"You've been very quiet since yesterday." Meerab observed, her voice soft but edged with concern. Through the ornate dresser mirror, she watched Murtasim's reflection, catching the way the faint light played on his usually strong, decisive features, revealing an unfamiliar vulnerability. The subtle tug of his lips and the furrow of his brows were a testament to his inner turmoil.

Their room bathed in a soft light, courtesy of the lone lamp that stood sentinel on the bedside table. Shadows cast by its light flickered, dancing on the walls, mimicking Murtasim's restlessness. His fingers drummed a tense rhythm on his knee as he sat on the couch, seemingly lost in his own world.

The heavy curtain of silence between them was punctuated by his intermittent sighs – deep exhales that spoke of the weight on his chest. It felt as if she had been counting them, and by now, he must have sighed about a million times.

He sighed yet again. The deep expulsion of breath seemed to prepare him, gathering his courage.

"I have to tell you something." His voice broke the stillness, laced with an unease she rarely heard from him. Meerab's gaze shifted from the mirror directly to him. Even at that distance, she could see the caution shimmering in his eyes, a hesitant fear that struck a chord of apprehension in her heart.

Slowly, she turned to face him fully, placing her hairbrush down on the dresser. She arched an eyebrow in silent question, urging him to continue.

His eyes never left hers as he beckoned her closer. With a heart growing heavier with every step, Meerab made her way to him, feeling the cool floor beneath her feet with every step. Murtasim guided her gently to the sofa, and she had assumed he would sit beside her. However, in an act that caught her off guard, he sank to his knees before her. His strong arms, arms that had been her refuge many times, now encircled her waist. And then, in a display of raw vulnerability, he buried his face into her stomach, as if seeking a sanctuary.

Tension threaded the air around them. The gravity of the moment settled upon Meerab, and she instinctively placed a comforting hand on the back of his head, her fingers weaving through his hair, awaiting the confession that she knew would tip the balance of their relationship.

His head remained pressed to her, and for a moment, the weight of the silence between them was more oppressive than any spoken words. But she needed to know.

"I don't know much about relationships, but is this the part where men admit they cheated on their wife or something?" The question, whispered almost with a teasing quality, fluttered out of her lips. It was quiet, almost lost in the shuffle of fabric.

Murtasim's response was immediate. Without looking up, he shook his head against her abdomen, the motion firm, almost desperate. "I would never do that to you," he said, voice muffled but thick with emotion. "I wasn't lying when I said it's just you in my life, Meerab. There will never be another."

A small sigh of relief escaped her lips, being reassured of something she already knew. But then, what was it? Why was he so troubled? Meerab's heart raced, fear threading its way into her thoughts as she waited for his confession. "Then?" She asked, her voice a mere whisper, but the uncertainty, the underlying fear, evident.

The room was thick with a tense silence, so palpable that it felt like it could be sliced with a knife.

"Murtasim?" Meerab's voice was a gentle murmur, filled with confusion and laced with worry. She felt the tension in his muscles, the unusual tremor in his frame, as she absentmindedly ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair. The familiar gesture, one of comfort, seemed inadequate for the gravity of the moment.

Murtasim took a deep breath, each second stretching on, and the tension palpable. He gently disengaged from her embrace, placing his hands on her knees as he looked up, meeting her gaze. His eyes, usually a warm brown, now seemed shadowed.

"It's about before..." he began, "before all this, before we started...understanding and caring for each other."

Meerab felt her heartbeat quicken, her mind racing with possibilities, yet she remained silent, urging him to continue with just the intensity of her gaze.

"I..." he swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly, "I was the one who suggested...marrying you off when you wanted to go to law school and they all wanted to stop you from doing so...." His voice was barely above a whisper now, tinged with unmistakable regret.

The weight of his words settled in, and for a moment, everything seemed to stand still. It was as though the ground beneath her shifted. Her fingers, which had been gently threading through his hair, froze in place, the gentle caress stilled by shock as her mind went back to the worst days of her life.

The man who she had grown to love, to rely on, was behind her lost dreams and all the turmoil she had gone through from that moment?

She looked at him, her eyes searching, searching for any hint of deception. But all she found was sincerity and regret. "You did what?" She finally whispered, the words carrying the weight of betrayal and a hint of denial, as if she had heard wrong. Her voice was calm, but the hurt was palpable.

