Three months had passed, and Zayn's home had transformed into something unrecognizable: warm, alive, and filled with small tokens of a life shared. On the living room wall, their wedding photos hung side by side - him in his sherwani, looking awkward but happy, and her, luminous in red, her smile a quiet promise of the life they were building together.

Every morning began the same way, yet each day felt like a new discovery. Zayn would wake first, stretching as the soft morning light streamed through the curtains. Laila, wrapped in the blanket beside him, always mumbled something incoherent in her half-sleep before he kissed her forehead.

By the time he made it to the kitchen, she would be there, her hair in a loose braid, her dupatta slipping off her shoulder as she stood by the stove boiling water for tea. He'd slide in behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Let me guess," he murmured against her ear, "chai with exactly three cardamom pods, because one or two is too weak for Mrs. Zayn?"

She laughed, swatting at his hands. "Someone has to teach you about balance, Mr. Zayn."

He made breakfast as she steeped the tea, the two of them moving around the kitchen like it was choreographed. Eggs sizzling, bread toasting, her laugh breaking through the hum of their quiet little home.

At the table, he'd sit across from her, watching her with quiet fascination as she spread butter on her toast. She always left the crusts untouched, even though she teased him for being too neat with his plate.

"You're staring again," she said one morning, her brow quirking.

"Can't help it," he replied, grinning. "You're the best thing on this table."

Her cheeks flushed as she threw a piece of toast at him, and he laughed, catching her wrist. He loved holding her hand - it was small, soft, always cold in his warmer palm. He'd hold it as they walked through the park after dinner, or when they sat on the couch flipping through old movies they never finished watching.

He noticed everything about her: the way her nose crinkled when she smiled, the tiny mole on her left wrist, the way she hummed softly to herself while folding clothes. She couldn't sit still when she was excited, tapping her foot or drumming her fingers on the table. And he adored how she looked at him - as if he were the only person in the world who mattered.

One evening, he walked into the living room and found her dusting their wedding photos. She was standing on her tiptoes, trying to adjust the frame, and he couldn't help but laugh.

"Need some help?" he asked, walking over.

"I'm fine," she said, huffing as she finally got it straight. She turned to him, hands on her hips, grinning. "I'm taller than you think."

"Sure," he teased, pulling her into his arms. "But I'm still taller. And better at reaching things."

Her laugh filled the room, and he felt it settle into his chest like a warm flame.

The walls of their home reflected this life they had created together: photos of them on their honeymoon, her holding a coconut drink while he squinted against the sun; a candid shot of her giggling as she tried to bake him a cake; another of him leaning into her shoulder on their couch.

The days melted into a steady rhythm - walks in the evening, teasing banter over dinner, shared silences that didn't feel heavy. He felt grounded with her, as though he had been drifting all his life and had finally found a shore.

Zayn didn't think about the past much anymore. It wasn't a deliberate choice; it was simply that this life left little room for anything else. His hand in hers, her laughter ringing in his ears, her tea warming him on cold mornings - this was enough. For the first time, it felt like more than enough.

___

The hospital room was silent except for the rhythmic beeping of machines. Zayn sat beside his mother-in-law's bed, watching her pale face as she drifted in and out of sleep. He turned to Laila, standing by the window, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as though she could squeeze away the weight of the world pressing on her.

He had seen her like this often lately - quietly breaking, but never in front of him. He would catch her wiping away tears when she thought he wasn't looking or hear her muffled sobs late at night.

"Laila," he said gently, crossing the room to her. She turned quickly, her lips twitching into a forced smile.

"I'm fine," she whispered, her voice cracking at the edges.

Zayn cupped her face, his thumb brushing away the tear that had escaped. "Everything will be okay."

Her shoulders slumped as she leaned into him, her forehead resting against his chest. "I can't lose her, Zayn," she murmured, her voice trembling. "She's all I have."

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. "You won't lose her," he said firmly. "I promise."

The next morning, he stood in front of her mother's doctor, his decision made. "I want to be the donor," Zayn said.

The doctor hesitated. "It's a risky procedure, Mr. Hasan. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he said without a flicker of doubt.

Later that day, he sat by his mother-in-law's bed, waiting for her to wake. When she did, he leaned forward, his voice steady but laced with quiet emotion. "Ammi, I'm a match. I'm going to be your donor."

Her eyes widened, filling with tears. "Zayn, no... you don't have to-"

"I do," he interrupted gently. "You're not just Laila's mother. You're family. And if something happens to you... she won't survive it. I can't lose her too."

That evening, as the hospital prepared for the operation, Zayn pulled Laila aside. She looked at him, her brows knitted with worry.

"Why do you look so serious?" she asked, her voice soft.

He smiled, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Take care of yourself while I'm gone," he said lightly, though his eyes betrayed his fear. "I'll be back soon, I promise."

Her hand clutched his shirt. "You better be," she whispered.

He kissed her forehead and turned to leave, feeling the weight of her gaze on his back as he walked away.

---

The recovery room was quiet, sunlight filtering through the blinds. Zayn opened his eyes to see Laila sitting beside him, her head resting on his arm. Her eyes were closed, but he could see the tracks of dried tears on her cheeks.

"Hey," he rasped, his voice hoarse.

Her eyes flew open, relief washing over her face. "Zayn!" she whispered, throwing her arms around him carefully.

"See?" he teased, his voice weak but playful. "Told you I'd be back."

She pulled back, her hands cradling his face. "You lied to me," she said, tears streaming down her face. "I was so scared."

He smiled, his fingers brushing her cheek. "It's okay... I am okay."

---

A week later, as they sat on their bed at home, Laila rested her head on his shoulder. "Ammi's doing better," she said softly.

Zayn nodded, running his fingers through her hair. "She'll be okay. You both will."

She was quiet for a moment before she looked up at him, her eyes shining with something he couldn't quite place. "I wish we had a child," she murmured.

He blinked, surprised. "A child?"

She nodded, her cheeks tinged with pink. "Someone to fill this void. Someone who's a part of both of us. A little girl, maybe... sweet and strong, like you."

Zayn laughed softly, pulling her closer. "Sweet and strong? I was hoping for stubborn and beautiful, like you."

She swatted his chest, laughing, but her eyes softened as she looked at him. "Do you think... we could?"

He kissed her forehead, his voice filled with quiet certainty. "We will, Laila. We'll have a family. A home filled with laughter, just like you've always dreamed."