Author's Note: Oh hello, fancy seeing y'all here! I've seen all the "update" and "when will you update" messages, thank you for loving MA&MM so much! I've been super busy since starting work again after my maternity leave, so writing has been slow and I was focused on finishing up Unveiling Meerab. Anyways - here's the next chapter, it's 16,700 words (34 pages) so I hope that more than makes up for the wait. 

Just a little warning that this short story is rated mature and the characters are rather...non-traditional and open. So it that ruffles your feather, maybe skip this story!

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Meerab sat at her desk, her laptop glowing in front of her, her giggles echoing in the room as she hit "print." The sound of the printer whirring to life made her grin wider.

She leaned back in her chair, propping her feet up on the desk as the pages slid out one by one. Each one was a masterpiece. A strategic, methodical, and mildly ridiculous masterpiece titled: The Seducing Moochasim Plan.

She picked up the first sheet, her giggles turning into outright laughter as she read her own bullet points:

Step 1: Dress the part

Wear desi clothes, especially sarees. Translucent sarees = essential. Deep blouses are non-negotiable. Remember to practice your dramatic pallu drop in the mirror. Make it accidental. Experiment with anklets - apparently, the chhan-chhan sound does things.

Meerab smirked, flipping to the next page, where she'd scrawled an additional note in the margin: Order backup safety pins. Can't have a (non-purposeful) wardrobe malfunction!

Step 2: Win his stomach to win his heart

Moochasim loves food, especially kebabs. All kinds of kebabs. Barlas said his favorites are seekh kebabs, shammi kebabs, and bihari kebabs—cook the recipes Barlas sent (get help from the chef to avoid poisoning him). Make it look effortless – don't burn the kitchen down! Learn to make chai. Not regular chai—army-level chai. Strong enough to grow chest hair (apparently). Bake cookies for no reason. Everyone loves cookies, even stoic bodyguards.

Step 3: Tease him. Constantly.

Keep talking, even if it's nonsense. His mooch thrives on chaos. Mock his stoicism. He secretly enjoys it. Say things like, "Major Moochasim, kabhi relax karna seekhiye," while lounging dramatically nearby. Talk to his mooch. Directly. Address it like it's a separate entity. Example: "Moochasim, kya kehna chahte ho aaj?"

Step 4: Use Bollywood tactics.

· Play 90s Bollywood songs. Pretend it's a coincidence.

o Note: Barlas mentioned that the only songs he didn't forward back in the day were Tip Tip Barsa Pani, and Kaate Nahin Kat Te.

· Trip. Constantly. On nothing. Land in his (strong) arms.

· Stand close. Close enough for tension, but not enough for him to actually move away.

· Be "helpless" in minor situations. Example: "Can you open this jar? It's so hard." Make sure to follow up with, "wow, you're so strong."

Step 5: Subtle Sabotage

· Move his things slightly out of place so he has to talk to you. (Blame it on ghosts, then pretend to be scared of them).

· Stand in his way until he has to make eye contact. Do not back down.

Meerab cackled as she re-read her brilliant work, her stomach aching from laughing too much. "If this doesn't work, I'm giving up and moving to the mountains...after Major Moochasim clears all the goats out."

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The next few hours were pure chaos.

Meerab sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, surrounded by the aftermath of what could only be described as Operation Closet Destruction. Clothes were everywhere—piles of jeans, tailored dresses, and her occasional leather jacket thrown carelessly onto every available surface.

She held up a cream-colored saree she'd worn once to an event, squinting at it critically. "Too basic," she muttered, tossing it behind her.

Then came her laptop. She opened her browser and typed with laser focus: translucent sarees.

The search results were glorious. She clicked through designs, her grin widening with every flimsy fabric and plunging neckline she found. Bright reds, deep blues, shimmering golds—they were all tossed into her cart. She clicked on one and giggled uncontrollably. Major Moochasim was done for.

But why stop at sarees?

"Matching lingerie," she muttered, already navigating to another site. The options were endless, and she wasn't holding back. Lacy sets in bold colors, satin slips with intricate detailing—everything that screamed seductive. The plan was to tempt him to take off the sarees after all.

Her phone pinged as confirmation emails flooded in. "Ten sarees, twelve sets of lingerie, a hundred safety pins, and three business days later," she muttered, leaning back triumphantly. "It's over for him!"

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Meerab paced back and forth in her room, a jar of pickles in hand. She had been eyeing the sealed lid for a solid five minutes, considering her approach.

Be helpless but cute, she reminded herself. You're a damsel, not a drama queen. Subtlety is key.

Satisfied with her strategy, she took a deep breath, glanced at herself in the mirror to make sure she looked effortlessly pretty (her hair loose in soft waves, her lips glossed, just in case he noticed), and marched out of her room, clutching the pickle jar like it held her hopes and dreams.

Reaching his door, she paused, adjusted her expression to look as helpless as humanly possible, and knocked lightly.

"Come in," his deep voice called from the other side.

She pushed the door open, poking her head in first, her face scrunched in what she hoped was an adorably pathetic pout. Murtasim was seated at his desk, sleeves rolled up, his focus on his computer. He looked up when he saw her, his brow furrowing slightly.

"Miss Ahmed?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with suspicion.

"Hi," she said sweetly, stepping into the room. She held up the jar like it was Exhibit A in a criminal case. "Mujhe aap ki help chahiye."

His gaze flicked from her face to the jar and back, his expression unreadable. "With... that?"

"Yes," she said, nodding earnestly. "Main itni der se try kar rahi hoon, but it's just... impossible." She sighed dramatically, holding the jar out toward him. "Aap kar denge? Please?"

For a moment, he didn't move, just stared at her like he was trying to decipher her intentions. Come on, Major Moochasim, take the bait, she thought, biting back a grin.

Finally, he stood, towering over her as he reached for the jar. His fingers brushed hers as he took it, and she tried not to shiver at the contact. He inspected the lid for a second before gripping it with one hand and twisting it open effortlessly.

"Wow," she breathed, her eyes wide as she stared at him like he'd just performed a miracle. "You're so strong."

His hand froze mid-air, the jar still in his grip, as he looked at her with an arched eyebrow. "It's just a jar," he said, his tone dry.

"But it was impossible," she emphasized, placing her hands on her hips for dramatic effect.

The corner of his mouth twitched, just barely, but he quickly looked away, handing the jar back to her. "Anything else?"

She tilted her head, pretending to think. "Hmm. Abhi kuch nahi, but I'll let you know," she said with a grin, clutching the jar to her chest. "Thanks, Major Moochasim."

He let out a soft sigh, shaking his head as he sat back down.

As she walked out of the room, her grin widened, a mischievous sparkle lighting up her eyes. Oh, he had no idea what was coming. She'd personally ensured that every single open jar in the house had been packed up and sent to the cottage where the help stayed. And then she had put in an order for replacements - unopened jars.

There were exactly 32 of them. Thirty-two perfectly crafted opportunities to waltz up to him and act cute.

Pickle jars, jam jars, sauce jars—she'd even thrown in a jar of olives that she didn't even like. Maybe I'll develop a taste for them, who knows? she thought smugly, already planning her next "help me" encounter.

Her inner voice, ever the enabler, chimed in gleefully. Aapko pata hai, Meerab Ahmed, yeh jar opening plan ek masterpiece hai. Michelangelo ne Sistine Chapel banayi thi, aur tumne yeh.

She practically skipped down the hallway, mentally cataloging which jars would make the cut for tomorrow. Maybe I should save the really stubborn ones for later in the week... like a final boss battle.

The best part? Murtasim wouldn't suspect a thing. To him, she'd just be a helpless damsel with a chronic inability to open jars. Helpless and adorable, she thought with a smirk.

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Meerab tiptoed into Murtasim's room, her eyes darting toward the hallway to make sure no one saw her. The coast was clear. She closed the door softly behind her, already giggling to herself as she scanned the space. Everything was in its rightful, perfectly arranged place, of course. His room was annoyingly neat, just like the man himself.

"Let's fix that," she muttered under her breath, her lips curling into a mischievous grin.

She started small. His meticulously folded towel? Draped over the back of his chair. The books on his desk, stacked at precise right angles? She rearranged them into an artistic but utterly impractical pile. Then she moved to his bedside table, where his watch and wallet sat neatly. She flipped the wallet upside down and set the watch facing the opposite direction.

Her pièce de résistance? Shifting his boots from their usual spot by the door to underneath his bed.

"Perfect," she whispered, hands on her hips as she admired her handiwork.

She slipped out of the room, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. Now, all she had to do was wait.

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It didn't take long.

She was lounging on the couch in the living room, flipping through a magazine she had no intention of reading, when she heard his familiar, purposeful footsteps approaching.

"Miss Ahmed," Murtasim's deep voice called out, calm but with an unmistakable edge of suspicion.

She looked up, feigning innocence. "Jee, Major Moochasim?"

He stepped into the room, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as they locked onto hers. "Mera samaan... kisi ne meri cheezein hilaayi hain."

Her lips parted in mock surprise. "Acha?"

"Yes," he said firmly, his gaze never leaving hers. "Wallet, boots, books—sab cheezein apni jagah par nahi hain."

Meerab gasped, placing a hand dramatically over her chest. "Lekin hum dono ke ilava toh koi upar nahi jaata...aur main toh yahan thi...Oh my God. Aap ko lagta hai...ki bhoot hai?"

She wasn't even sure where she was going with this. But that wasn't the point. The point was him. She wanted him to talk, to laugh, to drop the stoic Major Khan, Bodyguard Extraordinaire act and let the Murtasim she knew sneak out.

The one who smiled at her antics, carried her to the car like it was the most natural thing in the world, took her out to random hole-in-the-wall restaurants, and even indulged her midnight cravings by driving her to McDonald's.

That Murtasim—the one who was smitten for her, who had kissed her—was the one she wanted.

She glanced at him hopefully, her exaggerated expression of horror unwavering.

Murtasim blinked at her, clearly trying to process the nonsense she was spewing. His brow furrowed, suspicion briefly flashing in his eyes before giving way to something closer to exasperation. God, even his exasperation was cute.

"Bhoot?" he repeated flatly, his tone laced with disbelief.

"Haan!" she said, nodding emphatically. "Aur kya ho sakta hai? Cheezein apni jagah se hil rahi hain? Classic ghost behavior!"