"I didn't think - back then, I thought it was a genius idea." He rambled on, sounding more vulnerable than she had ever heard him. "I didn't know - or maybe I didn't care about how much you wanted to go to law school. It seemed obvious then, something always used to control...women... and I know it's wrong, and I regret it now. But I suggested it - as a way to clip your wings. I just didn't think I too would end up a part of the plan; that was all them, I swear."

Murtasim's voice cracked, and he rambled on, desperate for her to understand, to see his remorse. The rambling was out of character for him, a man usually so composed, so in control.

The revelation hit Meerab like a ton of bricks, her heart plummeting. For a moment, everything seemed to blur and fade as she tried to process the confession. The dream she'd so passionately chased, the fire that had driven her, and the obstacle that had stood in her way traced back to the man before her. A mix of emotions welled up within her: disbelief, anger, hurt.

She felt the sharp sting of betrayal, a hollow feeling forming in the pit of her stomach. She slowly pulled her hands away from him, retracting her comforting touch. Her eyes, wide with shock and glimmering with the beginnings of tears, tried to search his face for answers, for some semblance of the man she knew. But she suddenly saw the Murtasim Khan, the man she disliked immensely, rather than Murtasim, her husband and the man she loved. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, the gravity of his confession settling between them like a chasm.

It had all been his fault. The realization struck Meerab like a bolt of lightning, sending waves of emotion through her body. The man in front of her, whose face was etched with remorse and fear, was the reason her life had changed so quickly. The reason her dreams had been shattered.

He had put the idea in their heads.

He had robbed her of her dreams.

Her refusal to give up on her dream and marry had been the reason the secret they had all kept for years had unraveled, and with it, it had unraveled her whole life.

If he hadn't suggested marrying her off, maybe things would have been different.

Maybe she would have found out under different circumstances.

Maybe she wouldn't have been abandoned as she was and forced into a corner.

But that had been his intent, to force her into a corner and not leave her with a choice.

Another voice in her head, softer and more insistent, spoke up. But he gave you your dream back, he gave you a choice. And you have him because of what he did.

Conflicting emotions swirled within her. The betrayal and anger clashed with the love and understanding she had come to feel for Murtasim.

"So, all of this you're doing now - the papers, the kindness - it's because of your guilt?" Her voice trembled as she spoke, her mind desperately trying to reconcile the man she loved with the man who had done this. She wanted to believe in his love, in his sincerity, but doubt crept in.

He shook his head emphatically, his eyes wide and desperate. "No, no, all of this is because I want you to be happy...I love you, I really do. I just didn't get what it all meant to you then."

His words were sincere, his expression open and vulnerable, but the shock was still too raw for Meerab. "All this time...it was you...and I thought it was your mother or my father." Her voice broke, and she could feel tears welling in her eyes. "That moment, where the suggestion of me getting married was raised, is what set all of this off - my parents abandoning me and leaving me with the man who never wanted to be my father, forcing me to marry you when it was the last thing I wanted..."

"I just suggested a solution - I didn't know then - " Murtasim tried to explain, his voice choked with emotion.

"A solution? To tie me down and force me into something I didn't want?" Her voice rose, anger and hurt giving it an edge.

"I know, it was a stupid thing to do, I shouldn't have done it...but before all of this...that was the solution to most problems. They tied you to our family's honor...and I thought, back then, that the best way to protect our family's honor and traditions was to prevent a woman, especially you, from pursuing an unconventional path. It's no excuse, I know, but it was what I believed. I didn't think there was anything wrong with it - but now I realize I was an idiot." His voice was soft, filled with regret.

In the dimly lit room, with the solitary lamp casting shadows on the walls, Murtasim's face was a canvas of fear, love, and desperation. The weight of his confession bore down on him, evident in the slump of his shoulders and the way he looked at her, searching her face for a hint of understanding or forgiveness.

Suddenly, he surged forward, wrapping his arms around her waist with an intensity that left her breathless. His grip was firm, unyielding, as if he was trying to anchor himself to her, to plead without words, asking her to stay with him. The weight of his body leaned heavily against her, a silent testament to his vulnerability and desperation.

Meerab could feel the warmth of his breath against her abdomen, the tremor of his hands on her back, and the thud of his heart against her, echoing her own accelerated heartbeat. She felt trapped by her own emotions, torn between anger and love.

"Don't leave, please." He whispered into her stomach.

Meerab's mind began to race, a flurry of emotions and thoughts cascading over each other.

