Author's Note: Yes, yes, I know it's been a year. But better late than never right? It took me a while to get back to Dhaagey, I was caught up in the other fics I was writing, my maternity leave ended so now I am back to a very demanding full-time job and have a very rambunctious toddler! I hope to finish Dhaagey up within the next few months before moving onto new stories. Thank you to everyone who's been so patient with me, I really appreciate it. Hope the fandom returns just like I returned to Dhaagey, hehe. See you on the other side! 

Reminder: Murtasim & Meerab did have a small nikaah with just family a few chapters ago due to Anwar threatening that he would never let Meerab marry Murtasim. Anwar was exposed for gambling away his portion of the family fortune, and wanted Meerab to marry someone like Armaan who wouldn't notice. He left the Khan Haveli after that. Murtasim and Meerab have been (barely) behaving as they wait for their big fat public wedding and just when they were having a very good time in the last chapter, they were interrupted by the news that Anwar had met with an accident. This chapter continues from the point where Meerab and Murtasim leave their Karachi penthouse for Hyderabad.

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The road stretched ahead, endless and dark, swallowed in the hush of the night. The headlights sliced through the stillness, casting fleeting glimpses of a world that neither of them truly saw. The city shimmered in the distance, neon lights reflecting off rain-slick asphalt, but it might as well have been a blur of shadows and silence.

Murtasim kept one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped securely around hers, his fingers curled around her cold ones. Her skin was always warm—soft, familiar, alive. But tonight, her hand lay in his like something distant, something unanchored.

She sat unmoving, her profile illuminated in the dim glow of the dashboard, her gaze locked onto the window.

She wasn't curling closer to him like she always did, shifting in her seat with a hushed laugh, pressing her shoulder against his, her body fitting against his side like it belonged there. She wasn't fidgeting, flipping through songs, skipping track after track, searching for one that matched the moment just right. She wasn't complaining about how long the drive was, nudging the air-conditioning dial to suit her own comfort rather than his, shooting him a playful glare when he turned it back.

She wasn't doing anything.

Just sitting there.

Still.

Silent.

Staring at the night as it blurred past the window, her reflection ghostly in the glass.

Her silence filled the car more than words ever could, thick and heavy, pressing against his chest with an unbearable weight.

Murtasim hated many things but nothing, nothing, compared to how much he hated Meerab's tears. And worse than her tears was her trying to hide them.

She wasn't wiping at her eyes, wasn't making a sound, but he knew.

Knew by the way she blinked too often, knew by the sharp little breaths she took when she thought he wouldn't notice. Knew by the way her grip around his hand was just a little too loose, like she couldn't decide whether she wanted to hold on or let go.

So, he let her be. For the whole ride.

The city blurred past them, neon lights and deserted streets, but Meerab remained motionless. Even when they pulled into the hospital parking lot and Murtasim turned off the ignition, she didn't stir. Didn't reach for the door, didn't shift in her seat. Just sat there, lost somewhere in that head of hers, drowning in thoughts he couldn't reach.

Murtasim exhaled, slow and measured, tilting his head to look at her before reaching over. The soft click of him unbuckling her seatbelt made her startle, her eyes flicking toward him, then out the window.

"Oh."

Just that. Just one word, a breath of realization, and something about it made his chest ache.

Murtasim swallowed the irritation curling inside him. He didn't want this—this emptiness in her eyes, this heaviness in her limbs, this silence where her fire should be.

Without thinking, he reached for her again. Hands gripping her waist, he pulled her into his lap, the position reminding him of how quickly things could change.

This wasn't like earlier in the night when she had climbed onto him in the heat of an argument, all sharp edges and burning anger, her fingers fisting into his shirt, her body pressed against his in fury rather than desperation. His Meerab.

This was different.

She melted into him. Small. Quiet. Things that weren't his Meerab.

Her face buried in the crook of his neck, her breath warm against his skin as she inhaled deeply—like he was the only thing tethering her to reality.

Murtasim shut his eyes for a moment, his arms tightening around her.

"It'll be okay," he murmured, his lips close to her ear, his voice steady and sure, as if saying it out loud would make it true.

She didn't move.

"No matter what happens to him...you'll always have me. You'll have us. All the people who love you."

A slow nod against his shoulder, and then—the smallest movement.

Her nose brushed against his neck.

Murtasim exhaled, his hand sliding up her back, his fingers tangling into the fine hairs at her nape.

"I love you."

Meerab didn't speak. Just let out a sound. A hum. Soft and quiet, but there.

Murtasim held her, eyes flicking to the dashboard where the time changed in steady increments. Minutes passed. He waited. For the sigh. For the little movement that always came when she was ready.

And then, it came.

A slow exhale, her fingers twitching where they rested against his chest.

"Let's go," she whispered.

Murtasim pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead before she crawled back to the passenger seat, the warmth of her in his lap fading too quickly. A part of him wanted to pull her back, to keep her there, to hold onto her for just a moment longer—but she was already shifting away, already slipping from his arms and into the cold space beside him.

His chest felt strangely hollow as he stepped out of the car. The night air brushed against his skin, cool and crisp, but he barely noticed. His pulse thrummed steadily beneath his ribs, strong, sure—like it always was. But beneath that steadiness was exhaustion, curling into his bones, weighing down his muscles. He was tired. And yet, his mind remained sharp, honed in on one thing, one person.

He wasted no time circling the car, his steps quick, hands already reaching for the handle before he even fully came to a stop.

Meerab sat there, still, unmoving, as if she hadn't heard the door open. But when he extended his hand, she took it without hesitation, her fingers slipping into his like they had done a thousand times before.

His grip was firm, but gentle—always gentle with her. Always steady.

She didn't stumble, but he steadied her anyway.

She moved slowly, her free hand shifting the fabric of the black shawl he had wrapped around her before they left Karachi. He had draped it over her shoulders, tucking it around her when she wasn't paying attention, when she had been too lost in her own mind to notice his hands carefully pulling the edges close. And now, she was trying to adjust it herself, fingers fumbling with the edges, pulling it tighter, like she was trying to shield herself from something more than the night air.

Murtasim didn't let go.

Not when she pulled the shawl closer. Not when she shifted her shoulders beneath it. Not when she let out the smallest exhale, so quiet that no one else would have noticed.

His fingers remained locked with hers, grounding her. Keeping her close.

She didn't protest.

The hospital loomed ahead, its bright, sterile lights casting long, clinical shadows over the pavement. The moment the doors slid open, the sharp, antiseptic scent hit him, flooding his senses with something cold and invasive.

Hospitals had never felt like places of healing to him.

They felt like endings.

The memory curled through him.

He could still feel it—that gnawing weight in his stomach, that terrible, unshakable knowing as he had walked through these same halls years ago, his schoolbag slung over one shoulder, his feet dragging against the floor. His father was in critical condition. That was all they had told him before someone had shoved him into a car, before he had been taken to the hospital alone, his world shrinking into something unbearably small.

He had walked in feeling hollow, his legs too heavy, his chest too tight.

But he hadn't been alone for long.

He could still see her.

Meerab—her schoolbag still on her back, her ponytail swinging behind her as she ran to catch up – somehow having followed the car. He remembered her small fingers curling around his forearm as they walked through the endless stretch of white hallways. She hadn't spoken, hadn't asked if he was okay—because she had known he wasn't. But she had stayed. Step for step, breath for breath. She had stayed.

Murtasim glanced down at her now.

So different from the young girl who had walked through these halls with him then—yet so much the same.

She wasn't glancing up at him this time. Wasn't looking for reassurance, wasn't trying to read his face. Instead, she was staring straight ahead, her jaw tight, her lips pressed into a firm line, her expression unreadable.

He squeezed her hand.

Meerab didn't startle. Didn't blink.

Just squeezed back.

A small, barely-there gesture. But he felt it.

They reached the waiting area, and the first thing Murtasim saw was his mother.

Maa Begum sat outside a hospital room, her hands folded neatly in her lap, poised and composed. But he recognized the way her shoulders were set, the way her fingers curled just slightly into the fabric of her dupatta, the faint tightness around her mouth.