He stared at her for a long moment, his jaw tightening slightly, giving her a look that screamed I'm not entertaining this. "Miss Ahmed, bhoot nahi—"

"Oh, no," she interrupted, her eyes wide with faux panic. "Mujhe yaad aaya! Hallway mein ek thandi hawa ka jhoka mehsoos hua tha. Yeh toh definitely bhoot ki nishani hai. Agar woh naraz hai toh? Major Moochasim! Mujhe bhoot-woot se bahot darr lagta hai!" She whined.

"Naraz bhoot," he deadpanned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

It was the little crack in his armor that made her day. The way he sighed like he was deeply regretting every life choice that had led him here, standing in front of her. But most of all, the way his lips twitched again, betraying the fact that he wasn't as annoyed as he pretended to be.

Major Moochasim, one. Meerab Ahmed, ten.

She nodded again, clutching the magazine to her chest. "Haan, naraz! Aap ko toh pata hi nahi hoga – yeh ghar saalon se band pada tha. Sirf tab khola aur saaf kiya gaya jab meri zindagi khatre mein thi aur mujhe ek safehouse chahiye tha. Bhoot ko lagta hoga yeh uska ghar hai, aur woh is baat se naraz hai ke hum yahan hain!"

His lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, and she could see the effort it took for him to keep his expression neutral. "Miss Ahmed, mujhe nahi lagta ki—"

She cut him off again, scooting closer to him on the couch and lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mujhe lagta hai bhoot mere peeche pada hai! Tabhi toh main baar-baar trip kar rahi hoon aaj kal!" Straight into his arms. "Major Moochasim – aap ko mujhe bhoot se bhi bachaana padega!"

His jaw clenched, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "unbelievable."

Meerab, meanwhile, was having the time of her life.

"Aap ko mujhse chipak kar rehna padega," she declared, her voice trembling dramatically as she stood up on the sofa, her arms spread wide like she was about to deliver a theatrical monologue. "Bhoot aas paas ghoom rahe hain, aur mujhe aapki security ki zarurat hai!"

"Miss Ahmed," Murtasim started, his tone flat but edged with that familiar exasperation.

Before he could say more, Meerab let out a high-pitched squeal, leapt off the sofa, and launched herself at him with zero hesitation, knowing he'd catch her.

The impact made him take a single step back, his hands reflexively coming up to steady her, but it was clear he wasn't prepared for this level of Meerab.

"Yeh aap kya kar rahi hain?" he asked, his voice a perfect blend of irritation, disbelief, and the faintest hint of what the hell just happened.

She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, locking her legs securely around his waist like a determined koala bear. A very sexy, determined koala bear.

"Chipak rahi hoon!" she said, grinning as she adjusted her grip. "Bhoot yahaan hain, Major Moochasim. Main khud ko akela nahi chhod sakti."

"Miss Ahmed, mujhe chhodiye," he said firmly, but his arms betrayed him. One had already slid to her back, steadying her with infuriating care, while the other gripped her bare thigh to keep her from slipping.

Meerab's thoughts were anything but rational. Oh, hello, veiny forearm. Welcome to my thigh. Stay as long as you want.

His warmth seeped through her clothes, his body solid and unyielding against hers. Her chest was pressed against his broad, firm one, and wow, did he feel good. She bit back a sigh, trying to focus on something other than how perfect it felt to have her entire body wrapped around his.

Was this what heaven felt like? She tightened her grip slightly, her fingers brushing the back of his neck where the hairline met his skin. God, even his neck was attractive. Was there a single part of him that wasn't insanely hot?

"Miss Ahmed, chhodiye" he said again, his voice lower now, firmer, but she didn't miss how his fingers flexed slightly on her thigh.

"How?!" she exclaimed, feigning outrage as she clung to him tighter. "Bhoot mujhe maarne ki koshish kar rahe hain! Pata nahi kitne bhoot honge iss ghar mein!"

"Acha, ab ek se zyada bhoot hain?" Murtasim sighed heavily, his lips twitching as if he was fighting back a smile.

"Haan!" Meerab declared dramatically, leaning her head closer to his shoulder. "Bhoot bechare lonely ho jaate honge...shayad woh bhi shaadi-waadi kar lete hain..." She mused, her arms tightening around his neck.

His shoulders shook slightly, and then it happened—a low chuckle rumbled through him, escaping before he could stop it. The sound made her chest flutter. Oh, there he is. My Murtasim.

She leaned back slightly to look at him, her hands still clasped behind his neck. His face was right there, close enough that she could see the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his lips curved upward. She could practically feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.

"Aap hans rahe ho?!" she exclaimed, her face lighting up.

He tried to stifle his laughter, clearing his throat and glancing away, but the way she clung to him, her eyes sparkling with mischief, made it impossible. Another chuckle slipped out, and then another. His chest shook against hers, his laugh deep and unguarded, and it was the best sound she'd heard all week.

Meerab giggled, her arms tightening around his neck as she felt his body move with each chuckle. "Aap haste hue bahot cute lagte ho, Major Moochasim," she teased, her own laughter bubbling up as she clung to him.

He sighed, though his laughter still lingered in the crinkle of his eyes. "Miss Ahmed," he said, trying to sound stern but failing miserably, "niche utariye."

"Nahi. Agar bhoot aaye toh?" she countered, her tone mock-serious.

"Main usse samjha dunga," he replied dryly, his hands subtly shifting their grip to keep her steady.

"Samjha dunga?" she repeated, arching a brow as she leaned closer. Her forehead was almost touching his now, her lips so close to his that she was sure he could feel the heat of her breath. "Aapne kabhi bhoot se deal kiya hai?"

"Aap se toh kar liya," he muttered under his breath, his lips twitching again.

Meerab gasped, swatting his shoulder lightly before breaking into another fit of giggles. "Aap mujhe bhoot keh rahe ho?!"

"Aap bhoot se zyada dangerous hain," he said, and though his tone was dry, his voice was softer now, quieter.

Before she could respond, he gently lowered her to the floor. His hands lingered at her waist, the heat of his touch radiating through her shirt, and her heart skipped a beat. Just kiss me already, her brain screamed. Pull me onto the couch behind us and—

She steadied herself, looking up at him with a wide grin, hoping he couldn't see the chaos in her thoughts. "Shayad. Lekin aapko pasand hoon, na?"

Murtasim groaned softly, his hands falling to his sides. "Miss Ahmed..."

She couldn't hold it in any longer, she let out a giggle, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle the sound.

"Miss Ahmed," he said again, "aap ne meri cheezein move ki?"

Meerab shrugged, the picture of innocence, though her grin only widened. "Ho sakta hai bhoot ko thodi help mili ho."

His lips pressed into a tight line, but she saw it—the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes.

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Meerab lay upside down on the couch, her head hanging off the edge, her hair brushing the floor as she stared up at the ceiling. Her arms hung limp, her fingers grazing the carpet as she let out an exaggerated sigh—a full-bodied, dramatic exhale that was practically a cry for attention. This kind of sighing could summon someone from another galaxy, she mused.

And just like that, he appeared.

She heard the soft padding of his footsteps before she saw him. From her current upside-down perspective, the first thing to come into view was his legs. Specifically, grey sweatpants that fit him so well it was borderline sinful – the light fabric hid nothing.

She clamped her mouth shut to stop the groan that threatened to escape. Why do they fit like that? The fabric hugged his thighs, hinting at the strength beneath. She could see the faint movement of muscles as he shifted his weight, and her throat went dry.

Her gaze trailed upward, slowly, appreciating every detail in this unique vantage point. His black long-sleeved t-shirt was slightly wrinkled, clinging to his chest in a way that highlighted just how unfairly broad his shoulders were. The sleeves were pushed up, revealing those veined forearms that had no business looking as good as they did.

And then her eyes landed on his face—upside-down, sure, but no less perfect. His sharp jawline, faint stubble, and that thick mooch. Murtasim crossed his arms over his chest, his dark eyes scanning her with the patience of someone dealing with a particularly ridiculous toddler.

"Are you possessed by a ghost now?" he asked dryly, his tone dripping with exasperation.

Meerab blinked up at him—or rather, down, given her upside-down position—and smirked. Possessed? Only by thoughts of him. And if she were being honest, the only possession she'd welcome would be him. Sexually.

"Ho bhi sakta hai," she said, drawing out the word as she pouted. "ya phir main sirf bohot bore ho rahi hoon."

He didn't respond immediately, just stared at her like she'd officially lost her mind. Honestly, she was about five seconds away from fully losing it anyway. How does he look this good in sweatpants? It was obscene.

"Kahin lekar chalo," she whined, flopping her arms dramatically like a petulant child. "Gharb bethe-bethe maine pagal hojana hai!"

"Kahan?" he asked, his tone neutral, though the faintest flicker of amusement danced in his eyes.

"Kahin bhi!" she exclaimed, sitting up abruptly, her hair flying in all directions as she flipped herself upright. "University campus le jao, main library jaake baith jaungi."

He arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Library?"

"Ya mall!" she said quickly, clasping her hands together as she looked at him with wide, pleading eyes. "Please, please, please?"

"Wahan bahot log honge," he said, shaking his head. "Aap ke liye safe nahi hai."

"Jo mujhe maarna chahta hai naa, uske paas hi le jao, at least boring nahi hoga." She let out a long, dramatic groan, flopping back onto the couch as if the weight of her boredom was too much to bear. "Aap itne boring kaise ho sakte ho, Major Moochasim?" she muttered, kicking her legs for emphasis.

She peeked at him from the corner of her eye and caught the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He quickly schooled his expression, but it was too late. She'd seen it.

She sat up again, her face lighting up as an idea struck her. "Fine," she said, grinning. "Drive par le chalo."

Murtasim hummed thoughtfully, considering her suggestion.

"Apni motorcycle par," she added quickly, her grin widening. A motorcycle ride with him. I'll be holding onto him so tightly, pressed against his back, feeling his muscles flex as he— She cut herself off mid-thought, her cheeks heating up.

"No," he replied instantly, his voice firm.

Of course, if it were up to me, forget the bike—I'd just ride you.

She jumped up, planting herself in front of him and looking up at him with her most convincing pout. "Pleaaaaaaase, Major Moochasim!" she whined, tugging lightly at his sleeve. The motorcycle. Pressed up against his back... hmm, maybe we could stop somewhere romantic, and if he's good, I could lay myself out on the bike and let him take me right there.

"Miss Ahmed," he started, clearly trying to keep his tone steady.

"Main kabhi motorcycle par nahi baithi hoon!" she exclaimed, cutting him off.

He paused, his brows furrowing slightly. "Never?"