She had all the means to leave now.

There was nothing tying her down.

She had access to funds that would get her through law school and let her live alone comfortably anywhere in the world. He had given that to her.

It was the ideal scenario for the Meerab who had entered into a marriage with the Murtasim Khan.

But she was no longer that Meerab, and he wasn't the Murtasim Khan. Because that man wouldn't have though that he did anything wrong. This was Murtasim, her Murtasim who loved her and whom she loved. The mere thought of leaving him felt like a knife twisting in her heart. She had the power to break free from everything that held her down, but she realized that he wasn't a chain; he was her anchor.

Love was supposed to make you strong, wasn't it? Then why did it feel like her biggest vulnerability when it came to him? There was this gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach, a profound understanding that leaving him would be like tearing a part of her soul away. She could live without him, but she wouldn't truly be alive. It would kill her inside out.

It was perplexing. The realization that love was no longer a choice, but a necessity. The realization that even if she had all the means and reasons to leave, she couldn't. Because in this journey of life, somewhere along the way, her path had become intertwined with his...and that was partly his doing.

As the weight of her own realization pressed down on her, Meerab took a deep breath. She felt torn between the desire to hold him close and the need to process the gravity of what he had revealed. But one thing was certain: leaving wasn't an option. Not anymore.

Gently, almost absentmindedly, she began to play with his hair again. The silky strands slipped through her fingers, and it was a momentary distraction from the storm of feelings within her. "I won't leave, Murtasim, I can't...I don't want to." She whispered, her voice barely audible. "But...I'm angry and a little overwhelmed. I need time."

His head jerked up, his eyes bright with tears and hope. The tightness of his grip relaxed just slightly as he looked into her eyes. "I'm sorry, Meerab." He began, his voice quivering. "What I did was inexcusable, and I understand your anger. But..." he paused, taking a shaky breath, "as much as I regret the pain I caused you, a selfish part of me doesn't regret it entirely."

She frowned, confusion clouding her eyes. "Why?"

"Because," he replied with a heartbreaking honesty, "you wouldn't have been mine if I hadn't suggested it. And as much as I would have hated to admit it then, I can no longer imagine a world where we aren't together."

Meerab felt a sharp pang in her chest, a mixture of pain, love, and frustration. She hated how his words could still affect her so profoundly, how they had the power to evoke such a maelstrom of emotions within her. It was a testament to how deeply she had fallen for him, and even in her anger, she couldn't deny the pull she felt towards him.

She took a deep breath, letting the words sink in. "I need time." She repeated, her voice firmer this time.

Murtasim nodded, understanding evident in his eyes. The room was thick with unsaid words, raw emotions, and a bond that was being tested. It was a moment that would shape the course of their relationship, but for now, they sat in the quiet room, wrapped up in their own thoughts and feelings, waiting for the storm to pass.

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

In the quietude of their bedroom, Meerab felt as if the chasm had opened up between her and Murtasim had grown over the day. She retreated into the farthest corners of her thoughts, her face an impassive mask as she processed his revelation. He had been the catalyst, the spark that set her life ablaze, forcing her into a marriage she never wanted, quenching her dreams like water over fire.

Their room seemed dimmer than before, the day was rainy, as if the gloom surrounding them fought against the sun, and the had surrendered. Murtasim was always a few feet away, his restlessness palpable, filling the room with a kind of emotional static. She could feel his eyes on her, pleading, seeking her out, but she couldn't look at him.

Because it really did seem like his fault. He had put the idea in their heads. That thought looped in her mind like a noose, tightening with each mental repetition.

Yet, a softer, quieter voice spoke from another chamber of her heart. It whispered that even if Murtasim hadn't suggested it, his family—their family—would have arrived at that conclusion. That was what traditional families did. They clipped wings; they put women in cages of gold or iron, it didn't matter. The outcome was always the same.

Conflicting thoughts whirled in her mind. Murtasim, her Murtasim, was not the man who had first suggested her fate. He had changed, grown, become someone who fought for her dreams instead of chaining them. But doubt cast a shadow over this notion: what if it happened again? What if under some pressure, some tradition or expectation, he bent? What if he expected her to fall in line?

The hurt felt like a fresh wound, raw and stinging, every heartbeat a pulse of pain. If she had known earlier, if she had heard about his role before her feelings changed, she wouldn't have been so shattered. She would have been prepared; her armor would have been on. Now, she had lowered it, and his confession felt like a betrayal, a sharp blade on unprotected skin.