She wasn't distraught, not like she had been all those years ago when his father had lain in a hospital bed, her cries muffled into her dupatta as she had pleaded with a God who had already made up his mind.

She was sad. Yes.

But not broken.

As soon as she saw them, Maa Begum stood, her composure slipping just enough for her worry to show. But her gaze softened as she reached for Meerab, pulling her close, arms wrapping around her in a quiet, steadying embrace.

Murtasim watched.

Watched as Meerab let herself be drawn in, her body still stiff, unmoving, as though she hadn't quite processed the comfort being offered to her. Her arms hung limply at her sides for a moment, caught in hesitation, before she finally—slowly, almost uncertainly—lifted them, curling them around his mother in return.

His throat tightened at the sight.

"What happened?" Meerab's voice was quiet, steady in a way that didn't match the storm he knew must be raging inside her.

Maa Begum sighed, smoothing a gentle hand down her back, the gesture one of habit, one of familiarity. "I don't know. I got a call that he was in an accident and brought here... it's not looking good. His car was found in a ditch."

He had heard her say the same thing over the phone earlier. Had absorbed the words, processed them, told Meerab without allowing them to fully settle. But standing here, in this cold, lifeless waiting room, the weight of it crashed down on him like a physical force. It felt real now. Inescapable.

Beside him, Meerab didn't react. Didn't flinch. Didn't cry. Didn't ask questions.

She just nodded.

Murtasim's chest tightened, she was doing nothing he expected her to.

"What did the doctors say?" he asked, his voice quieter now, measured.

His mother simply shook her head. She didn't need to say anything. The meaning was clear.

The chances were slim.

It was a waiting game now.

So they waited.

Murtasim didn't sit. He couldn't. The restless energy thrummed beneath his skin, his body rejecting the idea of stillness while his mind warred with itself.

Meerab and Maa Begum occupied the uncomfortable plastic chairs lined against the wall, their backs straight, their expressions unreadable.

Murtasim paced.

Back and forth.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides before he forced them open. The seconds stretched. The minutes dragged. The night outside remained dark and unyielding, offering no solace, no reprieve.

He hated this.

Hated the way time slowed, the way waiting turned into a silent kind of torment.

Hated the helplessness.

Hated the way Meerab sat there, unmoving, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes fixed on a single spot on the floor like if she just focused hard enough, she could will everything back into place.

He didn't know what unnerved him more—the silence or the absence of tears.

Because Meerab always felt things so deeply. Always reacted, always burned too bright. She had cried in the shower earlier; she had broken down...that was better than this silence.

The still and quiet made it feel like all that fire inside her had been extinguished.

Twice, he stepped away, returning with snacks and hot tea.

Twice, they barely touched it.

The silence in the waiting area thickened, stretching between them like an invisible thread, fragile and thin.

And still, Meerab didn't cry. Didn't react.

Didn't even blink as the hours bled together, lost in a silence that neither he nor his mother knew how to break.

Murtasim clenched his jaw, his gaze drifting toward her once more, his fingers twitching with the need to reach for her—to pull her back from wherever she had retreated inside her mind.

Time stretched, slow and suffocating, filling the space with the quiet hum of fluorescent lights, the occasional shuffle of a nurse passing by, the distant beeping of machines from down the hall. The air was thick with the scent of disinfectant and something heavier—something intangible but inescapable.

The weight of the unknown.

Three hours.

Three hours of nothing but waiting.

And then—

The double doors at the end of the hall swung open, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet, making Murtasim's head snap up.

Two police officers walked in.

Murtasim felt it before he fully registered it—the shift in the air, the tension curling tight in his gut, the silent warning echoing in his bones. This wasn't good.

Meerab's gaze flickered up, eyes sharp, curious.

One of the officers was familiar—Inspector Riaz, a man Murtasim had dealt with before in business matters, a man who never came without reason.

"Khan Sahab." The officer extended a hand, and Murtasim took it, gripping firmly, his eyes already searching his face for answers.

"I wish I was here under better circumstances," Riaz said, his voice low, his gaze flicking past Murtasim toward the hospital room. His brow arched slightly. "Any news?"

Murtasim shook his head, jaw tightening. "Nothing yet."

Riaz sighed, then hesitated, his eyes shifting between Murtasim, Meerab, and Maa Begum.

Murtasim glanced at his mother—she had always been the type to wait for him to tell her what she needed to know. She trusted him. She didn't ask, didn't pry.

Meerab, on the other hand...

His curious, stubborn Meerab had already straightened, watching the exchange with quiet intensity, her sharp mind working faster than her body, already trying to put the pieces together.

Murtasim stepped aside with the officer. Whatever this was, it wasn't just an accident.

"We initially believed your uncle was in an accident," Riaz started, his voice quieter now, measured. "Wrong place at the wrong time."

Murtasim's stomach sank before the next words even left his mouth.

"But after pulling the car out of the ditch, we're now treating it as a homicide."

The words landed like a physical blow.Murtasim felt them in his ribs, in his spine, in the heat spreading through his chest, curling into something dark and volatile.

Murtasim's jaw clenched, his hands fisting at his sides as he processed the weight of them. "Someone tried to kill him?" The words were steady, but there was a cold edge to them.

Riaz nodded. "There's extensive damage to the side of the car. He was run off the road."

Murtasim exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to reel in his emotions, but his pulse was already hammering in his ears.

This wasn't just an accident.

It was an attack. A deliberate, violent attempt on his uncle's life.

And if it was meant as a message, Murtasim received it loud and clear.

"Did your uncle have any enemies?" Riaz asked.

Murtasim nodded immediately. "Many, I believe."

The words tasted bitter, but they were the truth.

"He got into gambling a couple of years ago. Squandered away most of his fortune. We only discovered it recently, so I'm not sure who... but I wouldn't be surprised if it was related to that."

Riaz's expression didn't change, but his head dipped slightly in understanding. "We'll keep you updated on the investigation... we'll likely need to question the family as well."

His gaze sharpened, locking onto the officer's, silently telling him exactly what he thought about that idea.

Riaz hesitated for a second but then nodded. "We'll try to keep it to just you, Khan Sahab, but... he has a daughter, yes?"

Murtasim nodded. "My wife."

A pause. Then, Riaz gave a nod. "We'll be in touch."

And then he was gone, disappearing down the hallway with his fellow officer, leaving behind a heavier silence than before.

Murtasim stood there for a long moment, breathing slow, steady, controlled.

He was good at that—at controlling himself when the situation called for it.

But when he turned back toward the waiting area, his gaze immediately found Meerab, still seated, still watching.

And it was there, in the quiet weight of her stare, that he felt it—the weakness, the helplessness, the exhaustion settling deep into his bones.

Meerab had always been the only thing that made it harder to bury.

The only thing that made him want to be something other than a man in control.

She was watching him.

Of course, she was.

Her eyes—always searching, always seeking—locked onto his face as he walked back toward her, dark pools of quiet intensity.

His curious Meerab.

His wife, who could never leave a question unasked, who could never leave a thought unfinished.

For a brief second, he thanked the heavens for it. Because it meant that somewhere beneath the grief, the exhaustion, and the weight of her father's neglect... she was still there. His Meerab. She hadn't drifted so far that he couldn't reach her.

Murtasim sank into the chair beside her, stretching his legs out in front of him, letting his shoulder brush against hers. A small touch, a quiet reassurance.

She didn't lean away.

"What happened?" Her voice was soft, careful. But there was steel beneath it, that unwavering strength he had always admired, even when it frustrated him.

Murtasim turned toward her fully, taking in the way her fingers were clenched in her lap, her nails pressing into her palm.

She was bracing herself.

He reached out, prying one of her hands loose, untangling her grip on herself, and lacing their fingers together instead.

"They pulled out his car and found evidence of someone running him off the road." He spoke slowly, watching her. Gauging every flicker of emotion that crossed her face. "They're investigating it as a homicide now."

Meerab stilled.

Her face registered shock, a small shift—a brief widening of her eyes, the smallest parting of her lips—before she quickly schooled her expression.

But Murtasim caught it.

Of course, he did.

She didn't say anything.

Just sat there. Processing.

Maa Begum, sitting beside them, sighed. Not in disbelief, but in something close to resignation.

