Author's Note: Hi y'all! Thank you for all the love and the funny comments for the last chapter - it was a riot going through them. I hope y'all enjoy the next chapter, the one after this is also almost done so hopefully that will be up in a few days too!

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Meerab felt like she had ascended to a higher plane of existence. Bliss. Utter bliss. If there was a way to bottle this feeling and sell it, she'd be richer than her father in no time. Her entire body hummed in satisfaction as she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the daybed, Dai Maa perched behind her like some celestial hair goddess.

Yeh hi asli jannat hai, she thought dreamily, she sat on the floor in front of a daybed in front of Dai Maa. The older woman's fingers moved rhythmically through her hair, massaging her scalp with a pressure that was just perfect—firm enough to release tension but gentle enough to feel like a warm hug for her brain.

She let out an involuntary hum of happiness, the sound soft but utterly embarrassing. Not that she cared. A goofy smile stretched across her face; her eyes closed. Forget facials, forget yoga, forget world peace—Dai Maa's scalp massage was the pinnacle of human achievement.

She could live here forever. Not the haveli—just this exact spot, under these exact fingers. Heaven.

Her blissful state shattered like glass hitting the floor as she heard footsteps approaching. Heavy, deliberate, male footsteps. She opened one eye lazily, ready to rain fire and brimstone.

And then she saw him.

Murtasim walked in, his long strides unhurried, his black shalwar kameez clinging to him like it had been stitched with the sole purpose of breaking hearts. Hers included.

Meerab nearly groaned aloud.

Why?

Why did he have to look like that all the time? It was unfair. He wasn't even trying. The deep black fabric emphasized every stupidly perfect thing about him—his broad shoulders, the lean cut of his frame, the way his sleeves were rolled up just enough to showcase his forearms, which—ugh.

His forearms.

Forearms shouldn't even be attractive, she thought miserably, clutching her dupatta tighter as if it could shield her from her own treacherous thoughts.

And then there was his face. His annoyingly symmetrical face, framed by his neatly trimmed beard and moustache, the kind that should have been outlawed. His perfect brown skin seemed to glow against the black, and his intense eyes scanned the scene with a calmness that felt like it had been specifically designed to ruin her life.

Was it even legal for someone to look this devastating in traditional wear? She wanted to climb him. Not respectfully. Absolutely disrespectfully.

"Stop it," she mentally screamed at herself, trying to snap herself out of Murtasim-induced spiral.

Dai Maa lit up the moment she saw him. "Murtasim! Aa gaye tum? Aa jao, idhar baitho. Main tumhara sir bhi dabaa deti hoon," she said cheerfully.

Meerab smirked inwardly, fully expecting Murtasim to decline, stoic and soldier-like as always. But then he nodded—nodded—and sat down.

Right. Beside. Her.

Meerab's brain short-circuited.

Their shoulders brushed as he settled in, his long legs folding effortlessly on the floor. The soft rustle of his clothes sounded deafening in the quiet courtyard. And the heat—dear God, the heat—radiating off him felt like a furnace against her side.

Her body betrayed her instantly, running so hot she half-expected to combust on the spot. Her stomach twisted into tight, helpless knots, and a wave of warmth that had absolutely no business existing spread between her legs.

Why was he so close? Why wasn't he moving away? He always put distance between them, always maintained that maddening, infuriating air of restraint. So why now, of all times, was he sitting there like they were sharing a couch during a Sunday Netflix and Chill– the kind with lots of sex - binge?

Worse, why did he have to smell good? The faintest hint of his cologne drifted toward her, spicy and woodsy with an undertone of something clean and fresh—probably just the scent of heartbreak.

Her thoughts spiraled. Why did every part of him have to be designed to destroy her sanity? How could one man be this...this infuriatingly sexy?

Meerab kept her head still, determined not to react, but her eyes darted to him. From the corner of her gaze, she caught him watching her.

He didn't say anything—just stared for a moment before looking away, his expression unreadable.

Dai Maa's fingers stilled, smoothing over Meerab's hair before she began braiding it. Meerab's heart sank slightly. She must look horrible. Her hair was slicked back like a drenched kitten, and she could already imagine how ridiculous she must appear.

As Dai Maa braided, Meerab quickly loosened a few strands near her face, trying to salvage some dignity.

"Meerab," Dai Maa said warmly, her voice pulling her out of her spiral. "Jab tak yahan ho, roz tel lagwao mujhse."

Meerab hummed in acknowledgment, though her gaze flicked nervously to Murtasim, who was now leaning slightly forward as Dai Maa's magical hands moved to his head.

She wanted to leave. Desperately. But something kept her rooted in place. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe it was the way Murtasim's normally hard, unreadable face softened as Dai Maa's fingers worked their magic. His eyes were closed, his head tilted slightly back, and there was the faintest smile on his lips.

Meerab bit back a laugh. He looked... happy.

And oddly, it was cute.

Was this the way to his heart? Head massages? Of his actual head? And not...

The thought made her giggle before she could stop herself.

Murtasim's eyes flickered open, glancing at her with curiosity.

Meerab froze as his dark gaze found hers, and for a split second, her heart betrayed her with a traitorous flutter.

Quickly, she schooled her features into an expression of complete indifference—nonchalance level: Oscar-worthy.

She turned her attention sharply to Dai Maa, who was still expertly kneading Murtasim's scalp. "Dai Maa," she said, her voice as breezy as she could manage, "gaon ka mela kab tak hai?"

She felt his eyes on her. That burning, unrelenting gaze. It was infuriating how palpable his attention was, like he had a direct line to her nervous system.

Dai Maa beamed at the question, her hands not missing a beat. "Bas thode aur din. Chhota sa bazaar zyada aur mela kam hai, bas kuch rides hoti hai, aur bas logon ka milna-julna," she explained warmly. Then, with a chuckle, she added, "Waise ek baar yeh," she gestured toward Murtasim, "iss chotte se mela mein kho gaya tha."

Meerab perked up instantly, her curiosity piqued. "Murtasim kho gaya tha?!"

"Haan!" Dai Maa laughed, the memory clearly bringing her joy. "Chhota tha, bas chaar-paanch saal ka. Pata nahi kaise, sabse alag ho gaya."

Meerab grinned, leaning forward. "Phir?"

Dai Maa laughed even harder. "Pata hai kahan mila?"

"Kahan?" Meerab asked, biting back her own giggle.

"Jalebi ki dukaan ke paas!" Dai Maa exclaimed, her laughter infectious. "Ek haath mein jalebi aur aankhon se aansoo! Baith kar ro raha tha!"

"Aap Major Crybaby the?" she teased, her words punctuated by laughter as she turned to Murtasim.

Murtasim rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips.

"Nahi," Dai Maa shook her head fondly, still chuckling. "Bachpan se hi aisa tha. Chup-chaap rehta tha, kabhi kuch nahi batata, rota bhi bahot kam tha."

Meerab snickered. "Toh kuch nahi badla," she said, looking at Murtasim, who arched a brow but didn't respond.

Instead, he just looked at her for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he leaned back into Dai Maa's touch. His lips curved upward slightly—not a full smile, but enough to make her chest feel strangely tight.

Dai Maa's fingers moved more firmly now, and he let out a deep, satisfied groan.

Meerab's brain short-circuited.

