Author's Note: Hello hello! Thank you to y'all for all your love for MA&MM, which is basically me bhatk-ing around like a bhoot without a plot and just writing the first thing that pops into my head - so I am especially glad that it makes y'all laugh. I think I am fooling myself and y'all by calling this a short story because this chapter is also 14K words and 30 pages. Onto the next chapter - in Major Moochasim's POV - so I can see everyone starting to make a slow u-turn from hating him to liking him again. Hehe. See you on the other side!

Also, since many were asking (and not following me on Twitter), Barlas is played by Shuja Asad, who I think looks exactly like Wahaj's younger brother in some pictures.

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Murtasim sat in the suffocating stillness of his room, the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock a sharp contrast to the storm raging in his head. His eyes remained fixed on the floor, his hands gripping his knees tightly as if anchoring himself could somehow make sense of the chaos.

Her words played on an endless loop in his mind.

"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?"

Her voice had cracked when she said it, and it had cut through him like a blade. He had never thought she was capable of breaking like that—of feeling so deeply. She was Meerab Ahmed, the girl who laughed with abandon, who teased and flirted and wore her confidence like armor. She wasn't supposed to cry.

But she had.

It was unbearable.

You're the absolute worst.

She wasn't wrong.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.

He clenched his jaw, dragging a hand down his face as frustration and regret warred in his chest. What the hell is wrong with me? The question had been spinning in his head for hours, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't untangle his thoughts.

The sane, logical part of his mind—the one that had kept him grounded all these weeks—had disappeared completely in the face of the tension that lingered between them. That tension had been there for a long time, simmering just beneath the surface, and now it had boiled over in ways he couldn't take back.

He had been holding on by a thread for so long, and that thread had snapped the second he saw her.

It wasn't the first time she had pushed him to the edge.

Murtasim wasn't blind. He had noticed the way she looked at him, the deliberate way she touched him, her flirtation as blatant as the sun. And how could he ignore the sexual tension? It was impossible not to feel it—the weight of it pressed down on him every time she was close.

They had kissed before and it had shaken him more than he cared to admit. He had brushed it off then, told himself it was just the whisky, the tension, and a lapse in judgement.

But he let it happen again.

His hands fisted against his thighs as the memory flashed through his mind again. Meerab, flushed and defiant, her body sprawled out on her bed, in that skimpy red bra that hid nothing, and those panties that she had pulled to the side. Her fingers had moved with a confidence that both shocked and ensnared him, her moans loud and unabashed, her lips shaping his name like it was a plea and a challenge all at once.

And when her eyes locked with his?

She hadn't stopped. She hadn't hesitated for a moment. She had dared him to look away, dared him to resist. And he hadn't. He couldn't.

Even now, just thinking about it made his throat tighten, his body tense. Her boldness had lit a fire in him he couldn't extinguish, and before he even knew what he was doing, he was on his knees, tasting her, worshiping her, letting her destroy him.

For those stolen moments, nothing else existed but her, the way she melted under his touch, the soft gasps and moans that escaped her lips. The lines between them were already blurred, the boundaries he'd tried so desperately to maintain shattered. He had kissed her, touched her, taken her to places he never should have gone. Not because he didn't want her—God, he wanted her more than anything—but because he didn't know how to navigate this firestorm without burning them both.

It wasn't just desire, though it burned through him like an inferno. It was the way she stripped him bare with her confidence, her vulnerability, her maddening ability to make him lose every ounce of control he'd spent years perfecting.

It wasn't just the kiss in the cabin. Or the saree that had clung to her like a second skin. Or the lingerie that had left nothing to the imagination. It wasn't even hearing her moan his name as she touched herself, the sound burning itself into his memory, haunting him at every turn. It was the way she had completely obliterated the wall he'd built around himself, the one that had kept him safe.

Safe from wanting what he couldn't have, what could hurt him.

The regret had settled in almost instantly, cold and suffocating. Because no matter how much he wanted her, how much he craved her—this wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this.

He had thought he knew what she wanted. At first, he'd convinced himself it was all a game to her—a rich girl stuck in a gilded cage, bored and restless after being pulled out of university when the first attempt on her life had been made. He was the only one around her most of the time, the only person close to her age besides Shahmeer and Shibra, and oddly, she hadn't been pushing to see them more often. She had set her sights on him, and for a while, he thought it was nothing more than a distraction.

That was all it could be, right?

He had known women like that. The ones who lingered around the outskirts of army bases, looking for quick, uncomplicated hook-ups. There was nothing wrong with that—it was their choice, their prerogative—and he'd assumed Meerab was cut from the same cloth.

And why wouldn't he? Her behavior screamed infatuation. The clothes, the deliberate closeness, the lingerie, the way she always seemed to "need" him for something. It was hard to see it as anything but a passing crush, something fleeting and frivolous.

She was the Prime Minister's daughter after all. He was just a bodyguard. She could flirt, tease, and play her games all she wanted, but it didn't change who they were or the worlds they came from.

Because there was Shahmeer Sikander.

Murtasim's fists tightened at the thought of him. All the news channels had been buzzing with speculation about Shahmeer's impending marriage—a political powerhouse of a union that would undoubtedly change the country's course. He'd thought, surely this is where she's headed.

What else was he to make of it?

He'd assumed she wanted a final conquest before her inevitable engagement to Shahmeer. A last hurrah, a taste of freedom before stepping into the life she was expected to lead. It happened often enough among women in her social circle. He had assumed...

His thoughts swirled in a storm that refused to calm, dragging him back to the moment her voice had cracked with anger and hurt. Ehsaas bhi hota hai ki tumhare iss behaviour se mera dil toot tha hai, mujhe dard hota hai.

The words echoed in his mind, relentless.

Murtasim groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as her words rang in his ears again. Mera dil toot tha hai, mujhe dard hota hai.

Had he been wrong?

He had thought it was all a game to her—a rich girl's boredom manifesting in elaborate plans to seduce her bodyguard. He had thought she was teasing him, playing with him like a cat with a mouse. She would get what she wanted, whatever it was—him, for a fleeting moment—and then move on. Marry Shahmeer Sikander like everyone expected her to.

It felt like a cruel joke. A joke she might be able to laugh about later, but he wouldn't.

Because for him, it wasn't just a joke. It wouldn't be just a fling.

He didn't know when his feelings had gotten so out of hand. Perhaps it was her laugh that made something in his chest loosen, even when he didn't want it to. Maybe it was the way she teased him, unafraid to push back against his stoicism, or how she made the quiet corners of his life feel a little less lonely.

But he hadn't realized how deep she'd gotten under his skin until now. Until she'd stood in front of him, her voice trembling with raw emotion, telling him how much his coldness hurt her.

He had seen her laugh until she cried before, but he had never seen tears in her eyes—not even when she visited her mother's grave.

He had never thought her capable of tears like that. And yet, there they were.

Could she actually like him?

The thought felt too big, too dangerous.

Because if she did—if she truly meant everything she said—then what?

If he let himself believe that she truly wanted him—that her tears were real, that her frustration was born from something deeper—then he'd crumble. Completely.

Because she would leave.

She was going to marry Shahmeer Sikander. Or someone like him. Someone who fit her world, who belonged by her side. She wasn't his to keep, no matter how much he wanted her to be.

No, he hadn't been wrong.

And he refused to be her last conquest before marriage.

It wouldn't matter to her, but it would destroy him.

Because once she left—and she would leave, just like everyone else in his life—he would be left behind to pick up the pieces of himself again. To pretend that he was okay when he wasn't. To lock away the parts of himself that dared to hope for more, that dared to believe in something as impossible as her loving him.

He couldn't go through that.

He wouldn't.

Murtasim leaned back, closing his eyes as he exhaled a shuddering breath. The ache in his chest wouldn't go away, but he shoved it down, burying it deep where it couldn't reach him.

She would move on, and so would he. He would make sure of it...he would try.

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The air was heavy, too still. Even the distant rustle of trees couldn't cut through the weight pressing down on Murtasim as he stood by the G-Wagon, his posture stiff, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Something felt wrong, and it had been gnawing at him for days, a steady, relentless ache that settled low in his chest.

He stared at the villa, waiting. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. And yet, a part of him—the part he didn't want to acknowledge—was dreading her appearance.

It had been days since she'd looked at him, let alone spoken to him. Days since she had hurled her frustration at him in words so sharp they had left him cut open and raw. He had thought the silence that followed might bring him relief. Instead, it was suffocating.

Meerab stepped out of the villa then, her figure framed by the doorway as she adjusted her purse on her shoulder. She was dressed in a beige linen pant-suit, her hair pulled back into a loose braid. The sunlight caught on the soft strands, but the glimmer felt muted, just like everything else about her lately.

