Author's Note: Y'all must be shocked because I updated less than a week ago and here we are, another long chapter (32 pages)! Thank you for all the love & hilarious comments for the last chapter, I laughed a whole lot going through them. Anyways, onto the next chapter, hope y'all enjoy it!

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The car hummed softly as it navigated through Islamabad's evening bustle, the city glowing with the warm hues of sunset. Meerab sat in the backseat like a queen in exile, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her chin held high, her glare fixed resolutely on the passing streets.

She was determined to ignore Murtasim. Completely. Forever.

She didn't care that he'd spent the entire flight stealing glances at her. His intense gaze had burned into her back the entire time, but she hadn't turned around once. Nope. Not even a glance. Because Meerab Ahmed was above all that. Above him.

And she definitely didn't care that he was sneaking looks at her through the rearview mirror now.

Every time their eyes met, she narrowed hers into a glare so sharp it could pierce armor.

And yet, to her utter and growing annoyance, his lips kept twitching.

Was he... amused?

Meerab's jaw tightened. What the hell was wrong with him? He had no right to smirk like that, like he was enjoying her anger. Like he found her entertaining.

She wanted to go back to indifference, to the quiet, regal aloofness she'd mastered. But every glance of his, every smirk, every goddamn twitch of his lips, made her fury spike anew.

Ab yeh emotionally challenged aadmi hass kyun raha hai?

Meerab let out an audible "hmph," swiveling her head away from him dramatically. The nerve. He had rejected her, pushed her away, thought she was some kind of... bimbo who wanted a fling.

Her mind wouldn't stop replaying Shibra's words: He thought you were actually going to marry Shahmeer, that you were just playing around with him.

The nerve. The audacity. The stupidity.

"Shahmeer." She scoffed under her breath. "Of all people."

It made her furious.

Yes, she had used Shahmeer to make him jealous. She could admit that. She wasn't proud of it, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

But how was he so dense? He had seen Shahmeer and Shibra together! How had he not figured it out?

How stupid do you have to be to think I'm flirting with you while planning to marry someone else?

She scowled, the memory of his dismissal prickling at her pride. Do I seem like the kind of woman who sleeps with random men while being engaged to someone?

"Asshole," she muttered to herself, her voice low enough that she thought he wouldn't hear.

She was wrong.

Murtasim's hands tightened ever so slightly on the steering wheel, and for a second, she thought she caught a flicker of surprise in his eyes through the rearview mirror.

Her cheeks flushed. She immediately turned her gaze back to the window, silently cursing herself. Great. Brilliant. Way to stay aloof, Meerab. Way to stay mad.

And yet, as her reflection caught the faintest upward curve of his lips in the mirror, she found herself clenching her fists, her heart doing an entirely unhelpful flip.

Suddenly, without warning, Murtasim turned the steering wheel, veering off their usual route. Meerab's head snapped up, her brows furrowing in confusion as she leaned forward slightly.

She told herself to stay quiet, to not ask questions, to maintain her angry silence. Rules, Meerab. Follow your rules!

But her curiosity had other plans.

"Kahan ja rahe ho?" she demanded, her tone sharp.

Murtasim didn't answer, his eyes steady on the road.

Her confusion turned to suspicion when the golden arches of McDonald's came into view. Yeh kya nautanki hai?

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice edged with skepticism. "Tumhe lagta hai ek Happy Meal mujhe khush kar degi?" She let out a dramatic huff, crossing her arms with the flair of a Bollywood heroine rejecting the hero's advances. "Main tumse kabhi khush nahi hone wali. Ever. Forever angry."

She heard herself rambling and cringed inwardly. Shut up, Meerab! Kya kar rahi ho? Apne saare rules tod rahi ho! Tumhe baat nahi karni hai usse!

But Murtasim, as always, ignored her completely. He pulled into the drive-through lane, as calm and unbothered as ever.

Meerab glared at him, her suspicion mounting as she watched him place the order.

She was ready to reject whatever pathetic peace offering he handed her. She wouldn't be bribed with fries like a toddler—no matter how much she loved fries.

But then she heard him repeat the order.

Her order.

Not just any order—her exact order. The one she had gotten the last time, down to the ketchup and mayo packets, and the Biscoff McFlurry.

Her jaw dropped slightly, her indignation faltering.

He remembered?

Toh kya hua agar uski memory achhi hai? she thought irritably, trying to rekindle her anger. Mujhe kyun lena chahiye uska diya hua burger? Usne mujhe reject kiya, mujhe bimbo samjha, aur main—oh my God, fries ki smell.

The aroma wafted toward her, crisp and golden. Her stomach betrayed her, growling audibly.

By the time he reached back to hand her the bag with the burger, Meerab had already lost the war with herself. She snatched it from him with a scowl, glaring daggers into his infuriatingly handsome face.

"I'm still mad at you," she informed him as she dug into the bag and took out the burger. "This doesn't change anything."

"Theek hai," he replied simply, his tone maddeningly calm as he pulled the car into a secluded spot in the parking lot to her utter surprise.

Meerab looked around suspiciously. The other cars in her security detail had pulled up nearby, engines idling. It was as if the entire convoy had paused for this impromptu fast-food detour.

"Isko alien ne possess kar liya hai kya?" she muttered under her breath. Yeh Major Khan hai ya koi clone jo mujhe impress karne ki koshish kar raha hai?

She unwrapped her burger and took an aggressive bite, hoping it would dispel her confusion. But it didn't. The food was too good, the burger perfectly warm. "Damn him," she thought.

And then, as if to add to her torment, he handed her a small container filled with mixed ketchup and mayo. For her fries. The colour was perfect, the ratio exact. He had been paying attention.

She didn't want to take it. "Stand your ground!" her brain screamed.

But she did. "Pink mayo ki kya galti?" she muttered under her breath, snatching it from him.

Murtasim turned around in his seat, watching her intently. He wasn't even trying to hide it now.

"Tumhe ghoorne ke paise milte hain?" she snapped, her glare fiery as she looked up from her food.

Instead of replying, his lips twitched, fighting back a smile that was infuriatingly close to breaking through.

Meerab huffed, chewing aggressively. "Pathetic." She wasn't sure if she was describing him or herself. Probably both.

When she looked up again, his gaze hadn't wavered. It burned into her, steady and unreadable, and for a moment, her resolve faltered. Her stomach twisted—not with anger this time, but with something else entirely.

She quickly shoved another fry in her mouth to drown the feeling.

Mujhe isse kabhi maaf nahi karna chahiye, she resolved. Yeh banda bipolar hai. Pehle khud soft banega, phir jab main pighloon gi toh bolega 'galti ho gayi.'

She shoved another fry into her mouth as if that would seal her determination. It was working—kind of—until his voice broke through her fragile walls.

"Ek fry milegi?"

Her head snapped up, her glare cutting through the warm confines of the car like a laser. "No."

Murtasim grinned, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Bhukkad."

Meerab almost choked on her fry. "Kya kaha tumne?"

He leaned back in his seat, still smiling as if her glare was the funniest thing he'd seen all day. "Maine kaha, tum bhukkad ho."

Her jaw dropped. "Tumne apne liye khud fries kyun nahi kharidi? Tumhe toh sab kuch yaad rehta hai na? Toh khud ka order karna kyun bhool gaye, Major Einstein?"

His grin widened, and for a brief, horrifying moment, Meerab's heart skipped a beat.

Kitna cute lagta hai smile karte hue—wait, shut up, brain. Don't melt, don't melt. Tum ice-cream nahi ho, Meerab!

But he was smiling like a damn toothpaste commercial, and her brain refused to stop yelling.

Then, to her utter horror, he reached for her McFlurry.

She gasped audibly, leaning forward like a hawk guarding its prey. "Woh meri hai!" she hissed, her voice sharp with indignation.

His lips twitched into another infuriating smile as he lifted the McFlurry, holding it hostage.

"Tum sach mein bahot badi bhukkad ho," he said teasingly, his tone unbearably smug.

Meerab's eyes widened, and before he could utter another word, she lunged. Her hands wrapped around the cup, snatching it from his grasp with a ferocity that would have impressed a predator.

"MY MCFLURRY!"

She leaned back into her seat triumphantly, cradling the dessert like it was the Holy Grail. Her cheeks flushed with both effort and outrage, she shot him a glare that could freeze fire.

"Apne liye bhi McFlurry order karni chahiye thi...waise tumhe meethi cheezein kab se achi lagne lag gayi, kadwe insaan," she snapped, her voice muffled slightly as she jammed the spoon into the creamy Biscoff goodness.

Murtasim chuckled softly, leaning his elbow against the window as he watched her with an amused glint in his eyes. "Meethi cheezein itni bhi buri nahi hai."

Meerab froze mid-bite, wondering what that meant.

She stabbed another spoonful of ice cream, determined not to let his words or his face—or his damn adorable grin—get to her. Stay strong, she told herself as she ate furiously. Yeh tumhari McFlurry hai. Sirf tumhari.

Murtasim, still watching her, leaned slightly toward her, his tone softer now, teasing but earnest. "Ek bhi bite nahi milegi?"

Meerab looked up sharply, her spoon halfway to her mouth.. "Tumhe jawab already pata hai."

He chuckled then, a soft, genuine sound that made her insides twist in ways she didn't want to admit.

Meerab returned her focus to her dessert, biting the spoon a little harder than necessary. "Stupid charming idiot," she muttered under her breath. "Mujhe melt karne ki koshish kar raha hai. Maine already kaha na, main ice-cream nahi hoon!"