Like she had expected it.

Murtasim turned to her. "Maa, you should go home and sleep. We're here."

She shook her head before he even finished. "I'm fine."

"Your back is going to start hurting." He reminded her gently.

Maa Begum pursed her lips, as if considering whether to argue, but then exhaled. "I'll go for a walk."

She turned to Meerab, her voice softer. "Meerab, you want to come?"

Meerab shook her head immediately.

Maa Begum gave a small nod before walking down the hallway, disappearing into the dimly lit corridor.

Silence settled between them again.

Murtasim leaned back against the cold, uncomfortable plastic chair, his mind still restless despite the stillness of the room.

Then, without a word, he reached for her.

And she went.

No hesitation. No distance.

She didn't pretend she was fine, didn't keep space between them the way she sometimes did when she was upset. She simply went.

Her body folded into his, small and warm, her head settling against his shoulder as she let out a quiet breath.

Murtasim wrapped his arms around her, holding her together, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. "Try to sleep."

It was 4 a.m.

Meerab hummed softly in acknowledgment, her lashes fluttering closed. But he knew better.

He knew she wouldn't sleep—not easily, not here, not now.

So he traced small, slow circles over her back, his fingers moving with purpose, with patience. Gentle, soothing, willing her to breathe.

Minutes passed.

And then—a whisper.

"Who do you think tried to kill him?"

Murtasim sighed, resting his chin lightly against her hair. "I don't know..."

Her fingers, which had been loosely gripping the front of his kurta, curled slightly.

"Someone random or someone we know...?" She trailed off, voice barely audible.

His mind, as always, went to Malik. But it was a stretch. Too early to assume anything.

He exhaled, tightening his hold on her. "We'll worry about it later, meri Meerab."

He pressed another kiss to her temple, lingering this time, pouring every bit of warmth into the touch.

She was quiet for a moment. And then, slowly, she lifted her head, her eyes swimming with sadness—and something else.

A hesitancy. A vulnerability that he rarely saw from her.

"Can I tell you something?" she asked.

He nodded immediately, his grip tightening around her, as if bracing himself for the weight of whatever she was about to say. "Always."

She swallowed, her fingers pressing against his chest like she needed something solid to hold onto.

"For a moment...when we heard..." she hesitated, her voice breaking just slightly. "I wondered if it was such a bad thing if he died."

The words hung in the air.

"But now—" her voice cracked, and Murtasim's chest ached. "I— I'm a horrible person, aren't I?"

She broke.

The first tear slipped down her cheek, carving a silent path through the composure she had held onto so desperately.

Murtasim shook his head immediately, his thumb catching the tear before it could fall any further.

"No," he murmured, his voice firm but gentle, a quiet certainty in the storm of her emotions. He cupped her face, fingers warm against her chilled skin, brushing away another tear as it fell. "You're just human, Meerab. We all have those thoughts."

Meerab swallowed hard, fresh tears slipping out despite her efforts to hold them back.

"I'll lose both my parents if he dies," she whispered, her voice so small, so full of grief, that it nearly shattered him.

Murtasim closed his eyes for a brief second, as if trying to take the weight of those words from her.

Because he knew.

She had already lost so much—her mother at birth, her father's love before she even had a chance to earn it. And now, even though Anwar had never been a real father to her, the finality of his potential death loomed over her like a closing door.

Murtasim held her tighter, pressing her against him, his arms a steady fortress around her.

"I know it's hard," he whispered into her hair, his lips grazing her forehead before he rested his chin there. "But you'll always have me, meri jaan."

She shuddered, a quiet sob escaping her throat as she buried her face into his shoulder.

Murtasim rubbed slow circles into her back, grounding her, his voice unwavering. "And Maa. And Maryam. We're your family."

Meerab sniffled against his kurta, her small nod barely noticeable, but he felt it.

And so, he held her.

Not just because she needed it.

But because he needed it too.

He whispered soft reassurances into her hair, his fingers tracing rhythmic patterns over her back, again and again, until the tension in her body slowly began to unravel.

He counted.

One.

Two.

Three.

By the time he reached 1,473, her breathing had evened out completely.

Her fingers, which had been fisting into his kurta, loosened, her body going soft, heavy in his arms.

She had finally fallen asleep.

Murtasim let out a quiet sigh of relief, adjusting her slightly so she would be more comfortable, but he didn't dare move too much lest he wake her.

The plastic chair was awful, stiff beneath him, his muscles aching from the awkward position, but he didn't care.

Meerab was comfortable where she was.

And that was all that mattered.

Minutes passed, and then—his mother returned.

Maa Begum stopped in front of them, eyebrows immediately narrowing as she took in the sight of Meerab sleeping against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around her.

Murtasim rolled his eyes, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Meri biwi hai."

Maa Begum sighed, shaking her head, but he caught the way her expression softened just a little before she turned away.

He knew he was pushing boundaries.

Knew the way people had glanced at them—the nurses, the passersby—whispering, staring.

But he didn't care.

Meerab was comfortable where she was.

And as long as she needed him, he wasn't going anywhere.

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The news of her father's death did not come in the dead of night.

It came with the sun high in the sky, burning bright, casting sharp, unrelenting shadows through the wide hospital windows. It came while the world outside carried on, oblivious, indifferent—while cars moved, while birds flitted between trees, while people hurried across streets, sipping tea, talking, laughing, living.

It was strange how easily the universe could remain unshaken. How the air could still hum with life while hers stood still.

Meerab had been standing.

She didn't remember when she had risen from the stiff plastic chair, but she must have because when the doctor walked out, she was already on her feet, her heart drumming an unfamiliar rhythm against her ribs.

He did not need to speak.

She had seen this moment before, in her mind, in her fears. She had watched enough movies, read enough books to know that doctors always wore the same face when delivering this kind of news—solemn, measured, the barest flicker of sympathy behind tired eyes.

But then he did speak.

"We tried our best, but he succumbed to his injuries."

A simple sentence, really.

A handful of words strung together with the ease of something that had been said too many times before.

An expected outcome. They had been warned of it hours ago.

And yet, it settled heavily on them, thick and suffocating, pressing against her skin like damp cotton.

No gasps. No wails of sorrow.

Just silence.

Maa Begum exhaled sharply, barely a sound, her hand gripping the edge of the chair like she needed something to tether her. Meerab felt her gaze flicker up, almost on its own, searching for Murtasim's face, for something, anything, that would anchor her.

And then she saw it.

A tear.

A single tear slipping down his cheek, catching in the short stubble of his jaw before he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

For a moment, she simply stared.

Because Murtasim rarely cried.

He had lost his father at a young age. He had carried the weight of responsibility long before it should have been his burden. He had seen death, had comforted grieving families, had stood at gravesides and recited prayers with unwavering strength.

But today, he shed a tear.

For a man who had never been a father to her—but had been an uncle to him.

Meerab did not cry.

Not yet.

Because she didn't know how to feel.

She had spent a lifetime being nothing to Anwar Khan. A walking wound he had never been able to look at without flinching. The cause of his grief, the living, breathing reminder of the woman he had loved and lost.

She had been unwanted, unloved.

And yet.

She felt something now.

A hollow, gaping emptiness in her chest. Not the sharp pain of loss, not grief, not devastation—something heavier, something deeper.

She was an orphan.

In the truest sense of the word.

Murtasim's fingers curled around hers, firm and grounding, pulling her back to the present, tethering her to reality.

She did not squeeze back.

She moved through the next few hours like a ghost, drifting between spaces, answering questions she barely registered, nodding at things she didn't fully process.

There were so many things to do when someone died.

Papers to sign. Calls to make. Arrangements to handle.

When would they receive the body? Who would prepare it? Would the burial be tomorrow? Who needed to be informed?

The world moved too fast, too loud, and yet she barely felt it.

She watched as Murtasim answered questions, his voice steady, his presence unwavering. He handled everything—like he always did.

And then, somehow, they were home.

Without the body.

The Shahs were there. The Ahmeds too. Aunts and uncles and cousins. Some hugged her, some muttered condolences, some simply stared as if trying to gauge how she felt.

She wished she could tell them.

But she didn't know herself.

So she sat.

