Author's Note: Hello hello! I am so glad so many of y'all liked the last chapter, the comments were so fun to read, so thank you as always for being so supportive and adorable! Onto the next chapter, which is almost 22K words! Y'all might (maybe) need holy water handy for this one. I'll also be very sad if everyone is suddenly quiet when you finally get what you've asked for. OKAY SEE YOU ON THE OTHER END! 

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The storm rolled in as soon as they entered the haveli, the skies tearing open and drenching the village in a downpour so heavy it blurred the outlines of the fields and trees beyond the courtyard. Thunder grumbled in the distance, and a cool wind swept through the open spaces of the haveli, carrying with it the earthy scent of rain-soaked soil.

Meerab stood in the covered balcony, her eyes trained on the hazy gray expanse beyond. She sighed dramatically, tilting her head like she was in some artsy black-and-white film about longing and existential crises. What a mood, she thought. If anyone were to snap a picture right now, it would probably end up on the cover of Pretentious Girl Weekly.

Her lips twitched into a smile as her thoughts spiraled into their usual nonsensical chaos.

Murtasim Khan held my hand.

The thought hit her again like a bolt of lightning, and her grin widened despite her best efforts to keep it in check. He had held her hand. Not for a second, not accidentally, but purposefully, deliberately, like he actually wanted to.

He hadn't said much, of course—when did he ever?—but there had been something in the way his hand enveloped hers, his grip firm yet careful, like she was something precious. It was... nice. Annoyingly nice.

Her hand stretched out automatically, catching a raindrop on her palm. She let the cool water pool in her cupped hand as her thoughts spiraled into their usual chaotic nonsense.

Was this what the poets wrote about? Was this why everyone watching those drama serials cried buckets over one hand-holding scene? Because it felt ridiculously, unfairly magical?

She sighed.

He hadn't said a word, but everyone around them at the mela had looked at her and then at him with these infuriating knowing smiles.

And yet, he hadn't corrected anyone. Not once. He had just walked beside her, letting the entire village assume that she was...his.

Her breath hitched. Was she?

"Stop it!" she muttered under her breath, her fingers flexing against the smooth wood of the balcony railing.

But the memories of the mela kept crashing over her like the rain, unrelenting and impossible to ignore.

He had catered to her every whim. Not begrudgingly, not with that sharp-edged sarcasm he sometimes wielded like a shield, but with a smile. A real smile. The kind that made her chest ache and her stomach flip.

She pressed her fingers against the railing of the balcony, closing her eyes briefly.

He put choodiyan on me.

The image flashed in her mind—his hands holding hers, steady and careful as he slid the bangles onto her wrists. His touch had been warm, firm yet gentle, and she could still feel the way her breath had hitched when his fingers brushed against her skin. The way his eyes had flicked up to hers for just a second, but it had been enough to send her pulse spiraling out of control.

And then he'd thrown himself in front of a cart for her.

Her heart clenched at the memory of his arm wrapped protectively around her, his back hitting the ground with a dull thud. She could still hear the sound of the cart crashing, the clang reverberating in her ears. But more than that, she could hear his groan, could see the flicker of pain on his face as he insisted he was fine.

Why? Why did he have to be so stupidly heroic?

And then there was the way he had looked at her after. Like she was the only person in the world.

She opened her eyes, staring at the rain-soaked landscape beyond the haveli – like it was the painting she had been in earlier.

His hand had been warm and steady, guiding her through the chaos of the mela. Every time the crowd got thicker, every time the noise rose to an unbearable pitch, his fingers had tightened around hers, anchoring her. She hadn't even realized how much she liked holding hands until that moment.

And the way his body had curved instinctively toward hers, shielding her from the jostling crowd. He didn't even have to think about it, did he? It was just who he was—quiet, protective, always watching. She'd felt his gaze more than once, sharp and intent, scanning the mela for any threat.

And yet, every time their eyes had met, his expression had softened.

She let out a long, shaky breath, her fingers brushing against the droplets caught on the balcony railing.

I should probably get used to this—him being all stoic and broody and saying less than ten words a day. Dai Maa said that was just how he was. Quiet. Thoughtful. A man of few words.

A part of her wanted to storm up to him and demand a detailed monologue of his thoughts – what did it all mean? But another part—a softer, quieter part—kind of liked this about him.

Great, Meerab. Now you like his brooding silence. What's next? His bad habit of never apologizing? His emotional constipation? His stupidly perfect face?

The scent of rain mingled with the earth and filled her lungs as she took a deep breath, trying to clear her head. This was nothing like the city, where the rain meant chaos—honking horns, people shouting, and water pooling into puddles of muddy grime.

Here, the rain felt... different. It was peaceful, almost poetic. The only sounds were the steady drumming of raindrops on the tiled roof and the distant rumble of thunder.

She reached out farther, letting the rain drip from her fingers, cool and refreshing against her skin. She tilted her head back slightly, feeling the breeze tug at her hair.

It wasn't just the rain, though, was it? It was everything about this place. The slower pace, the sprawling fields, the warmth of Dai Maa, the quiet strength of the haveli itself—and him.

Meerab felt a surprising calm settle over her as she watched the rain pour down in sheets, drenching the world beyond the balcony. For once, her thoughts weren't racing. She was just... still.

Until the lights flickered.

Her peaceful reverie shattered as the room behind her plunged into darkness, the light no longer reaching the balcony.

Her breath caught in her throat. She wasn't scared of many things but darkness? That had always been her nemesis.

The outlines of the room disappeared into a blur, leaving her disoriented. She pressed herself closer to the balcony rail, gripping it tightly.

Okay, don't panic, Meerab. Do not panic.

Her phone was on the bed. Somewhere.

Could she make it there without tripping over a chair? Or an ottoman?

She wasn't entirely sure about the layout anymore. The room suddenly felt enormous, endless.

Her pulse quickened. Her fingers tightened on the rail.

And then she heard it.

The door creaked open, and a voice, low and steady, cut through the dark.

"Meerab?"

Her heart did a somersault.

A soft, flickering light appeared, illuminating the doorway, and her breath caught. A tray. A lantern. Two steaming cups.

And behind it? Him.

Murtasim, clad in a brown shalwar-kameez rather than white now, stepped into the room. The golden glow of the lantern casted warm shadows on his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw and the softness in his eyes. He looked like some kind of... heroic apparition sent to rescue her.

A lantern? Really? Who even had those anymore?

Her panic dissipated instantly, replaced by a different kind of chaos—the kind that made her heart race and her stomach flip in the most annoying, ridiculous way possible.

He was in her room...in the dark. Voluntarily.

He closed the door behind him.

Why did he close the door? Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.

He didn't say a word as he walked in, the sound of his footsteps nearly drowned out by the rain. Setting the tray down on the small table by the balcony, he adjusted the lantern until its light spread warmly across the room.

She blinked, torn between relief and exasperation. Was he for real? Coming to her rescue again, all calm and cutely heroic, and then not saying anything?!

This man is a puzzle I did not ask for, she thought, watching him as he straightened. The glow of the lantern made his kurta shimmer faintly, the soft fabric catching the light.

"Aap ne ye plan kiya?" she muttered, eyeing the cups on the tray, the unmistakable scent of hot chocolate wafting toward her.

She had mentioned being cold earlier—offhandedly, like a normal person—but apparently, this man had taken it as a decree from the heavens. He showed up, lantern in hand like some knight of the dimly-lit Haveli, with hot chocolate. Was he for real?

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he kept his composure. "Light apne aap gayi," he said softly.

She hummed, tilting her head. "Aap ne banayi?" she asked, gesturing toward the cups as he picked one up and handed it to her.

He nodded, and she couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips as she accepted it. Hot chocolate. Of all the things she could have imagined him making—if she'd ever imagined him making anything—it would've been something rugged and outdoorsy, like chai brewed on a campfire or...nothing. Definitely not this. This was borderline domestic.

She took a careful sip, her tongue grazing the warm liquid, and felt her resolve wobble. Of course, it was perfect. Creamy, rich, with just the right hint of sweetness. Was this man secretly a barista? Did he know everything? She suppressed a groan. God forbid he also knew how to froth milk.

The room felt smaller somehow, wrapping them in an unspoken tension she wasn't sure she could handle. The storm outside roared, thunder rolling in waves, but here, within these four walls, it was warm. Quiet. Intimate in a way that made her want to scream.

She glanced at him, the lantern's soft glow illuminating his features in a way that felt entirely illegal. His cheekbones caught the light just so, and his slightly disheveled hair had an irritating charm she refused to acknowledge. His kurta clung to him, the brown fabric hinting at the lines of muscle underneath. Why did he have to look like that? Right now? Wasn't there some unwritten rule that men couldn't look like romance novel covers while handing out beverages?

Her throat felt too tight, so she cleared it, a weak attempt to dislodge the lump of what the hell am I doing? She couldn't figure out what to say, what to do. Every time she'd tried to push them forward—to make them something more—they'd stumbled. The walls he kept around himself, the hesitations she couldn't fully shake... What if they fell back again? She wasn't sure she had it in her to climb out of that disappointment a second—or third—time.

He wasn't even saying anything, and yet he was sucking the oxygen out of the room. Standing there with his stupidly perfect face, holding a cup of hot chocolate like it was no big deal. No big deal!

If I stay in this room for one more second, I will do something insane, she thought. Something rash. Like kiss him. Or, worse, tell him I'm in love with him. The storm raging outside was doing her no favors, either—was this ambiance scripted? The flickering lantern? The soft glow on his face? The low rumble of thunder in the background? The universe was working overtime, and she wasn't sure if she should be flattered or scared.

If she didn't move right now, she was going to jump him. She'd throw the cup aside, wrap her arms around his neck, and do something truly disrespectful—but deeply satisfying.

She spun on her heel and stepped back toward the balcony, cradling her cup in both hands as if it were her last connection to sanity. The cool, rain-specked air hit her face, and she inhaled deeply, letting it settle her nerves. Cold. Be cold, Meerab. Think cold thoughts. Antarctica. Ice cubes. Polar bears.

But her gaze inevitably drifted to the rain, the steady rhythm a soothing distraction. She placed her cup carefully on the top rail, letting the air wash over her and scatter her thoughts. This is fine. The rain is fine. It's not him; it's just the rain making everything feel like a freaking movie.

And then she heard him follow.

Of course, he followed. Why wouldn't he? His footsteps, quiet and deliberate, were so precise it was as if he had a map to her. Because of course he knows exactly where to go at all times—like he has GPS in his head. Meanwhile, she was one wrong look away from hyperventilating. Great. Even his footsteps have main-character energy. Is he aware? Does he practice? Probably.

The soft clink of metal startled her slightly, and she glanced to her right to see the lantern join her cup on the rail. The golden glow cast dancing shadows over the rain-slicked surface, illuminating the droplets like tiny molten jewels. Oh, wonderful. Now the scene had gone full-on "perfect romantic drama." Who was directing this? She needed a word with them.

Together, they stood in silence, the only sounds the rhythmic patter of rain and the occasional soft clink of their cups.

Meerab's grip tightened on her cup, her thoughts spiraling into chaotic loops of frustration, curiosity, and something dangerously close to hope. Why is he here? Why isn't he saying anything? Kya yeh ek staring competition hai jo mujhe samajh nahi aa raha?

She snuck a glance at him, just a quick one—fine, maybe not that quick—and of course, he looked annoyingly perfect. His profile was sharp against the soft lantern light, the golden glow highlighting the slight curve of his nose, the strong line of his jaw. His eyes were fixed on the rain, distant and thoughtful, like he was contemplating the mysteries of the universe. Or planning how to continue driving her insane. Probably the latter.

She took a sip of her hot chocolate, letting the warmth spread through her like a calming balm. But calming wasn't really happening because, Why does he look like that? Who looks like that while doing literally nothing? Is this a power move? Is he testing me?

Meerab, don't expect anything, she told herself firmly. He's not going to say anything. He never does.

But she couldn't stop herself from waiting anyway, her heart annoyingly tuned to the silence between them, hanging on for a word, a sign, anything.

And then, just as her brain was about to burst from the sheer tension, she heard him sigh. Her head snapped toward him, her eyebrows raised in mild curiosity. His posture was relaxed, leaning slightly against the balcony rail, but the set of his shoulders betrayed tension. She studied him for a moment before tilting her head and asking, "Kuch kehna hai?"

To her utter shock, he glanced at her, nodded, and then... didn't say a word. Just nodded.

Oh, he's still a man of mystery then, she thought, her lips twitching as she fought back a grin. She folded her arms, her expression expectant. "Toh bolo, Murtasim," she teased with a raised brow, gesturing for him to speak.

He took a deep breath, his gaze flickering back toward the rain. "I am not a man of words. I never have been," he admitted, his voice low and steady, laced with sincerity.

Meerab's lips curled into a mischievous smile before she quipped, "You know, yeh Bible ki line hai. Exodus, I think?"

Murtasim's head turned sharply toward her, his expression startled for a beat before his lips quirked into a faint smile.

Oh no, why is he smiling like that? This is not the time for him to look so cute!