"Ek baar bhi nahi!" she said, shaking her head earnestly. "Mujhe toh bicycle tak bhi chalani nahi aati."

His eyes widened slightly, genuine surprise flickering across his face. Stoic Major Moochasim, surprised? Mark this day in history. "Aap ko cycle chalani nahi aati?"

"No!" she said, her voice filled with mock indignation. "Actually! Aap mujhe seekha doh!"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening in a way that made her stomach flip. God, those hands. How dare he exist with those hands.

"Main seekhaun?" He asked finally.

"Yes!" she said, clapping her hands together. "Aap mere bodyguard ho. Aapka farz hai mujhe safe aur... educated rakhna."

"Educated," he repeated, his lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile.

She bounced on her toes, her excitement growing. "Haan! Socho agar main kahin fass jaon, aur bhaagne ke liye sirf ek bike ho...toh mujhe chalani aani chahiye naa?!"

He sighed again, but there was no real resistance in his tone when he said, "Theek hai."

Meerab let out a squeal of delight, her excitement bubbling over as she jumped up and down like an overexcited child. Without a second thought, she threw her arms around him, her fingers brushing against the solid warmth of his shoulders as she pulled him close and pressed a quick, jubilant kiss to his cheek.

Her lips tingled as they met his skin, the faint roughness of his beard rubbing against her mouth in the most tantalizing way. The subtle scrape sent a jolt of something electric down her spine, and she couldn't help but notice the faint scent of his soap—cool and minty, mingling with the warmth radiating from him.

"You're the best, Major Moochasim!" she exclaimed breathlessly, pulling back just enough to look at him, her wide grin lighting up her face.

She didn't miss the way his breath hitched, or the slight shift in his expression—the faintest widening of his eyes, the slight parting of his lips, and the unspoken tension that lingered between them for a split second.

Her heart thudded in triumph as she released him, spinning on her heel. "I'll go change!" she called over her shoulder, darting toward the stairs, her lips still tingling from the feel of his stubble.

Halfway up, she paused, glancing back at him.

Murtasim was still standing there, his expression slightly dazed, his fingers brushing over his cheek where she had kissed him.

Meerab's grin widened, and she did a little happy dance before disappearing up the stairs, leaving him standing there, looking utterly and completely stunned.

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Meerab's grin was nothing short of devilish as she brushed past Murtasim, her shoulder grazing his arm ever so slightly. She didn't need to turn around to confirm it—she heard it, a low groan, barely audible, escaping his lips. The sound sent a thrill down her spine. Gotcha, Major Moochasim.

Her outfit was simple but meticulously chosen: form-fitting beige leggings that clung to her every curve and a matching sweatshirt that was snug enough to highlight everything he shouldn't be looking at. She pretended not to notice his reaction, but her smirk widened as she caught the slight clench of his jaw from the corner of her eye.

Murtasim, true to form, said nothing, though his silence practically echoed in the charged air between them.

As she approached the gleaming bicycle propped against the wall, her confidence wavered for the briefest moment. "Yeh thodi badi nahi hai?" she muttered, tilting her head as she sized up the bike. The only thing I like large right now is Major Moochasim... and what he's packing.

Behind her, she heard it—a deep, throaty snicker that made her toes curl. "Aap bachi nahi hain," he said, his voice tinged with amusement.

Then treat me like a woman, she thought, biting her lip to keep the words from spilling out. Instead, she muttered aloud, "Main training wheels wali bike prefer karti hoon," more to herself than to him.

"Bhooton ko bikes se kab se darr lagne lag gaya?" he teased, his grin audible even without her seeing it.

Meerab couldn't help it—she found his teasing cute. Which only made it worse. Why does he have to look like that, smell like that, talk like that?

Meerab glared, spinning around to face him. "Aap seriously mujhe bhoot bolna nahi chodenge?"

Fine, she thought, her irritation mingling with amusement. If I were a ghost, I'd haunt you night and day—preferably naked.

His smirk widened, infuriatingly smug. "Bhoot bura lagta hai? Aap bhootni prefer karengi?"

Her hand flew up before she could stop herself, swatting his bicep in mock offense. Big mistake. Her palm met solid, unyielding muscle—warm, firm, and far too enticing. For a fleeting second, the ridiculous thought of sinking her teeth into him flashed through her mind. What is wrong with me?

"Focus," she muttered under her breath, turning away before her thoughts derailed entirely.

Murtasim stepped closer then, his movements deliberate and slow, his calm energy making her heart race for reasons she'd rather not admit. He crouched slightly to adjust the bike's handlebars, his proximity making her hyper-aware of everything—his scent, the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his broad shoulders filled the space next to her.

"Pehle seat par baithiye... straddle it," he instructed, his tone maddeningly steady.

Her breath caught at the word straddle. "I'd rather straddle you," she whispered to herself, so softly that she thought it wouldn't carry.

But of course, he heard her. His head jerked up, his dark eyes meeting hers, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He coughed lightly, choosing to ignore her slip, and nodded toward the bike. "Chaliye, try kariye."

Her heart was racing as she swung one leg awkwardly over the frame, settling herself on the seat. The bike wobbled dangerously, and she squeaked, gripping the handlebars like her life depended on it.

"Relax," he murmured, stepping closer. His large hands bracketed hers on the bars, steadying her. His warmth was overwhelming, and when she felt the faint brush of his breath against her neck, a shiver raced down her spine.

"Bas balance karna hai," he said, his voice deep and calm, grounding her even as her mind raced.

"Balance karna hai?" she shot back, glancing over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. "It's not that simple, Major Moochasim. Main toh aaj kal doh paon par bhi balance nahi kar paati!" Her new favourite hobby was tripping over her feet and into his arms.

She could have sworn he muttered, "Pehle toh theek thi," under his breath, but before she could confirm it, he said more clearly, "Bas dhyaan lagao." He said as he adjusted the handlebars slightly. His chest was so close to her back that she could feel his breath against her neck, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine.

"Main focus karne ki koshish kar rahi hoon," she muttered under her breath. On you, not the bicycle.

"Lag toh nahi raha," he replied dryly, his hands briefly leaving the handlebars to grip the seat behind her. The absence of his touch made her fingers tighten instinctively on the bars.

She turned to glare at him, her hair whipping around her face. "Aapko toh sab asaan lagta hai!"

"Kyunki yeh hai," he replied with maddening calmness. "Tum bas socho mat. Relax karo."

"Aap mere itne paas khade ho aur keh rahe ho relax karo?" she muttered under her breath. "Thoda mushkil hai, Major Moochasim. Mera dil behave nahi kar raha."

This time, she caught it—the slight curve of his lips, gone just as quickly as it appeared. He crouched lower, his hands steadying the seat. "Theek hai," he said softly, his voice dropping into something even deeper. "Tum bas pedals par dhyaan do. Main sambhal lunga."

Her heart did a somersault at his words. Main sambhal lunga. They shouldn't have affected her the way they did, but God, how could they not?

She placed her feet tentatively on the pedals, pushing forward slightly. The bike lurched awkwardly, tilting to the side, and she let out a panicked squeal.

"Main gir jaungi!"

"Nahi girogi," Murtasim said firmly, jogging alongside her to keep pace. His grip on the seat tightened, his voice steady and reassuring. "Main yahin hoon."

Her heart skipped a beat at the certainty in his tone. Main yahin hoon. That was the problem. He was right there. So close she could smell the faint mint of his soap, mixed with something woodsy. She glanced down at his hands, strong and sure as they guided the bike. How can hands be this attractive?

The bike wobbled again, but his hands steadied her, grounding her in more ways than one. She wanted to thank him, but instead, all she could think about was how warm his hands were, how close his chest was to her back, and how ridiculously, unfairly attractive he was.

"Relax karo," he repeated, his voice softer now, his breath brushing her ear.

How the hell am I supposed to relax when you're this close? she thought, biting her lip as her cheeks flushed.

His grip on the handle bar tightened as they moved. Meerab couldn't stop staring at his hands.

Strong, broad, and veined, they guided the bike with an ease that shouldn't have been as attractive as it was. His long fingers gripped the handlebars with a confidence that made her stomach flip, and the thought of how those same hands had steadied her, touched her, sent her mind spiraling into dangerous territory.

How can hands be this attractive? And why aren't they on my naked body?

"Meerab," his deep voice cut through her daze, sharp but steady. "Tikh se pedal karo."

"I'm trying!" she snapped defensively, though the truth was she wasn't trying at all. How could she, when every ounce of her focus was on him—his voice, his proximity, the way his fingers brushed hers whenever he steadied her hands.

"Lag toh nahi raha," he said flatly. His hands left the handlebars briefly, moving to grip the seat behind her. The bike wobbled slightly, and her grip instinctively tightened. "Aur yeh handle kahan le ja rahi ho?"

She blinked, realizing too late that she'd veered dangerously close to a bush. A startled yelp escaped her lips as Murtasim tightened his grip, pulling the bike back on course.

"Dekho," he said, exhaling sharply, his breath warm against her ear. "Mujh par bharosa rakho. Relax. Tum nahi girogi."

Her breath hitched as she turned her head slightly, her gaze locking with his. His dark eyes were calm, steady, and so achingly intense that her heart skipped a beat. The bike wobbled again as her attention lingered too long on him.

"Meerab!" he barked, his hands moving to her waist instinctively, steadying her as the bike threatened to tip over.

Her breath caught as his hands found her waist, firm but careful, sending a jolt of electricity through her. Her skin felt like it was on fire where his fingers rested, even through the fabric of her sweatshirt – and she couldn't help but imagine his hands on her bare waist, pressing her down against the mattress as he -

"Fuck..." she whispered, the word slipping out involuntarily.

His jaw tightened at her slip, his grip on her waist loosening slightly. "Focus karo," he muttered, his voice lower now, almost strained.

How? she thought, her mind reeling. With him this close, his hands on her, his voice a low rumble in her ear, focus was impossible. Her breathing quickened, and she was sure he could hear the erratic pounding of her heart.

"I think I'm done," she declared suddenly, pulling her feet off the pedals and letting the bike slow to a wobbling stop.

Murtasim sighed, stepping in front of her to halt the bike completely. His hands moved to her shoulders, steadying her once more. "Aap itni jaldi haar maan leti hai?"

"It's not giving up," she said, her voice unsteady as she looked up at him, her lips curving into a small smile. "Main bas... break lena chahti hoon."

"Break?" he repeated, one eyebrow raising slightly in question.

She nodded, her smile widening into something sly. "Mere dil ke liye," she murmured, grabbing one of his hands from her shoulder and pulling it down, pressing it over her chest.