That was all she could manage.

She sat as the voices around her swirled and faded, her body stiff, her hands folded neatly in her lap, cold and unmoving.

Her uncle spoke about the loss.

Her aunts whispered about how sudden it was, how tragic.

Maryam and Rumi threw her sad, knowing looks, their eyes filled with unspoken concern.

Her cousins glanced at her, hesitating, unsure if they should speak.

She heard none of it.

She didn't want to feel this way.

Not for a man who had given her nothing but pain.

But she did.

The numbness settled into her bones, deep and aching, like she was floating just outside of herself, watching her own life unfold from behind a thick, fogged-up window.

Someone touched her shoulder. She didn't turn.

Someone spoke her name. She didn't respond.

Time blurred.

She heard the murmuring of voices but couldn't make out the words.

She saw hands gesturing, lips moving, expressions shifting, but it all felt distant, like she was watching people from underwater.

Tea was placed in her hands.

She held it.

It grew cold.

People came and went, offering condolences, recounting memories, speculating about the funeral.

The sun shifted in the sky.

She barely noticed.

She barely noticed anything.

Because Anwar Khan was dead.

And even though he had never truly been her father—

It still felt like something had been taken from her.

And she didn't know how to process that.

She felt lost.

So lost that she barely registered bidding the last of the guests good night, barely noticed her own movements as she left the living room, her feet carrying her somewhere—anywhere—away from the murmuring voices and sympathetic stares.

The house had grown quiet, the echoes of whispered condolences fading into the stillness of the night. She wandered through the hallways like a sleepwalker, mind hazy, body exhausted.

And then, without realizing how, she ended up here.

Murtasim's room.

She didn't realize it at first.

She collapsed onto the bed, curling onto her side, pressing her face into the pillow, as if she could sink into it, as if it could smother the grief, the emptiness, the strange ache in her chest.

And then she smelled it.

Bergamot. Mint.

Him.

The scent sliced through the fog in her mind, crisp and familiar, warm in a way that nothing else was. It settled over her, curled into her lungs, pushed through the numbness like an anchor dragging her back down to earth.

Murtasim.

Her breath hitched, her fingers curling into the fabric of the pillowcase as her chest tightened. It was ridiculous, how something as simple as his scent could make her feel... here. Present. Like she wasn't drifting.

Where had he been all day?

She couldn't remember seeing him, not really.

But she knew he had been there.

She could feel him in the gaps of her memory—ghostlike, ever-present. A firm hand at her back, a steady grip on her fingers. The low timbre of his voice, whispering. Soft words, gentle nudges, quiet attempts to take care of her.

Had she ignored him all day?

The thought struck her like a fist to the ribs.

She barely had time to process the aching weight of that realization before the door creaked open.

Meerab took a slow, deep breath as she looked up.

And there he was.

Standing in the doorway, bathed in the dim, golden light of the bedside lamp, still in his black kurta-pajama, a shawl draped over his shoulders, his hair a little messier, his eyes heavier.

He looked...tired.

Haggard, even.

Something inside her twisted, coiled tight.

He was rolling a cart inside, and that's when she smelled it—food.

The scent curled into the room, warm and rich, making her realize with startling clarity that she didn't remember the last time she had eaten.

Murtasim walked over to the bed, movements slow, deliberate. He let out a quiet sigh as he looked down at her, and she felt it—the weight of his gaze, of his worry, of his love.

"You have to eat something," he said, his voice quiet but firm.

She opened her mouth, not sure whether she was about to agree or argue, but before she could say anything—

"Please."

A single word, spoken so softly, yet so full of quiet desperation, that it made her throat tighten.

He had asked her before.

Of course, he had.

He was Murtasim—he would have tried again and again, probably whispering the same request all day, his patience endless, his care unwavering.

She just hadn't noticed.

But she noticed now.

She noticed the worry etched into his features, the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes scanned her face, drinking her in like he was searching for something—some flicker of life in her.

She hated being the reason he looked like that.

So she nodded.

Murtasim exhaled in relief, and without another word, he helped her sit up, his strong hands steady as they lifted her. He propped pillows behind her back, adjusting them carefully before sitting beside her on the bed, grabbing the bowl from the cart.

"It's soup," he said, his voice gentle. "Have some, and if you feel like you can handle more, we'll eat something else."

She nodded again.

He didn't hand her the bowl.

He fed her.

Spoonful by spoonful, slow and patient, his every movement deliberate.

And Meerab just...watched him.

Because for some reason, she hadn't seen him all day.

She knew he had been there, hovering on the edges of her grief, but now that she looked at him—really looked at him—it felt impossible that she hadn't noticed him. Her world usually revolved around him.

Her eyes trailed over his face, drinking him in.

His tired eyes, ringed with the faintest shadows, yet still so full of love for her.

His lips, full and soft, pulled into a slight downward curve—a quiet sadness resting in the corners.

She missed his smile.

God, she missed his smile.

And in that moment, as he sat beside her, as he cared for her without expecting anything in return, as he looked at her like she was still his world even when she felt like nothing—

She loved him.

She had always loved him, in ways too deep to put into words.

But right now, in this quiet, intimate moment—she felt it with an intensity that nearly stole her breath.

She wasn't alone.

She would never be alone.

Not as long as he was here.

Not as long as he was hers.

"Did you eat?" Her voice was quiet as she took another spoonful of soup, the warmth coating her throat, grounding her just a little. She didn't ask out of obligation—she asked because she needed to. Because in that moment, as Murtasim sat beside her, exhaustion lining his features but his focus still entirely on her, she wanted to take care of him too.

Murtasim nodded. "A little."

Meerab frowned slightly. A little wasn't enough.

"What did they make?" she asked, realizing with a dull pang that she had no idea what had been served in the house that day. She hadn't noticed.

"There's daal-chawal, chicken—do you want something else? I can—"

"Daal-chawal. For both of us."

Murtasim looked at her for a moment, as if gauging whether she was serious, before nodding. He called out toward the door, calling out for Feena, instructing her to bring them dinner.

"With lemon pickle," Meerab added, glancing at Feena as she nodded.

Murtasim always had lemon pickle with his daal-chawal.

Murtasim turned to her, something unreadable flickering across his face.

"I ate," he said, voice softer now.

"Liar," she muttered.

And then—he smiled.

Not the full, brilliant one that lit up his face, but a small, tired curve of his lips. Just enough to ease some of the heaviness pressing against her ribs.

For the first time that day, she felt something other than numb.

"Murtasim," she whispered.

He hummed, shifting slightly so he was facing her, his full attention on her like it always was.

Meerab swallowed, her throat tightening, her fingers curling slightly in her lap.

"I love you."

The words felt heavier tonight. Heavier than they ever had before.

Because she wasn't just saying them—she was feeling them.

She loved him.

More than she knew how to explain. More than she had thought herself capable of – and she had always thought herself very capable of loving him.

Murtasim's lips parted slightly, a slow shift in his expression as her words settled between them, weaving into the air, into the silence, into him.

And then—his small, exhausted smile stretched into something warmer, deeper.

He reached out, cupping her face, fingers gentle, reverent, like she was something precious, something breakable—something worth cherishing.

"I love you too."

His thumb brushed along her cheek, tracing soft, familiar patterns, his touch soothing in the way only his touch ever was.

"Tum theek ho?" he asked softly.

Meerab nodded, but the motion felt incomplete. "I just felt... numb."

She didn't know how else to explain it.

Didn't know how to put into words the feeling of floating through the day, of being present but not there, of existing in her own body but feeling like a spectator to her own grief.

Murtasim's expression shifted, something sad settling into his features. "I know the feeling," he admitted, and for a brief moment, she saw him then—years ago, after his father's death.

She had been too young to fully understand it back then, but she remembered.

The way he had been so still, so silent, a storm brewing inside him with no release. Until one day, when the weight of it had broken him. When he had let himself grieve. When he had cried against her, his face buried against her stomach, his arms gripping her so tightly she had barely been able to breathe.

A long silence stretched between them before she found herself whispering, "But he doesn't deserve it."

She didn't know why she said it, didn't know if she was trying to justify her feelings or question them.

Murtasim didn't hesitate. "He doesn't."