She couldn't help it—her giggle slipped out before she could stop it, and his smile widened just a fraction.

And then he spoke again, his voice quieter this time. "I am sorry... maine aap ko judge kiya, aap ko galat samjha."

Her breath hitched as her eyes flew to his face, the lantern's soft light casting flickering shadows that highlighted the remorse etched into his features. His eyes—those endlessly deep, frustratingly beautiful eyes—were locked on hers.

Finally. Finally! She had been convinced they'd be playing this cat-and-mouse game until she had white hair and a walker. Old Meerab would've been like, 'Yeh baat toh bol dete na.'

"Bahot dino se yeh hi kehne ki koshish kar raha hoon," he continued, his voice steady, "par keh nahi paya."

Meerab blinked rapidly, her mind scrambling for a response. All she could manage was a whisper. "Kyun?"

He sighed again, his impossibly broad shoulders rising and falling like he carried the weight of the entire universe (which, to be fair, he probably thought he did). "Mujhe kabhi samajh hi nahi aata ki kya kahoon. Tumhe hamesha pata hota hai, Meerab. Kab, kisse kya kehna hai. Ek pal lagta hai tumhe kissi ka dil jeetne ke liye."

Oh, excuse me? Did he just call me a heart-stealer? And why did he sound so...soft about it?

Her throat tightened as her heart went into overdrive. Was it normal to feel this warm and dizzy at the same time? Because she was dangerously close to swooning, and that wasn't something she wanted on her already chaotic life résumé. Could someone pass her a manual for what to do when the broody soldier bodyguard-turned-heartthrob decides to actually talk?

She swallowed hard, unsure if she was breathing normally. Actually, am I even breathing? How does breathing work again?

"Mujhse nahi hota," he said, his tone tinged with self-deprecation. "Bachpan se hi aisa hoon."

Oh great. Now he's not just cute; he's tragic too. Who gave him the right?

She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but he wasn't done. Because this man had apparently decided tonight was the night to knock her completely off balance.

"Lekin main... tumse... hamesha..." He paused, and for a second, it looked like he was weighing each word as if it held the power to change their lives. Which, knowing him, it probably did. Her stomach twisted itself into a pretzel. "Agar tum mujhe kuch pucho gi, kuch bhi, kabhi bhi, main uska jawab hamesha doonga... dil se. I promise."

Her heart exploded. No, it combusted. No, it disintegrated into glitter and sparkles, and it was entirely his fault. Great, now I'm a puddle. Just a pile of goo. Congratulations, Murtasim Khan. You've successfully ruined me.

Meerab felt her throat tighten. She blinked, furiously willing the tears to stay put, but they betrayed her, pooling in her eyes. His words weren't just words; they were a promise—a window into his quiet, thoughtful soul.

Her voice wavered as she whispered, "Kyun?" She hated how wobbly it sounded. Get it together, Meerab!

He frowned slightly, confused.

"Mere har sawaal ka jawaab kyun doge?" she clarified, her voice steadier this time.

He exhaled slowly, his gaze softening further, if that were even possible. "Dil karta hai... ke tumhare har sawaal ka jawab doon, chahe shabdon mein ho ya khamoshi mein. Tumse wo saari baatein karoon jo mere labon pe aati hi nahi....Main bolna nahi jaanta, par tumhe sunna jaanta hoon... aur sunte rehna chahta hoon, hamesha. Tum meri aadat ban chuki ho... aur tumhara chup rehna, woh mujhse bilkul bhi bardaasht nahi hota."

Her heart practically melted into a puddle at his feet. Who talks like this? Who says these things with such earnestness, such quiet intensity, and then pretends they're bad with words?

Pick a lane, Murtasim! You can't be tragically silent and also a poet!

Her lips curved upward, a soft, almost dreamy smile tugging at them as she muttered, "Abhi toh keh rahe the baatein nahi karni aati. Phir yeh kya tha?"

Meerab nearly choked on air when he chuckled. A soft, warm sound that seemed to settle over her like a cozy blanket. She wasn't prepared for it—who is prepared for a rare Murtasim chuckle?—and it left her heart doing somersaults.

"Dheere dheere tumse seekh raha hoon," he said, his tone light but sincere, his eyes briefly flicking to hers before looking away.

Her lips stretched into an involuntary smile. Oh great. Now he's charming. What's next? Singing love songs under the balcony?

She tilted her head, her curiosity taking over. "Sorry bolna itna mushkil hai tumhare liye?"

He sighed again, a long, heavy sound, like she'd just asked him to carry her through the rain barefoot. "Logon ko itne qareeb aane hi nahi deta ki sorry bolna pade," he admitted, his voice low.

The words hit her square in the chest, making her heart ache in ways she hadn't expected. She stared at him, her brows knitting together. "Kyun?"

He shrugged, his jaw tightening briefly, and for a moment she thought he wouldn't answer. But then he sighed, almost as if reminding himself that he'd promised her honesty. "Life mein sab kuch temporary hota hai."

Her breath hitched at the quiet resignation in his voice. Oh no. He's sad too. Who authorized this?

Without thinking, she muttered, "Tumhe lagta hai ki sab tumhe chhod kar chale jayenge." It wasn't a question—it didn't need to be. She'd pieced enough together from Dai Maa's fond reminiscing and Barlas's endless stories to know how Murtasim kept everyone at arm's length.

He nodded slowly, and she let out a dramatic sigh. "Therapy le kar jaana padega," she declared, shaking her head. Because of course, the solution to Tragic Hero Syndrome was therapy. Or maybe a six-hour lecture on how to stop being this... broody all the time. Or sex.

He smiled faintly, the corners of his lips tugging upward in that infuriatingly small way that shouldn't have made her knees wobble but did anyway. "Therapy mein baat karni padti hai... joh mujhse nahi hoti."

"Yeh bhi hai," she sighed back, throwing him a mock exasperated look. This man. Too tragic. Too hot. Too everything. Even his flaws were kind of sexy.

He took a sip of his hot chocolate, the steam curling lazily upward, and Meerab couldn't stop herself from staring at him. Why is drinking hot chocolate suddenly attractive? She narrowed her eyes. Probably because he's the one doing it.

Before she could spiral further into her mental tirade, the question that had been bothering her bubbled to the surface. "Tumhe sach mein laga ki main engaged thi aur tumhare saath aise hi flirt kar rahi thi?"

His hand froze mid-air for a moment before he set his cup down and nodded, his gaze steady. "Tum ne khud hi kaha tha ki tumhare Baba Shahmeer se tumhari shaadi karwana chahte hai aur woh party..."

Meerab scoffed loudly, almost choking on her drink."Par tumne Shahmeer ko Shibra ke saath dekha, they're disgustingly in love!" Her tone was dripping with the kind of incredulity usually reserved for bad soap opera plots.

"Meri nazar Shahmeer aur Shibra par nahi thi," he said simply, his tone calm but pointed, the words hanging in the air like a confession.

Her heart stuttered.

Wait, hold on. What?

Her mind scrambled to process the implications, but it was like trying to assemble a 1,000-piece puzzle with no edges. The pieces were all there, but nothing was clicking into place.

He was looking at me. ME?

Her cheeks warmed, her stomach flipped, and she suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to either laugh, cry, or jump off the balcony. Actually, forget the balcony—she'd rather fling herself at him.

Meerab tried to stay calm. Really, she did. But he was looking at her like that again—his eyes soft, warm, like he was peeling back the layers of her soul with a single glance. Her heart had no choice but to start cartwheeling inside her chest.

Still, she wasn't about to let him get away with his mysterious silences. "Kisko dekh rahe the?" she asked, tilting her head with mock curiosity, even though her heart was pounding like a drum, and her voice cam out a little too breathless for her liking.

His gaze didn't falter. He just looked at her—pointedly, deliberately. Like he had all the time in the world to dismantle her sanity.

Her mouth went dry. Is this man aware of the effect he has? Is he enjoying this?

"Yeh jawab nahi hai," she said quickly, scrambling to recover. "Jawab bol kar dena padta hai."

"Tumhe," he said simply.

Oh my God.

She blinked, caught entirely off guard, her mind screeching to a halt. Did he just—

Meerab stared at him, her mouth slightly open, her words stuck somewhere between her throat and the outer stratosphere. She was spiraling, and not in the cute, romantic way, but in the I-just-fell-off-a-cliff-and-someone-hand-me-a-parachute way.

Her heart was doing somersaults. Her stomach had turned into a circus. Her brain was a loading screen stuck at 99%.

He was still looking at her. Why was he still looking at her? With that calm, soft, infuriatingly sincere expression, as if dropping "tumhe" wasn't the equivalent of throwing a live grenade into her chest. Her heart had decided it was auditioning for Cirque de Soleil, complete with acrobatics and dramatic falls.

Meerab needed to pull herself together. She needed to say something. Anything. Preferably something clever, something witty—something that didn't sound like she was about to burst into tears or propose marriage on the spot.

"Acha," she said, forcing herself to sound casual, even as her brain was screaming. "Toh mujhse nazar hi nahi hat thi?" She aimed for sarcasm but landed somewhere between flirtation and a breathy whisper.

Her heart was practically breakdancing when he nodded, his voice soft but sure. "Nahi hat thi."

This is basically a love confession. Right? Right?!

Her body betrayed her instantly. She felt warm, her stomach doing somersaults, her hands itching to reach out and... NO. Focus, Meerab!

"Phir tumhe kaise laga ki main aise hi tumhare feelings ke saath khel rahi hoon?" she asked, genuinely curious now, even though her brain was doing that thing where it flashed a big red "WARNING: OVERLOAD" sign.

He sighed, leaning slightly back, his expression growing more serious. "Maine army chhodne ke baad doh jagah bodyguard ka kaam kiya..."

She nodded, her curiosity piqued. She'd seen the file—one was a renowned Pakistani businessman, and the other was Mehreen, an ambitious young politician in her father's party.

"Pehli jagah Ali Saab ki beti ki harkatein thodi tumhare jaisi thi," he began, his voice steady. "Aur doosri jagah Mehreen ki..."

Meerab winced at the mention of Mehreen. Oh, that tracks. Mehreen had a reputation for being, well... going after what she wanted...mostly men.

She ducked her head sheepishly, fiddling with the edge of her dupatta. "Toh tumhe laga ki main bhi aise hi...."

His eyes softened again, and he shook his head slightly. "Dil mein shayad pata tha ki tum aisi nahi ho...shayad apne aap ko convince kar raha tha ki tum alag nahi ho, apne aap ko bachane ke liye."

Her chest ached at the quiet honesty in his words. He was trying to protect himself—from her? How? She wasn't a lion, she was more like... a harmless (albeit fabulous) kitten. A dangerous kitten?

"Apne aap ko bachane ke liye?" she prompted gently, her curiosity blending with the sudden swell of affection she didn't quite know what to do with.

"Pehle kabhi farq nahi pada," he admitted, his voice quieter. "Par tumhare saath... pehle din se hi kuch..." He trailed off, his words hanging in the air, and she couldn't help but smile.

Pehle din se hi kuch? What was she supposed to do with that? Frame it? Turn it into a ringtone? Hire a skywriter to put it in the clouds? She wanted it carved on marble.

But instead of descending into total mush, she went with her default—drama. "Phir itna tang kyun kiya mujhe?" she whined, crossing her arms dramatically.

Because, seriously, who decides "Oh, I like this girl" and then proceeds to make her life a walking soap opera? This man is chaos. Chaos wrapped in biceps and smolder.

A small, sheepish smile tugged at his lips, and he looked at her almost apologetically. "Sorry," he said, and then, with a shrug, added, "Mere saath kabhi kuch acha nahi hota... toh mujhe laga ki yeh kaise ho sakta hai? Ki tum mujhe sach mein pasand karo aur hum dono saath..." He trailed off again, leaving the words unsaid, but she felt them all the same.

And oh boy, did her chest tighten at that, like someone had placed a hand on her heart and squeezed.

This man, this ridiculously complicated man, she thought, just admitted he thinks good things don't happen to him. How am I supposed to survive this level of tragic cuteness?

"Aisa kyun lagta hai?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Apni kismet par bharosa nahi hai," he admitted, his words laced with the quiet grief of someone who had faced more loss than joy.

Her chest tightened at the raw honesty in his tone, her throat constricting as memories of everything Dai Maa and Barlas had told her came rushing in. The parents he'd lost. The walls he'd built. The way he kept people just close enough to care for them but far enough to never let them break him. He walked through life like he was bracing for impact, expecting every joy to come with an expiration date. Life had taught him not to expect permanence.

"Kismet ka concept hi ajeeb hai, nahi?" she said finally, her voice tinged with thoughtfulness. "Agar socha jaye toh humari kismet achi thi ki humare paas mama-baba the. Par phir shayad kismet kharab bhi thi, tumhare parents aur meri ammi apne time se jaldi upar chale gaye."

Her gaze flickered to him, her heart softening at the way he was watching her so intently, like every word she spoke held the answer to a question he hadn't dared ask. Stop looking at me like that, Murtasim Khan, or I'm going to forget how to breathe.