Her thoughts spiraled dangerously. She couldn't stop herself from remembering overhearing him in the shower—how he'd groaned her name then. Meerab. She swallowed hard. What would he sound like if—

Nope. No. Not going there.

She snapped out of it, the memory of what happened afterward slamming into her like a cold bucket of water. She clenched her fists, her irritation rising anew. "Asshole," she muttered under her breath, her glare focused firmly on the ground.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him glance at her again, one brow arching in quiet question. Before she could muster a retort—or worse, explain herself—the sound of hurried footsteps broke the moment.

A young woman bounded into the courtyard. Meerab's senses went on high alert. She held a tray in her hands, balancing it carefully, her smile radiant and just a little too... hopeful.

Dai Maa was the first to greet her, her tone warm and welcoming. "Fari, beta, kaisi ho?"

Fari. Of course, her name was something dainty and floral like Fari.

Before Meerab could fully process her budding annoyance, she heard it—a groan. Low, deep, and unmistakably unhappy.

Her head snapped toward Murtasim. There he was, sitting cross-legged and looking like someone had just forced him to walk across a bed of hot coals barefoot. His groan wasn't one of annoyance—it was one of dread.

Meerab's lips twitched. Oh, so this wasn't a welcome surprise for Major Emotionally Constipated Khan. Interesting.

Meanwhile, Fari greeted Dai Maa sweetly, addressing her with all the respect of someone trying to charm their way into a family. "Dai Maa," she said, her voice practically dripping with sugar.

Meerab's eyes narrowed. Oh, she knew exactly why this Fari was here. Her gaze flicked to the young woman's face, noticing the way her eyes darted—shyly but intentionally—toward Murtasim.

Of course. She's here for him.

The realization hit Meerab like a truck. She crossed her arms tightly, her nails digging into her skin as she watched Fari smile.

"Mine," Meerab thought petulantly, imagining herself stomping over, plopping herself into Murtasim's lap, and yelling the word at Fari like a toddler hoarding their favorite toy. Sadly, societal norms wouldn't allow it.

Even though Meerab was currently mad at Murtasim—kind of, not really—he was hers.

Fari's smile widened as she lifted the tray slightly, her voice soft yet pointed. "Socha Murtasim ke pasandida mithai le aaun."

Murtasim?!

She was calling him Murtasim like she had the right. Like they were on a first-name basis. Like she knew him. And then there were the sweets—an obvious attempt at domestic goddess points.

"Oh no," Meerab thought dramatically. "Did they... date?" Her mind raced. She imagined a tragic village romance, a summertime affair with stolen glances by the fields and moonlit rendezvous by the jalebi stalls. Was that why he groaned?

Murtasim sighed again, this time louder, before finally opening his eyes. His gaze flicked lazily to Fari, and he nodded once. "Hello."

When his eyes turned back toward Meerab, they widened slightly. She blinked, confused for a moment, before realizing why.

She was glaring at him.

Not just glaring—daggers.

"Ab bada bolna aagaya," she muttered under her breath, the sarcasm sharp enough to slice through stone.

If Murtasim heard her, he didn't react. Instead, he leaned back slightly, his shoulders too relaxed for her liking.

Meanwhile, Fari, blissfully oblivious, tilted her head toward Murtasim, her smile unwavering. "Aap kaise ho? Badi der baad gaon aaye ho."

Meerab scoffed audibly. "Bade intezaar ho rahe the," she muttered, loud enough for him to hear this time.

Murtasim's lips twitched, a tiny smile creeping onto his face as he glanced at her, but he didn't respond directly. Instead, he turned back to Fari with a polite, "Theek hoon. Aap kaisi hain?"

Meerab glared harder.

Oh, now he knows how to make small talk, she thought, her irritation reaching volcanic levels.

Fari beamed, chatting away about how the entire village was so happy to see him, her voice a cheerful hum in the background. But Meerab's attention was locked solely on Murtasim—on his stupid, polite responses and that infuriating, faint smile that only seemed to deepen whenever he looked at her.

He was enjoying this.

Emotionally constipated AND smug. Great.

The moment Dai Maa moved a bit on the daybed and Fari noticed her, Meerab could practically hear the sound of a dramatic drum roll. The other woman's face fell slightly, her brow furrowing in obvious confusion as she hesitantly asked, "Yeh kaun hai?"

Meerab's lips twitched as she glanced sideways at Murtasim, her inner snark in full form. "Tumhari girlfriend bura maan gayi," she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

To her utter dismay, his lips twitched. Oh no. Not the twitch. She narrowed her eyes, ready to fire off another jab, when he replied smoothly, "Meri..."

Girlfriend, Meerab thought, bracing herself. Fiancée. The love of my life.

"...dost hai," he finished, looking directly at her as if daring her to react. "Gaon dekhne aayi hai."

Dost?! That's it? Dost? Just a friend? He kissed and ate out friends? Itni modern toh main bhi nahi hoon!

She stared at him, feeling oddly deflated—and annoyed that she felt that way.

Before she could think of a witty retort, Sheru trotted into the courtyard, his golden fur gleaming like he'd just stepped out of a shampoo commercial, his tail wagging in lazy confidence. Perfect timing, Meerab thought. Now, if only he'd do something useful like leap onto Fari and scare her into next week.

But no. Instead, Sheru, the traitor just looked at Fari and snarled, before he came straight up to Meerab. He paused at her feet, gave her a polite, almost regal woof, then sat down and—of all things—rested his massive head in her lap.

Meerab froze for a moment, her heart racing in that awkward mix of fear and fondness she was still getting used to. Slowly, she reached down and gently ran her fingers through his fur. Sheru sighed contentedly, his tail thumping against the ground.

When she glanced up, her gaze collided with Fari's, whose expression had soured into a mix of disbelief and annoyance.

Oh, this just got interesting. Meerab thought smugly, her fingers scratching Sheru a little more enthusiastically.

Dai Maa, on the other hand, was positively beaming, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Sheru toh hamesha Fari ko dekh kar zor-zor se bhonkta hai," she said in a teasing tone, her words aimed at no one in particular.

Meerab couldn't help the smug smile that spread across her face. She gave Sheru some extra good scratches, leaning down to whisper, "Good boy," into his soft ear.

Fari, clearly struggling to hold onto her composure, sighed loudly and shifted the tray in her hands. "Maine aap ke liye ladoo banaye hain," she said sweetly, her eyes darting toward Murtasim. "Besan ke. Aap ke favourite."

Meerab's smugness evaporated like water on a hot stove. Her smile froze. Her fingers stilled. She barely managed to suppress the scowl threatening to overtake her face.

To her absolute horror, Murtasim reached out, took the plate, and said—calmly, politely, thankfully—"Thank you."

Thank you?! That's all it took? Some ladoos and a sugary smile? Wasn't this the same man who made her feel like she had to scale Mount Everest just to get a smirk?

Meerab's glare could have set fire to the tray if she'd had even a shred of supernatural power. But no, she didn't. Instead, she got to sit there and stew in her irritation as he turned his attention back to Fari with that stupidly composed expression.

Fine. Two could play at this game.

Meerab stood, brushing imaginary dust off her clothes as she announced, "Main walk par ja rahi hoon."

Sheru, ever the loyal companion, immediately got up and followed her.

As she walked briskly toward the edge of the courtyard, she muttered under her breath to Sheru, her tone dripping with jealousy and sarcasm. "Toh yeh hai uska type? 'Aap ke liye ladoo banaye hain.'" She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt.