And yet.

"But it's still a loss," he continued gently. "He was your father—even if he was a horrible one."

Meerab let out a slow, shaky breath.

She wasn't sure why, but the next question slipped from her lips before she could stop it. "Do you think he was in a lot of pain before he died?" She wished he went peacefully, without pain.

Murtasim sighed, his fingers still cradling her cheek.

"They say the adrenaline kicks in first—an attempt to save your life. You don't notice the pain as much until time wears on." His voice was steady, thoughtful. "He got to the hospital pretty fast, and they gave him painkillers. So not for long, I think."

Meerab nodded, barely aware of the way her breath trembled, barely aware that she had been crying at all—until Murtasim's thumb brushed against her cheek, warm and gentle, wiping away the silent tears she hadn't even realized had fallen.

The touch grounded her.

Soft. Familiar. His.

The door creaked open, and Feena walked in, quiet and efficient as ever. Without a word, she placed a heaping plate of daal-chawal, the scent rich and warm, with a small dish of lemon pickle set carefully to the side.

Murtasim's favorite.

"Let's eat," she said, her voice softer than usual, but steady.

Murtasim nodded, picking up the tray with practiced ease and placing it between them on the bed. She crossed her legs, leaning forward slightly, and he did the same, mirroring her movements, his dark gaze never straying far from her face.

He scooped up a bite, carefully balanced on the spoon, and held it out to her.

Meerab let out a soft sigh, her heart swelling painfully in her chest.

"You need to eat too," she murmured, even as she leaned forward and took the bite.

"I will," he promised.

A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she watched him scoop up a much larger bite—this time with a generous helping of pickle – for himself.

She could have picked up the spoon and fed herself.

But... she liked him doing it.

The way he held the spoon steadily for her, the way the bites he scooped for her were always smaller, more manageable—intentional. Not habits he had for himself, but adjustments he made just for her.

A deliberate, quiet act of care.

And that thought alone made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with grief.

She took a few more bites before shaking her head. "I'm full."

Murtasim sighed, tilting his head slightly as he studied her.

"You haven't eaten since last night, meri jaan." His voice was gentle but firm. "Eat a bit more."

She shook her head.

"Do you want something else?" he asked, his eyes scanning her face carefully, as if searching for the smallest sign of discomfort.

She shook her head again. "I'll tell you if I do."

Murtasim nodded, as if accepting the answer—at least for now. He handed her a glass of water, watching as she took slow sips before he finally polished off the plate himself, washing it down with a long drink of water.

She should have felt guilty for making him worry.

Should have felt selfish for the way she had let him hover, let him hold her together while she unraveled.

But instead, she only felt warmth.

Because no matter how much he had done for her today—how many times he had reminded her to eat, to drink, to breathe—he hadn't once made her feel like a burden.

Not once.

She felt the bed shift slightly as Murtasim reached toward the bottom tray of the food cart, pulling something out.

Meerab blinked as he placed a KitKat in front of her.

Her favorite.

"I thought you wouldn't be able to say no to this even if you said no to food... and then maybe this would make you hungry," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, looking suddenly younger, like the boy she had grown up with—the boy who had always known exactly what to do to make her feel better.

Her heart ached.

She held out her hand. "I get three pieces."

Murtasim sighed dramatically as he opened the wrapper, shaking his head like he had known this was coming. "Half-half," he corrected petulantly—just as he always had.

She rolled her eyes but gave in, like she always did.

"Fine."

Murtasim broke the chocolate bar into two, handing her two sticks while keeping the other two for himself.

She narrowed her eyes as he lifted his piece to his mouth. "Eat it properly."

Murtasim froze mid-motion, looking at her with a raised brow.

"I am eating it properly."

"No, you're not." She pointed at his hands. "You're about to take a bite out of both sticks at once."

Murtasim's lips twitched. "And?"

"And that's not how you eat KitKat!"

"Says who?"

"Says literally everyone."

His smirk deepened. "Yes, KitKat police."

She couldn't help but smile as she carefully split her two sticks into singles, savoring the first bite as she let the chocolate melt on her tongue.

By the time she had finished both of hers, Murtasim had barely gotten through one stick.

And like always, without a word, he broke the second one in half and handed her a piece.

The familiarity of it hit her like a wave.

She took it.

Because that was how it always was.

It was such a simple thing.

And yet, it was everything.

It always had been.

Without thinking, without hesitating, she leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek.

Murtasim stilled.

Meerab pulled back slightly, her lips curling into the faintest of smiles. "I wanted to do that every time you did this."

He exhaled, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

"You should have." His voice was low, almost a whisper.

She hesitated for only a second before admitting, "I was scared that you wouldn't react well."

Murtasim snorted. "I think the problem was that I'd react too much."

A small giggle left her, involuntary and light, slipping past her lips before she could stop it. The sound startled her.

And if her heart felt a little lighter, if the weight in her chest had eased just a fraction, she might have teased him, might have pushed further—React how?—just to see what he'd say, just to watch the way his lips curled, the way amusement flickered through those dark, knowing eyes.

But she was too tired.

Too drained to do anything but hum softly before sighing, "I should go to my room."

Murtasim shook his head immediately. "Stay."

She gave him a small, sad smile. "I'll be okay...you don't have to babysit me."

His voice dropped, quieter, softer. "I'd rather be with my wife right now."

Her heart stuttered in her chest.

Like it always did when he said it—wife. Biwi.

Because no matter how many times she heard it, no matter how many weeks had passed since they had said qubool hai, a part of her was still caught off guard by the way he claimed her so effortlessly. So naturally.

"I need to brush my teeth," she said, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up her neck. She couldn't sleep without doing it—it was impossible.

"I have extra toothbrushes," he offered easily.

"A pink one?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Red?"

She pursed her lips, pretending to consider it before sighing. "Fine, it'll do."

It was...odd.

Being in his space like it was hers.

Standing next to him at the sink, brushing their teeth together in a quiet, easy rhythm. Kicking him out of the bathroom for a moment so she could have privacy.

Odd.

But nice.

She glanced at the sink, at the two toothbrushes now sitting side by side—her red one, his blue one. The sight sent something warm curling in her chest.

Because if she thought about it, this was how it should have been after they said qubool hai.

This quiet intimacy, this soft domesticity.

Not the distance imposed by Maa Begum until the rukhsati, not the strange in-between where they had been neither fully together nor fully apart.

But this.

Meerab padded back into the bedroom, rubbing a hand over her face, exhaustion tugging at her limbs. Without thinking, she reached under her kameez, unhooking her bra with practiced ease, pulling the straps down her arms and out from her sleeves before finally tugging it out through the neckline.

It was instinctive, something she did every night without a second thought.

She only realized what she had done when she caught the expression on Murtasim's face—the confusion furrowing his brows, his eyes flicking between her face and the bra now dangling from her fingers.

"How'd you...?" He trailed off, looking adorably lost.

A slow smile spread across her lips. "All girls can do this."

Murtasim's gaze darkened just slightly, his lips twitching. "I need another demonstration."

She rolled her eyes. "I was only wearing one bra."

He opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it. Instead, he just exhaled, shaking his head before climbing into bed, patting the space next to him.

Meerab didn't hesitate.

She climbed in, scooting closer until her face was buried against his chest, until his arm wrapped securely around her, anchoring her in a way that nothing else could.

She inhaled deeply.

Bergamot and mint.

Him.

"Okay?" he murmured, his voice vibrating against her cheek.

She nodded.

And for the first time all day, she felt like she could breathe.

"I'm sorry," she whispered a few moments later.

Murtasim shifted slightly, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns against her back. "Why?" He sounded confused, genuinely lost as to why she would apologize.

Meerab swallowed, her grip tightening where she clutched his kurta. "I've been ignoring you all day, haven't I?"

The realization made her stomach twist.

She hated herself for it.

Because if there was one person in the world who never deserved to be ignored, who never deserved her indifference, it was Murtasim.

Murtasim sighed, his lips brushing against her hair as he held her closer. "No, you've mostly been right beside me."

And she had. Physically, at least.

But she hadn't seen him. Hadn't acknowledged him, hadn't let herself feel him the way she always did.