Focus, Meerab!

"Par mere paas abhi bhi mere baba hai," she continued, her tone growing lighter, "aur tumhare paas Dai Maa aur Barlas... toh shayad kismet itni buri bhi nahi hai?"

He let out a soft sigh, his lips twitching faintly. "Shayad."

"Abhi yeh topic jaane deti hoon," she said with a mock dramatic wave of her hand, "par hum phir iske baare mein baat karenge."

He chuckled, and the sound warmed her heart. A rare, happy Murtasim chuckle. Someone call the press. Alert the media. Headline: Brooding Bodyguard Laughs. World Stunned.

Meerab let out a dramatic sigh, her head tilting back slightly as she leaned against the balcony railing. "Pata nahi kya puchoon," she said. "Itne sawaal hai mere paas."

He turned to her, his lips curving into a small smile. "Sab kuch," he said simply, his voice steady, like the weight of her questions didn't intimidate him in the slightest.

"Sab kuch?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Toh yahan se pura hafta nahi hil paoge."

"Theek hai," he said without hesitation, his expression calm and sincere.

She giggled, unable to help herself. Theek hai? That's it? Yeh banda serious hai?

Her laughter faded into a contemplative hum as she looked out at the rain. "Tumhe main bahot ajeeb lagti hoon naa?" she asked softly, not quite meeting his eyes. "Bolne aur kuch karne se pehle sochti nahi hoon... kabhi kabhi toh mujhe lagta hai main khud hi apne aap ko surprise kar deti hoon..."

She trailed off, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of her dupatta. Great, Meerab. Why don't you throw in your childhood trauma while you're at it?

"Achi lagti ho," he said quietly, his gaze fixed on her, his eyes catching the lantern's soft light and shining with something she couldn't quite name.

Excuse me, what?! Her brain short-circuited. Her heart did a literal dhak-dhak and then just... stopped. Or at least it felt like it. Achi? That's it? No qualifiers? No teasing? Just a plain, straight-to-the-point achi lagti ho? What kind of heart attack delivery service was this?

But she was Meerab Ahmed. She could not let him get away with just that. Not tonight.

"Sirf achi?" she teased, raising her eyebrows and shooting him a playful look, even though she could feel her cheeks heating up. Keep it together, Meerab. Don't let him see you're combusting inside.

His lips twitched upward, just slightly. "Bahot achi."

Oh my God, he's doubling down.

Her pout deepened dramatically. "Kitni achi?" she challenged, her voice bordering on a whine, even as butterflies swarmed in her stomach.

His expression shifted—soft yet intent, like he was about to give her an answer she wasn't ready for. And then, before she could fully process what was happening, he set his cup down and reached for her hand.

Her breath hitched as he took her palm and placed it firmly against his chest, over his heart—like she had done once when she was teasing him.

OH. MY. GOD.

The thump-thump-thump beneath her hand was loud, fast, and strong. Oh my God, his heart is racing. Is he nervous? Am I nervous? No, I'm panicking. What is happening right now?

Her eyes snapped to his face, and she instantly regretted it. Big mistake. Huge mistake. He was looking at her with so much softness, so much intensity, that it felt like the air had been sucked out of her lungs. His little smile—the one that always made her knees feel weak—was there, subtle and devastatingly charming.

He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. The way he looked at her said everything—words would've only gotten in the way.

Her own heart was galloping in her chest, her hand frozen in place against his warm, solid skin. She swallowed hard, trying to suppress the squeak that threatened to escape her throat.

Is this what dying feels like? Because I might be dying. Except I don't want to die because this moment is too perfect. HELP.

Her eyes darted between his face and their joined hands on his chest, her brain screaming at her to say something—anything!—but all coherent thoughts had fled.

All she could do was stare, her heart thundering in rhythm with his, and hope she didn't faint. Or kiss him. Or both. Probably both. What's the etiquette here? Someone write me a handbook. Was this what every cheesy drama heroine felt before they dramatically confessed their love? Because if so, no wonder they fainted all the time!

Meerab wasn't entirely sure when her world stopped spinning and started focusing entirely on him. Maybe it was when both of his hands came up to cup her face, his touch firm yet achingly gentle, the roughness of his fingers against her soft skin sending sparks skittering down her spine.

Her heart? Gone. Done. Finished. Stopped. Khatam.

His thumbs brushed her cheeks, slow and deliberate, and she swore her knees would've given out if she weren't already leaning against the balcony railing. Oh God, if he keeps doing that, I'm going to liquefy right here. Just pour me into a mug and call it chai.

The sound of the rain faded into nothingness, replaced by the deafening roar of her heart—currently auditioning to be a tabla in some overly dramatic qawwali performance.

"Murtasim," she whispered, her voice trembling somewhere between what is happening and please, don't stop.

He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. He tilted her face up, his dark eyes locking onto hers, and the look in them stole the breath from her lungs.

And then he leaned in.

Oh. My. God.

This is happening. This is happening! her brain screamed, waving tiny flags and doing cartwheels while her body turned into a live wire of anticipation.

His lips were so close now that she could feel his breath ghosting over her skin. Her hand tightened against his chest, his heartbeat hammering wildly beneath her palm. Good. He's freaking out too. At least I'm not alone in this.

Her entire world narrowed to the space between them, and she swore she could hear fireworks going off in the distance—except, no, wait, that was probably just her brain short-circuiting. Yeh banda mujhe maar ke dum lega.

The patter of rain, the golden lantern light, even the air between them—all of it melted away. All that remained was him: his dark, soulful eyes locked on hers, and the unbearable tension pulling them closer, like gravity itself had rewired just for them.

Meerab's lips parted slightly, her breath hitching as her eyes fluttered shut. Dear God, if I survive this, I promise to stop judging people who cry in romantic movies. Maybe.

Her lips parted slightly, her breath hitching as her eyes fluttered shut. Her thoughts, usually so chaotic and sharp, stuttered and disappeared entirely as he moved closer. Blank. Just static. He's kissing me, right? This is happening? Right?!

The first press of his lips against hers was soft—almost hesitant, like he was asking her permission. Like he was giving her the chance to pull away. She didn't. She couldn't. Instead, a soft gasp escaped her lips, and he tilted his head, his lips pressing deeper into hers, taking, giving, asking all at once.

And oh.

Oh, fuck.

The kiss deepened, a rush of heat sweeping over her as his lips moved against hers. Her hands grasped at his kurta, her fingers bunching the fabric like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to Earth. Which, honestly, it probably was. His beard grazed her skin, rough and teasing, and his moustache brushed against her upper lip, igniting tiny electric jolts that made her toes curl.

Does he practice? Is this some kind of talent? No, focus, Meerab. Focus—actually, no, don't focus. Just—oh my God, his lips.

He kissed her like a man starved, like he'd been holding back forever and couldn't anymore. There was hunger in the way his lips moved against hers, but also something softer—like she was a gift he was unwrapping slowly, savoring every second. Her heart raced, faster than she thought humanly possible, until it felt like it might burst.

Am I going to faint? Is this how I go out? No, wait, I need to live. This is too good. God, his lips—

She pressed closer, her body leaning into his, and her hand that was resting on his chest suddenly became the most important connection in the world.

Oh, his heart.

She could feel his heart pounding, each beat thundering against her palm, mirroring her own frantic rhythm. He can't fake this, she thought wildly. No one's heart races like this unless they mean it.

Her other hand slid up to grip his shoulder, the breadth of it overwhelming and steadying all at once. He pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her waist, holding her against him as if afraid she might disappear.

When he pulled back just a fraction, his lips brushing against hers, his breath mingling with hers in the scant space between them, he whispered, "Fuck, I missed this."

Her brain? Dead.

Her heart? Doing bhangra.

Her lips? Smiling before she could stop herself.

He missed this. HE MISSED THIS.

What does that mean? Does he mean kissing specifically? Does he mean me? Oh God, he means me. Stop overthinking, Meerab. No, wait, overthink later—focus on his lips.

She pulled back slightly, her lips still tingling, her chest heaving with the effort to breathe. Their faces were so close that she could feel the heat radiating off him, his eyes heavy with an intensity that left her weak.

"Agar hum phir kiss kare," she murmured, her voice teasing, yet breathless, "toh tum kaho gai ki galti hogai?"

The words had barely left her mouth before he swooped back in, his lips crashing against hers with a passion that stole her breath away.

This kiss wasn't soft. It wasn't hesitant. It was consuming.

His mouth moved against hers with an intensity that made her knees weak, his lips claiming hers in a way that left no room for doubt. His stubble scraped against her skin, rough and tantalizing, as his hand slid up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair.

Both of her hands wrapped around his shoulders tightly as she kissed him back with everything she had. Her whole body arched into him, her hands clutching at his shoulders as though she might float away if she let go. The heat between them was dizzying, scorching, an electricity so potent it seemed to hum in her veins. She felt like she was being devoured, but also cherished in a way that made her heart squeeze.

And wow, do I like being worshipped. Is this a kink? Stop it, Meerab, stop thinking.

His other hand pressed against the small of her back, pulling her even closer until there wasn't a breath of space between them. Her body melted into his, fitting against him like she'd always belonged there. His lips parted hers further, his tongue teasing and tasting her like she was the most intoxicating thing he'd ever had.

A soft, involuntary sound escaped her throat, and he swallowed it greedily, his hold tightening around her. Her nails dug into his shoulders—not that he seemed to mind—as she clung to him, desperate for something to anchor herself in the overwhelming tide of sensation.

The world could've ended right then, and she wouldn't have cared.

Holy shit.

She was on fire.

Her lips burned from the intensity of his kiss, her skin tingled where his hands had touched her, and her heart thundered so loudly she was half-sure he could hear it.

And then she found herself whispering against his lips, her voice low and breathless. "Agar hum kiss karte-karte mere bed tak pahunch gai... toh tum kaho gai ki galti hogai?"

Her words hung in the air for only a fraction of a second before his mouth was on hers again, swallowing her gasp. The kiss was deeper this time, his lips and tongue demanding, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.

Before she could process it, she felt herself being lifted.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

Her arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair as he carried her. How he managed to navigate through the dark, all while kissing her like he wanted to devour her, was a mystery. Does this man have night vision?

She barely noticed when they reached the bed until she felt the soft mattress beneath her, his weight following as he pressed her down into it.

It was delicious—his solid frame covering hers, pinning her to the bed. She arched into him, craving more of his heat, more of his everything. She never wanted to be anywhere but under him. Actually, over him would be good too... she thought hazily, biting back a grin.

Focus, Meerab, focus! Now is not the time to let your imagination run wild. Or... maybe it is?

His lips trailed away from hers, moving to the corner of her mouth, then along her jaw, before finding the soft curve of her neck.

"Oh."

Her head tipped back, a gasp escaping her as he kissed her there, his beard scratching lightly against her skin, rough and intoxicating. His moustache teased her, the sensation both maddening and perfect.

He pushed her dupatta aside, the delicate fabric disappearing as his lips found their path. His mouth was warm against her neck, his tongue darting out to taste her skin, and she felt like her entire body was short-circuiting.

I want to die like this, she thought dramatically, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Here lies Meerab Ahmed. Cause of death: Being kissed into oblivion by a man who has no right being this good at it.

When he sucked lightly on her neck, she couldn't stop the moan that escaped her, his name tumbling from her lips. "Murtasim..."

He stilled for a moment, his lips lingering against her skin before pulling back slightly.

She blinked up at him, barely able to make out his features in the dim light, but she could sense his hesitation. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling against hers, and for a moment, she thought he was going to say something.

But then he kissed her again, and this time, it was different—slower, gentler, but no less intense.

The heat was still there, simmering between them, but the urgency faded, replaced by something deeper, something that made her chest ache in the most deliciously unbearable way. His lips moved over hers with slow, deliberate intensity, like he was pouring all the words he couldn't say into the kiss.

Her heart squeezed painfully, her chest filling with an emotion she wasn't ready to name.

And then he started pressing soft kisses across her face—her cheeks, her forehead, her jaw—like she was something precious, something to be cherished. She felt her eyes sting with the threat of tears. This man. This stupid, wonderful, maddening man is going to ruin me.

She pulled him closer, tugging on his shoulders to feel more of his weight against her, her lips brushing against his as she whispered, "Aur agar humare kapde utar gaye... toh tum kaho gai ki galti hogai?"

The second the words left her mouth, a low growl rumbled from his chest.

Oh. Oh, that was hot. Can he do that again?

Before she could process it, he bit down on her bottom lip, tugging on it as he pulled back slightly.

Her breath left her in a rush, her heart hammering as she stared up at him. And then, slowly, he sat up, his knees on either side of her hips, his hands going to the hem of his kurta.

No way. No. Freaking. Way.

Her breath hitched as he pulled the garment up and over his head, tossing it aside.

The storm might've knocked out the lights, but her brain was still providing vivid commentary. Why now? WHY NOW? she wailed internally. Why can't there be full lighting so I can fully appreciate this man? I am being robbed of this moment! My poor, innocent eyes deserve to bask in this glory.

