Azaan's jaw clenched as he reread the messages he'd found after some digging. Zaina's ex had left a trail—old photos, text threads she hadn't deleted but likely never revisited, and, most recently, the voicemail that still lingered in her inbox. It was enough to paint a clear picture of who this man was.

He wasn't just someone who had hurt Zaina. He was someone who had systematically broken her down, chipping away at her confidence until all that remained were scars—some visible, others invisible but far deeper.

Azaan wasn't a man prone to violence, but the thought of someone treating Zaina like this made his blood boil. He wasn't going to let this go.

Zaina sat in her studio, sipping the chai Azaan had left for her before heading out. He hadn't told her where he was going, and she hadn't asked. Something about his expression when he left had stopped her.

She picked up her pencil and began sketching absently, but her thoughts were elsewhere. The conversation they'd had the night before played on a loop in her mind.

"You're not broken. And I'm not going anywhere."

No one had ever said anything like that to her before—not with such conviction. The weight of his words made her chest ache, though she couldn't decide if it was from fear or hope.

The café was quiet, a local haunt tucked away from the bustle of the city. Azaan stepped inside, scanning the tables until he found the man he was looking for. Zaina's ex sat at a corner booth, his phone in hand and a smirk plastered on his face as he typed away.

Azaan approached, his presence commanding enough to draw the man's attention.

"Do I know you?" the man asked, his smirk faltering slightly.

"You do now," Azaan said coolly, sliding into the seat across from him. "We need to talk."

The man raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "About what?"

"Zaina," Azaan said, his voice like steel.

Recognition flickered across the man's face, followed by a slow, mocking grin. "Ah, the new husband. How's she doing? Still as insecure as ever?"

Before he could say another word, Azaan leaned forward, his eyes flashing with anger. "You don't get to talk about her like that. Not now, not ever."

The man laughed, though it was nervous now. "What's the big deal? I was just telling her the truth."

Azaan's fists clenched, but he kept his voice calm and measured. "The truth? The only truth here is that you're a coward. You broke her down because you couldn't handle the fact that she's better than you in every way."

The man's grin disappeared, replaced by a scowl. "Better? She's—"

"She's kind," Azaan interrupted, his voice rising slightly. "She's talented. And she's stronger than you'll ever understand. You tried to make her believe otherwise, but let me make something very clear: she's not yours to hurt anymore. She's mine to protect."

The man glared at him, but Azaan didn't flinch. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "If you ever contact her again—if you so much as think about her—I will make sure you regret it. Do you understand me?"

The man hesitated, then gave a stiff nod.

"Good," Azaan said, standing up. "Enjoy your coffee."

When Azaan walked through the front door later that afternoon, Zaina was waiting for him in the living room. She looked up from the couch, her sketchbook resting on her lap.

"You were out for a while," she said cautiously.

"I had something to take care of," he replied, loosening the collar of his shirt.

Her brow furrowed. "Something... or someone?"

Azaan met her gaze, debating whether to tell her. But he had promised to be honest with her, and he wasn't going to break that promise now.

"I spoke to him," he admitted, sitting down beside her.

Zaina froze, her fingers tightening around her sketchbook. "What?"

"I found him, and I made it clear that he's never to contact you again," Azaan said, his tone firm but gentle. "It's done, Zaina. He won't bother you anymore."

Her chest tightened, a mix of relief and panic flooding her. "You didn't have to do that," she said softly.

"Yes, I did," he replied. "Because you shouldn't have to carry that weight anymore. You deserve to move on."

Tears pricked her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away. "What if he doesn't stop?"

Azaan reached out, his hand covering hers. "Then I'll handle it. You don't need to worry about him anymore, Zaina. You're not alone in this."

The warmth of his hand and the conviction in his voice made something inside her crack. For years, she had faced her fears alone, convinced that no one would stand by her. But Azaan had proven her wrong again and again.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice breaking.

"You don't have to thank me," he said softly. "It's what I promised to do when I married you—to protect you."

Her eyes met his, and for the first time, she felt the walls around her heart begin to crumble.

That night, Zaina helped Azaan in the kitchen for the first time. She wasn't much of a cook, but he guided her patiently, showing her how to knead dough for naan.

"You're a natural," he said with a teasing smile as she wiped flour from her hands.

"Don't lie," she shot back, though her tone was lighter than it had been in days.

They ate together, their conversation flowing more easily now. Azaan told her stories from his childhood, and Zaina found herself laughing—truly laughing—for the first time in what felt like forever.

After dinner, as they sat on the balcony with cups of chai, Zaina turned to him.

"Azaan," she began, her voice hesitant. "Why do you care so much?"

He looked at her, his expression serious. "Because you matter, Zaina. You always have."

Her breath caught, and for the first time, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he meant it.