She buried her face deeper into his chest.

"But I didn't respond or look at you... at least, I don't remember it." Her voice was muffled against his kurta, the fabric soft beneath her lips. The whole day had passed in a blur.

His hands trailed down, slow and soothing, running over her back in long, comforting strokes.

"You're going through a lot, Meerab. It's understandable."

She swallowed. "But he meant more to you than he did to me... in ways."

Murtasim didn't respond immediately.

And she took the opportunity to move.

Shifting slightly against him, she closed the small space between them, her fingers drifting between them, searching. The cool fabric of his kurta met her fingertips, soft and well-worn beneath her touch. She found the first button.

One.

The pad of her finger brushed over it, undoing it with ease.

Two.

The second button slipped free with barely any effort.

Three.

She felt his breath hitch—sharp, fleeting—as the fabric parted slightly, exposing the warmth of his skin beneath.

But he didn't pull away.

Didn't stop her.

Meerab shifted again, her cheek pressing against the newly bared skin, finding the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart—a soft, constant thrum against her ear.

His scent surrounded her.

Earthy, warm, bergamot and mint, something uniquely him, something she had come to associate with safety, with home.

His fingers flexed against her back, gripping the fabric of her kameez briefly before relaxing, his arms tightening around her instead, pulling her impossibly close.

"Doesn't matter," he whispered, his voice rough yet tender. "Everyone grieves differently, meri Meerab."

His arms tightened around her, pulling her impossibly closer.

She let out a slow sigh, closing her eyes.

"He's going to be right beside Mama's grave, right?"

"Yes."

She swallowed, hesitating for only a moment before asking, "Do you think people meet in the afterlife?"

Murtasim hummed, his thumb drawing idle circles on her back. "I think so."

She swallowed, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips. "So maybe they'll finally be together. He'd like that."

Murtasim sighed, his fingers skimming along the bare skin at the nape of her neck, tangling briefly in the fine strands of her hair. "He would," Murtasim agreed, his voice thoughtful. "He really did love Nazia Chachi."

Meerab hummed in response, the thought settling in her chest.

He hadn't been a good father.

But maybe... he had been a good soulmate.

Maybe that was what had always been so unforgivable—that he had been capable of love, just not for her.

The ache in her chest deepened, but it was quieter now, softened by the warmth of Murtasim's arms around her, by the steady rise and fall of his breathing, by the way his fingers found hers so easily, so naturally.

She let him.

Let their fingers twine together, let his thumb skate over her knuckles, tracing them absently, his nails scratching lightly along her palm in soft, rhythmic motions.

They played.

Discovered.

Intertwined.

He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, lingering there, letting his lips rest against her skin as if he could pour all his love into that one touch.

Meerab exhaled, letting the warmth of it soothe something deep inside her.

"If you make me go back to my room after this, I'm going to revolt."

Murtasim let out a soft chuckle, his breath ruffling her hair, the vibrations of it thrumming through his chest and into her skin.

"Stay here."

She smiled against his bare skin, pressing her face further into the warmth of his chest.

"Forever?" she whispered.

His hand slid up her back, fingers tracing slow, calming strokes, his other hand still curled around hers.

"Forever," he murmured, pressing another kiss to her hair this time, lips lingering just long enough that she felt the words settle into her skin, into her soul.

And then he kept rubbing her back, again and again, a steady, rhythmic motion that made her eyelids heavier, heavier.

She sighed, her fingers still absently playing with his, tracing over the lines of his palm, feeling the callouses, the strength in his hands, the same hands that had held her through everything today.

Murtasim pressed another kiss to her forehead, slow, deliberate.

"Try to sleep now. We have a long few days ahead of us."

She nodded, shifting just enough to rest her ear against his chest.

The sound of his heartbeat filled her ears—steady, strong, soothing.

Her anchor.

"Murtasim," she whispered, not sure why she said his name, only knowing that she needed to.

"Hmmm?"

She sighed, curling further into him, letting his warmth wrap around her.

"I love you."

"I love you too, meri Meerab."

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

She didn't know what was better—solitude or the presence of others.

The graveyard was crowded with mourners. The Shahs, the Ahmeds, and family friends who had known Anwar Khan in some capacity. There were distant relatives, too—faces she barely recognized, people who had never been part of her life but still stood around offering condolences, murmuring empty words with practiced solemnity.

"May Allah grant him a place in Jannah."

"Such a sudden loss..."

"Be strong, beta."

Strong.

As if she had ever been allowed to be anything else with a father like him.

Everything blurred together—the hushed voices, the muffled sobs, the scent of fresh soil and incense lingering in the air. The dull ache in her chest.

It was too much.

The weight of it, the noise, the grief that wasn't even hers but felt suffocating anyway.

So she walked away.

No one stopped her.

Murtasim was preoccupied, speaking to someone—an elder, a relative, someone who had likely come to pay their respects. If he had seen her leave, he would have followed.

But he hadn't.

So she slipped past the crowd, her movements slow but certain, weaving through the sea of people until she stepped beyond the graveyard gates, the open sky stretching vast and endless above her.

The world beyond the cemetery felt different—quieter, like it hadn't just swallowed a man whole.

A small park sat just outside the boundary, secluded and nearly empty, save for a few birds hopping between the trees, their chirping far too unaffected for a day like today.

Meerab sank onto a weathered wooden bench under the shade of an old tree, the bark peeling, the leaves swaying gently with the breeze.

She exhaled slowly, tilting her head up, watching the branches sway against the sky.

The funeral was over.

Her father was in the ground.

Right beside her mother.

She clenched her hands in her lap, feeling the sharp sting of her nails digging into her palms.

It shouldn't have mattered—he had never been a father to her. He had never held her, never comforted her, never looked at her with anything but resentment. He had never been her father.

And yet.

A part of her felt so achingly hollow.

Perhaps it wasn't grief for him – it was a realization that came slowly.

Perhaps it was grief for herself.

For the child who had spent years hoping.

For the little girl who had once waited at doors, waited in rooms, waited in silence—for a father's affection that never came.

Perhaps she was mourning the years wasted waiting for love that was never hers to claim.

Perhaps she felt sad because, for the first time, she was truly an orphan.

Time moved slowly, stretching around her like an endless, silent void. The sun shifted lower in the sky, the breeze picked up, carrying the scent of damp earth, and she knew at least an hour had passed when she finally heard footsteps approaching.

She didn't need to turn to know who it was.

Murtasim.

He didn't say anything as he lowered himself onto the bench beside her.

He was just there.

Solid. Warm. Unmoving.

She hadn't realized how cold she was until she felt his body pressed up against hers, his warmth seeping into her, grounding her in a way that nothing else could.

And before she could even ask, before she could shiver, before she could acknowledge that she needed it, he was already tugging at the end of his shawl, wrapping one side of it around her shoulders, draping her in the same warmth that had always, always belonged to her.

Meerab sighed, moving without thinking, resting her head against his shoulder.

Comfort.

Warmth.

Love.

"How'd you find me?" she asked after a moment.

She knew he had been distracted when she walked away.

Murtasim didn't answer right away. Instead, she felt a slight movement, then—

A soft buzz against her wrist.

Her watch.

She frowned, lifting her head slightly, but Murtasim was already handing her his phone.

She glanced at the screen, blinking at what she saw.

An app.

A map.

Two blue dots—huddled together.

Them.

"Download it on my phone too," she said quietly, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Murtasim hummed in response, a soft sound of acknowledgment, before tucking his phone away.

A long pause stretched between them, filled only by the rustling of the leaves and the distant hum of traffic from beyond the cemetery gates.

"Do you want to be alone?" he asked.

Meerab shook her head.

She turned her face into his shoulder again, inhaling deeply, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I always want you."

She never wanted to get away from him the way she sometimes did with others.

Murtasim let out a breath, his hand finding hers beneath the shawl, their fingers weaving together effortlessly.

"Do you think they're happy now?" she asked a bit later, her voice barely above a whisper.

Murtasim sighed, his grip on her hand tightening just slightly. "Maybe."

Meerab swallowed, her gaze unfocused as she stared ahead.

"Do you think my mom also resents me for being the reason she died?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, her voice breaking a little at the end.