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The low hum of the car's engine was the only sound as Murtasim navigated the quiet streets leading to the safehouse. He stole another glance at the rearview mirror, his eyes naturally drawn to her. Meerab sat there, dipping a fry into her McFlurry with a concentration that might have made him laugh if his chest wasn't so tight.

Her lips moved as she muttered something under her breath—most likely an insult aimed at him—and he couldn't stop the faint smile tugging at his lips. But when her eyes flicked up to the mirror and caught his, the glare she shot him was molten.

Adorable.

She was like an irate kitten swiping at someone twice her size, all puffed up indignation and no real claws.

The thought softened something inside him, but he quickly schooled his features into neutrality, looking back at the road. He wasn't supposed to be smiling—not now, not when she was still furious with him. And rightfully so.

He had intended to talk to her, to apologize properly, but every time he got close, she shut him down with a precision that could rival any military strategy. Ignoring him. Brushing past him. Walking away before he could say more than a single word.

So he was trying a new strategy: disarming her. Doing things she wouldn't expect—like pulling into a McDonald's drive-thru just to hear her talk.

And she had talked, snapping at him in that adorable, frustrated voice. It had been much too cute for his sanity, and he'd found himself cherishing every sharp word.

It was better than silence.

He glanced at her again in the mirror. She was pouting now, her lips moving soundlessly as she muttered something else under her breath. He wished he could hear her, even if it was likely another insult aimed at him.

Her fingers gripped a fry like she wanted to hurl it at him. The sight made his heart ache and twist in ways he didn't fully understand. He had hurt her, and even though she was trying to cover it with her usual fire, he could feel the underlying sadness she was refusing to let him see.

His hands tightened around the steering wheel as they approached the private road to the safehouse. His eyes scanned the surroundings instinctively, ensuring there was no one following them. Behind him, the other two security vehicles followed in formation, their presence a quiet reassurance.

He adjusted the mirrors and made the turn onto the secluded road that led to the safehouse. It was a quiet stretch, lined with trees on either side, and the looming gates of the compound came into view a minute later.

"Ek bhi fry nahi milegi?" he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence.

"Nahi," Meerab snapped, her glare shooting toward the rearview mirror.

He bit back another smile. The sharpness of her tone, the way her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed into a tight line—it was all so her.

He eased the car to a stop at the gates, watching as the guards moved to open them. His fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel, and he risked another glance in the mirror.

She was staring out the window now, her arms crossed, her lips still set in a pout. She looked furious and heartbreakingly beautiful.

The gates groaned as they swung open, and Murtasim moved the car forward onto the driveway. He was about to say something—to tease her again about how he was hungry—when it happened.

An explosion tore through the silence like a thunderclap, the roar deafening as a wave of fire and debris erupted from the safehouse.

Murtasim slammed the brakes, the car skidding to a halt as his ears filled with a high-pitched ringing. The flames engulfed the building ahead of them, licking hungrily at the sky, the heat palpable even from their distance.

Meerab screamed, her voice slicing through the chaos, and his instincts took over.

Reversing the car with the precision of a soldier trained for the worst, Murtasim put as much distance as possible between them and the inferno. The tires screeched against the asphalt, the acrid smell of smoke reaching even inside the sealed vehicle. His eyes darted around the scene, scanning the shadows for movement, for the glint of a weapon or the tell-tale stance of someone clutching a detonator.

The flames consumed the safe house with a ferocity that made the air shimmer, casting a hellish glow over the surrounding area. His mind was a controlled storm, his instincts honed and screaming only one thing: protect her.

The car screeched to a halt as he parked it far from the flames, the other vehicles stopping nearby. He turned sharply toward her, his voice steady but low. "Tum theek ho?"

Her wide, shocked eyes met his, the reflection of the blaze flickering in them. She nodded quickly, but her gaze kept darting toward the window, toward the flames that raged on. Her hands trembled in her lap, betraying the fear she couldn't vocalize.

His mind raced, piecing together fragments of logic amidst the chaos. The explosion's timing—it didn't make sense. If someone had been manually controlling a detonator, they would have waited for their car to get closer. It wasn't an opportunistic attack. It was planned. Methodical.

The signal jammers. His brain latched onto the detail, cold clarity slicing through the fog of adrenaline. The safe house had been secured with signal jammers. Only the internal Wi-Fi worked, and even that was contained within the house itself.

He pulled out his phone, his fingers moving swiftly to unlock it. As expected, there was no signal.

"Meerab," he said sharply, his voice cutting through her daze. "Apna phone check karo. Signal hai?"

Her hands shook as she fumbled for her phone, pulling it out and glancing at the screen. Her head shook, her lips parting slightly as she whispered, "No."

Murtasim exhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw tightening. His mind moved quickly, already calculating their next steps. Through the earpiece nestled in his ear, the steady hum of the security team's voices grounded him.

"Authorities ko inform kar diya hai," one voice reported. "Area comb kar rahe hain."

He gave a curt nod, even though they couldn't see him, his mind already working through the situation.

A timed detonation. Not remote.

His thoughts churned with the implications. Someone had known their schedule. Someone had predicted their arrival to the minute, banking on them being inside the house when the bomb went off. The precision of it all pointed to one thing: an inside job.

If they hadn't stopped at McDonalds...

His stomach twisted, a rare flicker of what-ifs piercing through his normally unshakeable resolve. If they hadn't taken that detour, they would have been inside. Mere minutes would have meant the difference between this moment and disaster.

Meerab's voice broke through his thoughts, quiet but trembling. "Ghar mein koi tha?"

Murtasim sighed, glancing at the inferno that had once been the safehouse. "Maybe the chef and maid," he admitted, his tone heavy. They would have been preparing dinner and cleaning for their arrival.

His words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, as the crackle of the fire filled the silence.

Then he heard it—a faint sniffle. He turned his head sharply and felt his heart sink. Meerab was wiping tears from her cheeks with trembling hands, her face crumpled in anguish.

"Bachne ki koi umeed nahi hai, naa?" she asked, her voice raw and breaking.

His gaze flickered back to the house, now entirely engulfed in flames, the heat rippling in the air around it. He shook his head slowly. "Nahi," he said, his voice low. "Par shayad woh andar nahi the. Thodi der mein pata chal jayega."

His words were meant to reassure her, but he knew the likelihood of survival was slim unless the two of them weren't inside the house at the time of explosion.

Meerab broke down into sobs, the sound gut-wrenching as it filled the car. It wasn't loud—her crying wasn't the kind of wailing that demanded attention—but it was raw, quiet, and deeply pained.

Murtasim's chest ached, the sound of Meerab's quiet sobs cutting through him with a precision no weapon ever could. Her pain was palpable, raw, and it gripped him. Without a word, he opened his door and stepped out, the sharp tang of smoke and fire stinging his lungs as he moved quickly around the car.

When he reached her door and pulled it open, the sight before him left him momentarily breathless.

She looked... small.

Meerab Ahmed, the woman who usually took up every inch of a room with her vibrant presence, her sharp wit, her unstoppable energy, now looked fragile. Diminished. The larger-than-life whirlwind he had come to know and—he forced the thought away—was nowhere to be found. Instead, a quiet shadow sat before him, trembling, her hands limp in her lap.

"Aage betho," he said softly, his tone stripped of its usual edge. He kept his voice steady, knowing she needed that steadiness more than anything right now. "Hum aap ke baba ke paas jaa rahe hain."

He had already made the decision. The Prime Minister's residence was fortified, with layers of protection that would make it the safest place for her right now. Normally, protocol dictated keeping high-value targets separate, but in this case, he trusted his instincts. She needed her father, and more than that, she needed to feel safe.

Meerab nodded, the movement slight and unsteady, her eyes distant. Slowly, she shifted, letting her legs dangle out of the car, but she didn't move further. She just sat there, her head bowed, her hands limp in her lap.

Murtasim's breath hitched as he took her in. She looked fragile in a way that rattled him, her vulnerability at odds with the image he had of her. She was always the force of nature, the storm, the one who barreled through life with a fiery determination. Now, she looked... broken.

Her eyes were red and glassy, her cheeks streaked with tears. For a moment, he was stunned into stillness. She was beautiful—achingly so—even in her grief, but it wasn't the kind of beauty that struck him with desire. It was something far more devastating. She looked like a child burdened with guilt too heavy for her to carry, and it pierced something deep within him.

With a sigh, he stepped closer. His large hands cupped her face gently, his thumbs brushing away the fresh tears trailing down her skin. He tilted her head up so her watery gaze met his, her big, expressive eyes searching his face as if looking for answers.

"Tumhari galti nahi hai," he said firmly, his voice steady, grounding her as much as himself. His gaze locked onto hers, willing her to understand.

Meerab shook her head, the movement sharp as more tears spilled over. Her voice broke as she choked out, "Mujhe maarne ki koshish thi... aur woh dono..."

Her words dissolved into sobs, her small frame shaking uncontrollably as she crumbled under the weight of her guilt.

Murtasim didn't hesitate. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. His embrace was strong, firm, holding her as if he could physically shield her from the pain consuming her.

Her sobs tore through him, each one a dagger to his already battered heart, her fingers clutching at his shirt as if to anchor herself. He rested his chin lightly on her head, her soft hair brushing against his jaw as he closed his eyes and prayed.

He prayed that the chef and maid had been somewhere else, that they had miraculously escaped the blast. He prayed they would be found alive because he knew—he knew—the alternative would haunt her.

He knew because he had carried that same weight before. The suffocating guilt of feeling responsible for someone's death. It was a nightmare he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, let alone Meerab.

Her body trembled in his hold, her tears soaking into his shirt. He tightened his arms around her. "Tumhari galti nahi hai," he repeated softly.

They stayed like that, her sobs gradually subsiding into quiet hiccups.