The faint glow of the lantern illuminated enough for her to make out the sharp lines of his shoulders, the taut muscles of his chest, the faint dusting of hair across it.

Damn you, Mother Nature. Damn you, electricity walon! Someone call the light department and tell them it's a national emergency. I am the Prime Minister daughter after all!

Meerab bit down on her lip as she stared up at him, her teeth pressing hard against the now tender flesh. The heat running through her veins was unlike anything she had ever felt—a scorching fire that seemed to start in her chest and spiral outwards, setting every inch of her alight. Her skin tingled, her pulse pounded in her ears, and the space between her thighs ached with a familiar, urgent need.

Her chest rose and fell, her breath catching as Murtasim groaned low in his throat, a sound so guttural and primal it sent a shiver down her spine. He leaned in without hesitation, capturing her lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle. His lips pressed against hers with raw hunger, and she couldn't help the way her hands shot up to meet his bare skin.

Oh, God.

Her palms met the hard, warm expanse of his chest, and her fingers instinctively splayed out, gripping him like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Her nails lightly grazed his flesh, and she heard him hiss softly against her mouth, the sound shooting straight to her core.

Oh, he likes that? Good. I'll file that away for later.

He was so warm. It was intoxicating. Addictive. Her fingers tightened against him, marveling at how smooth yet firm his skin felt beneath her touch. A low, involuntary sound escaped her—a soft groan muffled against his lips—as he kissed her with an intensity that made her head spin.

The kiss deepened, his tongue teasing hers, and she couldn't think of anything except how badly she wanted more of him. The ache between her legs grew unbearable, her body pressing into his as if by instinct, desperate to feel him against her. Her thoughts spiraled, wild and shameless. I want to feel every inch of him. I want to know what his cock feels like—pressed against me, inside me, everywhere.

His free hand brushed against her arm, breaking her thoughts as it slid up with deliberate slowness, his touch firm yet unbearably gentle. Even through the fabric of her kameez, the rough texture of his calloused fingers left a trail of fire in their wake. Her breath hitched at the sensation, and her lips parted against his, allowing him to devour her more fully. This man kisses like it's his full-time job. And he's definitely due for a promotion.

When his hand reached her shoulder, she felt the slightest pressure as he pushed the fabric aside a bit. The shoulder of her suit fell away, and the cool air kissed her skin in contrast to the heat radiating from him. His fingers skimmed her collarbone, and the featherlight touch sent a shiver cascading down her spine.

"Murtasim," she whispered, her voice a trembling breath against his mouth. Her lips brushed his as she spoke, and he swallowed the sound, his lips moving over hers again. She couldn't stop the way her hands roamed over his chest, her palms tracing the ridges of his muscles as if committing him to memory.

The heat radiating off his skin was almost unbearable, like she was standing too close to a fire. No, not standing—diving headfirst into it. She was going to combust. Any second now, she'd go up in flames, and they'd have to call the fire department.

His lips left hers, the loss of contact making her whimper, but he didn't stop for long. He kissed a path down her jawline, the rough scrape of his stubble and the brush of his moustache leaving her skin hypersensitive. When he reached the sensitive spot just below her ear, his tongue flicked out to tease it, and she gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

How does he know? HOW DOES HE KNOW THAT SPOT EXISTS? Did he read a manual? Is there a manual?

His lips continued their descent, moving to the hollow of her throat. He lingered there, his tongue tracing the delicate skin, and her back arched instinctively, a helpless gasp tearing from her throat.

No man should be this good at kissing. It was dangerous. It was maddening.

"Agar main aise karoon—" she started, her voice breathless as she pushed against his chest gently. He stilled, his gaze dark and intense as he obeyed her silent command.

She pressed her palms against his chest, guiding him back until he sank onto the mattress. He stared up at her, his lips slightly parted, his breathing ragged. The way his body yielded under her hands, powerful yet willing to bend for her, made something possessive bloom in her chest.

She didn't stop until she was straddling him, her knees on either side of his hips. She leaned forward, her hands sliding up his chest to cradle his jaw for just a moment before she whispered, "...toh tum kaho gai ki galti hogai?"

His hands came to her hips, gripping her with a firm steadiness, holding her in place as if grounding himself. His gaze burned into hers, a mix of heat and reverence that made her breath catch. She could feel him under her, the solid weight of his thighs pressing up against her in a way that sent a jolt of pleasure straight through her.

This man. This stupid, gorgeous, infuriating man. What am I supposed to do with him? Frame him? Worship him? Marry him? Definitely marry him.

Slowly, she slid her hands from his chest, down the hard planes of his torso. Her palms skimmed over every ridge and valley of muscle, savoring the way his body shivered beneath her touch. She could feel the tension coiling in him, the way his breath hitched as her fingers danced along the line of his stomach.

He shuddered, a low groan escaping him, and she swore she could feel the sound vibrate through her fingertips. His reaction sent a thrill through her, the knowledge that she was doing this to him, that she was the reason his body trembled and his control slipped.

Meerab didn't stay on her knees for long; her body had other plans. Slowly, she lowered herself, her thighs bracketing his as she sank down onto his lap. The moment she settled, her body pressed firmly against his, a moan escaped her lips, unbidden, low and drawn out. The hard, unmistakable ridge of his cock pressed against her core, and her breath caught.

Underneath her, Murtasim groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest and into her palms where they rested against him. She rocked her hips instinctively, her body seeking friction, and his reaction was immediate. He groaned, her name tumbling from his lips in a way that made her thighs clench around him. The sound was raw and guttural, the exact same way he'd groaned her name in the shower that night, and the memory sent a thrill straight to her core.

She wanted that sound again. She wanted to pull it from his throat, over and over, until it was all she could hear.

Leaning down, she cupped his face in her hands, her fingers curling around his jaw, her thumbs brushing the line of his cheekbones. She kissed him, her lips pressing against his with intent, her hips grinding down against him in slow, deliberate rolls. His groan rumbled between them, and she felt his hands move, sliding up her sides, his touch scorching through the thin fabric of her kameez.

Her lips parted, her breath mingling with his as she whispered, "Agar main tumhe apne kapde utarne doon... toh tum kaho gai ki galti hogai?"

Murtasim groaned again, a deep, visceral sound that sent shivers racing down her spine. His hands, as if compelled by her words, trailed along her sides, fingers curling into the hem of her kameez. His grip tightened for a moment, and then he moved, pulling himself up off the mattress in one smooth, powerful motion. Of course, he could. He was just like that—infuriatingly perfect, effortlessly strong, and unbearably sexy.

He pulled the kameez up, the fabric sliding over her body, and his lips found hers again as he worked. The kiss was unrelenting, his mouth claiming hers even as her arms lifted, allowing him to peel the garment from her frame. The moment it cleared her head, he tossed it somewhere behind her, and his lips descended again.

Goodbye, kameez. Thanks for your service.

His hands found her bare waist, his palms spreading wide, his fingers splaying over her skin. They felt so big, so overwhelming, that it was as if he was branding her, his touch inescapable. She shivered under his hands, the heat of his touch sinking into her, and she couldn't bear it anymore. Reaching behind her, she unhooked her bra and threw it behind her, not caring where it landed. She didn't want anything between them, not even the flimsy barrier of lace.

Goodbye, bra. Don't wait up.

Murtasim kissed her wildly, his mouth devouring hers as if he could never get enough. His hands roamed her body, exploring every curve and dip with reverence and hunger. She could barely keep up with the sensations, the sheer pleasure of his touch setting her ablaze. She gasped into his mouth, breaking the kiss just enough to breathe.

Grabbing his hands, she brought them up, pressing them to her chest, her lips brushing his with every word she spoke. Her voice was low, breathy, teasing. "Agar main aise karoon... toh tum kaho gai ki galti hogai?"

Her hands released his, and his palms immediately cupped her breasts. His fingers were warm, firm, and the way they shaped around her made her head tilt back. His thumbs brushed over her nipples, sending bolts of pleasure sparking through her. He flicked them once, then again, before his fingers pinched them lightly, drawing a gasp from her lips that he swallowed with his own.

Oh. OH. This is why women write poetry about men's hands. I get it now.

She barely realized she was moving until her back hit the mattress. He had pushed her down, his hands and mouth never leaving her, and the next thing she knew, he was hovering over her again. The heat of his body radiated against hers, his weight pressing her into the softness of the bed, anchoring her in place. His lips found hers again, and she kissed him back with everything she had, her hands tangling in his hair as his palms continued their assault on her breasts, kneading, teasing, pinching.

I'm going to explode. This is it. Spontaneous combustion.

But then his lips left hers, and she couldn't even protest because they were already trailing down her body. He kissed a line from her jaw to her throat, lingering there to suck on her skin, drawing another shudder from her. His mouth moved lower, tracing her collarbone, her sternum, until he reached her breasts.

And there he stayed.

Oh, yes. OH, YES.

His lips closed around one nipple, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak, and Meerab swore she saw stars – actual, literal stars – dancing behind her eyelids. Her back arched off the bed, her fingers clutching at his shoulders as he lavished her with attention.

He alternated between gentle licks and sharper, more insistent bites, tugging her nipple just enough to make her cry out, only to soothe it with a slow, warm pull of his mouth. Her fingers twisted in the sheets, her breath hitching, her lips parting to gasp his name.

"M-Murtasim—" she managed, the syllables breaking on a moan as his teeth scraped her. She couldn't get the rest of her plea out; her head tipped back, her eyes squeezed shut. The sensations were too much, his mouth relentless, his fingers digging into her hips to hold her steady.

She needed more.

"Murtasim, jaldi karo," she finally choked out, her voice trembling with desperation.

He pulled back just enough to chuckle, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against her skin and drove her crazy. He kissed his way lower, his mouth trailing a searing path down her chest, to her stomach. His hands stayed on her breasts, kneading, teasing, his thumbs brushing over her wet, sensitive nipples as his lips found the soft skin beneath her belly button. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss there, the brush of his beard scratching against her skin, the sensation equal parts rough and maddeningly perfect.

Meerab's breath hitched as he nuzzled her, his nose brushing the soft curve of her lower stomach, his beard and moustache scratching. She wanted to scream, to beg, to demand he keep going. But before she could, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her pale pink shalwar. Slowly, deliberately, he tugged it down along with her panties, peeling the fabric away inch by inch, baring her completely to him. The cool air kissed her overheated skin, and she shivered, her heart hammering in her chest.

And then he stopped.

For a moment, he just sat there, his gaze fixed on her body, the dark intensity in his eyes unmistakable even in the dim light from the lantern. He looked at her like she was a feast laid out before him, something to be savored and devoured – reminiscent of the last time yet somehow very different.

Devour me, she wanted to beg.

His chest rose and fell with each deep, measured breath, and then he groaned—a sound so guttural and full of need it sent heat pooling low in her belly. . Oh no. Not the groan. The groan is dangerous. Abort. Wait, no, don't abort. Fuck me.She swallowed hard, her heart racing as her body reacted to the raw hunger in his gaze.

He leaned down, his lips finding hers again, his kiss deep and consuming. As his mouth moved against hers, he whispered softly, the words brushing her lips like a secret meant only for her. "You're so beautiful."

Her heart stuttered, her lips curling into a smile against his. Excuse me while I pass away. That was the longest, most unprompted sentence he had ever given her, and it left her breathless for reasons she couldn't explain.

She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, the teasing edge to her voice almost lost under the smile that tugged at her lips. "I look better with the lights on."

He groaned, his forehead dropping against hers, a smile playing on his lips. "Mujhe pata hai," he murmured, his voice rough with honesty, and she couldn't help but giggle, the sound light and uninhibited.

How was he so cute while being downright sexy?

When he pulled back to look at her again, there was something so tender in his expression that it made her chest ache. His smile was slow, genuine, and devastatingly warm, the kind of smile that could undo a person in the best possible way.

Her throat tightened as she tried to rein in the whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume her. "Agar hum yahan se aage bad gaye... toh tum—"

Her words were cut off as he kissed her, his mouth silencing her with a gentle but insistent press of his lips.

Fine, don't let me finish. It's not like I'm trying to have a rational thought here or anything.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, his voice low and steady. "Galti nahi thi... meri reaction galat thi."

Meerab stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest as the weight of his words settled over her. She smiled, slow and wide, her eyes sparkling as she teased softly, "Acha?"

He nodded, a small, resolute movement, and she couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled out of her, the joy spilling over in waves.

Her smile stayed as his lips began their descent again, trailing down her body with unhurried precision. Every kiss he placed on her skin felt like a promise, his mouth worshipping her as if he had all the time in the world. When he reached her thighs, he lingered, pressing kiss after kiss into the soft, sensitive flesh. His beard scratched at her skin as he nuzzled her, his warm breath ghosting over her.

Her body jolted when his fingers found her, tracing lightly over her slit. A soft, broken moan escaped her as he slid his fingers through her wetness, spreading it across her sensitive folds. Okay. Yup. Dead. Fully dead. Bye, world.

The feeling was maddening, his long fingers teasing her in ways that made her hips twitch, seeking more. And then he pushed one finger into her, the sensation so perfect, so right, that her entire body arched.