She hadn't thought about it before—not really, not in a way that felt real.

But today, standing by her father's grave, seeing her mother's name carved into stone right beside his—it had hit her.

She had taken her mother from him.

From both of them.

That's why her father had never loved her. Maybe that's why she had never felt like she belonged at times, because the one person who was supposed to love her the most never got the chance to.

Murtasim squeezed her hand, holding it between both of his. His touch was warm, solid.

"You weren't the reason," he said, his voice steady, confident, like it was an undeniable truth. "It was childbirth, Meerab. You couldn't have done anything to stop it, so you can't be at fault."

The way he said it, so firm, so sure—made her believe him.

For a moment, at least.

She sighed, her fingers curling around his. "I still feel bad about it."

Because if it had been her that died instead, wouldn't things have been different?

Her parents would have grieved, but then, maybe later, they would have had another child. A different child. One they could love together. One her father wouldn't have resented.

Maybe they both would have been happy...without her.

"Stop thinking whatever you're thinking," Murtasim's voice was low, quiet but firm, laced with the kind of certainty that made it feel like a command rather than a suggestion.

Meerab groaned. "You're a mind reader now?"

Murtasim hummed, just enough to send something warm curling in her stomach. "A Meerab reader."

She scoffed, turning her face toward him, her cheek brushing against the soft fabric of his kurta. "Acha?"

But the word barely left her lips before her gaze settled on him—

And then, she forgot what she had been about to say.

It was ridiculous, how unfairly beautiful he was.

Right now, in the fading golden light of the setting sun, with exhaustion etched into his face and something soft, something quiet resting behind those dark, knowing eyes—

He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

His thick lashes, impossibly dark against his sharp cheekbones.

His slightly unkempt beard, the shadow of it covering the strong cut of his jaw.

His lips, full and unfair, the corners quirked in amusement, the barest hint of a smirk pulling at them.

His hair, disheveled, strands curling against his forehead from where he had likely run his fingers through it a hundred times today.

And his eyes—deep and unreadable, but warm, always warm when they were on her.

Meerab exhaled, forcing herself to blink, forcing herself to look away before she got lost in him completely.

Murtasim hummed in confirmation, as if answering the question she had already forgotten, his fingers brushing lightly against her wrist, a featherlight touch that sent something warm trickling through her veins.

"Hmmm. And as a Meerab reader, I know that golgappe always make you feel better when you're sad."

She sighed. "I can't exactly go eat golgappe after burying my father... that's weird, isn't it?"

"I don't think it's weird."

"Everyone else will."

"I'm not going to tell anyone."

The words were spoken so simply, so easily, as if that was all it took.

And maybe it was.

Because he never had.

A small laugh escaped her before she could stop it—a real one, breathy and quiet, but real—and it startled her, because it felt so out of place, because she hadn't thought herself capable of laughing today.

She turned to him, something loosening inside her, her lips curling just slightly, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"You never did tell anyone."

How many times had they snuck away together? How many times had they stolen moments away from the eyes of their families?

And never once had he told anyone.

Murtasim stood, shaking out his shawl, unwrapping it from his shoulders. Then, without a word, he draped it entirely around her, letting it pool over her arms, his warmth sinking into her skin.

Meerab looked up at him, and her heart warmed like she was looking at the sun.

Her Murtasim.

The boy she had known her whole life.

The man who loved her more than he loved himself.

The one constant in her life when everything else had felt like it was slipping away.

He extended a hand. "Chalo."

Meerab let out a breath, standing up, letting him guide her towards the car.

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

The house had felt like a tomb when she had left in the morning for the funeral, heavy with the scent of incense and the lingering hush of too many people whispering in rooms they did not belong in.

But now—

Now, the silence was gone.

Now, she was being crushed in the kind of hug that only Rumi Ahmad could give—tight, smothering, her arms wound around Meerab's frame like she was trying to put all the broken pieces of her back together with sheer force.

Meerab stumbled slightly, exhaling as the air was squeezed from her lungs, but she didn't protest. Didn't want to.

Because Rumi was warmth, Rumi was comfort, Rumi was familiarity wrapped in jasmine-scented hair and the soft rustling of a dupatta that was never quite pinned right.

"I can't believe he just died like that... could have waited for the wedding," Rumi muttered, her voice muffled against Meerab's shoulder.

And then—

She froze, her body going stiff before she pulled back with a horrified expression, her eyes going wide as she let out a tiny whine.

"I—ya allah, I didn't mean—oh shit! I'm sorry—I just hate—wait - I shouldn't speak ill of the dead—" Rumi was tripping over her own words, stumbling so fast she could barely breathe between syllables, her hands flailing slightly, her face a perfect picture of guilt and panic.

Meerab laughed.

Laughed, despite everything, because—how could she not?

"I know—how dare he get in the way of your choreographed dances and save-the-dates?" She teased.

Rumi gasped, dramatically clutching her chest. "Meerab! Stop! I feel like such a bad person... but, I've been waiting for your wedding for six years! Six! Years!"

Meerab smiled, because—hadn't she been waiting for it a lifetime?

"And I know, technically you're married—" Rumi huffed, making air quotes with her fingers, as if their nikaah was just a footnote in her grand vision. "But it's THE wedding, you know? And I heard people whispering about how you might push it back and—Meerab, I have been spiralling!"

Meerab shook her head, firm, resolute.

"I'm not pushing the wedding back," she said. "Not because of him."

Rumi exhaled loudly, like she had just been granted a second lease on life, muttering something about how all her outfits were already ready anyway, when a sound—familiar, fond snickering—pulled Meerab's attention away.

She glanced past Rumi's shoulder, only to find Hamza and Arslan, their arms crossed, expressions entirely too amused.

Hamza let out a dramatic sigh. "She's crazy."

His eyes were on Rumi, but there was no real exasperation there, only fondness.

Rumi, however, was not impressed.

She spun around, hands on her hips, glaring. "See! See! I told you I know Meerab the best!"

Meerab smiled.

A soft throat-clearing came from behind her.

Murtasim.

The moment stretched, and then—

"After Murtasim bhai," Rumi added, begrudging, huffing the words out like she had just admitted defeat in a war she hadn't wanted to fight.

Meerab smiled wider.

Because somehow, despite everything, it was going to be okay.

The house—their home—was not so different without her father, she guessed.

Maybe, it never had been.

A shift in movement caught her eye.

Arslan.

"Are you really okay?" he asked, watching her, searching her face.

Meerab nodded.

And before she could process it, he was stepping closer, arms reaching to hug her.

But he never made it.

Because Murtasim was suddenly there, stepping smoothly between them, redirecting Arslan before he could even think about hugging her.

Meerab giggled.

"Yaar, behen hai meri," Arslan whined.

And just like that, the weight in the room lifted.

The energy shifted—changed—something lighter settling in its place, because this was them.

Meerab didn't need to force a smile—it came naturally, effortlessly, because the bickering, the teasing, the way they all slipped so easily into this familiar chaos - this was home.

Even Armaan joined in, throwing half-hearted jabs at his brothers, with Maryam firing back with twice the enthusiasm.

It wasn't the same. Not entirely.They were all a little quieter than usual, their voices a little softer, their laughter a little more restrained, but the house felt less suffocating than it had just hours ago. Less like a place filled with grief and more like a place filled with them.

And that was enough.

That was enough for now.

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

The house had settled into a quiet hum, the echoes of conversation drifting into hushed murmurs behind closed doors as Maryam and Rumi headed to bed, having spent the evening just chatting away with her.

Meerab walked toward his room—toward their room, as he called it.

And Murtasim was waiting.

Not in any grand way, not with outstretched arms or whispered reassurances. He was simply there, standing by the door, watching her approach with a quiet patience, a knowing certainty, like he had been expecting her all along.

Her steps slowed as she reached him, as the door stood between them and the rest of the house, and then—

A sigh.

Not from her.

Not from him.

Maa Begum.

Meerab glanced sideways, finding her lingering in the hallway, her lips pressed together, eyes flickering briefly between them, taking in the way they stood too close, too familiar.

Murtasim said nothing.

Meerab said nothing.