He gently helped Meerab out of the back seat. Her movements were slow, her body trembling as though the weight of the moment had settled deep into her bones. He steadied her with a firm but careful grip, guiding her to the front seat.

Her steps faltered, her head bowing slightly as she let herself be moved like a marionette, her strings cut by the shock and guilt wracking her small frame. When she was finally seated, Murtasim stepped back, noticing that she was shivering, he shrugged off his black jacket and draped it over her.

"Yeh lo," he said softly, tucking it around her. The jacket dwarfed her, but it seemed to calm her shivers just a little.

She clutched it instinctively, her fingers curling into the material.

He crouched slightly, meeting her eyes. "Mujhe pata hai ki tum shock mein ho," he began, his voice low and steady, but carrying the weight of urgency. "Lekin hume yahan se jaana padega. Media-wale police aur fire brigade ke peeche hi honge."

She blinked at him, her gaze distant but trying to focus.

"Jab tak hum situation ko assess nahi kar lete," he continued, "tumhe cameras ke saamne nahi aana chahiye... nahi toh jisne yeh kiya hai who tumhe theek dekh kar phir se attempt karega."

Meerab nodded, the motion small and shaky, but it was enough.

Murtasim reached across her to fasten her seatbelt, his movements efficient but deliberate, the buckle clicking softly as he secured it. He pulled back, watching her for a second longer, and then shut the door.

Straightening, he activated his communications device, his fingers pressing against the discreet piece. "Get Sheikh Saab on the line," he said, referring to the Prime Minister's chief of security. His tone was sharp, commanding. "Let him know the safe house compromised. I'm escorting Miss Ahmed to the PM residence. Need convoy to meet us en route."

The reply came only a minute later. "Confirmed, Major Khan. ETA ten minutes."

Murtasim addressed his own security team. "We're moving out. Maintain formation. Eyes on every angle. No blind spots."

Satisfied, he climbed into the driver's seat, his eyes flickering toward Meerab as he started the engine. She was quiet, staring blankly ahead, her fingers clutching his jacket tightly around her shoulders.

"Deep breaths," he said softly, glancing at her briefly before turning his attention back to the road. "Dheere dheere inhale karo... phir exhale."

For a moment, she didn't react, and then he saw her chest rise and fall more deliberately. She was trying.

"If I tell you to duck," he added, his voice firm but calm, "apne sir aur puri body ko seat aur dashboard ke beech laana hoga. Samjhi?"

She nodded, though her shoulders remained tense.

Murtasim's grip on the steering wheel tightened as he navigated the now dark roads, his eyes scanning every shadow, every corner. The headlights of the trailing security cars cut through the night, illuminating the path behind them.

From the corner of his eye, he kept watch on her. She was breathing deeply now, her nose buried in the lapel of his jacket, seeking whatever comfort she could find in the familiarity of it.

Her breathing steadied, but she remained silent. And he let her be. She needed this moment to gather herself, and he needed to stay sharp.

Yet his thoughts betrayed him, wandering to the horrifying realization that struck earlier.

If they hadn't stopped at McDonald's...

His hands tightened around the steering wheel.

He couldn't finish the thought. Not now. Not when she was sitting right there, wrapped in his jacket, safe.

The larger convoy joined them seamlessly as they navigated through the streets, a protective cocoon of flashing lights and roaring engines. The rhythmic hum of the vehicles created a steady pulse, broken only by the occasional crackle of the radio as security personnel coordinated their movements.

Ahead, the gates of the Prime Minister's residence loomed, a fortress of steel and stone bathed in the glow of floodlights. It wasn't just imposing—it was impenetrable.

The convoy slowed at the first checkpoint, where armed guards inspected the vehicles with practiced efficiency. Beyond the gates, the winding roadway stretched ahead, a serpentine path bordered by manicured hedges and towering trees. The road itself was lined with motion-sensor lights, their glow soft but vigilant, illuminating the way like silent sentinels.

Another checkpoint appeared halfway up the drive, even more fortified than the first. Guards with rifles slung over their shoulders stepped forward, their sharp eyes scanning the convoy as identification was checked again. Murtasim kept his gaze steady, noting every movement, every detail.

Beyond the checkpoint, the grand residence finally came into view. The sprawling structure rose against the backdrop of the night sky, its architecture a blend of modern functionality and traditional elegance. Lights glowed warmly in its many windows, but the atmosphere was anything but inviting.

As the convoy rolled to a halt near the front entrance, Murtasim's eyes were drawn to a figure standing under the portico.

The Prime Minister.

He was already outside, his posture stiff, his face etched with lines of tension that even the floodlights couldn't soften. His gaze was locked onto their vehicle, and as soon as it came to a stop, he moved forward with brisk, purposeful strides.

Murtasim stepped out first, his movements calm and measured, though his senses remained razor-sharp. His eyes scanned the area one last time before he opened the passenger door for Meerab.

The Prime Minister's expression softened marginally as his daughter stepped out, but the strain in his posture didn't ease. The weight of the night clung to him like a shadow, evident in the way his hands twitched at his sides before he reached out to her.

"Meerab," he said, his voice firm but carrying an edge of relief as he wrapped his arms around her.

For a moment, she stood still, as though the events of the evening had frozen her, but then she melted into the embrace, her own hands gripping the lapels of his coat.

Murtasim watched them silently, his face unreadable as he stepped back to give them space.

The crackle of his earpiece snapped him out of the moment. Security updates filtered through, but his focus shifted to the man approaching him.

Jawed Sheikh, the Prime Minister's chief of security.

"We have a problem," Murtasim said without preamble, his voice low enough not to disturb the reunion happening a few feet away.

Jawed sighed, his face betraying none of the frustration that Murtasim knew must be simmering beneath the surface. "You were luckily behind schedule," he muttered.

Murtasim nodded. "To get her McDonald's," he admitted, the absurdity of the words doing nothing to lessen their weight.

Jawed's sharp eyes flickered briefly with surprise, but his expression quickly shifted to something graver. "You stopped for twenty minutes?"

"About 23 minutes," Murtasim corrected.

Jawed's lips pressed into a thin line, the gravity of the statement hanging heavy between them.

"And if you hadn't stopped at all?" Jawed asked, though they both already knew the answer.

"We'd have been inside for about twenty minutes before it blew," Murtasim said grimly.

Jawed nodded, his gaze steady. "I've told the team to find the detonator and let us know. But it's clear that they knew her schedule."

Murtasim gave a curt nod, his eyes flickering briefly toward Meerab, who was still in her father's arms. His jaw tightened as he turned back to Jawed, his voice dropping further. "Whoever did this had her schedule—or enough of it to know when she'd arrive."

Jawed inclined his head, his own expression grim. "They expected her to be inside by that time. Even accounted for a 15-to-20-minute delay." He paused briefly, his jaw tightening. "We'll find them."

Murtasim's jaw clenched as his gaze drifted toward Meerab, who still stood wrapped in her father's protective arms. The thought that someone close had been calculating her every move, ignited a cold fury in his chest.

She was safe now, yes—but for how long? Safety was always a fleeting illusion, and tonight had been a brutal reminder of how one misstep, one decision, could have changed everything.

He turned back to Jawed, his tone firm and purposeful. "What's the plan?"

Jawed sighed, his expression grim. "There was another blast—near the main office. A dumpster went up in flames about five minutes after the first explosion."

Murtasim's stomach sank. "Messages?"

Jawed gave a sharp nod, his expression dark. "The bin was spray-painted. The CCTV footage shows someone writing: 'Iss baar tumhari beti thi, agli baar tum hoge... resign now.'"

The words sent a chill through Murtasim. His mind raced as he processed the implications. "Fully covered?"

"Completely," Jawed confirmed. "Hooded, gloved, and the explosion wiped out any prints. The footage is too grainy to make an identification. They're trying to track him through additional cameras, but you know how unreliable that can be."

Murtasim let out a sharp breath, his fists clenching momentarily at his sides. "If they know she's alive, they'll try again," he said, his voice low but resolute.

Jawed's face hardened. "I agree. But we can't say the daughter of the Prime Minister is dead when she isn't. That kind of misinformation—"

"It would create chaos," Murtasim finished for him, nodding grimly. His mind churned, piecing together a strategy. "Then say she was attacked. Sustained minor injuries. And flew out of the country tonight for safety purposes."

Jawed arched an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the plan. "Send the private plane out?"

"To Dubai," Murtasim confirmed. "Make it believable. That'll be the internal story as well."

Jawed crossed his arms, considering the suggestion. "It'll divert attention, but where will she go in the meantime?"

Murtasim glanced briefly toward Meerab before turning back to Jawed.

"She would be recognized anywhere she goes in this country," Jawed continued. "And keeping her locked up is not an option. You know her. That's why she's been allowed to move around—even to Skardu. The security detail itself would give her away."

"I know," Murtasim said, his voice quieter now but still carrying conviction. "I know a place where they won't care who she is, and where she can still move around freely."

Jawed studied him for a moment, his sharp gaze searching Murtasim's face. "And this place is?"

"Secure," Murtasim assured him. "Remote. Controlled. She'll be safe there."

Jawed nodded slowly, his trust in Murtasim evident despite the unorthodox suggestion. "Alright. I'll handle the logistics for the Dubai decoy. But the final call on where she goes is up to the PM...and Miss Ahmed."

"Of course," Murtasim replied firmly, his gaze flicking back to Meerab, who was now speaking softly to her father, her voice too low to reach him but her expression still clouded with the weight of the night's events.

He couldn't let this happen again. Not to her. Not on his watch.