They groaned together, the sound a shared release of tension and hunger. His finger slid deeper, curling slightly, and she gasped, her head falling back, her thighs trembling.

Murtasim's fingers worked her like he knew her body better than she did herself. One long, thick digit pressed deep into her, the slow, deliberate slide filling her in a way that made her toes curl. What kind of sorcery is this? Did he take a class? Did they teach "Advanced Ways to Ruin Meerab Ahmed's Sanity" at army school? His thumb dragged lightly over her swollen clit, a teasing contrast to the steady rhythm of his finger.

When he added a second finger, a sharp gasp escaped her lips, her back arching off the bed. Fingers. She loved his fingers.

His hands were rough, calloused, the kind of hands that held weapons and reins. Yet, he was using them like they were made for this—made for her. Her hips rocked instinctively against him, desperate to chase every ounce of friction he offered.

Her mind spiraled into unhinged territory, as always. I could live like this. Just his fingers, all day, every day. Maybe I'll install a sign: "Entry for Murtasim's Fingers."

She bit her lip, stifling a moan as his fingers curled inside her, making her vision blur. "Oh, fuck," she muttered, her hips moving more insistently now, grinding down against his hand. Each drag of his fingers, each press of his thumb against her clit sent pleasure skittering through her in waves.

As her body twisted under him, his head began to move lower, his lips tracing kisses down the soft skin of her inner thigh. Meerab scrambled onto her elbows, her curiosity getting the better of her, needing to see him again – because she hadn't let herself delve on the last time.

She had to see him—had to. After all, this was educational. You know, for science. Or... something.

Her breath hitched when she saw him between her legs. She couldn't make out much in the dark, but his head was disappearing lower, his broad shoulders effortlessly parting her thighs like they belonged to him. Which, okay, maybe they kind of did right now. But still. The audacity.

His tongue flicked out, just once, swiping across her clit in a way that made her entire body jerk. She let out a sound—half gasp, half moan—and her thighs trembled. Just like the first time – it felt like a lightning bolt.

He was relentless, his mouth working her with the same precision and care as his fingers. His tongue circled her clit, the roughness of his moustache brushing against her with every flick, sending electric jolts through her. The sensation was too much, too perfect, and yet not enough.

Her head fell back for a moment, overwhelmed by the sheer sensation of it, but she couldn't help herself—her gaze returned to him. Watching him eat her out was nothing short of sinful. The way his beard scratched at her inner thighs, the way his dark lashes brushed against his skin as he closed his eyes, focusing entirely on her pleasure, was enough to make her dizzy. He looked gorgeous, devastatingly so, his features lit with a strange reverence as if he was a man praying at an altar, except she was the altar.

Her moans grew louder, her hips moving in tandem with the thrust of his fingers and the press of his tongue, her breaths coming in shallow, frantic bursts. The coarse hair of his beard rubbed against her sensitive skin, grounding her in the maddening pleasure as his tongue worked her over.

She was so lost in the storm of sensations that the words tumbled out before she could stop them: "I want to sit on that face."

The moment the sentence left her mouth, she froze. Wait. WAIT. Oh my God. Did I just—

Murtasim's fingers stilled. His head lifted, his mouth slick and his expression unreadable—until that grin.

That grin.

Sinful, knowing, absolutely devastating.

"Jo chahe karlo," he said simply, his voice thick with amusement and unmistakable lust.

I'm dead. Dead and gone. Goodbye, cruel world.

Before she could even process his words, he was sitting back, pulling her toward him with firm hands on her hips.

"M-Main toh aise hi—" she stammered, her protest cut short as he maneuvered her with such effortless strength that it made her brain short-circuit. Did this man eat dumbbells for breakfast? Is he half-human, half-superhero?

In seconds, she was straddling him, her thighs on either side of his head, his hands guiding her into position, her bare heat hovering just above his waiting mouth. The shift in power made her heart race—not just from nervousness, but from a heady mix of anticipation and disbelief.

For a fleeting moment, self-consciousness hit her like a wave. Her cheeks burned, and she thanked every deity she could think of that the lights were out. What if I look ridiculous? What if my thighs crush his head? What if I—

And then his strong hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer with a desperation that made her head spin. Her thoughts skidded to a halt as the need for release drowned out every last shred of doubt. She let him guide her, her thighs trembling against the unyielding strength of his shoulders.

Her thighs trembled as they settled around Murtasim's face, the rough stubble of his beard scraping deliciously against her soft skin. His hands flexed, pulling her down onto him in one decisive motion, shattering her thoughts into fragments. Her wet heat met the plush softness of his lips, and when his tongue flicked out to tease her clit, her gasp turned into a choked, desperate moan. He groaned into her, the sound reverberating through her, and it wasn't just pleasure—it was possession. His grip tightened, his fingers digging into her skin as if anchoring her to this moment, to him.

Oh my God. Did the heavens just open? Am I ascending?

She tipped her head back, her hair cascading over her shoulders, as she let herself sink into the overwhelming sensation of his mouth on her. His moustache, just slightly longer than his beard, brushed against her swollen clit with every roll of her hips, the coarse texture igniting sparks of pleasure that left her gasping. It was maddeningly perfect, the way that roughness contrasted with the wet, insistent heat of his tongue, teasing her until her breath hitched on every exhale.

"Moochasim," she breathed, a mix of a whimper and a laugh.

His chuckle rumbled against her, the vibrations resonating through her core, making her clench involuntarily.

Her hands found their way into his hair, her fingers twisting into the thick strands as she moved against him, riding his face. She rocked against him with purpose, her nails digging into his scalp as she held him where she wanted. Each glide of her clit over his moustache sent jolts of pleasure spiraling through her, her movements growing more erratic, more desperate, as she chased the high building within her. The edges of his beard scratched lightly against her inner thighs, and the roughness only added to the symphony of sensations—his lips, his tongue, his teeth lightly grazing her in a way that left her breathless.

She gasped, her breaths short and erratic, her name tumbling from her lips like a mantra. "Murtasim, oh my God, Murtasim—" Why does his name feel like a prayer? Am I religious now?

Every time she thought he'd given her all he could, he shifted, his mouth and tongue working in perfect harmony, drawing out sounds from her that she didn't even recognize. She rocked harder, her thighs tightening around his head, part of her worried she might be suffocating him. But his grip on her hips was firm, his fingers digging into her skin as if to reassure her that he wanted this, needed this as much as she did.

Her body trembled, her thighs quivering as the pleasure built higher and higher, coiling tight in her belly. She sobbed his name, her fingers clutching at his hair as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. The pleasure was blinding now, every nerve ending alive, every movement of his tongue pushing her closer to the edge.

She pulled harder on his hair, the sharp tug making her wince even as it sent another wave of pleasure coursing through her. Her breaths were coming in short, frantic gasps, her vision blurred with unshed tears. "Murtasim—" she cried, her voice breaking as her body began to shake uncontrollably.

Meerab's body was no longer under her control. Her hips rolled and bucked on their own, driven by the electric sensations radiating from his tongue and lips. Every drag of his moustache against her clit sent her arching higher, every groan he let out vibrating through her core and adding fuel to the fire. She wasn't even sure if she was still herself anymore—this felt like an out-of-body experience. It was as though she was watching from above, stunned, as her body moved with such raw abandon.

The way her thighs trembled, the way her hands clawed at his hair, the desperate, gasping sounds spilling from her lips—it wasn't her, and yet it was. It was a side of herself she hadn't experienced before, wild and free and so fucking alive.

Her entire body began to shake, the pleasure coiling so tightly in her belly that she thought she might shatter. When the tension finally broke, it was like a dam bursting, wave after wave of ecstasy crashing over her.

Her cries of his name filled the room, raw and desperate, her fingers clutching at his hair, her thighs trembling around his head. She wasn't sure who she was anymore, wasn't sure where she ended and he began. She only knew that she was falling apart in his hands, in his mouth, and it was the most exhilarating, terrifying thing she'd ever experienced.

He didn't stop. His tongue kept working her, relentless and skilled, even as she gasped and cried out. "Oh, oh, oh!" The words tumbled from her lips in a litany, her nails digging into his scalp as she rode out the endless high. "Too much," she whimpered, her body convulsing, but even as she said it, she didn't mean it. She couldn't mean it. The pleasure was blinding, dizzying, and addictive.

When she finally came down, her breaths were shallow and fast, her entire body trembling with aftershocks. For a terrifying moment, she worried he might pull away, might retreat into himself again like he had so many times before. But instead, his lips moved to her thighs, placing soft, reassuring kisses there, his beard grazing her sensitive skin. His hands stroked her back, grounding her, his touch warm and steady, like he knew exactly how to hold her together after tearing her apart.

Okay. Fine. Maybe I'll keep him.

Before she could fully catch her breath, he shifted, his hands firm but gentle as he guided her back onto the mattress. She barely registered the movement until her back hit the softness of the sheets, the fabric cool against her overheated skin. And then, just as her mind began to settle, the lights flickered on.

It wasn't the bright, harsh glow of the main lights, just the soft golden hue of the lamps, but it was enough. Enough for her to see him clearly as he leaned over her, his dark eyes burning with something primal and all-consuming. His face was wet, his beard and moustache glistening with her arousal, and she groaned at the sight, her thighs pressing together involuntarily.

Oh, God. He looked... devastating. His swollen lips, red and bruised from his efforts, looked sinful, and all she could think was how badly she wanted to kiss him, to taste herself on him. But her body was frozen, completely at the mercy of her racing thoughts. How is this fair? How does he manage to look so wrecked yet so ridiculously sexy?

Murtasim didn't reach for a dupatta. He didn't even grab the corner of the sheet. Instead, with a slow, deliberate movement that made her entire body clench, he brought one hand up to his jawline, his thumb sweeping through the wetness on his beard and moustache. His eyes never left hers, dark and burning with intent, as he dragged that same thumb across his lower lip, spreading her arousal over its swollen surface.

And then—he sucked it clean.

The way his lips closed around his thumb, the way his tongue flicked against it, tasting her as if it were the most natural, sinful thing in the world, made her entire body thrum with heat. It wasn't hurried or messy. It was controlled, deliberate, devastating. He didn't look away, didn't blink, watching her reaction like a predator savoring his kill.

Her breath hitched audibly, her thighs clamping together with a mind of their own, as though she could somehow contain the raw, desperate ache that reignited at the sight. The smug flicker in his expression—barely there, but unmistakable—made her want to scream, cry, laugh, and tackle him all at once.

Her eyes drifted lower, taking in his body now that the light offered her a better view. His chest was all sharp angles and taut muscle, his skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat. Her gaze traveled down to where his shalwar hung precariously low on his hips, and she bit her lip as she caught the unmistakable outline of his cock straining against the fabric.

She bit her lip so hard she was surprised it didn't bleed. Her body tightened, her skin tingling with a fresh wave of desire that made her toes curl. How does anyone survive this man?

She wanted him inside her—wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. Swallowing hard, her voice came out soft, almost hesitant. "Agar hum..." She let the words hang in the air, her eyes flickering between his cock and his face – her brain officially abandoned her.

His lips curved into that slow, knowing grin that made her want to simultaneously slap him and kiss him senseless. Without a word, he stood, moving with a fluid grace that should not have been allowed. Does he practice being unfairly perfect?

She didn't have time to dwell on her indignation because, in one smooth motion, he untied the knot of his shalwar. The fabric fell away, boxers included, and—

Oh.

Her breath caught as she stared at him, her eyes fixated on the thick, heavy length of him. He was beautiful, every inch of him masculine and perfect, and her mind struggled to catch up with what her eyes were seeing. Her heart pounded in her chest, her body already leaning toward him instinctively.

Her gaze flickered between his cock—thick, hard, and perfectly aligned with every sinful fantasy she'd ever had—and his face, a picture of barely contained hunger. Her lips parted, her breath hitching as her heart thundered in her chest. The words left her in a whisper, but they were drenched in raw need.

"Fuck me."

Murtasim groaned low, the sound guttural and primal, his head tipping back slightly as though her words had physically hit him. When his eyes met hers again, the intensity in them sent a shiver down her spine.

And then he moved.

She gasped as he climbed onto the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress as he positioned himself between her spread thighs. His lips found hers again, and the kiss was slow, deliberate, almost torturous. She could taste herself on him, a heady mix of salt and sweetness.

He pulled back slightly, sounding a little alarmed as he whispered, "Protection."

Meerab whined, her hands gripping his biceps tightly. "I have an IUD," she breathed, her voice impatient and raw with need.

His brow furrowed, his expression adorably confused for half a second, and it would've been hilarious if she weren't currently on fire.

Rolling her eyes, she muttered, "Apna stupid dimaag band karo aur isse socho." Her hand slid between them, fingers wrapping around the hard length of him.

Oh, god. He's thick.

She squeezed gently, her thumb brushing over the tip, and he let out a shaky exhale that made her smirk. "Baaki main dekh lungi."

His chest rose and fell heavily, his eyes darkening further as he muttered, "Yes, Miss Ahmed."