His eyes widened, his gaze flickering between her face and where his hand rested on her, the curve of her chest barely concealed by her sweatshirt. She knew her heart was hammering under his palm—how could it not be? He was touching the top of her boob.

For a moment, he didn't move, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he pulled his hand back, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Miss Ahmed, aap yeh sab—"

"Na karoon?" she asked, cocking her head to the side, fully expecting him to nod. But instead, he sighed.

"Kyun?" she pressed, her tone teasing. "Phone par toh kissi ko kaha tha ki main aapko achi lagti hoon."

His eyes widened further, and she grinned, the moment too delightful to let go. "Something about 'main pagal ho raha hoon... in your head all the time... beautiful,'" she quoted, her grin turning smug.

"Aap meri baatein sun rahi thi?" he asked, his voice filled with frustration.

"Sunn nahi rahi thi," she corrected, shaking her head with a playful smile. "Bas sunn gayi."

He groaned softly, letting go of the bike entirely. The sudden shift made her squeal as the bike wobbled, forcing her to steady herself.

"Aap ne galat suna," he said firmly, avoiding her gaze.

She scoffed, crossing her arms. "Mere kaan perfectly kaam karte hain. You know what, aap emotionally challenged hain, Major Moochasim. Main aapke samne khadi hokar keh rahi hoon ki aap mujhe achhe lagte hain... itna difficult nahi hai. Jo dil mein hai woh kehna chahiye."

He sighed again, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Bas," he muttered, his tone low. "Lessons phir kabhi."

And before she could respond, he turned and walked away, heading toward the house.

Meerab stared after him, her lips parting in disbelief. She tilted her head back, her eyes skyward as she groaned dramatically. "Allah Miyah, Ammi! Yeh kaisa aadmi bheja hai mujhe... kuch kijiye iska! Iss pace par toh eggs freeze karne padenge, budhi hojaongi main!"

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

Meerab nearly leapt out of her chair, binoculars still in hand, when she spotted the delivery van pulling up to the gates. The binoculars were probably unnecessary, but she loved them—they were excellent for following someone as he made his rounds around the premises. Watching Major Moochasim patrol the grounds, looking all delicious and stoic in his crisp white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, had practically become a hobby.

And now for the main event, she thought gleefully, watching the guards unload her boxes with the precision of a military operation. Each package was scanned, sniffed, and scrutinized like it might contain state secrets. The sight of them being wheeled toward the house felt like Eid morning.

Dropping her binoculars, Meerab scurried down the stairs, nearly tripping in her haste to reach the front door. She arrived just as the guard stepped inside.

"Packages for Miss Ahmed," he announced. "They have been cleared."

"Thank you," Murtasim replied, his deep voice steady and measured, his sharp gaze sweeping over the boxes like they might explode at any second.

Meerab's lips curled into a mischievous grin as she strolled up behind him, arms crossed casually. "Major Moochasim, aap double-check nahi karenge?" she asked, her tone dripping with mock innocence.

Murtasim turned slowly, fixing her with a look that screamed, not this again.

"Sab inspect ho chuke hain," he replied, but Meerab wasn't about to let him off the hook.

"Come on," she teased, her grin widening. "Guards kuch miss bhi kar sakte hain. Meri hifasat karna aap ka kaam hai, haina? Agar mujhe kuch ho gaya toh?" She gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. "Imagine the headlines, Major Moochasim!"

Murtasim sighed, dragging a hand down his face like a man resigned to his fate. "Fine," he muttered, crouching down to open the first box.

Meerab bit the inside of her cheek, practically bouncing with excitement as he tore through the tape.

The first box revealed her sarees, neatly folded in delicate, translucent fabrics that shimmered under the light. Murtasim paused, pulling out a ruby-red saree with careful fingers. The fabric slid over his hand like water, and his sharp eyebrow arched in silent judgment as he turned to look at her.

She smirked, noticing how his gaze lingered just a little too long – she would wear the red one first.

"Maine socha ki thode change ki zaroorat hai," she said breezily, shrugging as if she hadn't already spent hours envisioning herself in them—specifically, imagining the moment he saw her in them...and then him taking them off her. "What do you think?"

Murtasim let out a low groan, so quiet it might have gone unnoticed if she weren't watching him like a hawk. The sound sent a thrill down her spine, and she had to clasp her hands behind her back to stop herself from clapping in delight.

Carefully, he folded the saree back into the box, his movements precise, almost like he was afraid of letting it stay in his hands for too long.

Then he reached for the second package. And this was where things got fun.

Meerab's heart raced as he opened the box, his broad shoulders stiffening the moment the flaps came down.

The contents were unmistakable: lace, satin, and straps that barely qualified as clothing.

He stilled.

Meerab bit her lip, her entire body shaking with suppressed laughter as she watched his reaction. His eyes widened, his gaze fixed on the assortment of lingerie in front of him. And to her absolute glee, instead of pushing the box away, he reached inside.

His fingers brushed against a particularly bold item—a pair of deep red panties.

Well, not just panties. They were barely a suggestion of fabric, with delicate lace detailing that skimmed the essentials and straps so thin they might as well have been invisible. He lifted them carefully, holding them on his pinky finger as if they might combust.

Meerab had to bite down hard on her bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud.

His dark eyes flicked to her, and heat rushed between her legs at the look.

"Cute, no?" she exclaimed, unable to help herself. She reached into the box, pulling out the matching bra, which was just as scandalous: lace cups with barely-there straps. She held it up, grinning. "See? It matches!"

Murtasim closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply before letting out a slow exhale. Without a word, he rolled his eyes, gently placing both items back into the box.

"Aap ke packages safe hain," he said flatly, rising to his full height as though putting physical distance between himself and the chaos might restore his sanity.

Meerab tilted her head, her grin practically splitting her face as she watched him walk off, his shoulders noticeably stiffer than usual. The image of him holding those panties on his pinky finger would be burned into her memory forever.

As soon as he was out of sight, she collapsed against the wall. "Oh, Major Moochasim," she whispered, grinning like the cat that caught the cream. "You don't stand a chance."

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

Meerab stood in front of her mirror, her hands smoothing the fabric of the red saree draped low over her hips. The translucent material shimmered in the light, catching every curve and movement just right. The blouse—a sleeveless design with a sweetheart neckline—fit perfectly, and she couldn't help but admire the way her collarbones seemed to glow against the deep red.

She leaned closer to the mirror, adjusting her pallu just so, doubling it over her shoulder for just enough coverage to keep it teasingly modest. Her lips, painted the same bold shade of red as the saree, curved into a grin.

"Murtasim Shahnawaz Khan," she murmured to herself, flipping her curls over her shoulder dramatically. "Let's see you resist this."

A giggle bubbled out of her as she twirled once, the soft fabric brushing against her legs. Satisfied, she made her way to the door, the sound of her anklet softly jingling with every step.

The hallway was quiet as she descended the stairs, the saree's flowy fabric trailing behind her like a siren's call. She glanced around as she reached the bottom. No sign of him yet, she thought, a flicker of disappointment crossing her mind. But she knew better. He always appeared.

Meerab smirked as she made her way to the kitchen, where the chef had prepped the kebabs earlier according to the recipe Barlas had sent. They were marinated to perfection, waiting for her to fry them. If the saree doesn't work, the smell will, she thought, tying the end of her pallu into her waistband with a quick tug.

The fabric hugged her waist snugly as she grabbed the pan, placing it on the stove. With a flick of her wrist, she turned on the flame and began frying the kebabs, humming a tune under her breath. The rich, smoky aroma filled the room almost instantly.

She didn't have to wait long. Within minutes, she heard the sound of approaching footsteps—slow, measured, and unmistakably his.

Meerab grinned as she turned around, spatula in hand, to find him standing in the doorway.

There he was. Major Moochasim in all his stoic glory, his gaze landing on her face for a fleeting moment before it trailed downward. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes swept over the red saree, the doubled pallu barely disguising the curve of her figure, and then lingered, just for a second, on her bare waist.

When his gaze finally returned to hers, his jaw tightened slightly, and she bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from giggling.

"Acha hua aap aagaye, Major Moochasim," she said brightly, her grin widening as she gestured toward the dining room. "Aap table set kar sakte hain? The kebabs are almost done."

His dark eyes flickered briefly to the stove, then back to her, hesitation written all over his face. On any other day, she knew what he'd say: Main baad mein kha lunga. But today was different.

He hesitated, his gaze dropping for the briefest moment to her hands as she flipped the kebabs in the pan. The smell was intoxicating—smoky, rich, and full of spices. His eyes darted back to hers, and then, as if deciding it wasn't worth the argument, he gave a curt nod.

Meerab's smile grew, her heart doing a triumphant little flip. Step one: complete.

She turned back to the stove, barely suppressing her giggles. She could feel his presence, steady and warm, lingering longer than necessary before he finally started setting the table in the kitchen.

Meerab flipped the last kebab in the pan with a flourish, the scent of spices and sizzling meat filling the air. Just as she reached to turn off the flame, a small splatter of hot oil landed on her wrist.

"Ahh!" she let out a startled cry, dropping the spatula onto the counter with a clatter.

Before she could even process the sting, Murtasim was there, his footsteps quick and heavy as he closed the distance between them. His hand caught hers, his grip firm but careful, and before she could protest, he was guiding her to the sink.

"Careful," he muttered, his voice low and edged with irritation, though she caught the undercurrent of concern. He turned on the faucet, sliding her wrist under the cool stream of water. The initial sting began to ease, but Meerab wasn't paying attention to the burn anymore.

She was paying attention to him.

His face was so close—closer than usual—and the frown lines etched into his brow only made him look more striking. He smelled impossibly good. She couldn't help but notice how meticulously he'd trimmed his beard—except for one tiny patch, just a smidge longer than the rest. A spot he'd clearly missed. It was almost endearing.

But his mooch? Of course, it was perfectly trimmed, sitting smugly above his full lips like it knew it was the star of the show.

His fingers cradled her wrist with such gentleness it sent her heart racing, her skin tingling under his touch. His sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms—strong, veined, and utterly distracting. The subtle flex of his muscles as he adjusted the angle of her wrist under the water made her swallow hard.

The corner of her mouth twitched with the beginnings of a grin as an idea formed in her head. Let's take this up a notch, Major Moochasim.

"Main kar lungi," she said, her voice light as she tugged her hand free. His eyes flicked to hers briefly, skepticism clear, but he let go.

