Naira had spent the better part of the morning watching her daughters play in the backyard from the kitchen window. Their laughter echoed faintly through the glass, filling the quiet house with life. She hadn't ventured outside herself yet today-something about the open space still felt daunting-but seeing her daughters happy brought a faint smile to her face.

The soft sound of footsteps behind her made her turn. Ahad entered the kitchen, his broad frame almost too large for the cozy space. Draped over his shoulders was a light men's shawl, its soft gray fabric adding an air of quiet elegance to his imposing figure. She'd noticed he often wore them when he wasn't in his usual sharp suits, and it struck her as both strange and familiar.

"You should join them," he said, nodding toward the backyard.

She shook her head quickly. "I'm fine here."

"They keep looking back at the house," he pointed out, pulling open the fridge to retrieve a bottle of water. "They're waiting for you."

Naira hesitated, her fingers twisting in the hem of her kurta. "I don't want to take their space."

Ahad raised an eyebrow. "You're their space. You're their everything, Naira."

Her breath hitched at the unexpected gentleness in his tone. He leaned against the counter, studying her for a moment before he added, "You're allowed to enjoy things too, you know."

Before she could respond, the girls ran inside, their cheeks flushed and their tiny hands sticky from the snacks they had been eating.

"Mama! My hair is in my mouth!" one of them cried, scrunching up her face in frustration.

Naira sighed, brushing the little girl's hair back from her face. "I told you to let me tie it this morning."

"I forgot," the girl mumbled, clearly more interested in the backyard than in listening to her mother.

Ahad reached into his pocket, pulling out a small hairband. "Here," he said, handing it to Naira.

She blinked at him in surprise. "You carry hairbands?"

"I noticed the three of you never seem to have any," he said simply, his tone matter-of-fact. "It's practical."

Naira bit back a smile as she tied her daughter's hair into a quick ponytail. "That's... thoughtful."

The other twin tugged at Ahad's shawl, her big eyes wide with curiosity. "What's this?" she asked, pointing at the fabric.

"It's a shawl," he said, crouching down to her level. "Pakistani men wear them to stay warm or to look a little fancy."

She giggled, running her tiny fingers over the soft material. "It's soft!"

Ahad chuckled, standing up again. "It is. You like it?"

The little girl nodded enthusiastically, and Naira couldn't help but smile.

That evening, after the girls had fallen asleep, Naira found herself in the living room, sitting on the couch with a book she hadn't actually opened. She stared at the walls, trying to process the strange mixture of relief and unease that had settled in her chest.

Ahad entered the room, his steps slow and deliberate as he set down a tray on the coffee table. "I made tea," he said, sitting in the chair across from her.

Naira glanced at the tray. The two cups were accompanied by a small plate of biscuits-simple, but thoughtful. "You didn't have to do that," she said softly.

"I know," he replied. "But you look like you needed it."

She hesitated before reaching for a cup, cradling the warmth in her hands. "Thank you."

For a while, they sat in silence, the sound of the rain outside filling the room. Naira could feel his eyes on her, but his gaze wasn't invasive-it was steady, patient.

"You're quiet tonight," he said finally.

She stared into her tea. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," he assured her. "Sometimes silence is enough."

Her lips twitched into a faint smile. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "Someone colder. Harsher."

Ahad leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "I've seen enough coldness in the world. It doesn't do anyone any good."

Naira didn't respond, but his words stayed with her long after he left the room.

The next day, the backyard was sunny and bright, and Ahad had coaxed Naira into joining the girls outside. She sat on a bench near the garden, her daughters running circles around her as they played.

Ahad appeared with a small bucket, his shawl draped loosely over his shoulders as usual. "I thought they might like this," he said, holding up the bucket. Inside were pieces of chalk in every color.

The twins squealed in delight, grabbing the chalk and immediately running to the patio to draw.

Naira watched them, her chest tightening with a mixture of gratitude and unease. "You don't have to do all this," she said softly, glancing at Ahad.

He sat down on the bench beside her, careful to leave a respectful distance between them. "I know," he said simply.

"Then why do you?"

Ahad was quiet for a moment, watching the girls as they drew lopsided flowers and stick figures. "Because someone has to," he said finally.

Naira frowned, turning to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you've spent too long doing everything on your own," he said, his tone steady but firm. "It's time someone else stepped in."

Her throat tightened, and she looked away. "I'm not used to it."

"You don't have to be," he said. "But it doesn't mean you don't deserve it."

She didn't respond, but his words settled in her chest, heavy and unfamiliar.