Her entire body clenched at the gravelly tone of his voice. Why does that sound like a promise? A very dirty, very illegal promise? Her head tipped back as a groan slipped from her lips. "Why the fuck is that so hot?" she mumbled, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

Murtasim chuckled, the sound low and rich, reverberating straight through her. It was obnoxious, really—how even his laugh could make her knees weak when she was already lying down. He sat up on his knees, his large hands sliding to her hips and pulling her toward him in one smooth, effortless motion.

Her breath hitched as his cock brushed against her slick folds, the sudden contact sending jolts of electricity racing up her spine. She gasped, her fingers clawing at the sheets for some semblance of control, but it was a lost cause.

Control? What was that? She didn't know her anymore.

He ran the length of himself along her slit, his movements maddeningly slow, his gaze flickering between her face and where their bodies touched. The friction made her hips buck instinctively, chasing more of the delicious pressure. Oh God, he's staring. He's looking right at it. Oh, my God, he's looking at—

"Yeh, Miss Ahmed?" he murmured, his voice low and teasing as he tapped the head of his cock against her clit.

Her body jolted, a strangled moan escaping her lips. "Murtasim—" she managed, her voice trembling.

He didn't respond. Of course he didn't, the stupid, brooding, hot man of few words. Instead, his actions spoke for him. She watched, wide-eyed and breathless, as he angled himself, the blunt tip of his cock pressing against her entrance. His gaze stayed fixed on her face, his expression intent, as he began to push inside.

The stretch was slow, deliberate, his cock sliding into her inch by inch. Meerab groaned loudly, her head falling back, the sheer fullness of him sending her reeling.

She was overwhelmed—he was overwhelming.

Months. She'd wanted this for months, imagined it countless times. Fantasized about it during sleepless nights, whispered half-formed thoughts into her pillow about what it might feel like. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared her for the real thing. The way he stretched her, filled her, fit against her perfectly, as if he were made for her.

But just as she felt him sinking deeper, his cock stretching her to the brink, he stopped. No, worse—he pulled back, sliding out of her with torturous slowness.

She whined, her voice tinged with frustration. "Agar tum ruke toh main seriously tumhe tumhari hi gun se—ohhhhhhh."

Her half-hearted threat dissolved into a broken moan as he thrust back into her, his cock filling her completely in one smooth, unrelenting motion. Her back arched off the mattress, her nails digging into the sheets as pleasure bloomed hot and fast in her core.

So this is what heaven feels like, she thought, her thighs trembling against his hips as he set a slow, punishing rhythm.

Each thrust was precise, deliberate, like he was savoring every second, every reaction he pulled from her. He pulled out almost entirely, teasing her with the sudden emptiness, only to slam back in with enough force to send her spiraling. Her breath hitched with every thrust, her moans growing louder, more desperate. She was utterly undone, completely at his mercy, and why was that so hot?!

From her vantage point, she could see everything. The way his muscles rippled with every movement, flexing and tensing in perfect harmony. The sheen of sweat glistening on his chest, his abs taut and defined as he moved above her. The sheer focus in his expression, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed, his gaze locked onto her like she was the only thing that mattered in the entire world.

This man is a god. No. A demon. No—both? Yes. Both. Ohhh, fuckkk.

Her hips moved to meet his, her body betraying every last shred of logic and decorum as it sought him out, demanded him, craved him. His cock filled her so perfectly that it felt criminal. How dare he be this good at this? This man can't even apologize properly, but this—oh, he's a master at this.

Each thrust sent a delicious friction spiraling through her, the heat of it pooling low in her belly and spreading outward until every nerve in her body felt like it was on fire.

This is it. This is how I die. Death by Murtasim Khan. Death by cock. Put it on my gravestone.

"Murtasim," she gasped, his name falling from her lips like a prayer—or maybe a plea. It was barely more than a whisper, but it felt like the loudest thing in the room, second only to the sound of their bodies moving together. Her eyes found his, and it was over. The intensity in his gaze, the unrelenting focus of it, made her forget how to breathe.

And then he leaned down, his weight pressing her firmly into the mattress. The sensation of his body enveloping hers was overwhelming, deliciously so. His lips found hers, and she melted into the kiss, her fingers tangling in his hair as if anchoring herself to him. His tongue teased hers, every slide and flick leaving her gasping into his mouth.

Every motion of his hips, every drag of his cock against her walls made her feel like she was coming undone at the seams. She moaned softly against his lips, her body trembling beneath him, and one thought kept looping in her head: This. This is how I want to go out. Buried under this man, stretched to oblivion, fucked to death. Sign me up.

He broke the kiss to shift, his hands sliding down her legs with purpose, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. As he straightened, pulling his body upright as he sat up on his knees again, he grasped her thighs, lifting her legs onto his shoulders with ease. The new position sent him deeper, the angle sharper, and she gasped, her lips parting in a breathless, "Holy shit."

His response was a feral groan, deep and guttural, that sent a violent shiver racing through her body. It was raw, unfiltered, and it did something primal to her. She felt the tension in his arms as he held her steady, his cock twitching inside her, and a lazy, satisfied smile spread across her lips despite the haze of pleasure.

He likes this. Oh, he fucking loves this. She could tell by the way his breathing hitched, the way his hips ground forward as though chasing the feeling.

The thought was confirmed as he began moving again, harder, his thrusts powerful and unrelenting. Each one sent shockwaves rippling through her, her body arching into him as if begging for more. God, he looks like a literal god right now. Shoulders, chest, abs—all of it flexing like he's a personal ad for "sexiest man alive." This isn't fair.

Every drag of him against her walls sent her spiraling further into bliss. Her body arched instinctively, her toes curling as the pleasure built higher.

She trailed a hand down between them, her fingers finding her clit with unerring precision. The first touch was electric, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through her that made her whimper. She circled it in time with his thrusts, the combination of sensations driving her closer to the edge.

"Meerab," he groaned, her name rasping from his throat like it had been dragged out of him. His gaze dropped to where her fingers moved against herself, and his hips faltered for just a moment, the rhythm stuttering. She felt his cock throb inside her, and the knowledge that he was watching her, that it was turning him on this much, sent her spiraling.

Her fingers moved faster, matching the pace of his thrusts, and she gasped when he leaned in, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin of her thighs. His warm breath ghosted over her, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses along her inner thigh, his beard scratching against her in a way that made her shudder.

The sight of him like this—sweating lightly, his hair slightly damp, his breathing heavy and labored as little groans escaped him—was seared into her memory. He looked impossibly good, impossibly sexy, and she couldn't stop the low, needy moan that spilled from her lips as her body writhed beneath him.

When he leaned closer, she lifted her hand, her fingers brushing against his lips. His gaze flicked to hers, dark and heavy with lust, before his mouth opened, taking two of her fingers between his lips. His tongue swirled around them, wet and hot, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked on them with a precision that made her thighs tremble around his shoulders.

Oh. Oh, God.

Her brain completely short-circuited. She was pretty sure it had just blue-screened. How was she still alive? How was she still functional? Did hearts usually beat this fast without exploding? These were the questions.

Her body tightened as she pulled her fingers free, her breath catching at the way his dark, heated gaze followed the movement. She trailed them back down to her clit, pressing against herself again, the wetness from his mouth mingling with her own arousal, sharpening the sensation. He groaned, louder this time, a low, guttural sound that shot straight to her core.

"Meerab," he rasped, her name falling from his lips like a plea, his cock twitching violently inside her. He's begging. Oh my God, he's begging, and it's for me.

Her lips curled into a wicked grin, even as her body trembled under the relentless onslaught of sensation. Who knew begging could sound so sexy? She filed that away under things to explore later.

His movements turned erratic, his rhythm faltering completely as his breathing grew harsher. She watched him, still working herself between her thighs, utterly transfixed by the way he seemed to unravel above her. His head tipped back, his jaw clenched, his lips parted in a low, broken groan that sounded almost like a whimper. And now I'm dead. Meerab Ahmed has died. Cause of death: this ridiculous, gorgeous man whimpering my name.

As his body tensed, his cock throbbing deep inside her, she marveled at how beautiful he looked in that moment. Completely undone, stripped of all his composure, he was vulnerable and perfect, and it wrecked her in ways she wasn't prepared for.

That sight alone was enough to send her spiraling. Her fingers moved faster over her clit, and the coil in her belly snapped, stars exploding behind her closed eyes as her orgasm tore through her. Her back arched off the bed, her lips parting in a loud, gasping cry.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Wave after wave of pleasure washed over her, pulling her under, her entire body trembling as she came apart completely.

They were both gasping for breath, their bodies trembling as the last echoes of their orgasms faded. Her legs twitched where they rested on his shoulders, her thighs burning with exertion, and her eyes remained closed as she tried to gather herself. The edges of her vision blurred with white-hot sparks, and her body felt like it was floating.

She felt him shift, his hands steady as he gently lowered her trembling legs from his shoulders. Her body was boneless, every nerve alight, and when she opened her eyes, he was there—hovering over her, his face close, his dark eyes soft yet brimming with something that made her chest flutter.

She couldn't help but smile when she noticed the corner of his lips quirking into a matching grin. Before she could speak, his mouth found hers again, the kiss slow and unhurried, filled with a tenderness that threatened to undo her all over again.

Breaking the kiss only enough to whisper against his lips, she said, "Agar ab kaha galti hogai, tumhe murder kardungi."

His chuckle rumbled low in his throat, and he kissed her deeper, his hand cupping her cheek as he muttered between breaths, "Galti nahi thi... galtiyan baar-baar nahi karte...aur yeh toh..."

Meerab pulled back, arching a brow at him with the sassiest look she could muster in her current, very distracted state. "Oh?" she teased, her voice light but challenging.

He smirked—that maddeningly arrogant, self-satisfied smirk that made her want to both slap him and kiss him.

Her heart melted at how lost he looked when he muttered, "IUD kya hoti hai?"

Her mouth dropped open in disbelief, and then she couldn't stop herself—she burst into giggles. This man just fucked me into oblivion, and now he's giving innocent baby deer vibes?

"Oh, Major Moochasim," she teased, gasping for air between her laughter. "Aap kitne innocent hai."

He tilted his head, mock offense flashing in his expression. "Murtasim," he corrected, his voice low and rich.

"Kyun?" she challenged, her own brow arching now as she matched his energy.

His lips brushed hers, his breath warm as he whispered, "Tumhare muh se 'Murtasim' acha lagta hai." He paused, his smirk widening into something purely devilish before he added in a low voice, "Especially jab tum 'Murtasimmmmm' kehti ho." He stretched out the last syllable in a perfect imitation of her earlier moans.

Her cheeks burned, and she let out an outraged huff before she began whacking his arm repeatedly. "Ab bada bolna aagaya hai!" she exclaimed, each word punctuated with another light slap. "Chalo, utho! I have to use the bathroom!"

Murtasim caught her hand mid-slap, his fingers wrapping around her wrist as he pulled her closer. Before she could even think of another witty retort, his lips crashed into hers, kissing her deeply, thoroughly, in that way that made her brain immediately short-circuit.

She forgot what she was protesting—something about getting up? Who cared? His tongue teased hers, coaxing soft sounds from her throat, and for a blissful moment, she let herself get lost in him again.

And then reality came crashing back when she felt him pulling out of her, leaving her achingly, miserably empty. "Oh, come on," she groaned, the sound half-whine, half-huff.

His low chuckle rumbled against her lips, and she swore it was infuriatingly sexy. Then she felt the sticky mess between her thighs, and remembered where she had been headed.

"Tum jaake nayi sheets dhundo," she muttered, weakly shoving at his chest. Her tone was pure annoyance, though a small, traitorous smile tugged at her lips.

He sighed dramatically, as if she were asking him to move mountains, but he relented, helping her sit up. His hands lingered, his touch warm and steady, and when she caught the way his eyes trailed down her body, her skin flushed hot. His gaze was filled with hunger, dark and simmering as if he were already plotting his next move.

Her lips quirked into a sly smile as an idea struck her. "Actually..." she began, drawing his attention back to her face. "baad mein change karlenge."

Murtasim smirked, the sharp curve of his lips a mix of arrogance and barely restrained hunger. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded as they roamed down her body again, stopping at the mess between her thighs. Her skin prickled under the weight of his gaze, every nerve alight as he drank her in. His cum glistened in the low light, streaking her skin, dripping from her folds, and the sight alone seemed to ignite something feral in him.

His tongue darted out, slow and deliberate, to wet his bottom lip. She could feel it—the heat of him, of his stare—like a physical caress, and it sent a rush of desire spiraling through her all over again, despite the soreness that had begun to creep into her limbs.

But Meerab wasn't about to let him take control this time. She moved quickly, ignoring the dull ache in her thighs, and swung one leg over him, straddling his hips. Her bare skin slid against his, slick and sticky with the evidence of their last round, but the heat between them flared as if it were brand new.

Murtasim's breath hitched sharply, his hands finding her hips as if by instinct, his fingers pressing into her soft flesh, grounding them both. But Meerab wasn't looking for steadiness—she wanted to wreck them both all over again. Pushing lightly against his chest, she guided him back until his shoulders met the headboard with a muted thud. He adjusted without resistance, leaning into it with the effortless composure of a man who knew exactly where this was going and had no intention of stopping it. His dark, smoldering gaze locked on hers, daring her to keep going, daring her to try and take control.

