragic play. "Your brother, on the other hand, is a total bore. But opposites attract, right? I think."

Barlas laughed again. "You think?"

"Fine, I hope," she muttered, glaring at the file on her desk like it held all the answers to the universe and wasn't just proof that she was clearly losing her mind.

He snickered, the sound carrying an air of mischief. "So, what do you need from me, bhabhi-to-be?"

Meerab raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching. "Do you call everyone who contacts you like this 'bhabhi'?"

Barlas laughed, the kind of laugh that suggested he was thoroughly entertained. "I know this might come as a shock to you... but this has never happened before."

"Oh." She leaned back in her chair, feigning nonchalance. "So...your brother's girlfriends don't usually—"

"Ah, I see," he interrupted, his tone playful. "You're trying to extract information."

Meerab grinned, twirling a pen between her fingers. "Is that a problem?"

"Not if my brother likes you," he said easily. Then, after a pause, he added, "Did he tell you about me?"

She hummed, her voice light. "He said you were a free spirit."

Barlas snorted. "Anything else?"

Meerab smirked, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Just about your parents a bit... and that if you were in charge of your ancestral lands, your entire family would go bankrupt."

Barlas's laugh was loud and unapologetic. "So he does talk to you."

"Usually, it's a one-sided conversation unless his guard is down," she sighed, pressing her cheek into her palm.

Barlas let out another chuckle. "Anything else?"

Meerab tilted her head, letting the question hang in the air for a moment. Then, quietly, she added, "About why he left the army."

The silence on the other end was palpable. "Oh," Barlas said finally, his voice a little more serious. "He doesn't like to talk about that."

Meerab sighed, "I gathered...but he was a tad tipsy... if a few sips of whiskey do that to him."

Barlas snickered. "Not a few sips, no..."

"I see," Meerab exclaimed, her voice dripping with indignation. "So he wasn't drunk."

"I feel like I'm missing something here," Barlas said, his tone suspicious.

"Oh, it might be TMI," Meerab teased, grinning at her desk.

Barlas let out a mock groan. "I feel like this whole conversation is TMI, bhabhi."

She couldn't stop the giggle that bubbled up then, her hand flying to her mouth. "Okay, fine," she said, still laughing. "He kissed me. And then he blamed the alcohol. And now, because he's Murtasim and apparently perfect, he's pretending like it didn't happen."

She groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. Not just a kiss. No, that implied it had been some casual, forgettable peck. This was a Kiss, capital K, the kind that left you questioning your entire existence and wondering why you hadn't kissed the man sooner.

There was a long pause on the line. Then, very carefully, Barlas said, "Oh shit—I mean—"

"You can swear," Meerab reassured him quickly, waving her hand as though he could see her. "I swear all the time."

Barlas burst out laughing again. "This is a lot to take in," he said, his voice full of amusement.

"You're telling me," Meerab replied, spinning lazily in her chair. "Imagine being kissed by Major Moochasim himself, only for him to act like it was some accident. Do you know how infuriating that is?"

"Actually, no. But it sounds hilarious from where I'm sitting."

Meerab let out a dramatic sigh. "It's not hilarious. It's tragic. I'm basically the star of my own romantic comedy, except the hero has no idea what he's doing."

"And here I thought Bhai was the stubborn one," Barlas teased, and Meerab couldn't help but laugh again.

She sighed dramatically, flopping back in her chair like the weight of the universe was on her shoulders. "Why is he like this?"

Barlas chuckled. "Bhai is not the type to go around kissing women."

"That's... rather reassuring," she admitted before narrowing her eyes. "But Zara Hayat?"

"Zara? From the army?"

"Yes."

"Oh, she's married to a friend of ours."

Meerab froze, her mouth dropping open. "Oh—fuck, I cursed her out in my head so much."

Barlas laughed loudly, the sound practically echoing through the phone. "I'm sure she'll survive."

Meerab groaned, burying her face in her hands. "So, your Bhai isn't..."

"With someone? No."

"That's weird, no?" she said, sitting up straighter. "Your brother is hot-hot and also very—"

"I'll stop you right there before I barf," Barlas interrupted quickly, his voice laced with mock horror.

She snickered. "Weak stomach?"

"I don't want to test it," he replied dryly. "But Bhai... he's always been a lonely soul, I guess. He's liked people here and there, but he talks himself out of it."

Meerab frowned, leaning her chin into her palm. "I see. That also doesn't sound normal."

Barlas sighed softly. "He grew up too young, I think. After our dad died, he became the man of the house. Then he joined the army. Then Maa passed away... he never thought love was worth it."

Meerab's chest tightened, and for a rare moment, she didn't know what to say. "I see," she murmured eventually.

Barlas broke the silence, his voice lighter. "He's probably talking himself out of his feelings for you."

Her eyebrows shot up, and she gripped her phone tighter. "And how do I get him to not do that?" she asked, then paused as a ridiculous thought crossed her mind. If I did it my way, I'd just walk into a room naked. She bit her lip, shaking her head. That would work. Probably. Maybe. Except it would be mortifying if it didn't.

Barlas let out a knowing laugh. "Oh, I see why you reached out now."

"Bhabhi ko aise tang nahi karte, batao!" she whined, switching into her most pleading voice.

"Is that a British accent I detect in your Urdu?" he teased.

Meerab blinked, caught off guard. "Does your brother care about that? Should I join Urdu classes?"

Barlas snickered, clearly enjoying this way too much. "You're down bad."

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?" she sighed dramatically.

"Army brats speak more English than Urdu anyway, so..."

"That is not the advice I wanted!" she whined, slapping her desk for emphasis.

"Okay, okay," Barlas relented, his voice turning more serious. "Bhai is... an old soul at heart."

"WAIT!" Meerab yelped, frantically grabbing her MacBook. She opened it up, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "Okay, go slowly," she instructed, ready to type her notes into a very professionally titled document: About Moochasim <3.

Barlas paused, and then she heard a laugh so loud it was clear he'd nearly dropped the phone. "You're actually writing this down?"

"Shut up," Meerab muttered, already typing furiously. "I'm planning a campaign. Every great campaign starts with research. Now talk!"

"You're unbelievable."

"Thank you."

Barlas sighed dramatically, and she couldn't help but grin. Let the Moochasim Mission begin.

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