She moved with a calm grace that felt foreign to him, her steps steady, her expression unreadable.

She looked... different.

It struck him suddenly how far she seemed from the Meerab who had once treated life like an endless game to be played. The girl who had pouted and teased and whined until he couldn't help but smile despite himself. That Meerab had felt like a child sometimes—spirited, unpredictable, and exhausting.

But the woman walking toward him now felt far from a child.

She was quiet. Composed. Her every movement deliberate, carrying a weight he hadn't seen before. He found himself thinking about how she sometimes stood beside her father on television—serene, untouchable, her words poised and calculated. This was that woman. The one he had seen on television, charming everyone with her wit but holding everyone at arm's length.

And now, she was holding him at arm's length, too.

"Miss Ahmed," he said as she approached, his voice steady as he opened the back door for her.

She paused, just barely, her head tilting slightly in his direction. For a fleeting moment, he thought she might look at him. That her gaze might soften like it used to.

But she didn't.

"Thank you, Major Khan," she said, her tone polite, detached, and utterly impersonal. She stepped into the car and settled into the seat without another glance.

Major Khan.

Not Murtasim. Not even Major Moochasim, the ridiculous nickname that used to make him roll his eyes but secretly look forward to hearing.

The words were a slap, stinging more than they should have.

He clenched the door handle for a moment before shutting it carefully, as if the act could erase the ache her coldness left behind.

He turned sharply, watching as the staff loaded the rest of her bags into the following car. She had convinced her father to let her accompany him to Skardu. He hadn't even known until her father's chief of security had informed him.

She hadn't told him.

She had once followed him with endless chatter and wild schemes, finding every excuse to touch his arm, brush past him, draw his attention to her. Now, she hadn't said a word about her decision.

As the vehicles prepared to depart, he climbed into the front passenger seat of the G-Wagon, his gaze flickering briefly toward the rearview mirror.

She sat quietly in the back, her profile serene, her head tilted slightly toward the window as if the scenery outside held her complete attention.

This wasn't the Meerab he knew.

The Meerab he knew had a laugh that echoed in his chest and a spirit that could fill the emptiest of rooms. She had been impossible to ignore, whether she was stealing his pens or asking for help with the most trivial tasks. She had stormed into his world like a hurricane, leaving chaos and warmth in her wake.

And now?

Now, she was silent, and it gnawed at him like nothing else.

The car jolted slightly as they started moving, and Murtasim found himself gripping the armrest tightly. His eyes returned to the mirror, lingering on her reflection.

He had told himself he didn't need her antics, her laughter, her chaos. He had told himself her silence was what he wanted.

But the silence was worse.

The silence was unbearable.

His days felt incomplete without her voice breaking through the monotony, without her odd attempts to make him laugh or her over-the-top whining that somehow never failed to bring a reluctant smirk to his face. It had become second nature to expect her, like air. Her absence now left a void that felt sharper with every passing moment.

The warmth she brought, so vibrant and all-consuming, was gone, leaving a cold, hollow space he couldn't ignore. And he hated himself for wanting it back.

Murtasim turned his gaze toward the window, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. The motorcade had formed swiftly, the convoy of cars moving in a precise line toward the airport. His job, as always, was to ensure her safety. Nothing more. Nothing less.

But his eyes betrayed him.

Again and again, they flicked to the rearview mirror, drawn to her as if they couldn't help themselves.

She was leaning against the window, a book in her lap. Her fingers traced the pages slowly, turning them with an almost absentminded air before she closed it and slipped it back into her bag. She didn't look up, didn't glance his way. Instead, she pulled out her AirPods, slid them into her ears, and tapped the screen of her phone.

That was it. No words. No acknowledgment.

A sharp pang twisted in his chest, a raw ache that he tried to suppress.

She used to connect her phone to the car's audio system, filling the air with music loud enough to make his head ache and his lips twitch upward despite himself. Songs he didn't even like—songs he could now hum along to. He could still hear her voice in his mind, half-singing and half-wailing, dramatically switching between languages mid-verse when she forgot the lyrics.

He missed it.

His grip tightened around the armrest as he turned back to face the road, his jaw set.

This was for the better.

No attachment. No room for messiness, for emotions that could only lead to heartbreak.

It was safer this way. Cleaner.

But even as the words formed in his mind, they felt hollow.

Because he already knew the truth.

She was under his skin, threaded into him in a way he couldn't untangle. Her absence wasn't just noticeable—it was a gaping wound, a constant ache that reminded him how much space she had quietly taken up in his life.

He exhaled sharply, his hand brushing over his face as if to erase the thoughts forming there.

This is for the better.

He repeated it to himself like a mantra, but it didn't stop the doubt from creeping in.

Because if he let himself fall, if he gave in to the feelings he'd buried so deep, what then? She might not stay.

She wouldn't stay.

Meerab Ahmed wasn't someone who belonged in his world. Her future was too bright, her spirit too untamed for the life he led. She'd leave, like everyone else had. That was just the way of things.

When she did, it wouldn't just leave a hole. It would shatter him.

He'd been too young to understand the permanence of his baby sister's absence, too unprepared for the loss of his parents. Losing them had left an emptiness that he'd only barely learned to endure. Even when his closest friend had been lost to him, he'd found a way to push through the grief, to keep going.

But Meerab?

It would be different.

Worse.

Because she wasn't just a memory to hold onto. She was here, alive, tangible. She was maddeningly vibrant, a force of nature that had carved her way into his life without permission. The thought of her out there somewhere, living a life that didn't include him—it was a brand of torment he didn't know how to survive.

The ache in his chest sharpened as he risked another glance in the mirror. She was leaning her head against the glass now, her gaze distant.

She had once stormed into his life like a hurricane, a whirlwind of chaos and warmth, leaving no room for stillness.

Now, all that warmth was gone, and the silence felt like a punishment.

This is for the better, he thought again, gripping the armrest so tightly his knuckles turned white.

But the truth gnawed at him.

It didn't feel better. It didn't feel safe. It felt wrong.

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The convoy pulled into the secluded BROQ Resort in Skardu, the high mountain air crisp and cool, carrying the promise of serenity. Security was impeccable, as expected for the Prime Minister's party retreat. The entire resort had been cleared in advance, with armed guards stationed discreetly at key points. The airspace above the resort was locked down, a no-fly zone ensuring absolute safety, while the surrounding area was meticulously combed and secured days prior.

It was a fortress dressed as a haven.

Murtasim was the first to step out of the sleek black Range Rover that had been waiting at the airport. The chill in the air nipped at his skin, but he barely noticed. His sharp gaze swept across the tranquil surroundings, his mind automatically cataloging points of entry and escape routes. His instincts refused to relax despite the airtight security.

And then, he felt her presence.

Turning slightly, his eyes found her almost instantly. Meerab was stepping out of the car, her purse slung over her shoulder, her movements brisk, her expression unreadable. She walked ahead of him, her head tilting slightly to glance at the mountains, the grandeur of the landscape reflected in the windows of her villa.

But she didn't stop to admire it.

She didn't skip, didn't gush, didn't twist around to find him and throw a sly comment his way.

No. She walked with purpose, her shoulders squared, her jaw set.

The knot in his chest tightened painfully.

He watched her as she moved, his eyes drinking in the flutter of her hair in the cold mountain breeze, the determined tilt of her chin. She looked untouchable, distant. Not the woman who had once teased him relentlessly, the one who had barged into his life with jars that needed opening and a stream of never-ending chatter.

His gaze didn't stray from her, not even to take in the breathtaking landscape. The jagged peaks and snow-dusted ridges faded into insignificance compared to the stiff set of her shoulders, the way her hair fluttered in the crisp breeze. She seemed so determined, so untouchable, and it only made the knot in his chest tighten.

She didn't look back to see if he was following, but he was, his steps steady and purposeful as they approached the villa that had been prepared for her.

Her villa was among the best on the property, designed with floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the snow-dusted peaks in the distance. The room was flooded with natural light, warm and inviting.

Murtasim stepped inside first, his eyes sweeping over the space, his instincts sharpening. He already knew it had been secured thoroughly before her arrival—checked, double-checked, and cleared by the advance team. There were no vulnerabilities. And yet, he moved methodically through the space, inspecting every corner, every possible hiding spot. Old habits refused to die, especially when it came to her safety.

As expected, the room was spotless, pristine in its preparation. But still, he lingered.

The words sat heavy on his tongue. An apology, an explanation—something. But he didn't know how to say it. What could he offer her?

How could he make her understand why he had pushed her away when she had every right to hate him for it?

"This is the safest place in Pakistan right now," her voice broke the silence, cutting through the low hum of his thoughts.