Meerab turned back to the sink, reaching for the handle with a dramatic flourish. And then, "Oops!"

Her finger "accidentally" pressed the spray button on the faucet. A sharp stream of water shot out, hitting her squarely in the front of her saree.

"Ahh!" she gasped, stepping back quickly as she turned off the water, staring down at herself in faux surprise.

The red, translucent fabric of her pallu was soaked, clinging to her skin like a second layer. The sheer material left nothing to the imagination, the sleeveless blouse underneath now fully visible, the red-push up bra doing wonders for her cleavage. The sweetheart neckline was emphasized by the way the wet fabric clung, tracing every curve, while her bare waist glistened as droplets of water slid lazily down her skin.

Meerab let out a soft, frustrated whine, grabbing the edge of her pallu. With a decisive tug, she pulled it all away, draping the soaked fabric over the sink. Now, only her blouse covered her upper body, the sleeveless design accentuating the smooth lines of her shoulders and arms. She twisted the pallu in her hands, wringing out the excess water, droplets splashing onto the counter and sink.

When she glanced up, she froze—because Murtasim wasn't moving.

He stood rooted in place, his dark eyes fixed on her, his jaw locked so tightly she could almost hear the tension in his teeth.

Oh, she knew that look.

It was the same one he'd had in the cabin, the night her blanket had slipped and exposed her bare upper body. His gaze, dark and unrelenting, trailed over her figure now, lingering unapologetically on the curve of her waist, the lines of her collarbones, and then back to her blouse. His Adam's apple bobbed as his eyes flickered lower again, briefly, as if against his will, before snapping back to her face.

Clearing his throat, he tore his gaze away, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as if to physically restrain himself.

Meerab's heart fluttered wildly, giddy with the knowledge that he was affected. The tension in his posture, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his breathing seemed just a touch heavier than before—it was all she could do not to grin. She turned her attention back to her pallu, wringing it out with deliberate slowness, savoring every second of his flustered silence.

Meerab draped her pallu back over her shoulder, spreading the damp fabric out carefully, her movements slow and deliberate. She turned to Murtasim with a bright smile. "Let's eat."

He blinked, his jaw twitching as he tried to form words. "Aap ki saree..." he started, his voice uncharacteristically uneven.

"Paani hi hai," she said breezily, waving off his concern. "Baad mein dekh lungi, abhi bahot bhook lagi hai." Without waiting for a response, she turned back to the stove, grabbing the kebabs and expertly plating them.

She reached for the salad, balancing both plates in her hands before heading to the dining table. Placing everything down, she slid into her chair, smoothing the edges of her saree as she settled.

When she glanced up, Murtasim was still frozen in place, rooted to the spot near the sink. His dark eyes hadn't left her.

Meerab bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. "Major Moochasim," she sang sweetly, tilting her head at him. "Kebab thande ho jayenge!"

That seemed to snap him out of his stupor. He walked stiffly to the table, sitting down with an almost mechanical precision. His gaze remained firmly on his plate, avoiding her entirely, but the tightness in his shoulders gave him away.

Meerab picked up a kebab, taking a small bite while watching him from under her lashes. She had to hold back a giggle as she saw him try to eat without glancing in her direction.

She watched as he took his first bite, her own food momentarily forgotten. His jaw worked slowly, and then she saw it—the slight widening of his eyes.

"Ache hain?" she asked, her voice soft but playful, leaning forward ever so slightly.

He paused, finally looking up at her, and nodded. His expression was guarded, but there was something behind his gaze, like he wanted to say more but was holding himself back.

"Kya hua?" she prompted, her brows knitting together in faux concern.

Murtasim shook his head, going back to his plate without a word.

Meerab sighed dramatically, setting her fork down with a small clink. "Aap ne naa bolne ki kasam khayi hai?"

He rolled his eyes, his hand reaching for another kebab.

"Ache lage?" she pressed again, her lips forming the faintest pout as she tilted her head.

"Bahot," he said simply, his voice quiet but firm.

Her grin spread wide, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Aakhir banaye kisne hain?"

He gave her an exasperated look, but the corner of his lips twitched like he was holding back a smile. "Recipe kahan se li?" he asked, his tone as dry as ever.

Meerab hesitated for a moment, wondering if the kebabs actually tasted like his mother's. After all, it was technically her recipe, courtesy of Barlas. She shrugged nonchalantly. "Online," she lied with a little shrug. "But theek se follow nahi ki."

Murtasim hummed, the sound low in his throat, and Meerab felt her toes curl in delight when she saw the faintest smile tugging at his lips as he took another bite.

She kicked her feet lightly under the table, biting back a triumphant grin.

Oh, she was getting to him.

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

Meerab closed the bathroom door with a soft click, leaving it unlocked. She couldn't help but grin, her cheeks warming at the sheer audacity of her own plan. Just do it, she told herself, I am not getting any younger.

Sliding out of her red saree, she carefully adjusted lingerie, her fingers brushing over the delicate lace as it fit snugly against her skin. She adjusted the thin straps of the bra, the intricate floral design leaving little to the imagination. The sheer fabric hugged her perfectly, framing her in a way that felt both scandalous and empowering.

The panties were just as daring. The lace was almost entirely translucent, with intricate patterns that barely covered what they needed to. Thin straps curved around her hips, dipping low at the front and accentuating the lines of her waist. She twirled a bit, giggling at the reflection in the mirror.

The bright red contrasted beautifully with her skin, and she couldn't help but admire the way it all came together. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in loose curls, and her lips—still painted a matching red from earlier—curved into a sly smile.

She turned slightly, examining herself from the side, then the back, biting her lip as she took in how the lace hugged her curves like a second skin. The vibrant red against her complexion, the way it accentuated every detail—it was undeniable.

"Major Moochasim is not going to survive," she murmured, her grin widening before dissolving into a nervous laugh.

Her fingers fidgeted with the delicate straps as her mind wandered to the possibilities. She didn't know exactly how he'd react if he saw her like this. Maybe he'd groan again, the way he had in the cabin when he'd seen her blanket slip. Her eyes flickered to the counter she was standing in front of, a wicked thought crossing her mind.

Maybe he'd kiss her. Maybe he'd push her back until she was perched on that very counter, his large hands gripping her waist as he lost the stoicism he wore like armor. The thought sent a shiver coursing through her, and her face flushed so hot she had to look away from her own reflection, heat pooling between her legs.

"Focus, Meerab," she muttered, shaking her head. Her eyes landed on the two giant bottles of shampoo and conditioner sitting innocently on the counter. Right. It's all part of the plan. This is for your own good. Be brave.

Taking a deep breath, she sank onto the floor, sitting cross-legged in her ridiculous red lace as she reached for the bottles – pushing them off the counter at the same time.

The bottles hit the floor with a loud, echoing thud, both of them toppling over like a bowling pin.

Then, to make it worse, she let out an overly loud, completely theatrical scream.

Meerab scrambled to pick them up, panic rising in her chest knowing she needed to hide them before Murtasim came running in. "Oh, shit," she muttered, fumbling to shove the bottles into the cabinet beneath the vanity.

The thuds and the scream combined were enough to do the trick because seconds later, she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Heavy, fast, urgent.

"Miss Ahmed?"

It was him. His voice, sharp and commanding, sent a jolt through her, and she immediately hissed dramatically, grabbing at her side as if in pain, straightening her legs.

The bathroom door opened.

"Are you o—"

He stopped mid-word, mid-step, mid-everything.

His dark eyes went wide, flickering over her with the kind of intensity that made her throat go dry. He'd seen her topless before—briefly, and under very different circumstances. But this... this was different.

The sheer red lace, the plunging neckline of the bra, the straps that curved over her shoulders and disappeared into the delicate floral pattern. The panties that left almost nothing to the imagination, their thin straps sitting high on her hips.

She felt the heat of his gaze like a physical touch, the way it moved over her skin, lingering on her exposed collarbones, the dip of her waist, the long lines of her legs. His jaw clenched, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

"Murtasim," she said, her voice soft, almost teasing.

He finally tore his gaze away, but it was too late—she'd seen everything she needed to. The tension in his shoulders, the way his fists clenched at his sides, the way his breathing hitched just slightly.

"I—" he started, but his voice caught. He cleared his throat, his eyes resolutely fixed on the ceiling now. "Aap... theek hain?"

Meerab whimpered softly, her hand resting on her lower back as she made a show of wincing. "I slipped," she said, her voice trembling just enough to sound convincing. "My back... it hurts."

He stayed frozen, rooted to the spot, clearly torn between concern and his usual stoicism. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, and his shoulders tightened as though bracing himself.

"Help me up," she murmured, her big eyes locking onto his.

He shook his head slightly, as if trying to clear it, before taking a reluctant step forward. He extended a hand to her, his long fingers hovering inches from hers.

"Chaliye," he said, his voice calm, but she could see the tension rippling through him.

Meerab glanced at his outstretched hand and shook her head, her lips curving into the faintest pout. "Nahi hoga," she said softly, her voice almost pleading.

His shoulders slumped ever so slightly as he let out a loud exhale, the sound filled with quiet resignation. Then, in one swift, practiced motion, he crouched in front of her.

Before she could register the moment fully, one of his hands slid to her lower back, the other moving under her bare thighs. His palm pressed firmly against her skin, lifting her effortlessly.

The sensation was electric.

Her back arched instinctively at the feel of his touch, the heat of his large hand searing against her lower back. His fingers brushed against her bare thighs, the contact sending sparks shooting up her spine. She couldn't suppress the soft whimper that escaped her lips, the sound slipping out before she could stop it.

Murtasim stilled for half a second, his eyes flicking up to her face, sharp and assessing. "Zyada dard ho raha hai?" he asked, his voice low, steady, but with an edge of genuine concern.

Yes. That was what she wanted to say. Yes, and it's entirely your fault, and the pain isn't in my back, it's between my legs, it's been like that for weeks, and it's something only you can fix.

But instead, she bit her lip, swallowing the words threatening to spill out, and shook her head faintly.

Her arms instinctively wrapped around his shoulders as he straightened, holding her close. Her chest brushed against him, and she felt the warmth radiating from his body, the firm lines of his chest and arms pressing against her.

Murtasim carried her effortlessly into the bedroom, his steps sure and steady despite the storm of emotions clearly swirling beneath the surface. Meerab's heart pounded in her chest, her skin hyperaware of the feel of his hands—one pressed firmly against her bare thighs, the other supporting her back, his palm just brushing the edge of her bra strap.