Sheru looked up at her curiously but didn't interrupt her rant.

"Ladoo mein toh protein bhi nahi hota," she grumbled, waving a hand in the air. "Aur besan ke ladoo? Kitni boring choice hai."

Sheru let out a soft bark, wagging his tail as if in agreement.

Meerab sighed dramatically, shaking her head. "Tumhe samajh nahi aayega, Sheru. Lekin ek baat yaad rakhna—agar kabhi kisi ne tumhare liye ladoo banaye, toh unhe waapas bhej dena."

Sheru wagged his tail harder, clearly enjoying her company, and Meerab gave him a fond pat. "Tum hi theek ho, Sheru. Baaki sab—" She glanced back toward the courtyard, her eyes narrowing. "Annoying."

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Meerab's glare could have melted steel, and she didn't bother hiding it. Even long after Fari had left, her sugary voice echoing like nails on a chalkboard in Meerab's head, the tray of ladoos still sat mockingly in the kitchen.

And Murtasim? That insufferable, emotionally constipated man had sat there, stoic as ever, thanking Fari like she had single-handedly brought peace to the subcontinent.

Meerab stormed into the kitchen, her annoyance bubbling over. She grabbed a bowl and began mixing cake batter with the ferocity of a woman scorned—or mildly inconvenienced by jealousy.

"Aur khao ladoo apni Fari ke haath ke," she muttered, pouring flour into the bowl with a bit more force than necessary. Her hand went to the sugar, sprinkling it in like she was casting an angry spell.

She rolled her eyes dramatically, her inner monologue taking center stage. "Kal koi aur aa jayegi, aur uske ladoo bhi khushi khushi accept kar loge." Her hand shot into the jar of cocoa powder. "Mujhe bimbo samajhne wala hi sabse bada bimbo hai."

The batter became a victim of her wrath as she whisked it with unbridled passion. "Mujhse flirt karte ho...phir judge karte ho...aur ab yeh sab tamasha—"

Her tirade came to an abrupt halt when she heard Barlas' voice floating through the haveli. A sly grin crept across her face. Oh, this was perfect. Destiny had delivered her the ideal accomplice to stoke Murtasim's jealousy.

Barlas was off duty for two glorious weeks.

Two can play this game, she thought smugly, though a small voice in the back of her head whispered that perhaps this was childish. Maybe she should just talk to Murtasim, clear the air, and demand the apology he owed her.

No, she decided firmly. He started it. He can end it. Let him stew.

She didn't even think twice. A devilish smile curled her lips as she bounded out of the kitchen and into the courtyard, her voice ringing out, "Barlas!"

Barlas barely had a chance to react before she was hugging him, throwing her arms around his broad shoulders in the most exaggerated display of affection she could muster. She squeezed tight, just for good measure, her grin growing wider when she sensed Murtasim watching.

Barlas, bless him, hugged her back but leaned down to mutter in her ear, "Bhabhi, maine aap ka kya bigada hai? Bhai mujhe maar dalenge!"

Meerab pulled back, still grinning like a cat that had just cornered a particularly juicy mouse. "Tumhare trip kaisa tha?" she asked brightly, ignoring his warning. "I'm so glad you're here. Main toh bore ho gayi thi. Now that you're here, we'll do fun things."

Barlas shot her a panicked look, his eyes darting toward Murtasim, who was standing stiffly by the doorway. Meerab didn't miss the way his fists were clenched tightly at his sides or the fiery glare he was directing at his younger brother.

Perfect.

"Bhabhi, maine toh aap ki madad ki thi...aap mera funeral kyun plan kar rahi hai?" Barlas muttered through his smile.

"Tumhara Bhai iss duniya ka sabse bada idiot hai, toh tumhe he jhelna padega." She muttered to him before she turned her most innocent smile on Murtasim, the one she knew would only infuriate him further.

"Ab jaake laddoo khao," she muttered under her breath.

Barlas, clearly sensing the impending storm, tried to escape, but Meerab wasn't done. "Dai Maa ne bataya tumhe cake bahot pasand hai," she said sweetly. "Main carrot cake bana rahi hoon, tumhare liye! Chalo, go settle in."

Barlas groaned, running a hand down his face. "Marwao gi mujhe, bhabhi," he muttered before fleeing to the safety of his room.

Turning back to Murtasim, Meerab plastered on her most radiant smile. "Kitna acha hai ki Barlas bhi aagaya," she chirped, her voice dripping with fake cheer. "At least main bore nahi hongi ab. Haina, Major Khan?"

Murtasim said nothing, his jaw tightening as his gaze bore into hers.

Meerab tilted her head, enjoying his visible irritation. "Laddoo kaise the?" she asked, her grin widening.

He sighed—a deep, weary sound—and shook his head slightly.

Meerab rolled her eyes dramatically, before heading off toward the kitchen.

"Besan ke laddoo kaafi the tumhare liye. Cake ke baare mein sochna bhi mat," she muttered under her breath.

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Meerab stood in the courtyard, practically vibrating with determination. Her hands were planted firmly on her hips, and her jaw was set as she glared at Murtasim's general direction. How dare he?

Three whole days. It had been three whole days of him staring at her like a lovesick puppy—those big, soulful eyes following her every move. But did he say anything? Of course not. No apology. No explanation. Just endless puppy-eyed glances like he was Sheru's brother.

He ate the ladoos Fari made for him. He stared at the cake she made for Barlas like it had insulted his ancestors. But nothing else. The audacity of him! Murtasim, with his stupid smoldering stares, had yet to say anything. Nothing. No apology, no explanation.

Mere liye ek "I'm sorry, Meerab" bhi nahi nikalta, she thought furiously, biting the inside of her cheek.

Stupid emotionally constipated man.

If he thought she was going to let this slide, he clearly underestimated her powers of pettiness. She had a plan—simple but effective, it always worked with him.

And her unsuspecting pawn was standing right there. Barlas. Sweet, goofy, easily manipulated Barlas.

"Barlas!" she called out, her tone syrupy sweet. She all but skipped over to him, grinning like she had just won the lottery.

Barlas, smart enough to recognize danger, froze mid-step. "Ji, bhabhi?" he asked cautiously, his eyes darting toward his brother, who was lurking nearby like some looming storm cloud, close enough to see their every move, but far enough that he couldn't hear them.

Meerab grabbed Barlas's arm with all the enthusiasm of a child dragging a parent toward the candy aisle. "Tum mujhe gaon ghumane le chalo! Motorcycle par," she declared, her smile widening.

Barlas blinked. Once. Twice. Then his gaze darted to Murtasim, who now stood with his arms crossed, his jaw tight, and a glare so intense it could melt steel.

Ghoor lo, Major Khan, ghoor lo – tumse aur kuch hoga bhi nahi. Meerab thought.

"Uh..." Barlas began hesitantly, his voice dropping to a nervous mumble. "Bhabhi... meri kabar dekhne jaana hai?"

Meerab widened her eyes in mock innocence, as if he hadn't said that. "Kyun? Tumhe motorcycle chalani nahi aati kya?"

Barlas gulped audibly, darting another glance at Murtasim, who now looked seconds away from turning him into roadkill – the intensity of his glare intensifying by approximately 300%.