He turned to find her standing by the bed, her arms crossed, her expression cool and detached. She didn't meet his eyes directly, her gaze flicking toward the windows instead.

"I know," he replied, clearing his throat. "Lekin agar aapko kisi cheez ki zarurat ho, ya neeche jaana ho—"

She cut him off, her tone even but distant. "You're off-duty unless I leave the grounds."

The words landed heavier than they should have. She hadn't said I won't need you, but it was there—in the stiffness of her posture, the disinterest in her gaze, the way she didn't acknowledge him as more than her bodyguard.

Major Khan.

Nothing more.

Murtasim nodded stiffly, his jaw tightening. "I'll be right next door if you need anything," he said, the words feeling hollow even as they left his mouth.

She didn't respond. She turned away, walking toward the window, her back to him.

His eyes lingered on her for a beat longer, hoping—foolishly—that she'd turn around. That she'd look at him the way she used to, with a glimmer of mischief or warmth.

But she didn't.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he turned on his heel and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

In his own room, he leaned against the closed door, his eyes shutting briefly as he exhaled a long breath. This is what you wanted, he reminded himself. He'd pushed her away for a reason, and it was working.

His chest tightened as he thought of the way she looked at him now—like he was just another part of the security detail. Like he was invisible.

If this distance hurt so much already, what would happen if he gave in? If he let himself fall completely, only to watch her marry Shahmeer Sikander?

Murtasim shoved the thought away, peeling himself off the door and heading toward the bathroom. The weight on his chest didn't lift as he turned on the shower, letting the steaming water cascade over him. It did little to ease the tension coiled tight in his muscles, the ache that had settled deep in his bones.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her.

Her eyes flashing with anger as she hurled her hurt at him. The cold dismissal in her voice when she called him Major Khan. The sound of her laughter—the memory of it—mocking him in the quiet.

Even now, the faintest phantom trace of her scent seemed to cling to him, teasing, haunting.

He scrubbed at his face roughly, muttering under his breath, as though it might drown out the unrelenting thoughts of her.

When he stepped out of the shower, the tension was still there, simmering under his skin. He dressed quickly, pulling on a simple beige long-sleeved shirt under his black jacket, pairing it with black jeans. He didn't bother with his usual meticulous grooming. He didn't have the energy for it.

As he made his way towards the main lobby, the soft hum of conversation reached his ears, punctuated by bursts of laughter.

Then he heard it.

Her laugh.

It stopped him in his tracks, hitting him like a physical blow to the chest.

It had been days since he last heard that sound—days since she had laughed like that. Openly, freely, without restraint. It was a sound he had missed more than he cared to admit.

His heart twisted painfully as he turned toward the source.

There she was, sitting at a table in the dining courtyard, surrounded by Shahmeer and Shibra. She was glowing, her cheeks flushed, her smile wide and genuine. The sound of her laughter rang out again as Shahmeer said something, his expression animated, his grin infectious.

Murtasim couldn't look away.

She looked... happy.

She whacked Shahmeer on the arm playfully, her laughter bubbling over as Shahmeer leaned closer, saying something that had even Shibra chuckling.

The ache in Murtasim's chest deepened.

He clenched his fists at his sides, the leather of his jacket creaking softly under the strain.

This is what you wanted, he told himself firmly.

This was why you pushed her away.

Because this was where she would end up—where she was meant to end up.

With someone like Shahmeer Sikander.

Not you.

And yet, the thought didn't bring him the relief it should have. Instead, it felt like a knife twisting in his chest, the sharp edge carving into him with every glance, every laugh, every moment she shared with someone who wasn't him.

This is for the best, he reminded himself, though the words felt hollow even in his mind.

Murtasim's phone dinged, pulling him from his thoughts. He glanced at the screen and couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. It was a simple message, just a few words, but it was enough to lift the weight pressing against his chest.

He slid the phone back into his pocket, his steps lighter as he headed toward the exit. The mountain air hit him as he stepped outside, crisp and cold, carrying with it the faint scent of pine.

"Bhai!"

The familiar voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned his head sharply, his eyes scanning the area until they landed on a figure leaning casually against a black motorcycle.

Barlas.

Murtasim's heart clenched at the sight of his younger brother. He looked older than he had just a few months ago, his features sharper, more defined, a testament to the grueling work he had been doing in the Jammu-Kashmir region. His uniform was immaculate as always, but there was a weariness in his stance that hadn't been there before.

Still, Barlas grinned at him, his eyes crinkling with mischief, looking every part his younger brother. "Buddhe lag rahe ho, bhai" he teased, straightening up as Murtasim approached.

Murtasim snorted, closing the distance between them in a few quick strides before pulling Barlas into a tight hug. He thumped his younger brother's back with a warmth he rarely showed to anyone else. "Tu bhi," he teased, a grin tugging at his lips. "Kaisa hai?"

Barlas stepped back, smirking. "Bhooka."

"Chal, khaane ka intezaam karte hain," Murtasim replied, nodding toward the café situated within the resort grounds. "Peene ka bhi," he muttered, he needed a drink.

The two brothers walked side by side, their strides unhurried. Murtasim noticed the way the resort's security eyed Barlas, scrutinizing every detail of his uniform, his expression. It was second nature to them, but after a tense moment, they nodded him through without incident.

They found a table in the café, a cozy corner that overlooked the mountains. The café staff greeted them politely, and within minutes, a spread of local delicacies was laid out before them.

Murtasim watched as Barlas dug in with the voracity of someone who hadn't had a proper meal in days. It tugged at something deep inside him—his brother was the only family he had left, apart from his Dai Maa, who now lived in the village. He had missed him.

"Kaam kaisa chal raha hai?" Murtasim asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

Barlas shrugged, swallowing a mouthful of food. "Challenging. Conditions are tough, but the team's solid. Sab sambhal lete hain."

Murtasim nodded, a mix of pride and worry flickering in his chest. "Apna khayal rakha kar," he said firmly, though the underlying concern softened his tone.

Barlas grinned, his expression unabashedly smug. "Aap ko pata hai, main apna dhyan rakhta hoon...waise bhi mere khayal rakhne ke liye toh lines lagti hain." He popped another piece of roti into his mouth, his gaze drifting just over Murtasim's shoulder.

Murtasim frowned, glancing back to follow his brother's line of sight. His eyes landed on a small group of women seated a few tables away, their whispers and glances not exactly subtle. A few looked familiar—staff from the Prime Minister's office, no doubt—but what caught his attention was how they giggled and exchanged quick looks every time one of them dared to glance in their direction.

Murtasim turned back to his brother, his brow furrowing. "Kabhi nahi sudharega naa?"

Barlas laughed, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. "Family mein koi toh flirt hona chahiye, bhai. Warna yeh serious vibes ka balance kaise banega?"

Murtasim rolled his eyes, picking up his glass of water and taking a measured sip. "Kaafi kuch sudharne ki zarurat hai," he muttered under his breath, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips.

Barlas's laugh grew louder, drawing a few more glances from the women. Murtasim ignored it, focusing on his food and the glass of whiskey that reminded him of someone he really didn't want to be thinking about right then.

But Barlas wasn't done.

The younger Khan leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on his brother with an almost mischievous curiosity. "Aur aap, bhai? Aap ka kaam kaisa chal raha hai?"

"Theek," Murtasim said, keeping his tone neutral.

Barlas raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "Theek?"

"Haan," Murtasim replied, his gaze steady as he focused on his plate.

Barlas tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Kuch hua hai."

"Kuch nahi," Murtasim said firmly, but the slight edge to his voice betrayed him.

Barlas's grin turned sly, the teasing glint in his eyes unmistakable. "Yeh aap ka dusra glass hai." He said, looking to the glass of whiskey he was sipping on. "Prime Minister ki beti se pyaar-vyaar toh nahi hogaya, bhai?"

Murtasim's fork stilled mid-air, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second before he resumed eating as though the question hadn't fazed him. "Khaana kha le," he said flatly, but his voice lacked its usual bite.

Barlas laughed, leaning forward on his elbows. "Kuch toh hai," he insisted, his voice light but his eyes sharp.

"Barlas," Murtasim warned, his voice low, his focus unwavering on the plate in front of him.

"Yeh 'Barlas' waala tone tabhi aata hai jab baat sahi ho," his younger brother quipped, leaning back with a triumphant smirk.

Murtasim shot him a brief glare but said nothing, determined to weather this interrogation with silence.

Barlas, however, was undeterred. He tapped his fork against his plate, his grin widening. "Waise, bhai... pyaar karna buri baat nahi hai."

"Main keh raha hoon, kuch nahi hua," Murtasim insisted, his tone firm but his heart racing. Was it that easy to figure out? Could someone just look at him and know?