Her arms clung around his shoulders, her fingers itching to slide up into his perfectly trimmed hair, to pull him closer. He was so close already, his face just inches from hers, his lips set in a hard, determined line. It would be so easy, her mind whispered. Just tilt her head up, close the gap, and kiss him until he forgot every reason why he kept holding himself back.

She could imagine it so clearly—his weight pressing her into the mattress, his hands gripping her hips, his lips devouring hers until there was no space, no breath, no restraint left between them.

But she didn't. Somehow, she resisted, even as her body screamed at her to just pull him down already.

He reached the bed and lowered her carefully onto the mattress, his movements deliberate, like he was trying not to let his fingers linger on her skin too long. But even so, every touch left a trail of fire in its wake.

Murtasim straightened, his broad frame looming over her as he reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed.

"Wait!" Meerab whined, her voice laced with just enough desperation to make him freeze.

His eyes darted back to her, dark and searching. "Kya hua?" he asked, his voice strained.

She bit her lip, shifting slightly on the bed, the movement drawing his gaze for a fleeting second before he forced it back to her face. "My back," she murmured. "Dard ho raha hai...aap balm laga denge?"

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Murtasim's jaw clenched, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "Main kisi aur ko bula deta hoon," he said, his voice tight, his gaze flickering toward the door like he was ready to bolt.

Meerab reached out, grabbing his wrist lightly, her fingers curling around his skin. "No," she said quickly. "I've already embarrassed myself enough in front of you. Ab list aur lambi nahi karni."

His lips pressed into a thin line, the tension in his shoulders radiating out like a physical force. For a moment, she thought he might actually refuse. But then he sighed—a long, frustrated sound that made her fight the urge to giggle—and nodded.

"Turn over," he said, his voice gruff.

Meerab suppressed a smirk as she shifted onto her stomach, letting out a soft whimper for good measure. She bit her lip, her face buried in her folded arms to hide her grin as he let out a loud exhale. Shibra always does say I have a great ass.

She felt the bed dip slightly as Murtasim sat down beside her, and her heart skipped a beat. "Side table ke pehle drawer mein Voltaren hogi," she murmured, her voice muffled but clear enough for him to hear.

There was the soft sound of the drawer opening, a pause, then it slid shut again. She felt the cool gel touch her lower back first—his fingers tentative at first but firm as he began to rub it in.

Oh, God.

The sensation was electric, his warm, strong hands working the gel into her skin with deliberate strokes. His touch was methodical, but she could feel the slight tremble in his fingers as they moved over her. Every press of his palm, every glide of his fingertips sent shivers racing up her spine.

"Higher," she muttered softly, her voice just a touch breathless.

He hesitated, and she could almost feel his internal debate. But then his hands moved, sliding up to the center of her back, rubbing the ointment in slow, deliberate circles. His touch lingered, firm and sure, and she could feel his warmth through every stroke.

"Higher," she said again, her tone almost teasing.

He let out a sharp exhale, but his hands obeyed, moving up to her shoulder blades, his fingers spreading the gel over her smooth skin. His touch was steady, but she could feel the tension in him, the way his movements slowed just slightly, lingering longer than necessary.

Meerab closed her eyes, biting back a sigh of satisfaction. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the way his breathing was just a little heavier now, his self-control fraying at the edges.

If this wasn't progress, she didn't know what was.

Her mind was fixated on the warmth of his hands, the strength of his fingers against her skin. Heat coursed through her, pooling low in her stomach before radiating between her thighs. The throbbing there was impossible to ignore, and every movement of his hands only made it worse.

Her lips parted, a quiet sigh escaping before she could stop it. She had planned to affect him, to make him lose his composure, but now she wasn't sure who was seducing whom.

"Murtasim," she murmured softly, her voice slightly breathless. "Pink wala cushion dena. I want to put it beneath my stomach."

His hand froze mid-stroke, the sudden stillness palpable. For a moment, she thought he might argue or tell her to get it herself. But then he shifted, leaning over her to reach for the cushion on the far side of the bed.

As he bent forward, his broad frame cast a shadow over her, his warmth enveloping her. She turned her head slightly, her gaze sliding to the side of the bed—and immediately landed on him as he stood upright again.

Her eyes flickered down before she could stop herself, catching the way his hand subtly adjusted his crotch. Oh.

Her lips twitched, fighting the urge to smirk. So he was affected by this. Interesting.

"Aap meri help kar sakte hain?" she asked innocently, lifting her hips slightly off the mattress to make space for the cushion.

The tension between them thickened, the air growing warmer as he crouched again. She could feel it, the unspoken charge crackling like a live wire.

Carefully, he slid the cushion beneath her, his fingers grazing her bare stomach as he adjusted it into place.

She shivered at the contact, the light brush of his fingertips against her skin sending another jolt of heat through her, she wished his fingers strayed lower. Her body betrayed her with a soft gasp, and she bit her lip, her mind spinning. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was the one who was supposed to feel this way, not me.

Murtasim cleared his throat, his voice rougher than usual as he stood. "Do you want painkillers?" he asked, his tone clipped but not unkind.

She shook her head, turning her face to the side so he wouldn't see the amusement in her eyes. "No," she said softly.

He nodded once, grabbing the blanket at the foot of the bed and draping it over her carefully. His hands lingered for the briefest moment at the edge of the blanket, as if he wanted to say something—or do something—but then he pulled back abruptly.

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door, his steps hurried.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the moment it did, Meerab burst into giggles. She rolled over onto her back, her hair fanning out over the pillow as she kicked her legs up in the air like a giddy teenager.

"Oh, he was so turned on," Meerab whispered to herself, her cheeks flushed as she stared up at the ceiling, her legs still kicking happily in the air. The memory of the tension in his jaw, the way his hands trembled against her skin, and the way he had adjusted himself, replayed in her mind like a favorite song.

Then she heard it—a door closing.

She froze, sitting up slightly. His room, her mind supplied.

Meerab grinned to herself but then paused as another sound followed: the faint click of another door. She furrowed her brow, her grin widening as realization struck. His bathroom.

Was he going to... help himself?

The thought made her stomach flip, heat coursing through her at the mere possibility. She scrambled off the bed, grabbing her robe and pulling it on quickly, cinching it tightly at the waist. The soft fabric brushed against her legs as she padded barefoot out of her room, the cold floor grounding her just enough to keep her focused on her mission.

She moved quietly down the hallway, her footsteps barely audible as she reached his door. The anticipation thrummed in her chest, her heart racing as she pressed her ear against the solid wood.

Silence.

And then, faintly, the sound of running water.

Meerab's lips twitched into a triumphant smirk. The shower. She gripped the doorknob, hesitating for a moment before turning it as slowly as possible. The door gave way with a soft creak, and she slipped inside, closing it just as carefully behind her.

His room smelled like him—clean, crisp, and just the faintest hint of spice. The scent alone made her knees weak, but she steadied herself, tiptoeing toward the bathroom door like a cat on the hunt.

She pressed her ear against the bathroom door, biting her lip as she strained to hear over the steady hum of the shower. Her heart was pounding now, loud enough that she half-expected it to drown out everything else.

Stop it, she scolded herself silently. This is crossing a line, Meerab. Even for you.

But she couldn't pull away. Curiosity, desire, and a mischievous thrill kept her rooted in place.

And then she heard it.

A low, guttural groan, barely audible over the sound of the water but unmistakable.

Her lips parted, her breath hitching as heat surged through her. She closed her eyes, her imagination filling in the gaps her ears couldn't.

Meerab whimpered softly, pressing her forehead against the door as a shiver ran through her. The sensation shot straight between her legs, a familiar ache blooming low in her stomach. She shifted on her feet, the dampness between her thighs soaking through the thin fabric of her panties, making her painfully aware of how turned on she was.

Her fingers clenched into fists at her sides, her breathing uneven as she tried to steady herself. What are you doing? her rational mind whispered, but the rest of her wasn't listening.

All she could think about was him—how he had looked at her, how his touch had felt, how he was now behind that door, possibly thinking about her as he tried to find release.

And God help her, but she wanted to open the door.

Meerab leaned harder against the bathroom door, her breathing ragged as the vivid images flooding her mind took control. The water hissed against the tiles, each splash fueling her thoughts. She could see it clearly now—Murtasim, his muscular frame glistening under the stream, water cascading down the defined ridges of his abs, his broad shoulders trembling as his fist gripped his thick cock.

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, her thighs pressing together instinctively. She imagined the slow rhythm of his hand, sliding up and down his shaft, the veins pulsing against his skin. His head would tilt back, exposing the strong line of his throat as guttural groans slipped from his lips—groans she could still hear.

God, the sounds. She closed her eyes, envisioning his jaw clenched tight, the strain evident as he worked himself harder, faster, his other hand bracing against the wall for support. She imagined the water tracing paths over his skin, droplets catching the light before slipping lower, teasing her mind as they reached his cock, mingling with his slick movements. Her breath caught as she pictured his fingers tightening, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.

The ache between her thighs became unbearable, a desperate throb that left her panties soaked. Her fingers trembled at her sides, wanting—needing—to do something, anything, to ease the pressure building inside her. But it wasn't enough. She wanted to see it. Wanted to touch him.

Her fantasies spiraled. She saw herself pushing the door open, boldly stepping inside, the steam enveloping her as his eyes shot open, startled. His hand still on his cock, but only for a moment, because she'd close the distance between them with a smirk. Her hands would replace his, wrapping around him firmly, her touch earning a low curse as she began to stroke him, her lips finding his.

He'd kiss her back with the same intensity, their mouths hungry, desperate. Her knees would hit the wet tiles as she lowered herself before him, her tongue flicking out to taste him, his groans vibrating through her as she took him deeper, reveling in the way he'd fall apart under her touch, under her mouth.

Meerab let out a shaky whimper, biting down on her knuckle to muffle the sound. The images were too much, her body reacting with a force she couldn't contain. She cursed under her breath, trying to will herself to stop, but her mind betrayed her, looping back to the way he might moan her name, the way his hand would tangle in her hair as he gave himself over to her completely.

Then it happened.

"Meeeeerabbbb."

The groan was low, guttural, and unmistakable. Her heart stopped, her eyes snapping open as every nerve in her body lit up. No. No way. Did he really just—

Her knees nearly buckled as her brain caught up. He was thinking about her. Jerking off to her. The realization sent a fresh wave of heat crashing over her, her lips parting in a stunned gasp. She stumbled back from the door, her chest heaving, her thoughts a chaotic mess.

Fuck. Shit. He was thinking about her. Murtasim—Major Murtasim Khan—was touching himself to the thought of her.