"Aati hai," he admitted reluctantly. Then, as if sensing an escape route, he added—much louder this time so Murtasim could hear — "Lekin... bhai better hain motorcycles ke saath! Unhone hi mujhe sikhaya tha! Haina, bhai?"

Meerab's smirk vanished. "Traitor!" she hissed, glaring daggers at Barlas.

"Sorry, bhabhi, I'm too young and good-looking to die," Barlas muttered before bolting like his life depended on it.

"Darpok!" she hissed after him.

"Chalein?" a low, familiar voice rumbled behind her, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine.

She turned slowly, dreading the inevitable, only to find Murtasim standing there, looking far too smug for her liking.

"Motorcycle pe," he clarified, his tone calm but laced with a hint of challenge. "Aap ko gaon dekhna tha, toh chaliye."

Meerab narrowed her eyes. "Fine," she snapped, stomping out of the haveli.

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Moments later, she found herself perched on the back of his motorcycle, her knuckles white as she gripped the edges of the seat.

I am NOT going to touch him. Absolutely not.

Murtasim glanced over his shoulder, the sunlight catching the angles of his face and making him look annoyingly handsome. "Ready?"

Meerab nodded stiffly, forcing her gaze away. He was wearing a crisp white kurta-pajama today, and he smelled like soap and something warm and woodsy.

Why does he have to smell good? Why is he suddenly using cologne? For Fari?

The engine roared to life, the vibration shooting through the seat and making her brain short-circuit.

Yeh toh vibrator jaisa lag raha hai...thoda sa.

The motorcycle lurched forward, and her resolve went flying out the metaphorical window.

"Slowly!" she shrieked, instinctively clutching at the sides of his kurta.

"Relax," Murtasim said, his tone maddeningly steady.

"Relax?!" she shot back. "Tumhare liye easy hoga! Main toh gir jaungi!"

"Phir theek se pakro," he replied, a teasing lilt in his voice.

Theek se pakro, she mimicked in her head, glaring at the back of his stupidly perfect head. But her arms betrayed her, wrapping around his waist as her fingers clasped tightly against his stomach.

Big mistake.

His stomach was hard. Like, why-is-this-man-not-a-statue hard. Warm and solid and unfairly nice.

Her heart did an Olympic-level somersault. Why is his stomach so hard? Why is his back so warm? Why does his stupid broad-shouldered self make me want to scream into a pillow?

As they sped through the village, the wind whipped her hair around her face, and she became hyper-aware of every single thing about him—the way his back felt against her chest, the subtle flex of his muscles as he maneuvered the bike, the warmth radiating from his body.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to calm down. Yeh toh bas ek motorcycle ride hai. Normal people karte hain yeh. Kuch nahi ho raha. NOTHING.

But her traitorous mind refused to cooperate, diving headfirst into the memory of a particularly vivid daydream she'd once had.

In it, she was sprawled out on a very similar motorcycle, her body arching against the cool leather seat as he hovered over her, his hands braced on either side of her hips, his face an intoxicating mix of heat and control. The roar of the engine thrummed beneath her, vibrating through her very core as he leaned closer, his lips ghosting over hers before moving lower—

Her eyes snapped open. Nope. No. No. Bad brain. Bad.

Her cheeks flamed so fiercely she was surprised the wind didn't catch fire. What is WRONG with me?! She glared at the back of his head, as if blaming him for the dangerous direction of her thoughts.

He, of course, remained blissfully unaware of her inner turmoil, steering the motorcycle with that maddeningly steady composure that only made things worse.

Then the bike hit a bump, and her arms tightened instinctively.

"Darr lag raha hai?" Murtasim asked over his shoulder, his voice tinged with humor.

"Shut up!" she snapped, her cheeks burning.

"Relax. Sirf meri back mat dekho. Aas-paas bhi dekho," he said lightly.

Meerab scowled at his audacity but worked up the courage to shift her gaze. The fields stretched endlessly, a patchwork of greens and golds. Old houses with faded walls stood in clusters, their charm rustic and inviting. Tall trees swayed gently in the wind, their leaves dancing to a rhythm only they understood.

Her grip loosened, her body relaxing against his as she rested her cheek against his back. His warmth seeped into her skin, and she let herself close her eyes for a fleeting moment, breathing in the tranquility of it all.

"Yeh saare khet tumhare hain?" she asked softly.

"Haan," he answered, his voice steady as ever. "Pehle ek aur khaandaan hota tha, par unka beta ek accident mein marr gaya tha. Woh sab kuch bech kar chale gaye."

Meerab hummed in response, her eyes fixed on the endless fields as he drove through the streets.

Meerab sighed, the sound barely audible over the hum of the engine, as her cheek rested against the solid warmth of Murtasim's back. Her arms were wrapped snugly around him, and despite the ridiculous heat radiating from him—seriously, was he a human or a walking furnace?—she didn't loosen her grip.

His steady warmth seeped into her, softening the edges of her carefully maintained irritation. But even she knew the truth: she wasn't mad anymore. Oh no, she was just pretending now, clinging to her fake annoyance like a lifeline. Because the second he said anything—anything—she would crumble like the flaky crust of a perfectly baked pastry.

She liked this too much, this quiet, domestic thing they had accidentally stumbled into. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine it: herself as his wife, sitting behind him as he drove her around their village, waving to people like some royal couple on a victory parade. The thought made her cheeks heat up.

Pathetic, Meerab. Absolutely pathetic.

But she didn't move a muscle. Instead, she pressed her cheek a little closer, her lips twitching as she realized just how far gone she was.

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The motorcycle slowed to a smooth stop in front of the haveli's gates, the hum of the engine fading into the quiet evening. Meerab's hands were still gripping Murtasim's kurta, and she stayed frozen in place, her heart racing far too quickly for someone who hadn't just run a marathon.

He turned slightly, glancing back at her. "Utro," he said quietly, his voice steady, though his gaze flicked to her hands still clutching him.

Meerab blinked, realizing that she was, quite literally, holding onto him for dear life. Her fingers released his kurta in a rush, and she hastily slid back on the seat, giving him enough space to dismount. He swung his leg over the bike with practiced ease, standing beside it as he steadied it with one hand.

Her legs felt like jelly, and she hesitated, unwilling to trust her own balance. Why does he make everything look so effortless while I feel like a flustered mess?

She made to get off, but her foot caught awkwardly on the edge of the seat. Before she could stumble, his hands were on her—one at her elbow, the other lightly bracing her waist, steadying her as she slid down onto solid ground.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice low, the heat of his hands lingering even after he let her go.

Meerab stiffened, brushing imaginary dust off her kameez, her heart betraying her by beating even faster. She didn't look at him—couldn't—but she felt his eyes on her, unrelenting and entirely too intense.

Then, as if to undo her already fragile composure, his hand reached up slowly, brushing her hair back from her face. His fingers tucked a wind-blown strand behind her ear, the touch so gentle it sent a shiver down her spine.

Her breath hitched. His hand lingered for a moment, his fingertips grazing her temple before he stepped back, his gaze never leaving hers.

Her heart was in full gymnastics mode now, flipping and twisting. His face was too close, his presence too overwhelming, and every nerve in her body was buzzing as if the motorcycle were still vibrating beneath her.

She couldn't take it anymore.

"Kuch kehna nahi hai?" she blurted out, her voice softer than she intended, though the frustration in it was unmistakable.

Murtasim's brows lifted slightly, his lips parting as if to respond. But then he paused, his expression shifting into something unreadable. His mouth closed again, and for a moment, he looked almost... unsure.