Barlas hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head as though considering his brother's words. "Theek hai, maan lete hain. Par agar kuch nahi hua hota, toh aap itne... defensive kyun ho?"

Murtasim clenched his jaw, reaching for his water glass with deliberate calm. "Main defensive nahi hoon."

"Bhai," Barlas said, his grin now bordering on wicked. "Aapka 'defensive nahi hoon' waala defensive toh school se le kar aaj tak same hai."

Murtasim groaned inwardly. Why did Barlas have to know him so well?

Barlas leaned in again, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he looked to the side, towards the door. "Waise, agar kuch nahi hai, toh woh itni sad kyun lag rahi hai?"

Murtasim froze, his grip tightening on the water glass. "Kya?"

Barlas waved a hand nonchalantly, but the glint in his eyes betrayed him. "Kuch nahi," he said, biting back a smirk.

"Barlas," Murtasim said warningly, his voice sharp.

His brother only chuckled, shaking his head. "Main toh keh raha hoon, agar kuch nahi hai, toh itna react mat karo. Shayad main galat hoon...shayad nahi."

Murtasim opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of the café door opening drew his attention. He turned his head sharply, his thoughts derailing completely as Meerab walked in, followed closely by Shibra and Shahmeer.

Shahmeer was the first to react, his gaze landing on Barlas before he let out a laugh. "Major Khan 2.0," he said, grinning as his eyes flicked between the brothers.

Barlas, ever the extrovert, didn't miss a beat. "Same genes, better version, still a Captain," he quipped, leaning back with the ease of someone who had charm to spare. Shahmeer laughed, the two hitting it off instantly.

But Murtasim barely registered their exchange. His focus had locked onto Meerab.

The moment her eyes landed on Barlas, they widened slightly, her surprise evident—but it wasn't the reaction that froze him. It was the grin that spread across her face. Wide. Bright. Warm.

It twisted something inside him painfully.

Jealousy hit him hard and fast, simmering beneath his usually composed exterior.

Of course, she'd smile like that at his brother.

Barlas was younger, charming, always quick with a joke. They'd probably get along like a house on fire. It wasn't a stretch to think Meerab had a type, and apparently, the Khan brothers fit the bill.

Murtasim felt his jaw tighten as Barlas—ever oblivious—beamed back at her.

"Why don't you join us?" Barlas asked brightly, his invitation directed at the new arrivals as though he hadn't just shattered Murtasim's fragile grip on his composure.

Murtasim kicked him sharply under the table, but Barlas barely flinched.

Shahmeer laughed and nodded, pulling out a chair. "Why not? Seems like good company."

Murtasim's jaw clenched as he watched the group settle at their table, his irritation growing when Meerab slipped into the seat right next to Barlas.

And then they started talking.

Not just polite introductions or surface-level pleasantries. Real talking. Quiet, easy, as though they'd known each other for years.

Murtasim's fork hovered over his plate, forgotten, as his narrowed eyes stayed fixed on them. He watched the way Barlas leaned slightly toward Meerab, his expression shifting from amusement to surprise for a brief moment before softening. And then—God help him—Barlas began whispering something to her, his tone low and almost... comforting.

And Meerab listened.

The sound of his fork stabbing into his plate was sharp and jarring, drawing a brief glance from Meerab. Their eyes met for a fleeting second, and she rolled hers before turning back to Barlas, continuing their conversation as if Murtasim didn't exist.

Murtasim's grip on his fork tightened, his knuckles white as he forced himself to exhale slowly. He needed to focus on something else—anything else—but the hum of their conversation gnawed at him, refusing to let him go.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Shibra watching him, her lips twitching into an unmistakable smirk.

"What?" he asked gruffly, his irritation clear in his tone.

Shibra shook her head, still smirking as she turned her attention back to Shahmeer.

Murtasim's fingers tightened around his fork. What had Meerab told her? The thought clawed at him, making the simmering jealousy burn hotter.

The café felt stifling suddenly, every sound too loud, every glance in Meerab and Barlas's direction too sharp. He forced himself to breathe evenly, his mind racing with a storm of thoughts he couldn't control.

The conversation flowed around him, laughter and teasing filling the air, but Murtasim felt entirely out of place. Alone, in a room full of people. His eyes strayed, as they often did, to Meerab. She was talking to Barlas, laughing softly at something his brother had said. The sound, so familiar, tugged at something deep within him, but it wasn't directed at him anymore.

Why was she like that with Barlas? Easy, open, so damn familiar. She had been like that with him once, hadn't she? Had she moved on so fast? Was she flirting with his brother now?

A surge of irrational anger bubbled up inside him. He wanted to stab his own brother. His own blood. It was a ridiculous thought, one he immediately tried to shove aside, but it lingered, festering quietly as he watched them.

The idea twisted his stomach, his chest aching with something he couldn't name. He picked up his glass of whiskey and took a long sip, the burn doing little to temper the fire raging inside him.

It didn't make sense. To his knowledge, they were meeting for the first time. So why did they talk like this? Like old friends—or something more?

He hated that he couldn't tear his eyes away from her. From them. From the way she smiled—grinned—as if Barlas had just said the funniest thing in the world.

Barlas, ever the extrovert, tried to include him. "Bhai, yaad hai woh murgha banne ki punishment?" Barlas chuckled, glancing between Murtasim and Meerab. "Bhai was the champion of avoiding it."

Meerab didn't even look at him. She tilted her head at Barlas, clearly uninterested in the anecdote, though she offered him a polite smile.

Murtasim barely heard his brother's words. His attention was glued to Meerab, drinking in the sight of her despite himself.

Her hair had been oddly straight these days. She used to wear it in soft curls that framed her face, bouncing as she moved. He missed them. The new sleekness didn't feel like her—it felt like a version of her that didn't belong to him, one he couldn't reach.

And her lipstick. Gone was the bold red that had once made his heart stutter. She wore something more muted now, a nude-ish color that suited her in a quiet way, but it wasn't the same. He missed the audacity of the red, the way it matched her energy, her spark.

He longed for her to look at him. Just once. To give him one of those smiles, the ones that lit up her whole face and sent warmth spreading through his chest.

Instead, she turned toward Shahmeer and Shibra, her grin bright and easy. His heart clenched painfully as he watched her, that smile not meant for him but for someone else.

"Barlas Arsenal supporter hai," she said, her tone teasing, her eyes sparkling as they locked onto Shahmeer.

Shahmeer gasped, "hell no! Liverpool is where it's at!"

Of course, she would know Shahmeer was a Liverpool fan. Of course, she would tease Barlas about it to make Shahmeer laugh. She knew Shahmeer's favorite football team, his likes, his preferences.

Shahmeer was going to be her husband after all.

The thought hit Murtasim like a physical blow, and before he could stop himself, he sighed heavily.

Shibra turned her head toward him, her brow arching. "You've sighed about a million times," she said dryly, her gaze scrutinizing him in a way that made him want to squirm.

He blinked at her, caught off guard.

She rolled her eyes, letting out an exaggerated sigh of her own. "Men," she muttered, shooting him a glare before turning her attention back to Shahmeer and Meerab.

He wished Meerab would glare at him, at least.

But she didn't do that anymore either.

She didn't look at him the whole time they were there, not even as Barlas stood to leave. "What a nice catch-up," Barlas said, throwing an arm around Murtasim's shoulders.

Murtasim's jaw tightened. "Of course. Itni baatein ki humne," he muttered, his words laced with sarcasm.

Barlas only laughed, the carefree sound grating on Murtasim's already frayed nerves. "Don't worry, bhai. I'll be around again soon."

Murtasim muttered something under his breath, but Barlas was already turning to hug Meerab.

She laughed, the sound light and melodic, though it made Murtasim's chest tighten uncomfortably. She swatted at Barlas's arm as he said something too low for him to hear, her cheeks slightly flushed. "I don't think you should call me that anymore," she said, her voice sounding much too familiar and a little... sad?

What did he call her?

Barlas grinned, leaning closer. "Puri zindagi aise hi bulaunga, don't worry, mujhe pata hai," he said, winking at her before stepping back.

Murtasim's glare deepened, his fists clenching at his sides as Barlas gave him a cheerful wave and strolled out of the café like he didn't have a care in the world.

"Your brother is nice," Shahmeer said casually, breaking the silence. "Clearly the more talkative one."

Murtasim turned his glare on Shahmeer, who smirked in response, clearly amused. "Relax, Major," Shahmeer said with a snicker, shaking his head as he started walking back toward the villas with Shibra.

Murtasim couldn't help but wonder why everyone seemed to find him so entertaining today.

Meerab lingered a few steps behind them, her attention seemingly on the cobblestones beneath her feet.