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

If someone had told Meerab Ahmed that she would be flown—secretly—from Islamabad to some unknown location in the dead of night, with only her bodyguard for company, she would have laughed. Loudly. Probably until tears streamed down her face.

And yet, here she was.

Seated on a small private jet, the low hum of the engines filled the silence between her and him.

Him being Major Emotionally Constipated Khan.

He was sitting across from her with that ever-stoic expression, his shoulders rigid, and his gaze darting around the cabin as if he expected assassins to come rappelling through the windows at 30,000 feet.

Ab koi plane ke andar aake mujhe kidnap karne wala hai kya? she thought sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

He hadn't said a word since they boarded the plane. Typical. The man probably thought silence was a personality trait.

Meerab tried to ignore him, told herself he was invisible. He didn't exist. This wasn't some overly dramatic spy movie where the brooding bodyguard got under the heroine's skin.

But then her mind betrayed her, dragging her back to earlier that day.

To McDonald's. To him remembering her order.

To the explosion.

To the way he had held her, his arms so strong and steady, his touch so gentle as he cupped her tear-streaked face and told her it wasn't her fault.

Why had he done that? Was he just doing his job? Then why had his eyes softened like that? Like some tragic, love-struck puppy?

Her cheeks heated, and she shook her head sharply, as if that could dislodge the memory.

"Focus, Meerab. Ignore him. Tumhe farq nahi padta," she muttered under her breath, crossing her legs and glancing down at her hastily packed suitcase.

Packed, of course, under his orders. Only ethnic wear.

Because practicality, apparently, was a foreign concept to Major Khan.

I'm going to a secret location, she thought dryly. Obviously the right choice is a wardrobe that says, 'Shaadi par jaa rahi hoon.'

Her sigh was loud and dramatic as she leaned back into the plush seat, shooting him a quick glare just to see if he'd react.

He didn't. Of course, he didn't.

She shifted, tapping her foot restlessly, until her brain mercifully gave her something else to focus on: the chef and maid were alive.

The maid had run out to buy sanitary pads—Meerab briefly thanked the universe for the timing of her period, possibly the only time she'd ever be grateful for it—and the chef had been in the back garden picking herbs when the bomb detonated.

The chef had been injured but would recover.

That weight, at least, had been lifted from her chest.

Only to be replaced by a brand-new irritation.

Him.

Sitting there, all calm and composed, as if they were on a relaxing vacation and not hurtling through the air to God-knew-where because someone had tried to blow her up. Acting like everything was perfectly fine. Like he hadn't rejected her, accused her of toying with him, and made her out to be some kind of airheaded flirt.

He was SO annoying.

Meerab tightened her glare, her arms crossed so firmly over her chest that her nails dug into her elbows. Whatever was happening—this last-minute trip, the secrecy, the cryptic instructions—it had to be his idea.

She'd seen Sheikh Uncle, her father's chief of security, huddling with him earlier, both men talking in hushed tones like they were planning a world summit. Her father had joined them briefly, nodding along and even patting Murtasim's back like he'd just won a medal for bravery.

Her father.

Meerab's glare intensified. What would Baba think if I told him the TRUTH?

That this STUPID, EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED MAN had kissed her, pretended it didn't happen, EATEN HER OUT (she cringed internally but powered on), said he regretted it, and then had the AUDACITY to tell Shibra he thought she was just playing with him?

She didn't have to think long. She could already imagine his reaction.

She imagined her father strapping Murtasim to a rocket, launching him into space, and declaring, "Ab toh sirf aliens ki security karni hai tumhe."

The thought made her smile briefly—before she remembered where she was.

She leaned toward the window, peering out at the clouds, trying to gauge their direction. Useless. Everything looked the same—white, fluffy, and infuriatingly vague. Was there no GPS for people being abducted by their emotionally stunted bodyguard?

She huffed and turned back toward him.

"Waise agar plan mere baare mein hai, toh mujhe bhi pata hona chahiye naa?" she muttered.

Murtasim looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers instantly. The flicker of emotion there—amusement? surprise?—made her fists clench in her lap.

He arched one eyebrow. Typical.

Meerab sighed dramatically, throwing her head back like a martyr. The jet engines hummed steadily, but the tension between her and Major Stoneface buzzed louder, louder, louder. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore.

"Hum yeh sab kyun kar rahe hai?" she asked, her voice laced with frustration and a touch of curiosity.

Murtasim nodded, as if he was waiting for the question. There was no annoyance, no impatience—just that maddening calm. "Woh explosion timed thi," he said, his tone serious, the words measured. "Bomb squad ko timer detonator mila hai. Iska matlab ki bomb-lagane wale ko tumhara schedule pata tha."

Her stomach dropped, a cold wave of realization sweeping over her – someone internal was involved.

He continued, his voice steady but heavy, "Agar McDonalds nahi ruke hote, toh tum aur main... dono ab tak..." He trailed off, not finishing the sentence, but the implication was clear.

Dead. Gone. Poof.

Meerab blinked rapidly, her throat tightening. All she could manage was a faint, "Oh."

Her mind spun as realization hit her squarely in the chest. Saved by a cheeseburger... and fries... and nuggets... and a McFlurry. She blinked. McDonald's wasn't just fast food; it was divine intervention. Or maybe...her being mad at him was, he was trying to grovel, and that grovelling had saved them.

Her thoughts took an unhinged turn, spiraling faster than she could stop them.

I would've died without marrying Major Moochasim. Without having sex with him. Without having his kids!

She stiffened. STOP IT, MEERAB. Tum kabhi is aadmi ko apne paas nahi aane dogi. EVER AGAIN. No Major Moochasim. No kids. Nothing.

To cover her spiraling, she forced herself to ask casually, "Toh hum kahan jaa rahe hai?"

Murtasim's lips twitched, that almost-smile of his making her want to throw a shoe at him. "Dubai," he said smoothly.

Meerab rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't get stuck. "Woh toh decoy hai," she retorted.

He nodded, unfazed by her tone. "Jab unhe pata chalega ki ukna plan fail hogaya, woh phir try karenge," he said evenly. "Toh officially sab yeh hi sochenge ke tum Dubai mein ho. Bas hum chaar log—aur pilots—jaante hain ke tum..." He didn't finish the sentence, letting the unspoken weight of their secret linger.

"I know, bewakoof nahi hoon main," Meerab snapped, crossing her arms.

She huffed internally. She almost had a PhD! And not some generic one either—her dissertation was on the geopolitical impact of emerging economies in Central Asia. She could write 80,000 words about niche regional conflicts blindfolded, but apparently, this man thought he needed to explain the concept of a decoy plan to her.

"Maine pucha hum kahan jaa rahe hai?" She repeated.

Murtasim leaned back slightly, his gaze steady and calm. "Mere gaon," he said simply.

Her jaw dropped. "Jahan tumhari khaandaani zameen hai?" she gasped, leaning forward, suddenly wide-eyed with excitement.

He nodded, as composed as ever, completely unaffected by the fact that she had just gone from glaring to practically vibrating in her seat.

Meerab's heart betrayed her, doing an embarrassing little flip-flop. She wanted to squeal, to clap her hands, to twirl. She was going to his village. Alone. With him.

It's like a scene from a drama! she thought, her imagination running wild. Alone in the countryside, surrounded by rustic charm, with your emotionally constipated bodyguard who just so happens to be ridiculously good-looking. This is the stuff of novels!

But just as quickly as her excitement bubbled up, it deflated.

She was supposed to be mad at him. Furious, in fact.

Right. She wasn't living a romance novel.

She was living a revenge plot.

This was the same man who thought she was a flirtatious bimbo, playing games while secretly planning to marry someone else.

She sighed, her excitement evaporating as she forced herself to remember her anger. "Tumhara aana zaroori hai?" she asked, infusing her voice with as much mock disinterest as she could muster.

To her utter shock, his lips curved into a smile.

Not a smirk. Not the faint twitch of amusement he usually reserved for her antics.

No. This was a full-blown, soft, genuine smile that made her heart somersault like it was auditioning for a gymnastics competition.

Why is he smiling? Her brain short-circuited, scrambling for an explanation that didn't involve him being stupidly charming.

"Tumhe bakriyon se kaun bachai gaa?" he said lightly, his tone teasing. He didn't say anything more, just watched her with an amused glint in his eyes.

She huffed, crossing her arms and glaring at him. She couldn't even deny it—he had seen her freak out over a devious goat. But she'd be damned if she let him win this round. "Mujhe ab bakriyon se darr nahi lagta," she mumbled under her breath, refusing to look at him.

"Of course not," he replied, his voice thick with humor.

Meerab rolled her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time, slumping back into her seat like an annoyed teenager.

This man.

She turned to stare out of the window, her eyes unfocused as the endless sea of clouds stretched before her. The view was supposed to be calming—fluffy, white nothingness floating in an endless blue expanse.

Instead, it only annoyed her further.

Mostly because she could feel his eyes on her.

Why can't he just stop? She shifted slightly in her seat, attempting to appear nonchalant, but her annoyance only deepened. She was supposed to be ignoring him, giving him the full I'm so mad at you that my silence could freeze a volcano treatment. He deserved it, after all. But his persistent gaze burned into her like an itch she couldn't scratch, and it was infuriating.

What's he even looking at? Does he think I'll forgive him if he stares long enough? Because NOPE. Absolutely not. Main toh full-on angry hoon. Forever.

Finally, her patience snapped. Whipping her head around, she caught his gaze head-on and unleashed the most intense glare she could muster. "Aise kyun dekh rahe ho?"

Murtasim didn't even flinch. Of course not. The man had the emotional range of a rock during a tsunami. He blinked at her, calm as ever, his stupid dark eyes giving nothing away. And then—he shrugged.