"Meerab..." he rasped, his voice thick with warning, with promise.

She cut him off with a bold roll of her hips, dragging her soaked, swollen folds across the soft length of his cock and the firm planes of his stomach. The sticky, slick mess of their combined release smeared between them, adding to the maddeningly erotic friction. She moaned low in her throat, her head tipping back as a shiver ran through her body, the oversensitivity making her nerves spark and burn.

"Kitni der lagti hai," she muttered, her words punctuated by the slow, teasing grind of her hips, "phir se..." she trailed off.

His hands flew to her hips, his grip firm, almost bruising, as though he could hold her still and regain control. But the way his jaw tightened and his eyes burned into her—dark and hungry—betrayed his struggle to resist her. "Not too long," he growled, his voice low and strained, "if you keep doing that."

The sound that escaped her was somewhere between a laugh and a moan as she leaned forward, capturing his lips in a kiss that was nothing short of wild. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss as her hips moved against him in lazy, teasing circles. The sticky slide of their combined release made every movement maddeningly erotic, the sensation heightening every nerve ending.

His cock twitched beneath her, and she grinned against his lips, her teeth catching his bottom lip as she pulled back just enough to murmur, "good".

She kept rocking, her hips moving with a rhythm that was both deliberate and maddening, her slick folds dragging over his length as it twitched and throbbed against her. The heat of him pressed against her, teasing her opening, and she could feel her own wetness pooling between them with every tantalizing glide.

And then she stopped.

"Meerab—" His voice was a growl now, low and dangerous, but before he could finish, she reached between them, her hand wrapping around his semi-hard length.

His breath hitched audibly, his fingers digging into her hips as though he could anchor himself to her touch. She stroked him slowly, her hand deliberate as it slid up and down his length, her thumb swiping over the slick mess coating him. Their combined release spread over her palm and his cock, making every stroke easy and filthy, the wet sound of it filling the room.

Murtasim's head fell back against the headboard, his jaw clenching tight as his body responded to her. He was heavy in her hand, swelling and throbbing as she worked him to full hardness, each touch bringing him closer to the edge of control. She watched him closely, her eyes trailing over the sharp lines of his face, the way his brows furrowed, the tension in his neck.

He's so hot.

Her thoughts spiraled, unhinged and chaotic, imagining all the things she wanted to do to him, with him. The thought of dragging him into the shower after this, of the water cascading over their tangled, sticky bodies as she sank to her knees to take him in her mouth, flashed through her mind. She smiled faintly, already planning.

His eyes snapped open and found hers, pulling her back into the present with the force of his gaze. The way he looked at her—possessive, desperate, wild—made her stomach tighten and her thighs clench. She shifted her hips, dragging her slick folds over his now rock-hard cock, guiding him to her entrance.

The tip of him pressed against her, not quite inside, and her breath hitched, her body trembling with anticipation.

Murtasim surged forward, his lips crashing against hers in a kiss that was searing and all-consuming, his hand sliding up her back to hold her closer. Slowly, torturously, she began to sink down onto him. Her body stretched to take him in, the soreness only adding to the delicious, almost unbearable burn as he filled her inch by inch.

Her nails dug into his shoulders, her head falling forward as a low, guttural moan escaped her lips. She didn't stop, didn't pause, letting herself sink fully until he was seated deep inside her, stretching her completely, the fit perfect in its intensity.

"Fuck," she muttered, her voice breathy and broken as she stilled for a moment, letting herself adjust to the sensation again.

"Meerab," he interrupted, his tone a mix of desperation and reverence as his hands gripped her hips, urging her to move.

She obliged, rocking her hips in a slow, steady rhythm, and the friction sent sparks of pleasure shooting through her, reigniting the fire that had barely begun to smolder. The sounds of their bodies moving together, wet and messy and perfect, filled the room, and her breath came in short, ragged gasps as she rode him.

Murtasim's hands were everywhere, hot and heavy, claiming every inch of Meerab's body. One hand slid up her back, rough fingertips tracing her spine before tangling into her hair, tugging just enough to send a sharp, electric thrill through her. He pulled her down into a kiss that was pure chaos—teeth grazing, tongues tangling, breaths shared in desperate, needy gasps. His other hand gripped her ass, kneading her flesh with enough force to make her moan into his mouth. He was guiding her now, controlling the rhythm of her hips as she rocked against him, his cock still buried deep inside her, stretching her, making her feel like she might shatter.

And then he shifted.

Before she could process what was happening, his arms moved with effortless strength, gripping her thighs and hooking her legs over his perfect forearms. Her gasp of surprise was swallowed by his mouth, and her arms flew around his neck instinctively, clinging to him as he rose to his feet with her wrapped around him like she weighed nothing at all.

"Holy shit, Murtasim," she managed to gasp against his lips, her voice half awe, half disbelief. "Mujhe maarne ki koshish kar rahe ho?"

He smirked, that infuriatingly cocky grin making her want to slap him and kiss him harder all at once. "You'll live," he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine.

Before she could think of a snarky reply, her back met the cold, unforgiving surface of the wall. The contrast made her gasp, her head tipping back as she sucked in a sharp breath. Murtasim didn't miss a beat, his body pressing hers firmly against the wall, pinning her there as he adjusted his grip. His forearms supported her legs effortlessly, holding her open, vulnerable, completely at his mercy.

And then he moved.

The first thrust stole the air from her lungs, his hips snapping up as he drove into her, deep and fast. The position made every sensation sharper, more intense—the stretch of him inside her, the slick slide of her arousal mixing with his, the way his cock hit a spot so devastating it made her vision blur. She clung to him, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders as if that could anchor her to reality.

"Oh my God," she gasped, her voice breathless and wrecked. Her mind was a whirlwind of chaotic, horny thoughts that she couldn't suppress. How is he even doing this? Is this normal?

His pace was brutal, his hips driving into her with an unrelenting rhythm as he used his arms to lift and lower her, controlling the movement of her body like she was nothing more than a ragdoll. The sheer strength of him, the way he handled her like it was the easiest thing in the world, made her entire body flush with heat.

She was going to die if he fucked her like this on the regular.

She dared a glance at his face and immediately regretted it. His eyes were locked on her, dark and wild, his gaze burning with something primal. He was watching her—watching every gasp, every moan, every quiver of her body as if committing it to memory. That intensity nearly undid her.

"Yeh—" she started, her voice breaking on a moan as he slammed into her harder, the sound of their bodies meeting echoing in the room. "Yeh sab... army mein sikhate hain kya?"

His laugh was low and breathless, his chest rumbling against hers as he pressed a kiss to her throat, his lips grazing her pulse point. "Not exactly," he muttered, his voice rough and teasing. And then he sped up, his movements somehow sharper, faster, making her cry out loudly, the sound high-pitched and desperate.

This is how she wanted to climb him moving forward.

She could barely think, her mind fogged with pleasure, her body trembling with the relentless force of him. Every thrust sent waves of sensation crashing through her, each one more overwhelming than the last. Her nails raked down his back, leaving marks she was too far gone to care about, her cries filling the air in broken, gasping bursts.

And then, like a thunderclap, the storm outside roared to life, the sound rattling the windows and drowning out the chaos inside. Murtasim's lips brushed against her ear, his voice a low, soothing murmur amidst the storm. "Shhh," he whispered, though his pace didn't slow. The contradiction of his gentleness and the raw, unrelenting power of his thrusts made her gasp again, her entire body clenching around him as she spiraled closer to the edge.

Her skin was on fire, every nerve ending alight as if she might melt under the weight of it all. Sweat slicked her body, but she couldn't tell where her heat ended and his began. Her eyes flicked toward the balcony, the open doors framing the storm outside. She whimpered, her lips parting as the idea bloomed in her chaotic, lust-addled brain. "Balcony," she whispered, her voice so soft and breathy it barely registered over the storm.

He stilled for half a second, his brow furrowing in confusion before realization dawned. He groaned, his head dropping forward against her shoulder, his damp hair brushing her cheek. "You're killing me," he muttered, his voice full of disbelief and heat.

A giggle broke past her lips, though it was shaky, her breath still ragged. He sighed, a sound heavy with both exasperation and indulgence, before his lips found hers again. The kiss was slow, deliberate, but it carried the promise of more—so much more.

Without breaking their connection, he tightened his hold under her thighs, lifting her closer as if she weighed nothing, his cock still buried deep inside her. The shift in position made her moan softly into his mouth as her arms tightened around his neck. With careful, steady steps, he carried her out onto the balcony, the cool night air hitting her overheated skin like a shock.

This is so sexy, I am going to die replaying this in my head later.

The rain had picked up, droplets splashing across the stone floor at the edges of the balcony and misting against her back. It was cold and refreshing, a stark contrast to the molten heat coursing through her body. She whimpered softly as he set her down, her feet barely touching the ground before his mouth was on hers again, kissing her wildly, swallowing her protest as he slid out of her, his hands cradling her face as though he might consume her entirely.

He broke the kiss only to spin her around, his chest pressing flush against her back. His lips found her ear, his breath hot against her skin as he whispered, "Come here." Gently but firmly, he guided her toward the railing, stopping her at one of the posts that stretched up toward the roof.

"Isko pakdo," he murmured, his voice low and commanding.

Her hands wrapped around the post without hesitation, her fingers curling against the slick surface as she felt the rain trail down her arms. The cold droplets slid over her overheated skin, each one a sharp contrast that made her gasp.

The cabin. They could have fucked in the rain then. Like this.

Her breath hitched as his hands gripped her hips, pulling her back slightly, her body arching toward him instinctively.

"Open," he whispered, his voice like a growl, and she obeyed, spreading her legs just enough to feel the cool rain kiss her inner thighs.

And then he was sliding into her from behind, his cock sinking deep into her in one fluid motion. She was so wet, so wrecked, that the stretch was immediate and overwhelming, making her cry out his name as the thunder rumbled again, echoing through the night. Lightning followed seconds later, illuminating the balcony for a fleeting moment, casting their bodies in sharp relief.

It reminded her of the cabin. So much.

Her thoughts fractured, her mind reduced to nothing but incoherent, wild urges as he started moving. This. This is how I want to die. On a balcony, in the rain, fucked for everything I'm worth. By him. Like this. Forever.

Murtasim's lips trailed along the side of her face and down her neck, his tongue flicking out to taste the rain pooling on her skin. The sensation made her whimper, her body trembling as his hands roamed over her, cupping her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers, and then pressing down on her stomach as if to feel how deeply he was buried inside her.

"So perfect," he murmured against her neck, his voice husky and reverent.

The post rattled against her grip with every powerful thrust, the vibrations traveling through her arms as he fucked her harder, deeper, the wet sound of their bodies meeting mixing with the storm. His hands slid lower, one gripping her hip to steady her, the other slipping between her legs to find her clit.

Her scream was immediate, raw and broken, as his fingers circled the sensitive nub, his thrusts never faltering. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered, "Shhh, Miss Ahmed."

But she couldn't quiet herself—not when he called her that, not when every touch, every thrust, every whispered word pushed her closer to the edge.

Her body moved instinctively, arching and pushing back against him, her hips grinding into every relentless thrust as his hand stayed between her legs, rubbing circles over her clit with maddening precision. The combination of his cock slamming into her and the rough pressure of his fingers sent shockwaves coursing through her body, her cries growing louder, more desperate, her voice breaking with every gasp.

"Murtasimmmmmmm!" she screamed, her voice raw and carried away by the storm, mixing with the crash of thunder and the pounding rain. Her grip on the post faltered as her body convulsed, her climax tearing through her with a force so intense it felt like she might shatter. Her thighs trembled, her muscles locking, and yet her body kept moving, pushing back against him, riding the waves of pleasure as they consumed her completely.

Behind her, his groans grew louder, more guttural, as her walls tightened around him, pulling him deeper. His pace stuttered, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his release. His fingers pressed harder on her clit, and she cried out again, her entire body trembling as another surge of pleasure crashed into her like the storm outside.

"Fuck, Meerab," he growled, his voice strained and wrecked. And then he was spilling into her, the hot rush of his release a stark contrast to the cool rain against their skin. His groan rumbled through the air, swallowed by the storm but still loud enough to vibrate through her, making her shudder as he filled her to the brim.

They stilled together, their bodies locked as they both struggled to catch their breath. Her legs shook violently, barely holding her upright, and her hands slid down the rain-slick post as the last of her strength left her. She felt like she'd poured days—weeks—worth of energy into this one night, and she wasn't sure how she was still standing.

But then his hands were on her again, pulling her back against him, his chest pressing into her back as he straightened them both. The movement made her gasp softly, her over-sensitive body twitching at the friction. His arms wrapped around her waist, holding her flush against him as he pressed slow, lingering kisses to her shoulder and neck, his lips warm and soft despite the rain.