Seizing the opportunity, he stepped up beside her, his voice low and clipped. "Aap mere bhai se flirt kyun kar rahi thi?"

She almost tripped. Turning her head sharply, she stared at Murtasim, blinking in surprise. "Kya?" she asked, her voice slightly higher-pitched than usual.

"Aap ne suna," he said, his gaze fixed on her, his jaw tight.

Meerab tilted her head, her brow furrowing for a split second before smoothing out. "Wait..." she said slowly, her lips twitching. "Flirting? Seriously?"

Murtasim said nothing, his intense stare unwavering, like he was daring her to deny it.

The corners of her mouth curved upward, and she let out a small, incredulous laugh. "You're unbelievable," she declared, her tone both teasing and genuinely taken aback.

His eyes narrowed, but he stayed silent.

"Aapko pata hai na ki aap ka bhai kaafi attractive hai?" she asked, her tone deliberately casual.

Murtasim froze, his expression darkening. "Meerab—"

"And," she interrupted, her smile turning mischievous, "he doesn't act like I'm some kind of life-ruining hurricane every time I talk to him."

His teeth ground audibly, but she wasn't done.

"Aur...agar aap mujhe pasand nahi karte..." she said, trailing off, her voice deliberately light and breezy as she shrugged, "...toh Barlas kyun nahi? Kaafi cute hai, funny bhi, and..." Her eyes sparkled as she added the final blow, "...he has a motorcycle and a personality."

His nostrils flared, and for a split second, he thought he might actually say something. Instead, he exhaled sharply, his fists clenching at his sides.

Meerab rolled her eyes before she turned and quickened her pace, catching up to Shahmeer and Shibra.

He watched as they both threw their arms around her, Shahmeer laughing at something she said. The sight twisted something deep inside him, an ache he couldn't name.

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

The night was eerily quiet, save for the faint rustle of the wind outside. Murtasim lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, the fan spinning lazily above him. Sleep eluded him entirely, his thoughts running in relentless, maddening circles.

He shut his eyes, willing himself to relax.

Barlas and Meerab talking like old friends.

Barlas and Meerab laughing like they'd shared secrets for years.

Meerab, casually declaring that Barlas was attractive.

His eyes snapped open, and he let out an exasperated groan, dragging his hands down his face. "Mujhe kya ho gaya hai?" he muttered.

She was just flirting. She flirted with Barlas the same way she flirted with him. And it didn't mean anything. It couldn't mean anything. That was just who Meerab was. Bold. Playful. Irresistible.

Murtasim sat up abruptly, the sheets pooling around his waist. He glanced at the clock—it was past midnight—but the heavy ache in his chest refused to let him rest. His feet hit the cool floor, and before he could think twice, he was walking out of his room.

He wasn't even sure where he was going. He told himself he was just checking the villa, but his legs carried him toward Meerab's room, the corridors dimly lit with a soft golden glow. His mind raced ahead of him, conjuring scenarios—what he might say if she opened the door, how she might react. Would she still be angry? Dismissive? Or worse, indifferent?

But he didn't make it to her door.

Halfway across the courtyard, he froze, his breath hitching in his throat.

There she was.

Meerab, her long hair swaying gently with her every step, the golden light catching on the soft curves of her figure as she walked across the cobblestones in her slippers.

And she wasn't heading to her room.

She was heading toward Shahmeer's.

Murtasim felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. His chest tightened, his fists curling at his sides. Of course. Of course, she was.

His mind scrambled to make sense of what he was seeing, but the ache in his chest refused to let logic intervene. He had been right all along, hadn't he? Meerab was just... Meerab. Flirting with Barlas, just like she'd flirted with him. But at the end of the day, she would end up with Shahmeer. It was inevitable.

He stood rooted in place, watching as she disappeared inside Shahmeer's villa.

For a long moment, he stayed there, his thoughts churned with a bitter mixture of anger and resignation. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he turned on his heel and walked back to his room.

The door slammed shut behind him as he strode to the center of the room, his hands shaking at his sides. He stared at the wall in front of him for a moment, then let out a frustrated growl and punched it, the sound echoing in the stillness. Pain shot through his knuckles, sharp and satisfying, but it didn't ease the weight in his chest.

He sat back on the edge of the bed, cradling his bruised hand, his head hanging low. "Main pagal ho raha hoon," he muttered.

He lay down again, closing his eyes and forcing his body to stay still. The ache didn't fade, but exhaustion eventually dragged him into a restless sleep.

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

The banquet hall was a masterpiece of understated elegance, its golden glow radiating sophistication. Chandeliers cast warm light across polished floors, their crystal facets shimmering like stars. Conversations mingled with the soft strains of a live orchestra, creating an air of refined celebration.

Murtasim stood at the edge of the room, his posture rigid, his sharp gaze sweeping the crowd. Officially, his role was security, but tonight, his focus betrayed him. It kept veering, looking for her.

And then, she walked in.

Time slowed.

The crowd blurred, fading into the background as his breath caught in his throat.

Meerab glided into the hall, her steps unhurried yet purposeful, her head held high. Her dress was gold, a masterpiece that seemed to have been crafted for her alone. The fabric shimmered under the lights, hugging her waist and hips before cascading in soft folds to the floor. Thin straps graced her bare shoulders, their delicacy a stark contrast to the strength she exuded. Her hair, styled in soft waves, spilled down her back like molten silk, and the faintest hint of a smile curved her lips as she entered, her eyes scanning the room.

She looked otherworldly. Like a painting come to life, a vision of unattainable perfection.

His chest tightened painfully, his heart racing in a way that felt almost unfamiliar. Every detail of her was achingly beautiful, every step a reminder of what he couldn't have.

Murtasim's fingers curled into fists at his sides as he watched her greet her father. Her smile, soft and genuine, lit up her face, and for a moment, everything else in the room seemed to dim. The golden light kissed her skin, making her glow like the embodiment of something divine.

Even surrounded by ministers, dignitaries, and members of the party elite, she was untouchable. She moved through the room like a queen, her presence commanding, her beauty effortless.

But then he caught movement from the side of his eye, and he felt the moment shatter.

Haroon Shah.

The man was cutting through the crowd with a practiced ease, his smile polished to perfection, his tailored suit a testament to his wealth and status. Son of a prominent minister, Haroon Shah was not just a guest—he was a figure of power, of whispers and rumors.

And according to those rumors, he was also Meerab's ex-fiancé.

Murtasim had noticed him earlier that morning, arriving with his father for the all-day meeting. But what had stuck with him wasn't just the man's presence; it was the way Meerab had reacted. For all her poise, she had faltered when she saw him. A flicker of something—discomfort, perhaps?—had crossed her face before she masked it.

Now, Haroon approached her, his smile smug and self-assured, as though he still had a claim to her. He slid into the seat beside her with an ease that made Murtasim's blood simmer.

Murtasim's jaw clenched, his entire body going taut. His gaze burned into the back of Haroon's head, his thoughts a chaotic mess. What did he think he was doing? Sitting next to her like that? Smiling at her like—

Before he could act on the impulse to do something—anything—Shahmeer Sikander entered the scene.

Glass of champagne in hand, Shahmeer waltzed over to the table with his usual charm, his steps unhurried, his grin as easy as ever. And then, with zero hesitation, Shahmeer pulled a chair from the other table and placed it between Meerab and Haroon, and sat down.

Effortlessly.

As if he belonged there.

Of course he did. Shahmeer Sikander was her to-be-husband, after all—not Murtasim.

His gaze flicked back to Haroon, who didn't even try to mask his irritation at Shahmeer's interruption. Good, Murtasim thought grimly, but it didn't quell the fire in his chest.

Murtasim forced himself to take a step back, retreating to the shadows where he belonged.

"Yeh kya ho raha hai?" Shibra's voice cut through his thoughts, and he turned to find her standing beside him, her expression amused. "You keep staring at her."

"I'm her bodyguard," he replied evenly, his voice colder than he intended.

Shibra laughed, shaking her head. "Meerab meri best friend hai. Tumhe lagta hai mujhe kuch nahi pata? We have no secrets."

Of course.

Murtasim clenched his jaw, choosing silence over a retort.

Shibra's gaze flickered toward Haroon Shah, who was still seated near Meerab, his polished charm as grating as ever. Her eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Jee karta hai uska gala ghont doon," she muttered darkly, almost to herself.

Murtasim raised an eyebrow. "Meerab ke liye?"

"Of course," Shibra replied. "She dodged a bullet with him."

Murtasim's lips twitched into a brief, humorless smile. "Shahmeer might kill him anyway."

Shibra chuckled, shaking her head. "Shahmeer almost did once – Haroon is a vain man that is very attached to his hair."

"What?" Murtasim asked, his confusion genuine.