Meerab narrowed her eyes further. Oh no. Not the cute shrug. It was infuriating how casual he looked, how his stupid broad shoulders moved like it was no big deal, like he didn't even realize what kind of effect he had on people.

"Kyun," he said, his voice low and maddeningly smooth, "dekh bhi nahi sakta?"

Meerab opened her mouth, ready to fire back, but the words stuck for a moment. Why does his voice have to sound so nice? Focus, Meerab.

She straightened, crossing her arms tightly over her chest and throwing him a look that could freeze lava. "Nahi," she snapped, her tone sharp and final, like a gavel slamming down in court.

His lips twitched, as though he was fighting a smile.

Meerab's rage reached new heights. How dare he? How dare he look amused when she was clearly glaring at him with every ounce of fury she possessed? Did he think this was a joke? That he could just smirk his way out of her perfectly justified anger?

With a huff, she turned back to the window, determined to ignore him again. Except now, the clouds looked even fluffier and dumber, like they were mocking her too.

What was he even staring at anyway? she thought, her mind racing. Does he think I'll forgive him because he's cute? Kyunki main nahi karungi. Nope. Never. Not a chance. Wait, does he think my glaring is adorable? Because it's NOT. He probably thinks I'll forgive him because of that cute voice of his. But guess what, Major Moochasim? Nope. Never. Not happening. I'm mad forever. FOREVER!

Her reflection in the glass only added to her frustration. Her own expression, glaring back at her, looked ridiculous. I need better insults for him. Something creative. Maybe...

But then, her mind betrayed her, replaying that stupid shrug, the way his voice softened, the hint of a smirk on his annoyingly handsome face.

Her chest did that weird, annoying flutter again, and she hated herself for it. It's not fair, she thought, clenching her jaw. Why does he have to look so...ugh.

She sighed dramatically, louder than necessary, hoping it would at least annoy him. It didn't.

Stupid emotionally constipated man, she thought bitterly. Why can't he just be ugly?

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

Meerab smiled softly as she gazed out of the window, her eyes drinking in the endless fields that seemed to roll on forever. The sky was impossibly big here, an uninterrupted expanse of blue so vivid it felt surreal. It was as if the world had decided to stretch a little wider, a little grander, in this hidden corner of Pakistan.

They hadn't even landed at a proper airport. No bustling terminals, no loudspeakers announcing delayed flights. Instead, their small private jet had touched down at an exclusive plane club—a quaint airstrip surrounded by nothing but nature.

And then, waiting for them on the tarmac, was the car.

A sleek black Mercedes. Its polished surface gleamed like a mirror in the late afternoon sun, so shiny it might as well have been whispering, Look at me, I'm very rich and very not subtle.

Meerab had stopped in her tracks, her eyebrows shooting up as she tilted her head toward the car. "Yeh kis angle se inconspicuous hai?" she muttered under her breath.

Murtasim, of course, had strolled ahead with that maddening calm of his. He opened the passenger door for her without a word, his movements as smooth and controlled as ever. But when she hesitated, staring at the car like it had materialized out of thin air, he looked up.

"Meri hai, sabko aadat hai iski," he said simply. His tone was calm, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Her eyes widened. "Tumhari hai?" she asked, the disbelief slipping out before she could stop herself. It just didn't fit the mental image she had of him.

This was Major Moochasim. The man lived in a rustic little army cottage, drove an old motorcycle, and probably had an alarm clock that barked orders at him at 4 a.m. And yet here he was, casually claiming ownership of a car that screamed, secret billionaire vibes.

She squinted at him, trying to detect any hint of sarcasm or teasing. But no, he looked completely serious.

And then—he chuckled.

A low, soft sound, barely audible but so rare that it made her freeze. It wasn't the teasing smirk or the restrained exhale she usually got from him. It was an actual, honest-to-God chuckle.

Not that she noticed. Not at all.

"Army jeep expect kar rahi thi?" he teased, his lips twitching as he watched her try to process this revelation.

"Kind of," she muttered, rolling her eyes and sliding into the car before he could see the way her heart had betrayed her with an uninvited little flip.

Now, as they cruised through winding, empty roads, her earlier annoyance at him was momentarily overshadowed by the beauty around her. Fields upon fields of flowers stretched out on either side, their vibrant colors glowing under the golden sunlight. Lush greenery framed the scene, broken only by the occasional dirt path leading off into the unknown.

It was so quiet. No horns blaring, no city chatter, just the soft chirping of birds and the occasional rustle of leaves. The stillness settled over her like a warm blanket, soothing her frazzled nerves in a way she hadn't expected.

I hate how much I love this place already, she thought, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smiling wider.

The car slowed as they approached their destination, and Meerab's breath hitched as a sprawling haveli came into view.

The ancestral home stood proud amidst the greenery, its grand facade painted in hues of beige and earthy tones that seemed to blend seamlessly with its surroundings. The architecture was distinctly Sindhi, with intricate jharokhas (balconies) carved from wood, latticed windows that cast soft patterns in the sunlight, and towering arches that whispered of a bygone era.

It was breathtaking.

Meerab gasped, leaning forward instinctively, her forehead almost bumping the glass. As the car came to a stop in front of the haveli's large wooden gates, she couldn't stop the awe from seeping into her voice. "You preserved it?" she asked, her words soft but laden with wonder.

Murtasim hummed in response, keeping his eyes on the gravel driveway as he maneuvered the car into a shaded spot near the entrance. "Barlas aur maine restore karwaya," he said, his voice steady and soft, almost indifferent – thought she didn't miss the faint pride behind it. "Mere uncle ko ismein dilchaspi nahi tha, toh kuch saal pura khandar tha..." He glanced at her briefly before adding, "Humare paas ek nayi ghar hai gaon ki doosre taraf. Agar yeh tumhari pasand ka na ho toh—"

"It's perfect," Meerab interrupted, her tone firmer than she intended. She didn't even look at him, her gaze still glued to the haveli. Her fingers fumbled for the door handle in her haste to get out and see more.

Meerab stepped out of the car, her sandals crunching softly against the gravel driveway. The air was different here—clean and crisp, carrying the faintest hint of earth and flowers. She inhaled deeply, and for the first time in hours, the acrid scent of smoke that had seemed to cling to her since the explosion dissipated.

I could get used to this, she thought, her eyes wandering back to the magnificent haveli.

The heavy doors creaked open, and Meerab's attention snapped to the two figures emerging hurriedly from inside. A woman wrapped in a bright dupatta and a flowing kameez shuffled toward them with surprising speed for someone her age. Her face lit up with an almost blinding smile, and her voice rang out in warm excitement. Behind her was a sturdy man with a no-nonsense expression, moving with purposeful strides.

"Khan!" the woman exclaimed, her voice filled with warmth and excitement before she started talking a mile a minute, greeting Murtasim.

Murtasim inclined his head slightly, his expression softening in a way that Meerab had rarely seen. "Mai, Bhaktu," he greeted, his deep voice carrying a note of respect.

Meerab blinked. Was this the same Major Moochasim who gave everyone a cold, clipped nod that barely counted as acknowledgment? The one who made soldiers quake in their boots with a single look?

Mai's gaze shifted to Meerab then, her eyes scanning her from head to toe, lighting up even more—if that was even possible. "Mashallah! Yeh kaun hai?" she asked, her tone so approving that it caught Meerab off guard.

What did he tell them about me? Meerab wondered. For some reason, the woman didn't seem to recognize her. Then again, why would she? Meerab's usual media appearances involved sharp business suits or formal attire, her hair sleek and tied back. Here she stood in a deep red shalwar kameez, her hair tumbling around her shoulders in soft curls. She looked like...not herself.

Murtasim turned slightly, gesturing toward Meerab. "Yeh Meerab hai," he said simply. "Yahan kuch din ke liye rukengi."

Meerab stepped forward, trying her best to look polite and dignified despite the odd flutter in her chest. "Asalaam-walaikum," she said warmly, her lips curving into a soft smile.

"Walaikum-salam, beta!" Mai gushed, her hands clasping together in delight. "Haye, kitni pyari hai! Mashallah, mashallah!"

Meerab flushed slightly under the praise, her lips twitching upward despite herself. Finally, someone who recognizes my charm.

They walked into the haveli, and Meerab's earlier awe deepened. The inside was just as grand as the exterior. The high ceilings were adorned with intricate wooden beams, and the cool stone floors were laid with vibrant, handwoven rugs. Delicate archways led to different sections of the home, and sunlight poured in through the courtyard in the middle.

She couldn't stop herself from trailing her fingers along the carved wooden panels of a doorway, marveling at the craftsmanship.

"This place..." she murmured, unable to finish her thought.

But then, she saw it.

Her heart stopped.

Bounding toward them like a bolt of golden lightning, tongue flopping out and tail wagging furiously, was a golden retriever.

"Oh, no," she whispered, taking a step back. "Oh, no, no, no, no—"

The dog, oblivious to her distress, barked happily and picked up speed.

"DOG!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the haveli like a banshee's wail.

Before she could process her next move, she was climbing onto Murtasim's back with the agility of a cat in survival mode...again. Her arms locked around his neck in a chokehold, her legs wrapping tightly around his waist as she clung to him for dear life.

Murtasim staggered slightly under her sudden assault but quickly steadied himself. He froze for a beat, likely trying to process what had just happened, before he started laughing.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a restrained, dignified laugh. No, this was full-blown, earth-shattering, hearty laughter. The kind that shook his entire body and echoed through the haveli.

"Tumhe...Sheru se bhi darr lagta hai?" he managed between laughs, his deep voice ringing out louder than she'd ever heard it before.