She closed her eyes, her head falling back against his shoulder as the storm continued to rage around them. The rain was cold but soothing, running in rivulets down her skin, grounding her in a way she hadn't expected. If not for that sharp, cool sensation, she was certain she might have floated away entirely, lost in the haze of exhaustion and satisfaction.

"I'm going to pass out," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rain but carrying a faint note of humor.

His arms tightened around her, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered back, "I have you."

A soft, tired laugh bubbled up in her throat, and a smile broke out on her face despite the heaviness of her limbs and the haze of sleep tugging at her. "Good," she murmured, her eyes fluttering shut as she let herself lean into him fully.

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The rain tapped steadily against the now-closed balcony door, its rhythmic patter blending with the soft rustling of the freshly changed sheets. They lay face-to-face under the blanket, their bodies just close enough to share warmth but not quite touching. The lantern cast a warm, golden glow over the room, the soft light catching on his sharp cheekbones and her slightly tousled hair.

It felt like a night that shouldn't end. It couldn't end. She thought back to the shower they had shared just an hour ago—soft, tender in a way she hadn't expected. The slow kisses, the gentle touches. The water had been warm, but somehow, his hands on her skin had been warmer, grounding her in a way that almost frightened her. And yet, as soon as the shower had ended and he had gone to his room to get a change of clothes, her mind had started its usual spiral. What if he didn't come back?

She had convinced herself he wouldn't—because of course, he'd regret all of this and disappear into his room, like a proper dramatic hero. But then, the door had opened, and there he was, his hair damp, in his white kurta-pajama, with clean sheets in his hands and a smile on his face. They had worked together to put the sheets on the bed, the task oddly domestic and surreal. And now... now, here he was, staring at her like she was his entire world.

Meerab traced lazy patterns on his arm, her fingers skimming over the faint scars and veins. Her mind, however, was nowhere near lazy—it was sprinting at the speed of light. This man. This ridiculously handsome, smirking man was hers now. Completely hers. Like, really hers. She bit her lip, suppressing the wild thought that he had officially ruined her for anyone else. Forget ruined—he had obliterated her. If he ever left her, she'd be one of those women in drama serials, wandering the streets, muttering his name.

She propped herself up slightly, her hair tumbling over her shoulder as she narrowed her eyes at him. "Mujhe ek baat batao," she said, her tone dripping with suspicion.

Murtasim raised an eyebrow. "Kya?"

She hesitated, biting her lip. She really should think before she spoke, but her brain was on strike. "How are you so good in bed?" she blurted out.

Her eyes widened. Oh my God, why did I say that? What is wrong with me? She wanted to crawl under the blanket and never come out. This was exactly why people told her to think before speaking.

Murtasim's smirk turned devilish, his gaze darkening slightly as he shifted closer. "Woh toh tum batao," he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

Her breath caught, and she stared at him in horror. Excuse me? Is he implying I was good? Her brain immediately began short-circuiting.

Her cheeks burned, and she slapped his shoulder lightly, huffing. "Main serious hoon!"

"Main bhi toh serious hoon," he replied smoothly, his smirk now firmly in place, like he'd been waiting for this exact opportunity his whole life.

Meerab glared at him, feeling completely thrown off balance. She kind of missed the version of him who barely spoke, all broody silence and smolder. This slightly talkative, teasing version was too much. She wasn't built for this kind of chaos.

Still, she narrowed her eyes, her lips pursing as she fought to regain some semblance of control. "Tumhare answers itne annoying kyun hote hain?" she muttered, more to herself than him, but the way his smirk widened told her he had definitely heard.

"Shayad kyunki tumhare sawaal itne ajeeb hote hain," he replied, his voice rich and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to mess with her.

Meerab glared at him, her eyes narrowing further. "Subject change mat karo! Fari ke saath practice ki?" she asked, her voice dripping with mock accusation.

Her brain immediately went rogue. Agar Fari ke saath ki hoti, toh Sheru ko uske peeche laga dungi. Aur Murtasim? Usko sulli pe chada doongi!

Murtasim's head fell back as he let out a low chuckle, his hand coming up to rub his face. "Tumhara dimaag kabhi seedha kaam nahi kar sakta, naa?"

Her glare deepened, her fingers now drumming threateningly on his chest. "Main nahi maanti ke tum itne naturally talented ho," she snapped, her voice brimming with frustration. "Bolo. Sach bolo. Fari?"

If he says yes, main yahin balcony se isse neeche phenk doongi.

He shook his head, his smile softening as if amused by her ridiculousness. "Nahi."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, but her heart did an involuntary victory dance. Good save, Murtasim. Tumhari jaan bach gayi abhi ke liye. But I'm watching you.

Still, she wasn't satisfied. Not even close. "Gaon ki ladkiyan?" she asked, her tone sharp.

Her brain supplied an image of a line of girls from the village—some with fresh dupattas, some with handpicked flowers, all lined up and batting their lashes, hoping to win a chance at him. Obviously, they'd stand in a queue. Dekhne waali cheez hai, after all. Lekin agar ek ne bhi chance mila hota toh—NO. Not allowed. He's mine. MINE.

He choked on a laugh, his body shaking slightly as he shook his head again. "Nahi, Meerab," he replied, amusement glinting in his eyes.

She wasn't done, though. Not even close. Her fingers tapped insistently against his chest now as her interrogation continued. Barlas ne toh clearly bola tha ki girlfriends ka concept Murtasim ke dictionary mein nahi hai. Toh yeh confidence kahaan se aaya?

"Toh phir? Army mein?" she pressed, her tone a mix of curiosity and simmering jealousy.

Her brain, as always, was faster than her common sense. Of course. Army waala banda hai. Hunky, serious, mysterious. Banda manwhore nahi banega toh aur kya banega? But still—random army girls? REALLY?

This time, his smirk faltered ever so slightly, replaced by a small, almost sheepish smile. "Kuch random flings, army mein," he admitted quietly, his voice calm but honest.

Meerab froze for a second, her fingers pausing mid-tap as her brain screamed, FLINGS?! Random flings? She didn't understand why she was surprised – it made sense. He was hot, he was 30, he was good in bed – why would he waste all of that? Lekin woh sab kaun thi? Aur kyun thi? Her entire soul echoed one word: Mine.

Recovering quickly, she glared at him, her brows knitting together as she leaned closer. "Random flings?" she repeated sharply. "Kitni? Pehle toh bataya nahi!"

Her rational side whispered that she didn't really want to know. Ignorance, after all, was bliss. But Meerab Ahmed? She was not built for ignorance. She was built for jealousy and chaos, and she needed to know.

Murtasim looked up at her, completely unbothered by her fury. "Pehle kab poocha tha?" he asked, his tone maddeningly reasonable.

"Ab pooch rahi hoon!" she shot back, indignant, her voice rising slightly. "Tumhe pata hai ki tum kitne annoying ho?"

A slow smile spread across his face, and he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The gentleness of the gesture made her pause, her breath catching slightly. "Waise, tumhe pata hai tum kitni pyaari lagti ho jab gussa karti ho?" he murmured, his voice impossibly soft.

Her brain short-circuited. Oh no. Nope. Don't melt. DON'T MELT.

But she did melt. Just a little. The softness in his voice, the way his eyes looked at her like she was the only person in the world—it was too much. Her heart did a little somersault, and she almost sighed dreamily before snapping herself out of it.

She blinked, shaking her head dramatically. "Ab badi baatein aa rahi hai, kal tak toh muh se sorry bhi nahi nikal raha tha!" she huffed, crossing her arms and fixing him with her best glare.

He shifted closer, his arm sliding around her waist as he pulled her against him. "Meerab," he murmured, his tone dropping to that deep, soothing timbre that always made her heart skip.

Her brain betrayed her immediately. Yeh woh wali 'Meerab' ka jaisa sound karta hai. Woh wala jo—oh God, STOP. She cleared her throat, hoping he couldn't see the way her cheeks turned a spectacular shade of red at the memory of how his voice had sounded saying her name in... well, all those ways. She had liked it. A lot. Way too much.

Her glare faltered slightly, softening at the edges, but she wasn't ready to give in just yet. She had a mission. "Kabhi pyaar-vyaar nahi hua, apni random flings se?"

"Nahi," he said firmly, his hand brushing up and down her back in slow, soothing strokes.

Okay, good answer, she thought, her heart doing that stupid little flutter it only ever did for him. But she wasn't about to let him off that easily. Not after he'd casually admitted to "flings." The nerve of this man.

"Kitni flings?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Char," he answered, his tone calm, like he hadn't just dropped yet another bombshell.

Her glare sharpened. "Longest fling?"

"Do hafte," he replied, almost too casually.

"Do hafte?!" she exclaimed, sitting up slightly, her incredulity written all over her face. "Toh baat practically shaadi tak pahunh gayi thi."

He sighed, clearly trying not to laugh, and shook his head. "Not even close."

But Meerab wasn't done. Not by a long shot. She crossed her arms and gave him a look that could rival any storm outside. "Aur main kya hoon? Random fling?" she demanded, her voice laced with mock indignation and a little more jealousy than she'd like to admit.

Murtasim pulled her back, his lips brushing hers in a kiss so gentle, so reverent, it made her stomach flip. His hand tightened around her waist as he pulled her closer. "Tumhe kya lagta hai?" he murmured against her lips, his breath warm and maddeningly distracting.

"Jealousy waali feeling aarahi hai," she muttered, glaring at him even as her heart raced.

"Mujhe bhi," he admitted quietly, his voice low and intimate, making her insides feel like they were melting.

Her glare didn't waver, though. "Mera wala fling nahi tha, ex-fiancee tha," she said, her tone deliberately pointed, watching as his jaw clenched and his eyes darkened. Haan, ab pata chala naa.

"Pyaar karti thi usse?" he asked, his voice calm, but the slight tension in his jaw betrayed him.

She shook her head immediately. "Baba ki choice thi, meri nahi."

"Tum kabse dusron ki baatein maanne lagi?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

She smiled faintly, surprising him. "Bachpan se actually."

His brow furrowed as he stared at her, clearly taken aback. "Bachpan se?"

"Bachpan se ek perfect beti hone ka pressure tha," she admitted softly. "Yeh jo ab karti hoon—apne mann ki—aise ban'ne mein bahot time laga."

Murtasim's gaze softened, and he reached up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing over her skin. "Aise hi rehna," he murmured before kissing her again, slow and lingering.

Her cheeks flushed, her heart doing that ridiculous fluttery thing again, but she refused to let him win entirely. "Hmph," she muttered, snuggling back into his chest. "Yeh mat sochna ke yeh conversation khatam hogayi hai. We will revisit this."

His lips quirked into a smile. "Galti waisi aap ki hai, aap pehle nahi mili, Miss Ahmed," he said, his tone teasing.

Her heart melted, but she fixed him with another glare. "Aise flirt karte the apni random flings se?"

He sighed, shaking his head in mock defeat, but before she could press him further, he pulled her closer and kissed her, effectively silencing her protest.

When he pulled back, he looked at her with an unreadable expression. "Maine yeh kabhi kisike saath nahi kiya," he said softly.

She blinked, her brows furrowing slightly. "Kya?"

"Yeh. Ek hi bed par sona...kisi ke har sawaal ka jawaab dena, baatein karna." he admitted, his voice low but sincere.

Theek hai. Main ice-cream hoon. Melting, melting, MELTED.

Her lips curved into a soft smile, her earlier irritation fading into something warmer, something that felt suspiciously like happiness. "Theek hai phir," she said, her tone light and teasing as she tilted her head. "Maaf kiya."

Murtasim's lips quirked into a faint smile at her theatrics, and before she could say another word, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. "Ab sajao," he whispered against her skin.

Her brain short-circuited, and before she could even think of a comeback, a grin stretched across her lips so wide it hurt. She curled into him instinctively, her face tucking into the crook of his neck as she let out a small, contented sigh, breathing him in.

His arms came around her automatically, holding her close, his warmth cocooning her like the safest place in the world.

"Subah tak yahan hi rahoge naa?" she whispered, her voice small, unsure, but her heart hammering as she waited for his reply.

"Haan," he said without hesitation, his voice steady and reassuring.

Her grin widened against his neck, but she couldn't help asking again, "Pakka?"

"Jab tak tum jaane ko nahi kahogi," he murmured, his breath warm against her hair, "yahin rahunga, tumhare paas."

Meerab's heart fluttered so hard she thought it might take off like a bird. Her smile was so big now it hurt, her lips brushing against the side of his neck as she buried her face deeper into him.

Murtasim pressed another kiss to the top of her head, his voice softer now, laced with affection as he whispered, "Good night, Miss Ahmed."

Her breath hitched, and before she could think twice, she pressed a small, tender kiss to his neck, right where her cheek rested. "Good night, Major Moochasim," she whispered back, her tone a mix of teasing and unspoken tenderness.

The deep, rumbling chuckle he let out vibrated through his chest and into hers, and she felt his arms tighten around her just slightly as if anchoring her there, right where she wanted to be.

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Author's Note: Sooooooooo, what do you think? What was your favourite part? Be honest! I was sorta unhinged writing this and just went with the flow so hopefully y'all liked it.