Shibra leaned in slightly, her tone light but brimming with satisfaction. "Uske shampoo aur conditioner ko Nair se replace kardiya tha." She smirked, clearly savoring the memory. "Kuch hafte ganja aur bina eyebrows ke rehna pada usse."

Murtasim blinked, momentarily caught off guard before the image of a bald, eyebrow-less Haroon Shah filled his mind. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips.

"Meerab ka idea tha?" he asked, curiosity slipping into his voice.

"Surprisingly, no," Shibra replied with a laugh. "Shahmeer ka tha. They're more alike than you'd think."

Murtasim's smile faltered slightly, her words landing heavier than she likely intended. His gaze drifted back to the table where Meerab and Shahmeer sat, her laughter ringing out again.

More alike than you'd think.

The ache in his chest returned, sharper this time, as he forced himself to look away from the table. "They'll be happy together then," he muttered, his voice tight, barely audible.

Beside him, Shibra turned sharply, her brows knitting in confusion. "Huh?"

The clinking of cutlery and the low hum of conversation filled the air, but it was distant, background noise to the storm brewing inside Murtasim. His focus narrowed entirely on her questioning gaze, the weight of her confusion unsettling. Her sharp gaze was fixed on him like she was waiting for him to say something stupid.

He obliged.

"The articles," he started, his voice low. "The news... Shahmeer is marrying Meerab."

For a moment, Shibra just stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then, her lips twitched, and before he could process it, she let out a snicker.

"Are you serious right now?" she asked, her voice laced with incredulity.

Murtasim frowned, his confusion growing. "Haan," he replied, a defensive edge creeping into his tone. "Why else would he—"

Her laughter erupted, starting as a soft chuckle and then spilling out in full force. She clutched her side, her head tilting back as she laughed like he'd just told the best joke she'd heard in years.

"Oh my God," Shibra said between giggles, wiping at her eyes. "Tumhe lagta hai ki unn dono ki shaadi hogi?"

Murtasim's confusion deepened, a sharp pang of unease threading through his chest. "Haan?"

Shibra shook her head, still laughing, as she raised her left hand. An enormous diamond ring sparkled under the golden light, catching his attention immediately.

His stomach plummeted.

"But Meerab..." he started, his voice trailing off, the sentence left unfinished as his thoughts raced.

Shibra sighed, her laughter softening into an amused grin. "Meerab was just trying to make you jealous," she said, her tone light but pointed. "Unke beech kuch nahi hai...mujhe laga ki tumhe pata hai. Shahmeer mera fiancée hai, humari shaadi ho rahi hai, hum dono bachpan se ek dusre ko..." She trailed off, smirking at him.

Murtasim blinked, the pieces falling together in his mind like a cruel puzzle. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, the weight of realization settling over him.

"Aap ko sach mein aisa laga? All this time? Aap ne hum dono ko itni baar saath dekha...uss din car mein bhi, aap ke ghar ke bahar? Itni badi ring bhi nahi dikhi?" Shibra asked, her tone dripping with disbelief.

"Yes," he admitted, his voice clipped, the word feeling heavier than it should have.

"Aur..." Shibra tilted her head, her amusement fading into something softer, almost pitying. "And you thought that while she was telling you she liked you?"

"I thought..." he started, but the words felt stuck in his throat.

"You thought she was just playing around?" she pressed, her brows arching in disbelief.

Murtasim nodded slowly, his face taut with tension.

Shibra let out a long sigh, shaking her head as if she couldn't quite believe him. "You really are an idiot."

His jaw clenched at her words, but the truth of them gnawed at him.

"Woh aisi nahi hai, aap ko waqai pasand karti hai, Major Khan," Shibra said, her voice more serious now. "Meerab... she wears her heart on her sleeve. I know ki woh thodi bachkani hai, aur uska koi filter nahi hai...lekin woh logo ke jazbaaton se khelti nahi hai."

Murtasim let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Lekin aakhir mein toh kisi Shahmeer Sikander ya Haroon Shah se hi shaadi karegi naa," he muttered, almost to himself. "Main toh sirf ek temporary distraction hoon, tease karne ke liye, stupid seduction plans try karne ke liye."

Shibra stared at him for a long moment, her gaze sharp and unrelenting. Finally, she let out another sigh, this one heavier, filled with frustration. "Meerab is going to kill me for this. Meerab aap ko pasand karti hai. Bahot. Actual mein. Usne socha ke aap bhi usse pasand karte ho...bas maan-naa nahi chahte, isliye...shayad uska behaviour thoda over hogaya...but I can't – aap ko seriously lagta tha hai ki woh aisi hai? Ki woh aap ke saath aise behave karegi agar uska waqai Shahmeer se shaadi ka faisla ho chuka hota?"

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut, and she didn't stop there.

"Jaisi Meerab aap ke saath thi naa – bilkul ek bachi jaisi, open, happy, outgoing...woh kisi aur ke saath aisi nahi hai. Jo Meerab aap ko aaj kal nazarandaz kar rahi hai...that is how she is with everyone, especially men. It's not just a passing crush. Aap ke saath khel nahi khel rahi woh, it's not boredom, she actually likes you. You really are an idiot, Major Khan."

With that, she walked away, leaving him standing there, rooted to the spot, her words echoing in his mind.

You really are an idiot.

He was.

The realization hit him with the force of a freight train, flattening every argument he'd used to convince himself otherwise.

He thought he'd prepared for every eventuality, that he had shielded himself enough to weather whatever chaos Meerab brought into his life. But he hadn't accounted for this.

He hadn't accounted for her.

The space around him felt suffocating despite the wide-open hall, the noise of the banquet reduced to an indistinct hum. For weeks he'd clung to the belief that Meerab was simply entertaining herself. That he was just convenient, a temporary distraction in her gilded cage. That the intensity of her attention was nothing more than a passing phase.

Because the alternative? That she meant every touch, every glance, every maddening tease? That terrified him more than anything else.

A sharp pang gripped his chest, and he dragged in a breath, but it felt shallow, insufficient.

He thought back to every little moment he had dismissed as mere playfulness. The way she had laughed and thrown herself into his arms, the way she had followed him around, demanding his attention like it was her birthright. The sheer audacity of her attempts to draw him out, to make him smile, to make him...feel.

He'd told himself it was all part of her personality. That she was like that with everyone. But apparently she wasn't.

The weight of it settled on his shoulders, heavier than anything he'd carried in his life.

He remembered Meerab's outburst—the raw pain in her voice when she had yelled at him. Kabhi mere baare mein socha hai? Ehsaas bhi hota hai ki tumhare iss behaviour se mera dil toot tha hai, mujhe dard hota hai.

Because it hadn't been a game. Not to her.

And he? He'd pushed her away. Not because he didn't feel the same—God, he felt too much—but because he was afraid. Afraid of what it would mean to let her in, to let her consume him the way he feared she already had.

His fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening as he stared at the polished floor, the light bouncing off it in a way that only seemed to mock him.

He was an idiot.

He had spent so much time building walls to keep her out that he hadn't noticed her scaling them with that relentless determination that was so quintessentially Meerab. And when she'd finally breached those walls, instead of letting her in, he'd shut her out.

Murtasim's chest tightened as his thoughts turned to Shahmeer. For weeks, he'd told himself she would marry Shahmeer—that it was inevitable, that it was what the world expected. That their laughter, their easy camaraderie, was proof of a connection deeper than anything she had with him.

But Shibra's words had shattered that illusion too. She was just trying to make him jealous.

And she had succeeded.

He thought back to every moment he'd spent watching her with Shahmeer, every pang of jealousy that had surged through him, every time he had told himself it was for the best. That it would hurt less if he kept his distance.

But it didn't hurt less.

It hurt more.

Because now he knew. He had spent all this time pushing her away, convincing himself that her feelings were fleeting, that they didn't matter. And in doing so, he had overlooked the most obvious truth. She liked him. Actually. Apparently.

Murtasim closed his eyes, exhaling a shuddering breath as the full weight of his realization settled over him. For the first time in years, he felt truly unmoored, the walls he had relied on for so long reduced to rubble at his feet.

What had he done?

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

Murtasim barely dragged himself out of bed that morning. Sleep had eluded him all night, his mind a storm of regret and realizations that refused to settle. He had replayed every moment with Meerab over and over, dissecting his every action, every word.

How could I be so stupid?

But even in the harsh light of day, clarity was as elusive as ever. He convinced himself, as he had so many times before, that it didn't change anything. Not really.

If not Shahmeer, then someone like him—someone suitable, someone who fit into her world in a way he never could. She was the Prime Minister's daughter, after all, and the weight of that title alone ensured that her life would always be dictated by expectations.

But if she really liked him, would she be able to leave so easily?