Meerab stared at him, waiting. Her chest tightened as seconds ticked by and still—nothing.

"Main hi pagal hoon," she muttered, breaking the silence as she yanked her arm free and stomped toward the haveli.

As she reached the steps, she heard it—a soft, heavy sigh. It sounded so resigned, almost regretful, and it made her falter, just for a second.

But she didn't turn around. If she did, she'd see those stupid, puppy-dog eyes of his, and she might forgive him on the spot. And that, she decided, simply wouldn't do.

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

Murtasim sat cross-legged on the cool stone floor of the shaded veranda, his back resting against one of the intricately carved wooden pillars. Sheru lay sprawled beside him, his golden fur glinting in the soft sunlight as Murtasim ran a hand absently through his fur. The dog sighed contentedly, while Murtasim did the opposite, letting out a long, weary breath.

Across the courtyard, Meerab and Barlas were engrossed in a game of cards. She was grinning, her animated expressions and wild gestures lighting up the space, while Barlas was laughing—a bit too loudly for Murtasim's taste.

His gaze drifted to her, drawn as always, but he quickly looked away, his hand pausing mid-pet. Talking to her seemed impossible lately. Every time he opened his mouth, the words got stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat. What could he even say? He'd misjudged her so badly, and the longer he waited to apologize, the harder it became.

Sheru let out a small woof, snapping Murtasim out of his spiraling thoughts. He scratched behind the dog's ears, his voice low but steady. "Tumhe kya kehti rehti hai?" he asked, his tone carrying a mix of curiosity and frustration. He'd noticed how often Meerab talked to Sheru—non-stop, like the dog was her personal confidant.

Sheru simply thumped his tail, offering no answers.

Murtasim huffed softly, leaning back against the pillar. "Apne aap se baat karne se kuch faida hota hai?" he muttered, half to himself, half to Sheru. He didn't understand how people did it—let their thoughts spill out like that. His had always stayed inside, locked away where no one could reach them – sometimes not even himself. But lately, those thoughts felt heavier, harder to ignore.

His eyes flickered back to the courtyard. Meerab leaned across the table to grab a card, her dupatta slipping slightly off her shoulder, and Barlas said something that made her laugh—bright and carefree, the sound echoing in the quiet air.

Murtasim's jaw tightened, and his hand stilled on Sheru's head. "Kya lagta hai?" he asked quietly. "Obviously mujhe jalane ke liye yeh sab kar rahi hai...mujhe pata hai." His voice dropped, almost to a whisper. "Toh phir Barlas ko maarne ka mann kyun hai?"

Sheru whined softly, nudging Murtasim's hand with his wet nose.

Murtasim shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Haan haan, Barlas tumhara favourite hai. Pata hai mujhe." He scratched Sheru's chin, his voice growing softer. "Sab ko wohi acha lagta hai." His words carried the weight of something deeper—a quiet resignation born from years of being the serious, overlooked brother.

Sheru nudged him again, this time with more insistence, and Murtasim arched an eyebrow. "Kya?"

The dog tilted his head slightly, his gaze shifting toward the courtyard where Meerab was now smirking triumphantly, clearly winning the game.

Murtasim followed Sheru's gaze, frowning slightly. "Main bhi jaon?" he asked, almost rhetorically. He sighed. "Par usne mujhe bulaya nahi." In fact, she had been very intentional in only asking Barlas if he wanted to play cards.

Sheru let out a low growl, a sound somewhere between impatience and encouragement.

Murtasim glanced down at him, his frown softening into something thoughtful. "Uske saath mele mein jaon?" he murmured, half to himself. Once again, she had clearly only asked Barlas.

Sheru barked once, his tail wagging as if to say, Finally, you're catching on.

The sound of someone clearing their throat behind him made him jump slightly. He turned sharply to see Dai Maa standing there, an amused smile playing on her lips.

She stepped forward and settled herself into the chair he had abandoned to sit on the floor with Sheru – because from this vantage point, he had a clear view of the courtyard and its occupants. Dai Maa glanced at Murtasim, shaking her head in exasperation.

"Itni achi lagti hai toh kuch keh bhi do, Murtasim," she said, her tone both teasing and firm. "Bechari intezaar kar rahi hai."

Murtasim sighed heavily, his gaze dropping to his hands. "Kya kahoon?" he muttered. Where would he even start? How could he explain the mess he'd made of things?

Dai Maa raised a brow, leaning forward slightly. "Kya kiya tumne?" she asked knowingly.

Murtasim blinked at her in surprise. How did she always know?

As if reading his thoughts, Dai Maa rolled her eyes. "Bachpan se jaanti hoon tumhe."

He let out a low breath, his voice softer now. "Meerab... bilkul alag hai."

Dai Maa nodded, her expression encouraging him to continue.

"Pehle din se hi...ajeeb thi," he admitted, his tone laced with both frustration and fondness. "Mujhe laga ki aise hi... bored hogi, asal mein thoda mujhe pasand karti hogi... Prime Minister ki beti hai..." He hesitated, his voice dropping further. "Aap ko toh pata hai, unn logon ki duniya humse bahot alag hai."

Dai Maa tilted her head thoughtfully but said nothing, letting him unravel his tangled thoughts.

"Kya kiya tumne?" she repeated, her voice gentle now.

Murtasim sighed again, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Usse galat samjha," he admitted, his voice tinged with regret. "Woh asal mein mujhe pasand karti hai... shayad karti thi."

Dai Maa chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Mera pagal bacha... abhi bhi pyaar karti hai," she said with a knowing smile. "Aankhein kahin aur hoti hain par dhyan pura tum par hi hota hai uska, abhi bhi baar-baar idhar hi dekh rahi hai."

A small smile tugged at Murtasim's lips despite himself, and Dai Maa laughed louder. "Achi hai," she said firmly, her eyes twinkling. "Aisi ladki, jo itna pyaar karti hai aur dikhane se darti nahi... dobara nahi milegi, Murtasim."

He met her gaze, his smile turning a little sheepish.

"Toh apne aap ko thoda sa badlo aur usse baat karo," Dai Maa advised, leaning forward as if to drive her point home. "Agar kuch naa samajh aaye, toh bhi. Kuch bhi boldo, woh sambhal legi."

Murtasim blinked at her, taken aback by her certainty.

She smiled warmly, patting his shoulder. "Tum dono ko saath dekh kar hi samajh gayi thi."

He grinned, looking down briefly as his ears turned slightly red.

"Ab jao," Dai Maa said, her voice suddenly brisk. "Usse mele mein lekar jao. Baar baar tumhe dekhti hai aur phir ghadi ko."

Murtasim frowned slightly. "Woh toh Barlas ke saath jaa rahi hai."

Dai Maa's response was immediate and unceremonious—a swift swat to the back of his head.

"Jab dimaag ko kaam nahi karna chahiye, tab toh tumhara dimaag daudta hai," she said sharply, shaking her head. "Aur jab zarurat ho..." She trailed off, huffing in exasperation.

Dai Maa leveled him with a look that could only be described as disappointed-but-not-surprised. "Tum apne kiye ki saza bhugat rahe ho," she said simply, folding her arms across her chest.

Murtasim frowned, the words sinking in like stones in water. "Kya matlab?"

She raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking slightly as though she was daring him to deny it. "Tumhe laga woh...bohot azad mizaj ki thi. Ab woh nahi hai. Tumhari wajah se."

Her tone wasn't accusatory—it was matter-of-fact, and it hit harder because of it.

"Aapko kaise pata?" he asked cautiously, his voice low, his mind racing.

Dai Maa let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head as though lamenting his lack of foresight. "Meerab ko baat karne mein koi problem nahi hai, beta. Tumhari tarah nahi hai." She leaned forward slightly. "Aur tumhe kya lagta hai? Ki woh yeh sab chupa kar rakhne wali hai?" She scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. "Tumhe nahi laga ki usne kuch na kuch toh bataya hoga mujhe?"

Murtasim stared at her, his mind spinning. Meerab had told Dai Maa something? "Oh."

Dai Maa's sharp eyes softened slightly as she observed his reaction. "Beta," she said gently, "jo cheez tumhe uske paas lekar gayi thi – uska baejhijak andaaz, uski khilti hui shakhsiat, uski apnapan bhari baatein - woh tumhari galat soch ke wajah se dab gayi hain."

Her words hung heavily in the air, their weight undeniable.

Murtasim's jaw tightened, a flicker of guilt sparking in his chest. He had judged Meerab unfairly, dismissed her openness as frivolity, and now she was holding back—because of him.

Dai Maa smiled softly, the stern edge in her voice giving way to encouragement. "Abhi bhi waqt hai. usse baat karo, Murtasim. Galti maano aur usse samjhao ki tum ne usse galat kyun samjha. Woh tum toh samajh gaye ho, bas usko dikhana baaki hai."

He swallowed, nodding slowly. "Main koshish karunga," he murmured.

Dai Maa rolled her eyes, but her smile remained. "Koshish nahi, Murtasim. Kuch karo. Aur jaldi."

Sheru barked lightly as though agreeing, and Murtasim couldn't help but huff a small laugh, rubbing his hand over his face.

"Ab jao," Dai Maa said again, her tone firmer this time, smacking the back of his head again. "Warna woh Barlas ke saath chali jayegi aur tum yahin baith kar Sheru se baatein karte rahoge."

Murtasim got to his feet, rubbing the back of his head where she'd smacked him. Sheru wagged his tail enthusiastically, already trotting toward the courtyard as if leading the way.

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

The bustling mela was a swirl of vibrant colors, mingled scents of food and flowers, and the occasional burst of music from a distant drum circle. Murtasim moved through the crowd with practiced ease, his sharp eyes scanning their surroundings. His gaze darted over every face, alert to even the slightest hint of recognition.

But he wasn't too worried.

This was his territory. In these smaller villages, the feudal system still held strong. While people might recognize the Prime Minister in an instant, his daughter—who appeared in the media sporadically, if at all—wasn't someone they would easily place. Even Fari, with her local gossip radar, hadn't pieced it together.

Satisfied that no one was paying them undue attention, his eyes fell to the woman walking beside him.

She was pouting, her lips jutting out slightly in the cutest display of irritation. He could almost hear her thoughts. She was annoyed. Not at him for once, but at Barlas, who had spotted old friends at the mela and promptly ditched her, leaving her with no choice but to talk to him.

Murtasim suppressed a sigh, his chest tightening as he took her in.

She was wearing a pink suit today, the soft hue glowing against her warm complexion. Not that it mattered what colour she wore—she had a way of making every shade look beautiful.

His gaze lingered, helpless to pull away.

Her long, dark hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, the setting sun catching hints of gold in its depths. Those big, expressive brown eyes, always so full of emotion—fire, mischief, anger, or something else that tied his heart in knots—darted around the mela with fleeting curiosity. Her cute little nose scrunched slightly as she took in a vendor yelling loudly to attract customers.

And her lips—those lips—pouted like she was the heroine of some dramatic love story.

She was beautiful. Too beautiful.

His heart ached at the sight of her. Ached because he didn't deserve to be beside her. Because he didn't know how to fix what he'd ruined.

Then he noticed her expression shift.

Her eyes lit up, her face breaking into a subtle but unmistakable look of interest. He followed her gaze and saw it—a stall lined with rows of colorful choodiyan.

A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.

"Choodiyan leni hai?" he asked, his deep voice cutting through the buzz of the crowd.

She looked up at him, her pout instantly transforming into an adorable glare. Her cheeks puffed slightly, her lips pursed just enough to make his pulse stutter. She was glaring—but it wasn't real anger.

It was adorable.

"Yeh card nahi lenge, naa?" she muttered, her tone laced with irritation and a hint of sulking.

His smile deepened, warmth curling in his chest despite himself. Without a word, he gently steered her toward the stall, weaving through the crowd with ease.

Her pout persisted, but her eyes sparkled as she glanced at the choodiyan again. It wasn't the first time he'd seen her pout, but every time it disarmed him like it was brand new. He couldn't explain why.

As they reached the stall, her eyes widened like a child's at the sight of the glittering bangles displayed in neat, colorful rows. She stepped closer, her fingers hovering over a few pairs before finally picking up a set in shimmering silver.

She shook the bangles gently, her expression lighting up when they made a soft chan-chan sound. Then, to his surprise, she laughed—a genuine, soft laugh that sent his heart skittering.

Allah, give me strength, he thought, watching her as she turned her attention to another pair, this time in gold.

"Yeh wali," she said finally, holding up a delicate set of pink bangles, twisting her hand slightly to admire the sparkle.

Murtasim's attention flicked to the man behind the stall, whose expression had shifted into something far too fond.

A sharp glare from Murtasim was all it took to make the man snap his gaze away and focus on adjusting his wares.

"Yeh?" Meerab asked, holding up the pink bangles again and glancing at him.

Murtasim didn't answer. Instead, he reached out, gently taking the bangles from her hands.

Before she could protest, he reached for her wrist.

Her breath hitched audibly, and her eyes widened as he slid the first bangle onto her hand. Her skin was impossibly soft, warm against his touch, and his heart pounded in his chest like a war drum.

He concentrated on the bangles, carefully sliding them onto her slender wrist, one by one, until they fit snugly in place.

When he was done, he risked a glance at her face.

She was staring at him, her lips slightly parted, her big brown eyes wide and dazed. It was a look he hadn't seen on her before, and it did something to him—something he couldn't name but felt deep in his chest.

For a moment, he couldn't look away.

But then she blinked rapidly, pulling her hand back as if the touch had burned her.

She shook her hands lightly, the bangles chiming softly as they moved. Her gaze dropped to her wrist, where the pink bangles sparkled in the light, and she gave them a small, approving smile.

Murtasim exhaled silently, turning back to the stall owner. Pulling out a few bills, he handed them over without a word, his fingers brushing against the cash a little harder than necessary as he tried to ground himself.

As he turned back to her, he caught her watching the bangles again, her head tilted slightly as if trying to decide if they were perfect.

They were.

And so was she.

He walked beside Meerab, his eyes always on her. Not overtly—he wasn't a man to wear his emotions so plainly—but he didn't need to. Every slight turn of her head, every sparkle in her eye as she stopped at another stall, was etched into his mind.

She didn't speak much, simply casting him a look with those impossibly big brown eyes of hers that seemed to communicate a thousand things at once. Each glance made his chest tighten in ways he didn't entirely understand.