"Sheru?!" Meerab screeched from her perch on his back, her voice climbing several octaves. She clung tighter as the dog—Sheru, apparently—bounded closer. "Tumhara hai?!"

She stole a glance at the so-called Sheru and immediately regretted it. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, his golden fur shimmered in the sunlight, and his tail wagged so enthusiastically that it could power a windmill.

Sheru. The name was absurdly perfect. The dog was terrifying. Like a lion disguised in golden fluff. A clever predator, she thought bitterly.

"Haan, mera hai," he said, still laughing as the golden retriever—Sheru, apparently—jumped up, his paws landing on Murtasim's thigh—dangerously close to her dangling feet.

Meerab screamed louder.

"Bahot gentle hai. Tumhe kuch nahi karega." Murtasim laughed.

"SHERU MUJHE KAATNE WAALA HAI!" she yelled, burying her face into his shoulder as if that would make the dog vanish. The warm, musky scent of him didn't help her state of panic.

"Meerab, neeche utro," Murtasim said, his tone more amused than commanding.

"NEVER!" she shot back, clinging tighter like a particularly stubborn koala.

But of course, Major Emotionally Constipated Khan was not one to give up. With the persistence of a saint—and the grip of someone trained to wrestle armed opponents—he gently pried her arms loose. Ignoring her protests, he lowered her to the ground as if she weighed nothing more than a sack of flour.

"Relax," he said, his tone dripping with infuriating amusement.

The moment her feet touched the floor, she bolted to the far side of the room, putting as much distance as possible between herself and Sheru.

Murtasim crouched down and ruffled Sheru's fur affectionately, scratching behind his ears as the dog wagged his tail furiously and nuzzled into him.

The dog was practically melting under his touch, his tail wagging furiously, his tongue lolling out in pure bliss.

Meerab gawked from her safe corner.

The entire scene was absurd.

There was Murtasim—stoic, intense Murtasim—looking like a model for some ridiculously over-the-top ad campaign. The soft golden light of the sun streamed through the arched windows, bathing him in an almost ethereal glow. His green jacket and black trousers contrasted perfectly with the creamy marble floor.

And the way his long fingers moved, scratching Sheru's ears in a rhythmic, almost hypnotic pattern?

Unfair.

Meerab bit the inside of her cheek, trying to squash the growing, unwelcome warmth in her chest. Not only does he have to look like some heroic bodyguard who just saved me from a literal bomb, but he also has to look stupidly hot while petting a dog?

Sheru nuzzled Murtasim's knee, and Murtasim let out a soft chuckle—one that was low, unrestrained, and entirely unfair. Meerab's heart did an unhelpful flip in her chest.

He's not cute. He's not cute. Stop thinking he's cute, Meerab!

But her traitorous eyes didn't listen. They lingered on the way his stubble framed his sharp jawline, how his lips curled into an easy smile as he murmured something to Sheru. Even his posture—effortlessly balanced yet utterly relaxed—radiated a quiet confidence.

Meerab scowled. "Sheru bhi iske peeche pagal hai," she muttered under her breath.

But her inner monologue was cut off as Murtasim glanced up, catching her eye. For a split second, he looked almost... boyish, his grin widening as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

And that was when Meerab's brain short-circuited.

Stupid man with his stupid dog and his stupid soft smile, she fumed internally. Main dar rahi hoon aur yeh banda audition de raha hai kisi toothpaste ad ke liye.

"Meerab," Murtasim called out teasingly, his voice pulling her from her spiraling thoughts. "Dekho, kitna pyara hai."

"Pyara? Naam ki tarah darawna hai!" she shot back, jabbing an accusatory finger in Sheru's direction.

Murtasim smirked, his fingers still buried in Sheru's fur. "Bahot pyara hai, Sheru se dosti kar lo," he said with a grin, ignoring her indignation.

"Main Sheru se doori banaye rakhoongi!" she snapped, crossing her arms dramatically.

Sheru barked again, wagging his tail, and Meerab scowled. Great. Now even the dog was mocking her.

Murtasim, sitting casually on the floor like this was all perfectly normal, scratched Sheru behind the ears and said with a smirk, "Sheru, yeh Meerab hai. Har cheez se darti hai."

"MAIN NAHI DARTI!" Meerab shot back, indignation rising in her chest.

Her bold declaration lasted all of three seconds.

Because Sheru perked up at the sound of her voice, his ears twitching as his big, shiny eyes zeroed in on her. He took a single, innocent step in her direction.

"MURTASIM, ISSE DOOR RAKHO!" she screamed, scrambling back until her shoulder hit the wall. Her hands flailed wildly as she pointed at Sheru like he was a lion about to pounce.

Murtasim laughed louder, his deep, rich voice filling the room. "Meerab, woh sirf tumhe hello bolna chahta hai."

"Main Sheru ki hello list pe nahi aana chahti!" she yelled, her words laced with sheer panic.

Murtasim sighed dramatically, his hand resting on Sheru's back as if to reassure the dog that this entire performance wasn't personal. "Abhi tum se thoda darrti hai," he murmured to Sheru like he was explaining the complexities of human behavior. "Par dheere dheere dosti ho jayegi. Chalo, sit."

To Meerab's utter shock, Sheru actually obeyed. The dog plopped onto the floor, wagging his tail lazily, and then—oh no—he lay down entirely, his giant, horrifyingly cute eyes looking up at her with all the innocence of a golden retriever who probably didn't understand why she was screaming.

"See?" Murtasim said, gesturing toward Sheru as if he had just tamed a wild beast. "Itna cute hai."

"Cute?" Meerab whined, inching a little farther up the wall. "Mujhe animals door se ache lagte hain!"

Murtasim raised an eyebrow, his expression softening as he leaned back on one hand, still petting Sheru with the other. "Mujh par bharosa karo. Tumhe kuch nahi hone doonga."

His words were simple, but the way he said them—low, firm, and steady—made her heart do an unwelcome somersault. Bharosa? Tum par? Tum toh emotionally challenged ho!

He patted the floor beside him. "Aao, baitho."

"Murtasim, nahi," she said, her voice wavering as she shook her head furiously.

"Itna darr kyun lagta hai?" he asked, his tone curious but not teasing.

She hesitated, chewing on her lip, before finally admitting, "Jab main teen saal ki thi, toh Shahmeer ke Baba ne ek bada sa dog adopt kiya tha. Mujhe dekh kar pagal ho gaya aur mere peeche bhagne laga... aur mujhe kata bhi." She swallowed hard, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Tab se darr lagta hai."

She didn't usually tell people this story. Most just assumed she had some allergy, and she had let them believe it. It was easier that way.

Murtasim's brow furrowed as he leaned back slightly, considering her words. "Woh toh Shahmeer ke Baba ki galti hai. Ghar mein agar bache ho, toh koi gentle dog lana chahiye."

She shrugged.

"Itne saal kaise avoid kiya?" he asked, genuinely curious. "Sab ke paas pets hote hain."

Meerab muttered under her breath, "Sab ko lagta hai ki mujhe dogs aur cats se allergy hai."

Murtasim stared at her for a moment, and then, to her irritation, he chuckled. Shaking his head, he patted the floor again, his smile warm and infuriating. "Trust me," he said simply.

"No," she snapped, crossing her arms.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair before leaning forward. "Meerab," he said gently, "jab tak yahan ho, aise darr ke rehne se acha hai ki tum Sheru se dosti kar lo."

She glared at him, her lips pressing into a firm line, but her resolve was already wavering. Why did he have to sound so reasonable?

Taking a deep breath, she stood and took a single hesitant step forward. Her heart was hammering in her chest like she was approaching a ticking time bomb instead of an oversized furball.

Okay, Meerab. It's just a dog. A friendly dog. A fluffy dog. A dog that could bite your entire arm off.

Her stomach churned as she took another step. Her palms felt clammy, and her knees wobbled slightly. She was positive she looked ridiculous, but she kept moving until she was close enough to sit next to Murtasim—just slightly behind him, of course.

Sheru's eyes followed her every move, his head tilting curiously, but to her utter shock, he didn't lunge.

"Ab dekho, pehle greet karte hain," Murtasim said, his voice calm and encouraging.

"Greet? Yeh koi shaadi ka rishta hai?" she muttered, glaring at him.

He grinned, shaking his head. "Pehle haath aage badhao, dheere se," he explained, demonstrating with his own hand as Sheru sniffed it obediently.

Her hand trembled as she raised it slowly, her fingers curling instinctively.

"Relax," Murtasim said softly. "Sheru friendly hai. Tumhe kuch nahi karega."

Meerab looked at Sheru, then back at Murtasim. "Agar yeh mujhe kate ga, toh tumhari job gayi," she warned, narrowing her eyes.

Murtasim chuckled again, shaking his head as he scratched Sheru's ears. "Tumhe kuch nahi hoga, Meerab."

"Woh mera haath kha gaya toh?" she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.

Murtasim chuckled, a soft, warm sound that, annoyingly, made her stomach flutter. "Sheru tumhe nahi khayega, Meerab."

She glared at him. "Kya pata?"

Instead of answering, he reached for her hand, his touch firm but gentle, enveloping her smaller one in his. Her heart skipped a beat—not because of Sheru but because of him.

"Trust me," he whispered, his voice low and steady, sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine.

She wanted to argue, to remind him that trust wasn't exactly his strong suit, but her voice betrayed her. Before she could pull away, he guided their clasped hands toward Sheru's nose.

Sheru sniffed curiously, his wet nose brushing her hand. Meerab tensed instantly, her breath hitching. Yeh toh bas shuruat hai, ab yeh muh kholega aur mujhe kha jayega!