Before she knew it, her legs carried her out of the room, her steps hurried and uneven as she fled back to her own space, her heart pounding louder than ever. Her body still burned, the wetness between her thighs an unbearable reminder of how badly she wanted him, but her mind was too frazzled to process it all.

She collapsed onto her bed, his name falling from her lips in a tortured whisper.

Meerab lay sprawled on her mattress, her chest heaving, the phantom echo of his groan—her name—still vibrating in her ears. Her thighs pressed together tightly, but it wasn't enough. The throbbing between her legs was maddening, each pulse sending shockwaves through her that made her back arch involuntarily. She bit her lip hard, trying to stifle the whimper that slipped free as she shifted her hips against the mattress, seeking any friction. It didn't help.

Her panties were soaked, the flimsy material sticking to her like a second skin, and every movement made her achingly aware of just how wet she was. With a shaky breath, she reached for the knot of her robe, untying it slowly, her fingers trembling. The fabric parted, falling open to reveal her body, her lace bra doing little to conceal her hard nipples, the peaks straining against the delicate material. The cool air brushed over her, eliciting a hiss as her hands moved upward, trailing over the curve of her breasts.

Her fingers grazed her nipples, and she gasped, the sensation sending a jolt straight to her core. She cupped herself fully, kneading the soft flesh, her hips bucking slightly as pleasure sparked through her. Her breathing quickened as her hands slid lower, over her stomach, the taut muscles twitching beneath her touch. When her fingers reached the waistband of her panties, she hesitated for only a moment before slipping past them to the crotch, pulling it aside.

Her eyes fluttered shut as her fingers found her slit, a desperate whimper escaping her lips at how drenched she was. She ran her fingers along her folds, gathering the slick wetness before dragging it to her clit. The first circle of her finger around the sensitive nub made her gasp, her back arching off the bed.

Her mind immediately went back to him. The way his hands had felt on her earlier—warm, firm, possessive as they glided over her back. She could still feel the ghost of his touch, how his fingers had lingered just a moment longer than necessary against her stomach, his thumb brushing against her skin in a way that felt deliberate. She whimpered, her fingers moving faster, imagining his hands instead of hers. His hands, so much larger and rougher, wrapping around her hips, pulling her against him.

Her mind shifted, the images growing bolder. She thought of his long, thick fingers, so much longer than hers, pressing against her folds, sliding inside her, filling her completely. Her breath hitched as she imagined those same fingers wrapped around his cock earlier in the shower, stroking himself to thoughts of her. She could see it so clearly—his jaw tight, his lips parted as he groaned her name, his cock straining in his grip.

But what had he been thinking about? Her head spun with possibilities. Did he think about the way she'd looked earlier? In the saree? In the lingerie? Or did he think about how her body had shivered when his hands had brushed against her? Or had he imagined her here, in this bed? Did he think about spreading her legs, pushing aside the crotch of her panties as she had just done, and taking her? Did he imagine starting with his fingers, teasing her until she was a writhing mess before sliding his cock inside her, stretching her until she couldn't take any more?

Meerab's fingers moved faster, her wetness making the motions slick and easy. She couldn't hold back the moan that escaped her lips, his name spilling from her as she imagined him above her, his body pressing her into the mattress, his weight grounding her as he took her. Her mind conjured the image of her on her stomach, a pillow beneath her hips, her panties shoved to the side as he straddled her, his cock driving into her with deep, unrelenting thrusts.

Her hips lifted off the bed, her body chasing the pleasure as she pictured him pulling her hair, yanking her up just enough so he could hear every cry, every desperate moan she made. Her fingers circled her clit faster, her breath coming in short, broken gasps as the tension coiled tighter and tighter in her core. She was right there, teetering on the edge, but no matter how fast or hard she rubbed, she couldn't tip over.

"Fuck," she whimpered, her thighs trembling as frustration mixed with the overwhelming pleasure. "Murtasim... please." Her voice was a needy, breathless plea, her entire body consumed by the thought of him, the desperate ache for release building until it felt like she might shatter.

The door burst open, slamming against the wall, and she froze mid-motion, her chest heaving.

"Are you okay?" Murtasim's voice rang out, frantic, shaken. He stood in the doorway, his chest rising and falling as though he'd sprinted a mile. His hair was damp, droplets clinging to his temples, his t-shirt plastered to his chest, the faint outline of his muscular frame visible beneath. His eyes darted over her quickly, wide with concern—until they weren't.

His gaze landed on her fully, and everything shifted. "Fuck," he breathed, the word rough, barely audible, as though it had been wrenched from his chest. His eyes darkened, his lips parting as he took her in—really took her in.

Meerab lay sprawled across the sheets, her robe open, her lace bra doing nothing to conceal her hard nipples, and her panties... God, the crotch of her panties was pulled aside, her fingers slick with her arousal as they pressed against her trembling folds.

She should have screamed. Should have yanked the robe closed or thrown a blanket over herself, just like she had that night in the cabin when her blanket had slipped. But she'd regretted that since, and she wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. Not now. Not with the way his gaze was devouring her.

So she didn't stop. She kept touching herself, her fingers circling her clit deliberately, her eyes locked on his. Her cheeks burned, but she didn't look away, and she didn't miss the way his eyes flickered between her face and the slick movement of her fingers.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, and his jaw clenched as though he was fighting some inner battle. "Aap... chila rahi thi," he said finally, his voice low and thick, making the words even more devastating. His hand reached back to close the door behind him with a quiet click, the sound sealing them in together, the air between them crackling with tension.

Meerab's heart raced as his gaze dropped lower, trailing down her body, drinking her in. The way he looked at her, like he was committing every inch of her to memory, sent a new wave of heat pooling in her core. Her cheeks burned hotter, but she couldn't stop. Her fingers moved faster, rubbing against her clit, her breath coming in short, trembling gasps.

"I... I was..." she whispered, her voice faltering as a whimper escaped her lips. Her hips lifted off the bed slightly, her body desperate for more. "Please, Murtasim."

His groan was guttural, primal, and it sent a shiver down her spine. He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming as the space between them closed. His eyes roamed over her body again, lingering on her hand, her thighs, her breasts, before snapping back to her face.

And then he moved closer still, slow and deliberate, his gaze locking onto hers, filled with something dangerous, something that made her whole body tremble with anticipation.

Murtasim's eyes stayed fixed on her trembling body, the tension between them snapping taut. His voice came low, commanding, "Move your fingers away." His gaze flickered between her face and the soaked mess between her legs, hunger simmering in his dark eyes.

Meerab whimpered, shaking her head instinctively, her hips jerking upward in defiance. The thought of stopping felt impossible, unbearable. "Meerab," he said again, his tone rougher, his voice wrapping around her like a tether and pulling her in. That single word carried a weight she couldn't resist.

Slowly, reluctantly, her fingers stilled and moved away, her body already aching for what was to come.

Her breath caught as he stepped closer, going to the foot of the bed. She watched, frozen in disbelief, as he leaned down, his strong hands gripping her knees and hitching them over his elbows with ease. Without warning, he pulled her down the mattress abruptly, the motion making her gasp as her back arched involuntarily. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders wedged between her thighs, spreading her open for him.

Meerab scrambled up onto her elbows, needing to see him, her heart pounding so hard it echoed in her ears. The sight of him staring between her legs, his gaze dark and unrelenting, made her stomach twist with anticipation. Then his hand reached out, slow and deliberate, and his finger—just one long, thick finger—trailed along her slit.

"Oh, my God," she gasped, her entire body jolting at the contact. His finger felt perfect—warm, thick, and steady. Electricity shot up her spine, her toes curling as a whimper escaped her lips. "Murtasimmm..." she moaned, her voice breaking with need as he dragged his finger up to her clit.

He rubbed the sensitive nub with maddening precision, his touch unrelenting yet deliberate, and his groan reverberated through her body. She arched higher, her elbows trembling under the strain, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She thought she knew what was coming, expected him to keep touching her with his fingers—but he surprised her.

Murtasim's head dipped lower, his gaze flicking up to meet hers for a moment, burning with intent, before he moved between her thighs. She barely had time to register what was happening before his beard brushed against the tender skin of her inner thigh, the coarse hair sending a shockwave through her. Her hips bucked in response, and her gasp turned into a sharp cry when his nose brushed her clit.

"Oh—"

The sound barely left her lips before his tongue darted out, flicking against her clit with precision that made her see stars. He moaned against her, the vibrations shooting through her core, making her legs tremble as his tongue flicked her again, then slowly dragged down her slit.

Murtasim's tongue flattened against her clit, dragging slowly over the swollen nub, and Meerab swore the world tilted on its axis. The roughness of his beard brushed against her slick folds, the coarse hair sending delicious friction through her, but it was his moustache grazing her clit that made her cry out. The texture was exquisite—rough and unyielding—against the hypersensitive bundle of nerves. Her hips jerked instinctively, but his grip on her thighs tightened, pinning her to the mattress.

He groaned deeply, the sound reverberating against her skin as his lips wrapped around her clit. The suction was firm, almost possessive, and her entire body arched off the bed as if she could somehow get closer to his mouth. His tongue flicked against her in quick, teasing strokes, then circled her clit slowly, deliberately, as if he were savoring her. Each stroke sent sparks of pleasure racing through her, pooling low in her belly, and she couldn't stop the breathless moans tumbling from her lips.

"Murtasim," she gasped, her voice trembling, her hands fisting the sheets as the sensation built to an unbearable crescendo. He didn't let up—didn't give her a second to breathe—as he switched between flicking her clit with his tongue and sucking on it with maddening precision. His moustache rubbed against her clit with every motion, the coarse, unrelenting texture heightening the intensity until she was writhing against his face.

Her fingers reached for him instinctively, threading through his wet hair, still damp from his shower. The strands clung to her fingers as she pulled him closer, desperate and unapologetic. "Please," she whimpered, her thighs trembling against his shoulders. She tugged at his hair, holding him in place as he devoured her like a man starved.

Murtasim growled against her, the vibrations sending shockwaves through her core. His tongue worked her relentlessly, alternating between firm, broad strokes and sharp flicks that had her teetering on the edge. He pulled back slightly, his lips grazing her clit before sucking it into his mouth again, hard, his moustache rubbing against her with just enough pressure to make her cry out.

"Fuck, Murtasim!" she screamed, her voice raw as her body tensed, every muscle locking up as the orgasm slammed into her. Her back arched, her thighs squeezing his head as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through her, leaving her gasping and shaking. His mouth didn't stop—his tongue and lips coaxing her through the climax, his hands steady on her hips as she bucked against him, completely undone.