When she paused by a vendor selling gajre, he didn't wait for her to say anything. The light scent of jasmine floated in the air as he handed the money over and gently placed the delicate floral bracelets onto her wrists. She didn't protest, her fingers brushing his briefly before she stepped back to admire the flowers around her wrists.

They continued walking, her attention caught by a stall displaying delicate anklets. She tilted her head slightly, a barely-there smile tugging at her lips. He didn't even need to ask. Reaching for his wallet again, he bought the pair she'd been eyeing and crouched down, motioning for her to lift her foot.

Her lips parted as if to protest, but she seemed to change her mind, lifting her foot slightly so he could clasp the anklets around her ankle. Her foot was dainty, her skin warm, and his fingers moved with surprising gentleness. When she took a step forward, the anklets chimed softly, and he couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at his lips.

The next stall was filled with intricate earrings, each pair sparkling under the lanterns strung above. Her hand hovered over a pair in soft gold, adorned with delicate pearls. Without waiting, he plucked them from the display and handed them to the vendor, who grinned knowingly.

Her cheeks flushed slightly as she accepted the earrings from him, their gazes meeting briefly before she turned away, pretending to admire something else.

When she stopped again, it was for a cotton candy vendor. Of all things. The fluffy pink cloud of sugar seemed entirely too whimsical for someone as fiery and sharp as Meerab, yet the way her eyes softened, the faintest hint of nostalgia flickering across her face, made it clear she wanted it.

He handed her the cotton candy, her fingers brushing against his as she accepted it.

"Thank you," she said softly, her voice almost lost in the noise around them.

He watched, a smile on his face, as she nibbled on cotton candy, her eyes darting around as they walked like she wanted to absorb every ounce of the atmosphere.

A group of little girls, no older than seven or eight, gathered around her, their wide eyes fixed on her. They giggled behind their hands, whispering excitedly to each other.

Meerab arched an elegant eyebrow at them, her lips curling into a teasing smile. "Kya hua?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

The girls shook their heads furiously, their giggles growing louder.

Meerab held out her cotton candy toward them, her expression mock serious. "Aap ko bhi chahiye?"

At that, they nodded eagerly, their heads bobbing like enthusiastic little puppets.

Murtasim saw it coming before it even happened. She turned toward him, her big, pleading eyes locking onto his.

He sighed inwardly. She didn't even need to say anything. That look alone was enough to dismantle his defenses.

With the smallest nod, he gave in.

A few minutes later, a small line had formed at the cotton candy stand, a mix of little girls and boys all waiting for their turn. Meerab was surrounded by the children, laughing and chatting as she handed out pink, sugary clouds one by one.

Murtasim stood by the vendor, silently handing over cash to keep up with the growing demand.

And through it all, he watched her.

She had a way of drawing people in. It was effortless, magnetic. The children clung to her words, giggling at her jokes, tugging at her dupatta to get her attention.

At some point, one of the little girls asked her about her hair. The next thing he knew, Meerab was crouched down, demonstrating how to braid.

Her hands moved deftly, her fingers weaving the strands into what she called a fishtail braid. "Dekho," she said, her voice light and animated. "Pehle do parts banate hain, phir ek ek strand ko doosre part ke andar le jaate hain."

The girls watched her intently, their little faces lit up with fascination. Meerab's smile never faltered as she encouraged them to try it themselves, her patience shining through every word.

Murtasim found himself mesmerized. She was good with kids—patient, gentle, encouraging. But then again, what wasn't she good at?

He shouldn't have been surprised. She was always vibrant, her warmth drawing people toward her like moths to a flame. Still, he felt rooted to the spot, captivated by the sight of her crouched among the children, her laughter mingling with theirs.

And then he heard it.

A sharp, metallic creak split through the air.

Murtasim's gaze snapped toward the noise, his breath stilling as he saw it—a vendor's cart rolling downhill. Its wooden wheels wobbled dangerously, the entire cart tilting as it careened through the crowd, scattering people in its wake.

It was headed straight for Meerab.

She was oblivious, her attention fully on the child in front of her, who was pointing excitedly at her hair.

Murtasim didn't think. His body moved on instinct.

He dashed toward her, dodging panicked bystanders, his focus unyielding. The cart barreled forward, gaining speed, rattling ominously as it lurched over uneven ground.

"Meerab!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.

She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise, but she didn't have time to react.

Murtasim reached her in seconds. His left arm looped tightly around the child, scooping her up and pulling her out of harm's way. His right hand shot out, grabbing Meerab's wrist with a grip firm enough to leave a mark.

Her soft gasp barely registered in his ears as he yanked her toward him with all his strength.

The cart was too close. There wasn't enough time.

The momentum of the pull threw them off balance.

They fell.

Murtasim twisted his body instinctively, his training kicking in as his arms encircled Meerab. He angled himself, taking the brunt of the impact as his back slammed against the ground with a sickening thud.

Pain seared through his left arm as it scraped against the rough dirt, the sharp sting of raw skin making his jaw clench. His lungs burned, the force of the fall knocking the air clean out of him.

And then came the sound—a deafening crash as the cart plowed into a neighboring stall. Wood splintered and clay pots from the other cart shattered, their jagged edges scattering across the ground.

For a moment, everything stilled.

The first thing he registered was her scent.

It was soft, floral, and intoxicating, mingled faintly with the sweetness of the cotton candy she'd eaten earlier. Her body was pressed against his, warm and pliant, her weight grounding him even as his senses reeled.

Her hair spilled over her shoulder like a silken curtain, strands brushing against his jaw and neck. He could feel the erratic rise and fall of her chest against him, her rapid breaths mirroring his own.

He didn't dare move.

"Murtasim," she gasped, her voice trembling, her tone cutting through the ringing in his ears.

Her head lifted from where it had been pressed against his chest, and he felt the absence of her warmth immediately, like a sharp gust of wind on an already cold night. The little girl scrambled up from his side, oblivious to the tension, and skipped away, her laughter fading into the crowd.

But Meerab didn't move.

Her hands cupped his jaw, the soft pressure of her fingers igniting a fire under his skin. She leaned over him, her face so close that he could see every detail—the faint freckles across her nose, the sheen of panic in her wide, doe-like eyes, the way her lips trembled as she struggled to steady her breath.

"Tum theek ho?" she asked, her voice tight, her words rushing together in her panic.

He blinked up at her, dazed. Not from the fall, not from the ache in his back or the sting in his arm, but from her.

The sun framed her face in a halo of gold, her hair falling in dark waves around her shoulders and brushing against his skin. She looked celestial—ethereal in a way that made his chest ache, his breath hitch. He couldn't help it. For a moment, he truly believed he had fallen into heaven.

"Murtasim?" she whispered, her voice cracking as her fingers shook against his face.

"I'm fine," he rasped out, his voice hoarse. He wasn't sure if it was from the fall or the way she was looking at him, her gaze heavy with worry and something else that made his heart trip over itself.

Meerab let out a shaky breath, her shoulders sagging in relief as she sat back on her heels. The tension in her body eased, but her attention didn't waver for a second as he pushed himself upright.

He groaned softly, his hand going to the small of his back. Every muscle protested the movement, but he ignored it, too focused on the way her hands hovered over him like she was afraid he might fall apart.

"Tum pagal ho?" she hissed, her hands moving over his arms and shoulders in frantic, feather-light touches. Each press of her fingertips sent a jolt of electricity through him. "Tumhe kuch ho jata toh?"