The thought gnawed at him as he finally showered, dressed and made his way to the main building. His chest felt heavy, his movements sluggish, but he forced himself forward. He was a soldier—he could endure this, like everything else.

The dining room opened into a courtyard, the crisp morning air mingling with the soft hum of chatter from nearby tables. Murtasim was halfway through the doorway when a burst of laughter drew his attention.

His steps faltered.

There she was.

Meerab was running around the courtyard, her bare feet skimming the grass as she chased a group of children. They couldn't have been more than four years old, all dressed in neat school uniforms. He guessed they were here for some kind of event or performance.

The children squealed with laughter, darting this way and that as Meerab pretended to catch them, her arms outstretched dramatically.

His breath caught.

Her laughter was bright and infectious, carrying across the courtyard like a melody. She was glowing, her hair loose and flowing as she moved with an ease that made his chest ache. She was entirely in her element, carefree and full of life, and it was impossible not to be drawn to her.

One of the children tugged at her hand, and she let out a mock sigh of defeat before sitting cross-legged on the grass. In an instant, the little girls gravitated toward her, their tiny hands reaching for her hair.

Murtasim leaned against the doorway, his lips curving into a smile despite himself.

She was enchanting.

She was animatedly telling the children a story, her hands gesturing wildly as her voice rose and fell with the tale's twists and turns. The children were utterly captivated, their wide eyes fixed on her as they hung onto her every word.

And so was he.

His heart thumped steadily in his chest, the ache from last night's turmoil momentarily forgotten. In this moment, there was only her—the warmth of her smile, the light in her eyes, the way she made everything around her seem brighter.

"Thodi si pagal hai," a voice said, pulling him abruptly out of his thoughts.

Murtasim stiffened, every muscle in his body going taut as he turned to find the Prime Minister standing beside him. Hands clasped behind his back, the man's gaze rested fondly on his daughter, her laughter floating through the air from the courtyard along with the animal sounds she made while telling a story.

"Lekin pyaari hai," the man continued, his tone soft, his eyes never leaving Meerab. Then he glanced at Murtasim, his expression knowing. "Aur obviously tumhe bahot pasand karti hai."

Murtasim's chest tightened, the words landing like a grenade in his carefully ordered world. His mind blanked, scrambling for a response that didn't involve dropping dead on the spot. He stood frozen, staring at the man, who continued to watch his daughter with an expression so gentle it was almost disarming.

"Sir—I—sorry—hello—" he stammered, his usual composure disintegrating into a mess of words. He snapped his mouth shut, struggling to rein himself in, but then the Prime Minister's words fully registered.

Wait. What?

"Aap ko kaise pata?" he blurted, his voice betraying his disbelief.

The Prime Minister chuckled, the kind of laugh that came from a man entirely in control of the situation. "Relax, Major Khan," he said, his tone teasing but not unkind. "Meerab ne khud bataya. Last time jab mere office aayi thi."

Murtasim's breath hitched. His first thought was, She went to her father and told him she liked me? Was that normal? His second thought was, How am I still employed? Why isn't he yelling at me?

He blinked rapidly, his mind flipping through every possible scenario where a father—not just any father, but the Prime Minister—might take kindly to such a revelation from his daughter. None of them ended well for him.

He couldn't help but ask, his voice full of disbelief. "Aur aap ko koi aitraaz nahi?"

The Prime Minister turned fully toward him now, his smile growing. "Agar tum bhi usse pasand karte ho, toh nahi," he replied simply, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

Murtasim's mind spun. Was this normal? Were the Ahmed from some alternate universe where everyone was understanding? Was this man really okay with his daughter liking her bodyguard? He had expected shouting. Maybe a threat or two. Not this... conversation.

Then his smile turned mischievous. "Haan agar nahi karte, toh mujhe meri beti se bahot clear instructions mili hai—tumhe Pakistan se nikalna padega."

That sounded like Meerab. Dramatic. Entirely sincere. His lips twitched against his will, a small, incredulous smile breaking through. Of course, she would issue ultimatums about deportation.

The revelation, though, left him shaken. "Mujhe laga..." Murtasim hesitated, still grappling with the surreal turn of events. "Aap iss baat se khush nahi honge... shayad mujhe fire kardenge."

The Prime Minister laughed again, the sound rich and unrestrained. "Meerab mujhe apne baap ki post se fire kardegi," he replied, shaking his head. "Aur waise bhi, between a bodyguard who is just doing his job and one who loves her..." He paused, looking pointedly at Murtasim.

Murtasim's heart stopped.

"...I think the latter would do a better job."

The pointed look the Prime Minister gave him sent his mind reeling. Love her? He hadn't said anything about—

Had he?

Murtasim's confusion deepened, his thoughts spiraling into uncharted territory. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. This man, the Prime Minister of Pakistan, was supposed to be fiercely protective, disapproving, even angry. Not... this. Not amused, approving, and entirely too perceptive.

"Lekin mujhe laga..." he began, his voice quieter now, "...ki aap chahenge ki uski shaadi kisi Shahmeer Sikander ke jaise shaks se ho," His gaze faltered, dropping to the polished floor beneath his feet. The inevitability of it had been so clear in his mind—powerful men like the Prime Minister didn't marry their daughters off to ordinary men. They formed alliances, built empires, and cemented legacies. Someone like Meerab wouldn't marry... down.

The Prime Minister sighed, his expression turning thoughtful. "Ek waqt tha jab main yeh chahta tha," he admitted, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "Lekin Meerab aisi life ke liye bani nahi. Diplomacy naam ki cheez uski dictionary mein nahi hai. Jo dil mein hai, wohi zubaan par."

Murtasim's head lifted slightly, his brows furrowing as he listened.

"Shahmeer jitna maasoom aur beparwah dikhta hai, utna hi samajhdar aur chaalaak hai, uska har qadam soch samajh kar uthta hai. Aur doosron mein sirf woh chaalaaki hai, jo naram-dili aur mohabbat Shahmeer ki apno ke liye hai, woh un mein nahi milti." He paused, his eyes briefly drifting toward Meerab, who stood across the room, radiant and laughing. "Meerab aise shaks ke saath kabhi khush nahi reh payegi...yeh duniya usse kha jayegi, isilye usse iss sab se door rakhta hoon."

Murtasim blinked, his breath hitching as the words settled heavily in the air.

He smiled faintly, a touch of warmth in his tone suddenly. "Aur meri beti kaafi...romantic bhi hai. Usse pyaar chahiye—aur mujhe uski khushi. Jo bhi uske chehre par uski woh 100-watt smile laaye, woh mujhe bhi pasand hai." He looked directly at Murtasim now, his gaze unwavering. "Jaise tum laate ho... actually laate the."

Murtasim's heart stuttered, guilt crashing over him like a tidal wave. The knowledge that his actions had stolen that smile—the one he had selfishly come to treasure—made his chest ache.

The Prime Minister tilted his head, studying Murtasim with an almost fatherly curiosity. "Kya kar diya? Meri beti itni upset kabhi nahi hoti."

His throat felt tight. "Something stupid," he muttered, his voice barely audible – he was definitely not touching the why with a ten-foot pole with Meerab's father of all people. All of the Pakistani Army would be at his doorstep, guns ablaze.

The Prime Minister sighed, his tone carrying a weight of both understanding and warning. "Agar theek se sorry bologe toh maan jayegi. Thode nakhre karegi, thoda daantegi bhi, apni badi-badi aankhen dihayegi," He added with a smile, "lekin maan jayegi."

He paused, glancing briefly at his daughter once more. "Mujhe pehle se hi lagta tha ki tumhare dil mein shayad thodi si jhijak ho, aakhir tum kaafi samajhdar ho. Lekin meri wajah se tumhe hichkichane ki zarurat nahi hai."

Murtasim's throat felt dry as he forced himself to ask, his voice steady but uncertain, "Aap ko sach mein mujhse koi problem nahi hai?"

The Prime Minister turned to him fully, and for a moment, Murtasim thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in the man's sharp eyes. Then the Prime Minister threw his head back and laughed—a deep, hearty sound that caught Murtasim completely off guard.

"Agar iss agli baat ke baare mein Meerab se kuch kaha," the Prime Minister said, still chuckling, "toh mein tumhe sach mein Pakistan se nikaal doonga." He paused, waiting for Murtasim to nod.

"Woh tumhe mera damaad banana chahti hai..."

Murtasim's heart skipped a beat. "Kya?" he whispered, unable to mask the shock in his voice.

"Tumhe pata hai," the Prime Minister began, his expression somewhere between amused and serious, "woh jab mere office aayi thi ..." He shook his head, clearly still marveling at the memory. "Pehli baat hi yeh kahi thi – 'soch rahi thi ki usko aapka damaad bana doon'." He chuckled.