Meerab found herself in a paradox of emotions; anger coiled within her, a snake ready to strike, yet it was as if her hand hesitated to release it. The fact that she couldn't be as furious at him as she wanted to be, as she felt she ought to be, infuriated her even more. How could she be angry at the person she loved? Why couldn't she separate her rational indignation from the web of affection that held her? It was as if her heart refused to cooperate with her head, and that inner disharmony grated on her like a discordant note in a melody.

As the hours turned into days, she found herself missing the simple things, the details that built the very fabric of their day-to-day life. The absence of his voice filled the room like thick fog, making everything obscure and untouchable. The sofa in the sitting room, where they'd sit just talking sometimes, now seemed like an island between them, an expanse she couldn't cross.

At night, the bed felt too big. She slept facing away from him, her spine a rod of steel, her body a sentence with an unspoken period at the end. She found herself missing the way he'd spoon her from behind, his arm a protective barrier, his breath a warm breeze against her neck. She longed to curl up into him, to sink into the sanctuary that his arms had become. She missed the laughter that was usually so spontaneous it caught them off guard, making everything feel lighter, easier.

She even missed the flirting, the playful banter that kept the spark of their relationship alive. He'd tease her about little things— the way she'd scrunch her nose giving away her real feelings or get animated when talking about social justice issues—and she'd retort, and they'd both laugh.

She missed his touch, those fleeting contacts that were more eloquent than words, whether it was the simple holding of hands or the way he'd kiss her as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

But that world felt so distant now, as if it belonged in a past life or perhaps in a future that seemed more uncertain with each passing moment. The silence between them seemed to grow, widening the rift, filling the room with an unspoken tension that neither knew how to dispel.

In that maelstrom of emotions, where anger fought love and love fought anger, she found herself at a standstill, stuck at a crossroads with no signs pointing the way. And what pained her the most was the realization that the very source of her hurt was also her comfort, and she didn't know how to reconcile the two.

So they continued like that, each day a mirror of the one before, each moment heavy with the words unsaid, each glance filled with questions neither was ready to answer. And as the days stretched on, Meerab found herself grappling with the most difficult question of all—how could she go forward when she felt so torn, so divided between the anger she couldn't fully express and the love she couldn't fully suppress?

For four and a half days, the air between them was thick with words unsaid and emotions unexpressed. They moved around each other like celestial bodies, bound by the gravity of their love yet kept apart by the dark matter of their past actions. It felt like an eternity, a lifetime of glances exchanged but nothing more.

And then it changed, as swiftly as a summer storm rushing in to break the stifling heat.

The door seemed to groan on its hinges as it slowly opened, an ominous sound that heralded Murtasim's entrance. Meerab looked up, her eyes narrowing in disbelief as she took in his wobbly gait, his pallor flushed yet tinged with an ashy gray. His body seemed to sway in the golden luminescence streaming in from the setting sun. It painted his stumbling form with elongated shadows on the wooden floor, making him look like some tragic figure in a dramatic play.

Is he drunk? The thought darted into her mind like a rogue firework, uninvited but immediately captivating. Yet that notion disintegrated as she watched him teeter perilously, his legs buckling under him as though about to topple over.

Instinct crushed residual anger, propelling her off the soft cushions of the couch. Her feet pounded against the floor in desperate strides, each step echoing in her ears as though time itself had slowed down.

Her hands found his arms in a frantic grip, her fingers digging into the fabric of his kurta as if she could hold onto him tightly enough to pull him back from the precipice he was hovering on. His weight leaned into her, but she held steady, fortifying her stance as if their lives depended on it.

"Murtasim," she breathed, her hands rose to cup his face as he steadied. Her thumbs caressed his cheekbones and she tilted his face towards hers. The name hung heavy between them, saturated with a dread that thickened the air. Her eyes widened as she saw the angry, red welts scattered like cruel constellations over his neck and exposed arms.

Her heart felt like a clenched fist in her chest, the tissue strained to its limit as she croaked. "What's wrong?" Her voice was a fragile wisp, a quivering leaf caught in the violent winds of a looming storm.

His reply was a stammering, strained "F-fish," expelled between laborious wheezes. The sound of his breathing was a disconcerting whistle, like air being forced through a constricted pipe. Each breath seemed to be a struggle, an effort to draw life from an increasingly thinning supply.