The mix of frustration and care in her voice struck something deep within him. He smirked faintly, trying to dispel the thick cloud of worry that hung over her. "Itna darr gayi?" he teased softly, his voice warm with affection. "Mujhe kya hoga?"

Her head snapped up, her glare sharp enough to rival the sun. "Hero ban kar saamne aane ki kya zaroorat thi?" she snapped, but her voice wavered at the end, betraying her lingering fear.

His smirk faded, his expression softening as he gazed down at her. "Agar tumhe kuch ho jaata toh..." His voice dropped to a low murmur, his words weighted with sincerity. "Main kya karta?"

Her eyes widened, her breath catching audibly. The fire in her glare flickered, replaced by something far more vulnerable. For a moment, the world around them faded—the noise of the mela, the chatter of people, the music in the background.

It was just the two of them, locked in a bubble of unspoken emotions.

Her lips parted as if she wanted to respond, but no words came. Her gaze searched his, and he could see her defenses wavering, crumbling under the weight of the moment.

If he leaned in just a little more... If she tilted her face upward...

But he didn't. And neither did she.

And then, just like that, the spell was broken.

Meerab smacked his arm, her palm connecting with enough force to make him wince.

"Tumhari arm bandage karni padegi!" she snapped, her voice sharper than it needed to be, but there was no mistaking the tremor of concern underneath. Her eyes flicked downward, zeroing in on his hand.

Murtasim followed her gaze, noticing for the first time the angry gash on his forearm. Blood had started to trail down to his hand, collecting in thin, dark streaks.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Meerab had already turned away, muttering under her breath. Amid the commotion of the mela, he barely had a moment to register her actions before she grabbed his uninjured arm and tugged him toward a nearby bench.

The crowd parted instinctively for them—perhaps it was because of him, or maybe it was the way Meerab looked so determined.

She took a water bottle that one of the children from earlier handed her in her free hand like a weapon. She pushed him onto the bench, ignoring his protests, and unscrewed the cap of the bottle. As she poured the cool water over his arm, his eyes never left her face.

Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her lips pressed into a tight line.

And then, just as she finished rinsing the cut, a small group of girls—some of the same ones who had been giggling at Meerab earlier—bounded up to them.

"Aapi!" one of them chirped, holding up a bundle of handkerchiefs.

"Yeh lo!" another added, proudly presenting a tiny jar of antibacterial cream and some gauze. "Uncle ke liye!"

Meerab snickered.

"Yeh aapi aur main uncle?" he asked, his voice pitched in a rare mix of disbelief and protest.

The girls nodded earnestly, their giggles bubbling over.

Meerab grinned, her eyes twinkling mischievously as she leaned in toward him. "Tumhari buddhi aatma ki baat kar rahi hai, Major Moochasim," she teased, snatching the supplies from the girl's tiny hands before turning to thank them warmly.

Murtasim glared at her, but his lips twitched at the edges. Her laughter—light, free, and utterly contagious—filled the space between them.

The girls, undeterred by the banter, lingered, their curious gazes darting between the two like they were watching the climax of a soap opera.

"Uncle aap ke pati hai?" one of them asked boldly, her question making Meerab freeze mid-motion.

Murtasim's breath hitched. His heart seemed to falter for a fraction of a second before it resumed its steady rhythm, thundering louder than before. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself the thought.

What if the answer was yes?

What if she were his wife?

The idea settled in his chest, heavy and warm, as if it had always been there, waiting for him to acknowledge it. He quickly masked the thought, straightening slightly, but the question had rooted itself too deeply.

Meerab blinked, her hands pausing mid-motion as she turned to the girl. "Tumhe aisa kyun laga?" she asked, her voice a touch higher than usual, betraying her surprise.

"Uncle handsome hai," the girl replied matter-of-factly, her tiny chin lifting in defiance.

Murtasim's smirk deepened, his gaze flickering toward Meerab as she rolled her eyes.

"Choti si bachiyan bhi!" Meerab muttered under her breath, her cheeks warming slightly as she focused on wrapping the gauze around his forearm. "Aur aapi sundar nahi hai?" she asked with mock offense, her tone dripping with dramatic flair.

The girls gasped in unison, their little heads shaking vehemently.

"Nahi, aap bahot sundar ho!" one of them exclaimed.

"Princess jaisi!" another chimed in, clasping her hands together for emphasis.

The flush on her neck deepened, painting her cheeks a soft pink as she busied herself with his arm again, avoiding his eyes. "Chalo, ab jaake khelo!" she instructed, her voice a touch higher than usual. The girls scampered off, giggling and glancing back at them as if they'd stumbled into the climax of a fairy tale.

Meerab's fingers moved deftly, applying the gauze with unnecessary precision. Murtasim's thoughts drifted for a moment, the sight of her tending to him unlocking a memory he hadn't thought about in months. He had been shirtless, sitting stiffly on a sofa as she cleaned the cuts on his back from the broken glass. Her fingers had been impossibly gentle then, just as they were now, but his heart had felt like a galloping horse, threatening to break free of his chest.

The sensation now was eerily similar, her touch stirring emotions that left him feeling as vulnerable as he had that night.

Should he tell her to check his back again now? His lips twitched at the absurd thought, but the humor didn't dull the ache of longing that gripped him.

Her fingers trailed over his veins for just a second too long, sending a strange warmth flooding through his stomach.

Meerab muttered something under her breath as she tied off the gauze, but he couldn't catch the words.

"Thank you," he said quietly, the sincerity in his voice catching her off guard. She glanced up, and for a moment, her eyes softened.

Her lips curved into a small, almost shy smile as she stood. He got up, his gaze lingering on her.

They walked side by side through the mela once more, the distant sounds of laughter and music filling the space around them.

She turned to him abruptly, her expression unreadable. "Thank you," she said, her voice softer now, her words carrying an unexpected weight.

He arched an eyebrow, intrigued. "Kis liye?"

Her lips quirked upward, the faintest hint of mischief in her eyes. "Mujhe pancake ban ne se bachane ke liye," she replied with mock gravity, her humor cutting through the charged silence.

A soft chuckle escaped him, and for a moment, the tension between them ebbed, replaced by something lighter, almost playful.

But the words he wanted to say—the apology that had been lodged in his throat for weeks—remained unspoken.

Instead, he fell into step beside her again, his hands brushing uselessly at his sides, and simply watched as she tilted her head toward the next stall.

Twice, he reached for her hand.

Twice, he stopped himself, cursing his hesitation.

The third time, just as his fingers hovered over hers, she sighed audibly, turning to him with a look that was equal parts exasperated and amused.

"Tumhara seriously kya hoga," she muttered before slipping her hand into his, the gesture so simple yet so significant it made his heart stutter in his chest.

She looked up at him, her expression softening as she tilted her head slightly.

He smiled then, a rare, genuine smile that felt both foreign and natural on his face.

She froze, her steps faltering as her eyes locked onto his.

And then, she smiled back.

The noise of the mela faded into the background for a moment as he took in the sight of her, the way her face seemed to glow, her lips curving upward just slightly.

"Kaafi bheed ho gayi hai," he said quietly, his voice barely above a murmur.

Without waiting for her response, he gently pulled her closer, her hand still in his. She didn't resist, letting him guide her through the crowd.

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Author's Note: Sooooo, what do we think? Whatever shall happen next? Hehehehehe.