But Sheru did not do that. He simply sniffed a few times, then gave her a look that could only be described as mildly bored before laying his head back down with a sigh.

"Dekha?" Murtasim said, turning to her with a smile that was far too smug for her liking. "Kuch nahi kiya."

Meerab blinked, glancing between Sheru and Murtasim. "...Woh kuch kar nahi raha hai kyunki abhi woh plan kar raha hai."

Murtasim shook his head, clearly biting back laughter. "Ab usko pet karo," he said, still holding her hand.

"Aaj ke liya itna hi kaafi hai," she muttered, but she didn't pull her hand back as he guided it to Sheru's side, brushing against his soft golden fur.

Her eyes widened slightly at the sensation. It wasn't rough or scary—it was surprisingly soft, like running her fingers over a thick velvet blanket.

"Dekha?" Murtasim said again, his tone softer this time.

Before she could answer, Sheru moved, shifting his head slightly. Meerab yelped and jumped, her heart pounding.

"Shh," Murtasim said gently, his hand still steady on hers. "Kuch nahi hua."

Sheru nuzzled her hand, his warm nose tickling her fingers. Meerab let out a startled giggle, quickly covering her mouth with her free hand. Maybe... just maybe... he wasn't so scary.

Murtasim's voice broke through her thoughts, warm and soothing. "Agar Sheru tumhare paas aaye, toh iska matlab hai woh tumhe 'hi' bolna chahta hai. Aur woh chahte hain ki tum usse scratches doh—kaan ke peeche aur tummy pe aise scratch karogi toh bahot khush hoga."

Meerab's gaze softened as she hesitantly ran her hand over Sheru's fur. "Yeh tumhare paas kab se hai?" she asked, her voice quieter now.

"Chaar saal, jabse yeh paida hua," Murtasim replied, watching her with a small smile.

Meerab hummed thoughtfully, her fingers brushing over Sheru's soft fur. She still wasn't entirely comfortable, but the fear that had gripped her earlier was slowly loosening its hold.

Just as she began to relax, Sheru moved again—this time placing his head squarely in her lap. Meerab froze, her eyes wide as she looked at how close his mouth was.

Murtasim laughed, a deep, hearty sound that made her glare at him instantly. "Isko bhi tum pasand ho," he said, his voice full of amusement.

Meerab hesitated before running her fingers through Sheru's fur again. It felt odd, this warm, living weight in her lap. But it wasn't unpleasant. In fact, it was... calming. The rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing, the soft texture of his fur—it was strangely comforting.

But then his words registered.

"Isko bhi?"

Her head shot up, her narrowed eyes locking onto Murtasim. "Aur kisko pasand hoon main?" she demanded, tilting her head challengingly.

Murtasim opened his mouth, then closed it, his jaw working as though he was deciding how to respond.

"You're hopeless," Meerab muttered, rolling her eyes before turning her attention back to Sheru.

She tried to ignore the way her heart raced when Murtasim cleared his throat, "Sheru ke owner –"

Her stomach did a strange flip, anticipation coiling tightly in her chest.

"KHAN SAHIB! MEERAB BIBI! Khana tayyar hai!" Mai's booming voice rang out from across the courtyard, startling Meerab so badly she jumped, Sheru moving off her lap.

Murtasim straightened, his lips twitching in amusement as he glanced toward the side. Mai was standing there, hands on her hips, grinning brightly.

"Aap dono ka samaan bhi rakhwa diya hai!" she added cheerfully, her voice echoing around the open space.

Meerab sighed, the moment—whatever it had been—shattered into a million tiny pieces.

She stared down at Sheru, who wagged his tail obliviously.

Of course.

Murtasim stood, brushing his hands on his panths before turning to offer her one of those infuriatingly calm smiles and his hand. "Chalo, Meerab. Tumhara favorite part—khana."

Meerab scowled, not taking his hand as she stood up, glaring at him, "Sheru ka owner kaafi darpok hai," she muttered before turning and following Mai towards the food.

"Hopeless," she muttered again under her breath, trudging after him, Sheru trotting happily at her heels like they were best friends now.

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

Lunch was set in a cozy, sunlit room in the haveli, the scent of freshly cooked food wafting through the air. Meerab walked in behind Murtasim, her arms crossed as she tried very hard to maintain her composure. She was supposed to be mad at him. She was.

But then she saw her.

An older woman, probably in her late sixties or early seventies, stood by the long wooden dining table, her face lighting up like the sun the moment her eyes landed on Murtasim.

"Murtasim beta!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with joy.

To Meerab's utter shock, the stoic, no-nonsense Major Khan broke into the softest smile she'd ever seen. He closed the distance between them in a few long strides, pulling the older woman into a warm, lingering hug.

"Dai Maa," he said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that Meerab had rarely heard before.

The older woman gripped his shoulders, swatting him lightly on the back. "Kabhi yaad bhi kar liya karo, hamesha busy rehte ho!" she whined, her voice filled with a mix of affection and scolding. "Bachpan se aise hi ho tum! Ziddi, apne mamn ki karne wale!"

Meerab blinked, surprised and amused as Murtasim chuckled—a low, boyish sound that made her heart flutter against her will.

"I'm sorry," he said, pulling back to cup Dai Maa's weathered face gently in his hands. His tone was genuine, his expression soft as he looked at her with a fondness that melted some of Meerab's resolve to stay angry.

Oh, she thought, watching the scene unfold, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. So, he does know how to apologize.

He looked so... happy. Young, even. There was something almost childlike about the way he interacted with Dai Maa, and Meerab found herself glad he had someone like her in his life. Someone who doted on him, fussed over him, reminded him that he wasn't just a soldier or a bodyguard—he was someone's child.

But then Dai Maa's eyes shifted, landing squarely on Meerab.

Meerab stiffened slightly, unsure of how to respond as the older woman's gaze lingered. For a moment, Dai Maa's eyes flickered between her and Murtasim, as if piecing something together.

And then she smiled.

"Meerab," she said warmly, her voice holding a note of familiarity that caught Meerab off guard.

Meerab tilted her head slightly, confused.

Murtasim looked equally puzzled, his brows furrowing as he glanced at Dai Maa.

But the older woman just opened her arms wide, beckoning Meerab forward. "Aao, beta."

Meerab hesitated for a moment before something about Dai Maa's warmth and open demeanor pulled her in. She found herself stepping forward, letting Dai Maa envelop her in a tight hug.

"Barlas ne tumhare baare mein bataya," Dai Maa whispered in her ear, her tone amused and affectionate.

Meerab froze for a second, her cheeks flushing crimson. Barlas? What exactly had Barlas told her?

She pulled back slightly, her eyes darting nervously to Murtasim, who was now watching them with a raised brow, clearly trying to decipher the exchange.

Dai Maa squeezed her hands, her smile widening as she gave Meerab a look that made her feel both warm and utterly flustered. Whatever Barlas had said, Meerab wasn't sure if she wanted to know—or if she wanted to kill him for it.

The warmth of the hug lingered even after Meerab pulled away, a soft smile playing on her lips. There was something so comforting, so maternal about the older woman that it made her heart feel lighter, despite everything.

Dai Maa's gaze remained fixed on her, shining with affection. "Mashallah, kitni khoobsurat hai meri bachi," she said softly, her hands still holding Meerab's.

Meerab smiled, her cheeks tinged pink. "Thank you," she said shyly, the maternal energy warming her to her core.

"Aur itni patli bhi," Dai Maa added with a teasing shake of her head. "Kuch khaati nahi hogi naa? Aaj kal ki ladkiyan aur unki dieting—"

Her words were cut short by the unmistakable sound of a snicker.

Meerab turned sharply, her eyes narrowing at Murtasim, who was standing a few feet away with an infuriating grin on his face.

"McDonald's ki puri menu ek hi baar kha leti hai," he teased, his tone light and smug.

Meerab gasped, scandalized. "Tumne kabhi McDonalds ki puri menu dekhi bhi hai, Major Protein Shake?" she shot back, crossing her arms as she glared at him.

Murtasim's grin only widened, and for a split second, Meerab's heart betrayed her, skipping a beat. He looked—NO. She shook her head internally. He wasn't cute. He was infuriating.

"Baad mein lad lena," Dai Maa interjected with a pointed look, her voice laced with humor. "Pehla khana khalo. Murtasim ki pasandida cheezein banayi hai aaj."

Then she turned to Meerab, her expression softening again. "Aur dinner mein Meerab ki pasandeeda khana banaongi."

Meerab laughed, a soft, airy sound. "Itna khana toh dinner tak chal jayega," she quipped, gesturing to the spread on the table.

To her surprise, Murtasim stepped forward and pulled out a chair for her. For a moment, she stared at him, confused, before sinking into the seat with a polite nod. He took the seat directly across from her, while Dai Maa settled at the head of the table.

Meerab's eyes swept over the food laid out before them, and her mouth watered instantly. There was biryani, roti, butter chicken, chapli kebabs, lamb chops, and an assortment of chutneys and pickles. The aromas were intoxicating—spicy, savory, rich.

As soon as the food was served, it became glaringly obvious how hungry they both were. Meerab started with small, delicate bites—mostly out of habit, because she liked to appear composed—but all of that flew out the window as soon as the flavors hit her tongue. The butter chicken was creamy and spiced to perfection, the chapli kebabs juicy and bursting with smoky richness.

Across the table, Murtasim was a different story altogether. The man was devouring his food like it might vanish if he didn't eat fast enough. He tore into the chapli kebabs as if they'd personally wronged him, scooped up biryani with an efficiency that would put assembly lines to shame, and barely paused to breathe between bites.