"Seriously?" Murtasim echoed, disbelief and confusion warring on his face.

"Haan," the Prime Minister confirmed, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "Kaafi serious hai."

Murtasim stared at him, utterly floored. This wasn't what he had thought—what he had convinced himself of. He had assumed she was just flirting, killing time. A fling, nothing more. And now...

She wanted to marry him?

What was this?

Murtasim swallowed, the weight of the moment crashing over him.

She wanted to marry him.

She had gone to her father, declared it outright, and defended it.

And here he was, standing there like the world's biggest fool.

Before Murtasim could respond, one of the aides approached, calling the Prime Minister away. With a nod, the older man left, leaving Murtasim standing there, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him.

Murtasim remained rooted to the spot, his pulse pounding in his ears.

In just two days, everything he had told himself to protect his heart—every justification, every excuse—had crumbled.

She wasn't marrying Shahmeer.

Her father didn't care who she married, as long as she was happy.

And for some inexplicable reason, she actually liked him – not an infatuation, not even close because she told her father that she wanted to marry him.

Murtasim exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to process the weight of it all when his attention was drawn to a figure approaching Meerab in the courtyard. His body tensed when he realized who it was—Haroon.

He took a step forward, instinct taking over, but then he stopped abruptly, thrown off by something unexpected.

Meerab smiled at him.

Why was she smiling? She usually glared daggers at the man, her disdain for him always evident.

"Tum hamesha har cheez dur se kyun karte ho?" He turned slightly to find Shibra standing beside him, her sharp eyes narrowing at him.

He said nothing, his gaze snapping back to Meerab and Haroon.

Shibra let out a sigh, shaking her head. "Oh, I don't like this," she muttered.

Murtasim's jaw clenched. "Kyun?"

"Kyunki uss kamine ne meri Meerab ka dil toda," Shibra said, her voice low and edged with anger. "Kamine ne kaha tha ki usne cheat isliye kiya kyunki Meerab zyada conservative thi...a prude. Lekin yeh kutta uska peecha nahi chodta, usay waapas paana chahta hai, apna pura zor lagata hai usay charm karne ke liye. Aur iss waqt..." She trailed off, her eyes narrowing further. "Meerab isn't exactly thinking straight."

Murtasim froze.

Meerab? A prude?

Shibra rolled her eyes, clearly reading the disbelief on his face. "I told you," she said, her tone almost scolding. "Woh aap ke saath hi aisi hai, aap ko pasand karti hai...dusro ke saath aisi nahi hai."

His eyes darted back to the courtyard. She was still smiling, and his stomach twisted uncomfortably. "Baat kyun kar rahi hai?" he muttered, unable to keep the irritation from his voice.

"Parson raat kaafi depressed thi." Shibra muttered, and Murtasim realized that Meerab had been with Shibra that night, not Shahmeer. "Keh rahi thi ki shaadi ki umar nikli jaa rahi hai...bache chahiye, ek se zyada...kisi se toh shaadi karni padegi. Shayad apne aap ko mana rahi hai ke koi uss kamine jaisa hi sahi hai...aap ki tarah dhakka toh nahi dega."

Murtasim's chest tightened, the words hitting him like a physical blow.

Shibra turned to him, her expression serious, almost threatening. "Fix this," she said firmly. "If she spirals and decides to go back to dating men like that, I will castrate you. I swear." She jabbed a finger at him. "General surgeon hoon main. Bhoolna mat."

He nodded numbly, his mind racing, his gaze fixed on Meerab.

He had a lot to fix.

But would she even listen?

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

Murtasim spotted Meerab standing by a flower bed, her hair catching the sunlight as she scrolled through her phone with an air of calm indifference. Taking a deep breath, he walked over, his boots crunching against the gravel.

She didn't look up when he stopped beside her, her fingers continuing to swipe across the screen.

"Meerab," he began, his voice steady but low.

"Major Khan," she replied without missing a beat, her tone polite, detached.

He clenched his fists at his sides. "Mujhe tumse baat karni hai."

This time, she did glance up, her brow arched, her lips tilting into a faint, humorless smile. "Aur mujhe aap se baat nahi karni hai."

"Meerab—" he tried again, but she raised her hand to cut him off.

"Excuse me." Her voice was firm, her gaze sharp as she slipped her phone into her pocket and brushed past him.

He turned to watch her retreating figure, his jaw tightening. The words he'd rehearsed a hundred times in his head dissolved into nothingness as she walked away, leaving him standing there like a scolded schoolboy.

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

He found her at the buffet table during lunch, carefully choosing from the spread, her expression focused as if deciding between life and death. She picked up a kebab, inspecting it like a jeweler examining a diamond, before adding it to her plate.

Murtasim steeled himself.

"Meerab, ek second—" he started, stepping beside her.

"Abhi nahi," she interrupted, not even glancing at him as she reached for a bread roll.

"Abhi nahi toh kab?" he shot back, irritation slipping into his voice despite his best efforts to stay calm.

She finally turned to him, her head tilted, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Jab chand ulta latak jayega," she said with a saccharine sweetness that stung more than outright anger.

"Meerab, main—"

But she was already walking away, her plate perfectly balanced in her hands, leaving him standing there amidst the aroma of freshly baked naan and roasted meat, fuming and utterly at a loss.

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

By the evening, he was practically pacing as he searched for her. When he finally found her in the library, sitting on a plush couch, he paused.

She looked serene, one leg tucked under her as she flipped through a heavy leather-bound book. Her hair fell over one shoulder, framing her face like a picture, but the set of her jaw was resolute.

"Meerab," he said, his voice softer this time as he stepped into the room.

She looked up, her gaze briefly meeting his before dropping back to her book. "Major Khan," she said flatly, her voice devoid of warmth.

He ran a hand through his hair, nerves coiling in his stomach. "Maine aap se baat karni hai," he said, his voice low, almost pleading. "It's important."

"Important?" she repeated, her tone sharp. She closed the book with a deliberate thud and rose to her feet, fixing him with a glare that could freeze molten lava.

Her words hit him before he could even think. "Kyun?" she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Baat karke phir kahoge ke galti hogi, baat bhi nahi karni chahiye thi. Let me save you the trouble, Major Khan."

"Meerab, please—"

"No," she snapped, stepping past him with her book tucked under her arm. "Save whatever it is for someone who cares."

His fingers itched to reach out, to grab her wrist and stop her, but he didn't. He stood rooted to the spot as she brushed past him, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

The library door clicked shut behind her, leaving Murtasim alone with the silence and the weight of his own mistakes.

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

The florist had handed Murtasim the bouquet with a knowing smile, the soft pink roses wrapped in crisp white paper. They were beautiful—delicate and fragrant, their petals a perfect blush of pink. He didn't know much about flowers, but he had overheard Meerab once saying she liked roses, especially pink ones.

He placed them carefully on the backseat of the car, adjusting them slightly so they wouldn't topple over. The sight of them made something in his chest tighten. Maybe this was a small step toward fixing things.

The convoy was nearly ready to leave Skardu. The guards were performing final checks, and the buzz of activity around the vehicles was constant. Murtasim stood by the car assigned to them, his arms crossed, his gaze scanning the villa's entrance. Any moment now, she would come out. They had to leave together—there was no avoiding it this time.

When she finally emerged, his heart did its usual ridiculous leap at the sight of her. She wore a pale-yellow salwar kameez, her dupatta trailing behind her in the breeze. She looked like sunlight personified, a vision so stunning that for a moment, he forgot everything else.

She walked toward the car with purposeful strides, her lips set in a firm line. For a fleeting second, he thought he caught a flicker of softness in her expression, and his pulse quickened.

But then her eyes landed on him, and her entire demeanor shifted. Her gaze turned sharp, her lips pressing into a thin, disapproving line. She glared at him, and it felt like a slap, but he reminded himself that at least she wasn't ignoring him anymore.

"Main Shibra ke saath jaa rahi hoon," she announced, her voice cold and clipped as she brushed past him without a second glance.

He opened his mouth to respond, to tell her they needed to talk, but the words died in his throat. He turned in time to see her sliding into the car where Shibra was waiting, the door slamming shut behind her with a finality that echoed in his chest.

Murtasim let out a quiet sigh, running a hand through his hair as he watched the car pull away.

The bouquet sat untouched in the backseat of his car, a reminder of his failed attempt. She was avoiding him completely now, but the glare she'd thrown his way had shifted something in him. It wasn't indifference anymore.

"Glares are progress, I suppose," he muttered to himself.

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Author's Note: Tadaaaaa! So, what do we think? Are we melting a little bit? What was your favourite part? How many thappads does Major Moochasim still deserve? And whatever shall happen next?