And Maa Begum didn't reprimand them. Didn't remind them that the rukhsati hadn't happened yet, that they weren't supposed to be together like this, live like this, exist like this—not yet, not in the eyes of the world.

Instead, she exhaled, long and slow, like a woman who had long given up fighting a battle she had already lost.

And then she turned and walked away.

Meerab's lips twitched.

Murtasim smirked.

He opened the door.

And she stepped inside.

The moment the door shut behind them, she turned—seeking him, reaching for him before she even had the words for why.

She let her hands slide up his chest, curl into the fabric of his kurta, let her body fall into his warmth, let herself be wrapped in the scent, the heat, the presence of him.

Murtasim reacted immediately, his arms sealing around her, pulling her closer, tighter, his hands spanning the curve of her back, pressing her into him, anchoring her to something steady, something real.

"Just hold me." Her voice was muffled against his chest, barely above a whisper.

And he did.

No questions. No hesitation.

Just his arms around her, his touch grounding, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear.

She let herself sink into him, let the exhaustion settle into her bones, let the world outside this room cease to exist.

Murtasim let out a slow, steady breath. His fingers began moving—slow, lazy strokes against her back, the touch soothing, lulling.

She felt the way his chest rose and fell beneath her cheek, the way his breath hitched for a fraction of a second before he pressed his lips against her forehead.

A kiss.

Slow.

Lingering.

Meerab tilted her face up, her nose brushing against the underside of his jaw, the lightest graze of her lips against the rough shadow of his beard.

Murtasim stilled.

She lifted herself just enough to look at him—really look at him.

His gaze was already on her, intense, unreadable, his lips slightly parted, his breaths coming slower, deeper.

Meerab swallowed.

And then, without hesitation, without thought, without waiting for permission she never needed, she leaned in.

"Kiss me."

And that was all it took.

Because he was leaning in, meeting her, giving her what she asked for, what she needed, what she had been too lost to seek out these past few days.

The first brush of his lips was slow, hesitant, testing.

And then, deeper.

Meerab sighed into him, a soft, shuddering sound, letting her hands drift up, up, up, sliding over his shoulders, tangling into his hair, pulling him closer, pulling him deeper, pulling him into the space between them until there was nothing left.

Murtasim kissed her slowly, like they had all the time in the world, like he was memorizing her, like he had been aching for this just as much as she had.

His hands moved—one fisting into the fabric at her waist, the other slipping up, fingers tracing over her jaw, tilting her face up to him, deepening the kiss with a patience that was more torturous than any desperation could ever be.

They stood like that for minutes, wrapped up in each other, wrapped up in this, letting the world fall away, letting this moment stretch, expand, unfold like something sacred, something eternal.

She didn't want to stop.

Didn't want to let go.

But the weight of the day, the exhaustion creeping into her limbs, finally forced her to pull away, her forehead pressing against his, her breaths uneven, shaky, warm against his lips.

Her fingers loosened, her hands trailing up, sliding over his jaw, her thumbs brushing along the stubble at his cheeks, as if she could etch him into her palms, as if she could keep him with her forever.

She sighed, her fingers tracing lightly along the nape of his neck, her voice barely a whisper. "I love you."

He let out a slow breath, his lips curling just slightly before he pressed one last kiss to her temple, lingering, reverent.

"I love you too, meri Meerab."

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

When she finally climbed into bed after brushing her teeth, showering, washing away the weight of the day, she was wearing his clothes—because hers were too far away and she didn't want to walk back to her room. She didn't want to be anywhere but here.

His white kurta, soft and far too large, the hem brushing just above her ankles.

His shalwar, tied tight at the waist, baggy and ridiculous but more comfortable than anything she had ever worn in her life.

Murtasim looked at her, his gaze sweeping over her slowly, his lips curling, his voice teasingly smug. "You look like a small child playing dress-up."

Meerab rolled her eyes, sliding under the covers, pressing herself against his warmth without a second thought.

"Shut up."

He laughed, soft, quiet, indulgent.

And then he kissed her again.

This time, it was softer, lazier, a press of lips that held no urgency, no intention—just something quiet, something familiar, something endlessly, effortlessly them.

She sighed, sinking deeper into the warmth of the bed, into the familiar scent of him, into the quiet rightness of it all.

Her fingers idly traced patterns against his chest, her cheek pressed to the soft fabric of his kurta.

She never thought this was how it would happen.

Never thought this was how she would end up in his bed, in his room, finally—after everything.

She had imagined it so many times, in so many different ways.

Now, she was here.

Wearing his clothes, tangled in his warmth, pressed against his chest, letting him hold her without question, without hesitation, without fear that Maa Begum would come knocking and find them in bed together.

Meerab snickered, the thought slipping through her mind like a quiet, amused hum.

Murtasim tilted his head, looking down at her, brows slightly raised.

"What?"

Meerab smirked, her fingers moving, unbuttoning the top few buttons of his kurta, letting her fingertips graze the warmth of his skin, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath them.

"We're here, alone in your room..." she tilted her head, eyes glinting, voice laced with teasing mischief, "and I'm behaving."

His gaze darkened slightly, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

She remembered the way he always said it. "Behave."

Whenever she leaned too close, whenever she let her fingers linger, whenever she looked at him just a little too long, whenever she tried to push him just to see how far she could go—he had always, always said it.

"Who would have thought?" she mused, laughing softly, shaking her head.

Murtasim chuckled, the sound deep and warm, vibrating against her skin.

"I didn't tell you to behave this time." The words were pointed, teasing.

Meerab whined, burying her face against his chest. "You always act like this when you know I won't try anything," she muttered.

She was too tired, too exhausted, too worn down from the day to do anything but let herself be held.

Murtasim sighed, his fingers trailing along the curve of her back, his lips finding her forehead, pressing against her skin in a slow, lingering kiss.

"It's not the right time."

Meerab groaned, rolling her eyes. "As weird as it is with the funeral having been just today..." she exhaled, fingers idly playing with the buttons of his kurta, "I have an appointment tomorrow for my wedding outfits."

Murtasim nodded, his hand absentmindedly stroking her back, his voice light, teasing. "I'll make it a point to stay home and linger."

Meerab whacked his chest.

"Behave, Mr. Khan. You cannot see my outfits before the wedding."

He chuckled, pulling her even closer, his arms tightening around her, his nose brushing against her hair.

"Must I remind you that we're already married, Mrs. Khan?" His voice was low, lazy, amused. "So that means there's no problem with me seeing things."

Meerab rolled her eyes. "Oh—so we're married when it's convenient for you?"

Murtasim nodded, unapologetic, smug, entirely unbothered.

"Exactly."

Meerab laughed as she pulled away from his chest and looked up at him.

His lips found hers one last time, a kiss that was soft, slow, meant to make her sigh, meant to lull her into sleep, meant to settle something deep inside her.

And it did.

Because when he pulled away, he whispered, "Sleep now."

And she did.

Wrapped in his warmth, in his scent, in his arms.

And for a moment—

Everything was perfect.

Whole.

Unbreakable.

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

But misery—

Misery didn't come measured.

It didn't arrive in small, manageable doses, didn't come kindly, didn't give you time to breathe before it sank its claws into your skin.

No—

Misery was cruel.

Misery was a storm, a flood, a force that came all at once, drowning everything in its path.

Misery was waking up in bed alone, gasping. It was the suffocating stillness of the room, the absence of warmth beside her, the sudden, unshakable feeling that something was wrong.

Misery was the frantic, restless search.

Her fingers grasping at nothing, her heart pounding in her ears, her mind screaming at her to find what was missing, to understand, to make sense of the dread curling around her ribs like a vice.

Misery was an unanswered call. Ringing. Ringing. Then silence.

Misery was the knock at the door in the dead of night. Not gentle. Not hesitant. Loud. Urgent.

Misery was never kind, never patient, never merciful.

And fate had worse in store for her than she could ever imagine.

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Author's Note: Tadaaaaa! What do you think? I know everyone is probably like "this isn't what I was expecting" - I get that. I think that's one of the reasons I stopped writing Dhaagey when I did, I wasn't in the mood to write the impending chapters. But here we are! I hope y'all liked this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Leave your thoughts!