It was both hilarious and oddly endearing. Not that she cared.

When he coughed suddenly, Meerab instinctively picked up the glass of water by her side and slid it across the table to him. "Dhayan se," she muttered under her breath, her tone just a little sharper than necessary.

Murtasim grabbed the glass and took a long sip, his hand brushing hers briefly in the exchange. The fleeting contact sent an unexpected jolt up her arm, but she quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the butter chicken as if it were the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen.

Should've just let him choke, she thought bitterly, stabbing a piece of chicken a little harder than necessary. I'm mad at him, remember? He deserves it.

Except he didn't deserve it—not really, and she hated that she had to keep reminding herself of that too. He wasn't the cold, emotionally constipated man —not entirely. Today alone, he had gone out of his way to be kind to her, to comfort her, to keep her safe.

A traitorous voice in her head whispered, And he's annoyingly good at it.

But Meerab silenced it with another bite of kebab.

Before she could spiral any further, Murtasim picked up the dish of biryani and held it out to her, breaking the silence.

"Try karo," he said, his voice unexpectedly soft, his eyes meeting hers for the briefest moment before flickering back to the food. "Sindhi biryani hai."

Meerab raised an eyebrow at him, skeptical. To her, biryani was biryani. She'd had it hundreds of times. What was so special about this one?

But the moment she took a bite, her eyes widened. It was different—spicier, with a pungent kick that was both peppery and zesty. The layers of flavor were complex, dancing on her tongue in a way she hadn't expected.

Her eyes widened as she turned to look at him, unable to mask her shock. Murtasim was already watching her, and the smirk that spread across his face made her want to simultaneously slap it off and stare at it forever.

"Told you," his expression seemed to say.

Meerab quickly shifted her gaze to Dai Maa, who was chuckling softly at her reaction. "Main banani sikha doongi," the older woman offered, her tone warm and teasing.

Meerab nodded eagerly, already imagining herself attempting to recreate the dish. "Please," she said earnestly, earning a laugh from both Dai Maa and—annoyingly—Murtasim.

She glanced back at him just in time to catch the way his eyes softened as he watched her. It made her stomach flip, and not in the way that biryani usually did.

But she quickly pushed the thought away, focusing instead on finishing her plate. She was still mad at him. Probably. Maybe.

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

After what felt like an eternity of being stuffed with more food than her body could possibly handle, Meerab had finally been shown to her room.

It was, to her utter delight – no, displeasure - right across from Murtasim's.

She stepped into the room and gasped softly. It was beautiful, a perfect blend of tradition and modernity. The walls were painted in muted earthy tones, accented by intricate wooden carvings framing the windows and doors. The bed was a magnificent four-poster, draped with soft, airy curtains, and the ceiling was adorned with delicate geometric designs painted in warm, soothing colors.

There was a small seating area near the window, with a low, ornately carved table and plush cushions in shades of deep red and gold. To the side, a wooden door led out to a balcony that overlooked the gardens. From where she stood, she could see fields of flowers swaying gently in the breeze, their vibrant hues painting the landscape in a riot of color.

Meerab walked to the bed and let herself fall onto it, her arms spread wide as she stared up at the ceiling.

The intricate patterns above her drew her in for a moment, but then her thoughts drifted—as they often did these days—to him.

"Wasn't I supposed to be angry with him?" she muttered to herself, her voice muffled by the soft bedding.

Somewhere between the explosion, Sheru, and lunch, the simmering anger she had been clinging to for days had begun to dissipate. It wasn't fair. She wanted to be mad. She deserved to be mad. But then he had to go and—

Her thoughts flickered back to earlier, to his words.

"Isko bhi tum pasand ho."

"Sheru ke owner—"

She rolled her eyes so hard they almost hurt.

"Agar pasand hoon toh muh khol kar keh bhi sakta hai, emotionally challenged aadmi," she muttered. "Sorry bolo, explain karo ki tumhare stupid dimaag mein kya chal raha tha, aur jo dil mein hai woh batao."

She thought back to what Shibra had told her, the revelation that had first made her want to throw something heavy at Murtasim's head. He actually thought you were going to marry Shahmeer.

At first, she had been furious. How could he think so little of her? That she was just flirting with him for fun while planning to marry someone else?

But as her anger cooled, she realized...in a way, she understood. She had used Shahmeer to make him jealous, hadn't she? And Murtasim didn't know her the way her closest friends did. He wouldn't know that subtlety and "playing hard to get" weren't exactly her style.

Shibra's words echoed in her mind. Your behavior is unusual for those who don't know you.

Meerab groaned, throwing an arm over her face like she was the heroine of a tragic play.

"Unusual," she muttered. "Main kya koi alien hoon?" She whined as she sat back up in bed again.

Was she not supposed to be bold? Was it a crime to admit her feelings? What was the protocol here? Should she have sent him a cryptic note attached to a carrier pigeon? Or maybe stared at him from a distance like a tortured Bollywood heroine, her dupatta conveniently caught on something for dramatic effect?

Was she supposed to be shy and demure, batting her eyelashes like those perfectly poised girls in dramas? She tried fluttering her eyelashes experimentally, only to stop halfway because she felt ridiculous. Nope, not for me.

"Sharma ke baat karoon?" she scoffed aloud, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Aur phir agle din woh apne ghutno par baith jayega aur mujhe propose karega?"

She flopped back down onto the bed, and made a face at the ceiling. She could practically hear her grandmother scolding her in her mind. "Meerab, thodi tameez seekho. Ladkiyan aise nahi karti."

"Woh 'ladkiyan' joh Shahmeer-jaise koi politician se shaadi karne ke liye raise hoti hai," she muttered bitterly.

The thought set her off again. She let out an annoyed huff, throwing a pillow across the room with all the strength her noodle arms could muster. It barely made it halfway to the door.

Why couldn't he understand that she wasn't one of those girls? She didn't want to be coy and mysterious. That wasn't her style. She believed in saying what she thought, doing what she felt, and yes, sometimes making a fool of herself in the process.

"Par nahi," she grumbled, sitting up slightly. "Yeh banda emotionally challenged hai, isse koi emotionally constipated shy ladki chahiye."

Her gaze drifted toward the door again. For a moment, she imagined herself stomping across the hall, banging on it until Murtasim opened up. She would glare at him, jab her finger into his chest, and demand answers.

But then she remembered how he had smiled at her earlier—annoyingly cute, like he wasn't a complete idiot who had broken her heart.

Her resolve faltered, but she quickly hardened it again. "No," she muttered. "No melting, Meerab. Tum ice-cream nahi ho. Stupid Major Moochasim."

Meerab had just flopped back onto the bed, still mulling over her self-declared tragedy, when she heard the creak of her door opening.

Her head snapped up, her heart momentarily leaping into her throat—Was it Murtasim?

But no. It was Sheru.

The golden retriever sauntered in like he owned the place, his tail wagging gently, a small wicker basket held delicately in his mouth. Meerab stared at him, wide-eyed, for a moment before her lips curved into a disbelieving smile.

"What in the..." she began, trailing off as Sheru walked to the foot of her bed and dropped the basket right in front of her like a loyal delivery boy.

The sight of him, tongue lolling out like he was proud of himself, made her laugh—a soft giggle that bubbled out despite her best efforts to stay miffed.

"Tum toh kaafi talented nikle, Sheru." she said, swinging her legs off the bed and sliding down to sit on the floor. She stayed a cautious distance from Sheru—because, well, progress was progress, but she wasn't fearless yet.

Her attention shifted to the basket. It was filled with flowers, all in shades of pink—tulips, roses, dahlias, and peonies. Her fingers brushed over the soft petals, and she couldn't help the smile that spread across her face.

"Tumhare owner ne bheje?" she asked Sheru, raising an eyebrow at the dog.

Sheru made a cute little sound—a mix between a huff and a sigh—as if to confirm. Then he lay down at the foot of the bed, looking positively exhausted from his grand delivery mission.

Meerab giggled, carefully pulling the flowers out one by one, inhaling their delicate fragrance. She reached the bottom of the basket and gasped softly, her fingers curling around a familiar gold-wrapped candy.

"A Twix?" she said aloud, holding it up with a laugh. It was her favorite, and the discovery sent an unexpected warmth spreading through her chest.

She sighed dramatically, though the smile on her face didn't falter. "Yeh uska sorry kehne ka tareeka hai?" she muttered, mostly to herself.

Her gaze flicked to Sheru, who perked up slightly at the mention of his owner. "Tumhare owner ko bolna nahi aata?" she whined playfully, shaking her head. "Flowers aur chocolate toh theek hai, par kuch muh se bhi bol leta." She muttered as she ripped open the Twix package, taking a bite and humming happily.

Sheru didn't reply, of course, but his tail wagged slightly, as if he agreed.

Just then, Sheru's ears twitched, and his head turned toward the door. Meerab followed his gaze and caught a flash of movement. Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned to the side just in time to spot him.

Murtasim.

He was peeking in through the door, his expression soft and uncertain—until their eyes met. His gaze widened comically, like a kid caught stealing cookies, and he quickly ducked back into the hallway, disappearing toward his room.

Meerab clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. "Emotionally challenged aadmi waise kaafi cute hai, haina Sheru?" she asked, grinning as she looked at the dog.

Sheru wagged his tail again, but he didn't move from his spot, his big brown eyes fixed on her like he was waiting for his next set of instructions.

Meerab leaned back on her hands, staring at the flowers and the Twix, her smile softening. Maybe she was warming up to Murtasim faster than she'd planned. Maybe.

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Author's Note: Tadaaaa! So, what do we think? Are we team Murtasm again? Whatever shall happen next, hehehe.