"You had fish?" Her words were tinged with a sense of impending doom, her mind snapping back to a night months earlier. He had consumed fish then too, triggering an allergic reaction so severe she had thought she would lose him forever. Her stomach twisted into a painful snarl, the acid churn of dread mingling with the remnants of her earlier anger.

She helped him sit on the armchair, afraid to leave him standing lest he fall. Disregarding everything else, she raced towards the drawer designated for medical emergencies. Her hands tore through the scattered sea of orange pill bottles, Band-Aids, and antiseptics until her fingers closed around the rectangular box that the doctor had insisted they keep on hand at all times, one Murtasim reassured the man that he had in his medication drawer. Snatching it up, she flicked it open, her eyes racing over the label—then freezing. Expired. Last year.

"Murtasim," she choked, stumbling back to him with the expired epipen clutched like a dubious lifeline. Her voice cracked, almost a sob, "It's expired."

He said nothing, his eyes swimming in and out of focus, his wheezing growing alarmingly more strident.

Think, Meerab, think. Her mind flashed back to her childhood, to her mother soothingly administering expired meds with the assurance that they were just "slightly less effective." Could she apply that rationale here? Could she risk his life on a might-be, a could-be?

Time seemed to congeal around her, each tick of the clock stretching into a chasm that swallowed her certainties. Her husband, her Murtasim—the man she had loved and distrusted and loved all over again—stood at the precipice of a perilous abyss.

Her eyes darted from Murtasim's ashen face to her phone resting on the coffee table. Swallowing the bile of rising panic, she snatched it up and her fingers flew across the screen, typing with a kind of frenzied accuracy that only sheer adrenaline could produce. "Administering an expired epipen," she tapped into Google, her eyes scanning the results in a desperate search for anything—anything—that could offer her a modicum of assurance.

Reading through the hurriedly displayed information, she gleaned that while the effectiveness could be reduced, the medicine itself was unlikely to be harmful. It was better than doing nothing.

Steeling herself, Meerab grasped the epipen firmly in her hand. The instructions she'd read said to stab it straight into the muscle of the thigh. Her hand trembled as she raised the device, aiming it at his leg. She looked at his face one more time, her heart breaking at the sight of his suffering, and then she stabbed.

"Sorry!" She cried out as he groaned, the sound a guttural note of anguish. She held the epipen in place, her thumb pushing down the plunger to release the medication. The guidelines had said to count to ten, to allow the medication time to flow. She counted the seconds in her head, each tick an eternity: "One, two, three..."

Her heart felt like it was pounding in her throat, every beat syncopated with his wheezing.

"Eight, nine, ten."

A second click emanated from the device, the signal that it was empty. With a shaky exhale, she pulled it away from his thigh.

And then, the room went eerily quiet. The wheezing that had filled the air with a sense of impending doom, that awful whistling sound, stopped.

Gentle as a summer breeze, Meerab cupped Murtasim's face once more. Her thumb brushed softly against his stubbled cheek as she whispered his name like a chant, a prayer offered up to deities of mercy and chance. "Murtasim, Murtasim, Murtasim."

His eyelids fluttered and finally lifted, revealing eyes a bit cloudy but perceptibly aware. His heart still raced beneath her touch—pounding like war drums in his chest—but it was a rhythm of life, not a staccato of impending doom.

He looked at her, and in that gaze, she saw a myriad of emotions swirl—relief, love, a hint of fear, and something else she couldn't quite place. But it didn't matter.

With great care, Meerab helped him shuffle towards the bed. His body felt heavy but oddly fragile, as if he were made of glass that could shatter at any moment. She eased him onto the soft mattress, arranging the pillows behind his back for support.

As she began to turn away, intent on calling her father and the doctor, his fingers reached out and wrapped around her wrist, a silent plea etched in his eyes as she turned back to look at him.

"Stay." He whispered, his voice ragged but laden with emotion.

Meerab nodded, taking a seat beside him on the bed. Her free hand fumbled for her phone, swiftly making the necessary calls—all the while, her other hand remained entwined with his. As she spoke into the phone, her fingers subconsciously trailed over his face, moving from his cheekbone down to his jawline, and finally resting in the tousled strands of his hair.

"You idiot." She whispered, barely audible as she hung up, her eyes misting over with tears. "You know you're allergic to fish."

"I didn't know it was fish, it didn't taste like it." He muttered, his words muffled as if coming from far away.