It was unlike anything she'd ever felt—so overwhelming, so all-consuming that tears pricked her eyes as the pleasure kept building, her body spasming uncontrollably beneath him. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling hard, but he didn't let up, his tongue lapping at her before stroking her clit gently, coaxing out every last aftershock until her thighs trembled around him, and her breath came in ragged gasps.

When Meerab finally stilled, her chest heaving, she let her head fall back against the pillows, her body trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure. Her limbs felt weightless, her skin warm and tingling as her breaths came in shallow gasps.

Murtasim knelt between her legs, his dark eyes locked on her, his lips glistening with her slick, his mooch and beard damp from her release. The sight of him, raw and unguarded, sent another shiver coursing through her. She didn't want to think, didn't want to break this fragile moment, but then... he did.

He pulled away.

The absence of his touch hit her like a jolt of cold water, sharp and unwelcome. His hands, which had been warm anchors on her body just moments ago, fell to his sides. He sat back on his heels, dragging in deep, uneven breaths, his chest rising and falling in a way that should have been mesmerizing, but all she could focus on was the widening gap between them.

Meerab propped herself up slightly, her brow furrowing in confusion as she watched him. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until he broke it with a quiet, tortured, "Fuck."

Her stomach twisted at the word, dread coiling like a snake inside her.

"What?" she asked hesitantly, her voice small, her fingers gripping the edge of her robe. She pulled it tighter around herself, as if that could protect her from whatever was coming next.

He didn't respond immediately, but she didn't need him to. She saw it—the tension in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw, the way his gaze didn't quite meet hers.

"You regret it," she muttered, her voice flat.

"This..." he finally said, gesturing between them, his tone clipped, detached. "Yeh nahi karna chahiye tha."

She froze. The sharp pang that cut through her chest was almost physical, slicing through the fragile euphoria still humming in her veins. For a moment, she couldn't breathe. Again. He's doing this again.

"Phir se whiskey ki fault nikaloge?" she snapped, her voice hard, defensive. She sat up fully, yanking her robe closed around her body, suddenly feeling far too exposed, far too raw.

The memories hit her like a wave—his lips on hers in the cabin, the way he'd pulled her close, kissed her like she was the only thing holding him together. And then, just like now, he'd pulled away. Shut her out. Pretended like it never happened.

Why did I think this time would be different?

But deep down, a part of her knew they'd moved too fast, too soon. He wasn't ready—maybe she wasn't either—and now it was scaring him away. She hated herself for understanding. For knowing why he was doing this and still feeling like her heart was breaking.

Her nails dug into the soft fabric of her robe as she glared at him, her emotions swirling in a chaotic mess of anger, hurt, and something far too close to love. Why does he keep doing this? Why does he keep pushing me away when all I want is him?

He shook his head, his eyes filled with a storm of emotions she couldn't quite read. "Tumne mujhe...," he muttered.

Her mouth fell open, and she stared at him, her heart breaking a little at his tone. "Maine kya kiya?" she gasped, the sharp edge of betrayal evident in her voice.

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Tumhe kya lagta hai?" he asked, his tone rising slightly. "Ki main bilkul pagal hoon? Ki mujhe pata hi nahi chalega ki tum itne dino se kya karne ki koshish kar rahi ho?"

His words landed like a slap, and her chest tightened as the pain swelled. She glared at him, her voice trembling as she snapped, "Maine yahan nahi bulaya tumko! Tum khud aaye... aur tumne khud..." She trailed off, her voice cracking.

"Pagal kar ke rakha hai mujhe," he said, his voice low and angry, but there was something else—anguish.

Her glare deepened, her fists clenching. "Maine tumhe kuch karne ke liye force nahi kiya!" she yelled, her voice trembling with frustration.

"Mujhe pata hai..." His voice softened for a moment, quiet and almost defeated, before rising again. "Par tum..." He groaned, his hands fisting at his sides as though trying to hold himself together. "Yeh nahi ho sakta."

Meerab let out a harsh, sarcastic laugh, her chest heaving with the force of her emotions. "Tumhe kiss ya yeh sab karne ke baad hi kyun yaad aata hai?"

Her chest heaved with the weight of her emotions, and her nails dug into her palms as she watched him groan again, still saying nothing. His silence was unbearable, suffocating.

"Phir pretend karoge ki jaise kuch hua hi nahi?" she spat, her voice cutting through the tension.

He met her gaze, his eyes filled with regret. "Hum dono ke liye yeh hi acha hoga," he said quietly, as though convincing himself as much as her.

Her rage boiled over, and before she could stop herself, she grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at him. It hit him square in the chest, and he didn't even flinch.

"You're the absolute worst!" she muttered under her breath, reaching for another pillow and throwing it with even more force.

"I know," he said simply, his voice resigned, as if that made it better.

It didn't.

She grabbed another pillow and threw it with more force, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "Hum kar kya rahe hain?!" she yelled, her voice raw and trembling. "Clearly humare beech mein kuch toh hai—"

He opened his mouth to interrupt her, but she wasn't having it. "Maine suna!" she snapped, cutting him off, her glare fierce and unrelenting. "Pehle—jab tum shower mein the, mera naam liya tha tumne! So deny karne ki sochna bhi mat!"

Her finger jabbed in his direction, her words sharp and relentless. "Aur phir se yaad karadoon, tumne apne dost ko bhi kaha tha ki main tumhe achi lagti hoon!"

Murtasim stood there, silent, his eyes wide, his shoulders stiff as if her words had physically struck him.

"Sirf..." Murtasim started, his voice low and uneven. "It's all just hormones and—"

"Shut up and get out!" Meerab yelled, her voice sharp and trembling with fury. Her chest felt tight, her breathing shallow as her anger boiled over. How dare he? After everything, after the way he made her feel, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in his world for those fleeting moments—only to dismiss it all as though it meant nothing.

Murtasim sighed, his hand running through his hair in exasperation. "Meerab—"

"Tumhari problem kya hai?!" she snapped, cutting him off before he could finish. She sat up straighter, her fists gripping the edge of her robe as her voice grew louder, sharper. "You emotionally challenged man! Kabhi kiss karte ho, kabhi kehte ho ki main achi lagti hoon, kabhi aise dekhte ho ya aisa kuch karte ho ki..." Her voice cracked slightly, but she pressed on, her words spilling out in a rush. "Phir yeh karte ho—aur phir kehte ho ki galti hogayi! Aur kisi se kabhi aisi galti nahi hoti toh tum baar-baar yeh galti kaise karte ho?!"

Her eyes burned as she glared at him, her heart pounding so loudly it felt like it might burst. "Kabhi mere baare mein socha hai? Ehsaas bhi hota hai ki tumhare iss behaviour se mera dil toot tha hai, mujhe dard hota hai—yah nahi? Kyunki tumhare paas toh emotions hai hi nahi, haina? Aap ko toh lagta hoga ki main hi ajeeb hoon, yahan pagalon ki tarah koshish kar rahi hoon ki tum apni dil ki baat suno, ki mujhe – "

She waited for him to say something—anything. But he didn't.

Murtasim just stood there, his lips parting like he wanted to speak, his dark eyes wide and filled with something she couldn't decipher. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out. Not an apology, not an explanation, not even a protest.

Her heart cracked, the weight of his silence crushing her. He was supposed to tell her he was sorry, that he was an idiot. He was supposed to fight for her, for them, to explain himself. Instead, he gave her nothing.

Meerab exhaled shakily, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. "Get out," she said, her voice quieter now but just as firm. "Shakal mat dikhana mujhe. I give up. Aise aadmi se main pyaar nahi kar sakti... jo apne hi dil ki baat na bol paye. You've built a wall so high, that even I can't climb it anymore."

For a moment, she thought he might stay. That he'd finally say something, fight back, refuse to leave. But then he turned on his heel and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Tears streamed down her face as she stared at the closed door, her chest aching with every shaky breath. "You idiot," she muttered, her voice cracking. "Rukna tha... jhagad na tha... jaana nahi tha."

Tears pricked her eyes, hot and unrelenting, and she swiped at them angrily with the back of her hand. "Tum ko psychiatrist ki zarurat hai," she hissed at the empty room, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and despair. "Yeh normal behaviour nahi hai, pagal aadmi!"

The ache in her chest grew sharper with every second that passed, and her mind replayed his every word, his every action—or lack thereof.

But then her sadness gave way to something fiercer, something fiery. "Kaise kar lete ho yeh?" she asked aloud, her voice rising as if the walls could somehow carry her question to him. "Pehle mere paas aate ho, mujhe yeh sab feel karwate ho, aur phir...phir chale jaate ho jaise kuch hua hi nahi!"

Her frustration hit its boiling point, and she stomped toward the bathroom, ripping the door open with more force than necessary. "Orgasm ke baad itna kaun rulata hai?" she grumbled under her breath, turning on the shower and letting the hot water run as she stripped off her robe.

The water cascaded over her skin, washing away the physical traces of him, but it couldn't erase the way he'd made her feel. The vulnerability. The anger.

As the steam filled the bathroom, she made up her mind. If he wanted to act like that, she'd give him exactly what he wanted. She'd pretend he didn't exist. She'd treat him the same way he tried to treat her—like he was nothing. She was done trying. If he wanted to disappear behind his walls, fine. Let him.

She stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a towel before heading to her closet. Pulling out her biggest, baggiest pajamas—ones that covered her completely—she slipped them on, the soft fabric swallowing her frame. She felt vulnerable and exposed in them, more naked than she had in the skimpy lingerie hours ago. She hated him for making her feel this way.

"Job chodne nahi dungi," she muttered, tying the drawstring of her pajama bottoms with an angry yank. "Meri shaadi mein bhi mera bodyguard ban kar rehna padega. Honeymoon par bhi—pura tadpaungi tumhe, Major Moochasim."

With her resolve steeled, she grabbed her phone and scrolled through her contacts, hitting Shibra's name. She needed to vent before she exploded.

When her best friend answered on the second ring, Meerab didn't waste a second.

"Shibra," she said, her voice sharp and teetering on the edge of a meltdown. "You won't believe what this emotionally constipated man just did."

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Author's Note: Tadaaaaa! What do you think? What was your favourite part? Do y'all want to kill Major Moochasim? Whatever shall happen next (your guess is as good as mine because I did not plot this story and this chapter is way different than I thought it was going to be). Leave me your thoughts!