"How could you not know?" She couldn't help but ask, her voice tinged with exasperation and heart-wrenching concern.

"I had lunch at the village head's house, it was some sort of mixed dish." He explained, his voice still wobbly.

She hummed softly, the sound a subdued mixture of understanding and residual apprehension. "How are you feeling now?"

"Dizzy." He admitted, his eyes struggling to focus on her face.

He was still trembling, as if he were caught in an invisible storm. His skin was moist, slick with a sheen of sweat that made him look like he was caught in a fever dream. Meerab's heart constricted at the sight. Her dupatta, previously slung casually over her shoulder, became an impromptu towel. She unfurled it and delicately patted his face, as if trying to soak up not just the sweat, but the pain and uncertainty that drenched the moment.

He hummed faintly, a weak but cheeky smile breaking through his discomfort. "Maybe this is a good thing... you're talking to me again."

In response, she lightly whacked him on the arm. "Shut up, don't you dare die on me."

His smile deepened, eyes shining even through his evident exhaustion. "I won't. I love you too much to just leave you like this."

She rolled her eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You seem fine if you can still manage to be cheesy."

"I thought it was romantic," he offered, his voice laced with mock hurt, still holding her hand as if it were a lifeline.

"Shut up, Murtasim," she retorted, her words softened by the affectionate gaze she couldn't quite hide.

"Ji, Mrs. Khan," he said, falling into a more formal tone as a playful surrender.

Meerab looked at him then, really looked at him, taking in the paleness of his skin, still flushed from the allergic reaction, and the tired but twinkling eyes that stared back at her. This was the man she loved, the man who had shattered her dreams but also given her a new reality, complicated yet beautiful in its own right.

She felt the tangle of her emotions—hurt, anger, love, relief—coalesce into something she couldn't quite name. But in that moment, as she sat by his side on their bed, it didn't need a name.

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

The sound of footsteps echoed through the corridor and into their room. The doctor walked in, white coat trailing behind him, her father right on his heels. Meerab felt a sudden onslaught of words tumble out of her mouth as she stood up to greet them.

"The epipen was expired so I wasn't sure if I should administer it but I did, and I'm sorry if I—" she blurted, her voice tinged with desperation.

"Shhhh," the doctor hushed her, raising his hand in a calming motion. "You did well, beta. Expiration means they're just a tad less effective, but he's breathing..." The doctor looked at Murtasim. "And smiling. So, he's fine."

Meerab's shoulders sagged with relief as she nodded, taking her seat back on the bed beside Murtasim, noticing a hint of a smile on his face. Her fingers automatically found their way back to his, intertwining with his as the doctor conducted a thorough examination. Every press of the stethoscope, every flicker of the doctor's eyes, caused her heart to leap nervously.

Finally, the doctor spoke. "I'm not worried about another reaction, but some people do have a delayed secondary reaction. I think Murtasim will be fine, but you should watch him closely. If something seems off, call me back immediately."

Her mind rushed through a flurry of uncertainties. "How will I know if something is off? What should I look out for?"

"The same as before, trouble breathing, hives, dizziness - these are signs of an ongoing allergic reaction. In extreme cases, the symptoms can escalate to anaphylactic shock, which is life-threatening and would require immediate medical attention."

"How do I know if it's that?" She asked, panic clear in her voice.

"Severe difficulty in breathing, a rapid but weak pulse, and a significant drop in blood pressure. He may become disoriented or lose consciousness, but that's rare considering he seems to be doing fine now. Just call if you notice anything off."

"What do I need to do for the next few days to make sure he's comfortable?" She asked, trying to take rapid mental notes in her head.

The doctor chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're even more worried this time than you were the last time."

After the doctor's observation, Meerab felt her cheeks warm up and she looked away, staring at a random point on the floor. Was she overreacting? she wondered. Her fingers nervously twiddled the edge of her dupatta. It was one thing to be concerned for her husband, but did her worry come off as excessive?

In that fleeting moment, she questioned herself, but then she glanced back at Murtasim. Seeing his face, still flushed but now breaking into a smile, she knew she'd do it all again—her worry, her panic, her rush to act. Even if it meant feeling foolish afterward, even if it meant exposing the chinks in her usually resilient armor. Because for Murtasim, every ounce of worry was worth it.

"Just keep a close eye on him for any symptoms I mentioned before. Make sure he's hydrated and perhaps avoid any solid foods for a little while, sticking to liquids or semi-solids. An antihistamine could be used to control itching, and I'll prescribe it just in case. The most important part is to keep the environment allergen-free, so no seafood obviously."

The doctor paused, his eyes twinkling. "You know, my wife would just whack me for eating what I'm allergic to and let me suffer, you're a lucky man, beta." He quipped, erupting in a low chuckle as he glanced towards Murtasim.

"She already whacked me." Murtasim chimed in, his eyes meeting Meerab's as he grinned cheekily.

Meerab shot him a glare that was a confusing blend of annoyance and relief. It was clear that her worry for him hadn't completely evaporated, despite the lighter atmosphere.

Her father, standing by the doorway observing, couldn't help but snicker too. The atmosphere in the room had palpably relaxed, yet it was laden with a complex mix of emotions: relief that a crisis had been averted, lingering worry for what might have been, and a newfound appreciation for the delicate, fragile thing that was life—and love.

Once the doctor and her father had exited the room, the atmosphere shifted subtly. The medical urgency had receded, leaving behind a quiet room filled with the echoes of recent tension and the lingering warmth of close calls.

"What do you need?" Meerab asked, her voice softer now.

Murtasim patted the bed beside him, not saying a word. She understood the unspoken request—her presence was all he desired. With a slight smile, she settled herself back against the headboard, the soft creak of the bed a familiar, comforting sound.

Murtasim laid his head gingerly on her lap, burying his face into the soft folds of her dress. The delicate intimacy of the act struck her anew. It was a simple gesture, so simple that it almost seemed trivial, and yet it bore the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

As she played with his hair, her fingers running through the thick, dark strands, a profound warmth enveloped her, as if an internal hearth had been ignited. It wasn't just the physical act of touch; it was also the emotions, the silent commitments, the unspoken fears and hopes that filled each motion. She scratched his scalp gently, lost in the simple yet incredibly complex act of love that was caring for another human being.

Her mind idled back to the recent events, to the heart-stopping minutes that felt like an eternity. The thought of anything happening to him, of a world without his smile, his teasing, his quiet strength, clawed at her insides like a physical ache. She realized, maybe for the first time so explicitly, how entangled he had become in the very fabric of her life, her being.

Even with the doubts and the recent revelations, she knew she couldn't untangle him from her life without unraveling parts of herself. And so she continued to run her fingers through his hair, each stroke a silent vow to face whatever complexities and challenges lay ahead.

Murtasim's low hum reverberated through her, a warm, soothing vibration that coaxed her nerves into a more tranquil state.

"You didn't do this on purpose, did you?" Her voice was tinged with mock suspicion but veiled by an undercurrent of genuine concern. The possibility, however remote, that he'd put himself in danger just to bridge the chasm that had recently opened between them was unsettling.

He snorted against her stomach, the sound muffled but unmistakably amused. "No, but it would have been a good idea, wouldn't it?"

"I'll kill you if you eat fish again," she warned, her voice playful but lined with a sincerity he couldn't miss.

"Ironic, considering you forced me to last time," he retorted, his words spoken against her stomach.

The sensation sent a series of tiny shivers racing across her skin, little pulses of electricity that fizzled through her veins and pooled warmly at the base of her spine.

"I didn't know you were allergic...and then you ate it," she defended, her fingers momentarily pausing in their slow dance through his hair.

"Because you made it," he countered softly, the words both an explanation and an expression of trust.

"You're an idiot," she sighed, resuming her tender ministrations.

"As long as I am your idiot," he murmured, nestling deeper into her lap as if trying to physically weave himself into her life, to stake a claim on a corner of her universe that would always be his.

She hummed in response, a low, comforting sound that vibrated softly in the space between them. "Sleep now," she whispered, as though the words were a magic spell she could cast to ward off all the world's evils, at least for a little while.

And so they did, falling asleep curled up together for the first time in days. Murtasim's breathing evened out, a rhythmic ebb and flow that reassured her and lulled her into a peaceful slumber. Her hand remained in his hair, a gentle anchor tethering them in the vast, uncertain sea of life.

For those few hours, everything seemed right. The worries, the disagreements, the invisible yet weighty barriers—they all dissolved into the soft darkness of the room. In that fleeting oasis of calm, all that mattered was the feeling of his body curled into hers, the rise and fall of their mingled breaths, and the unspoken promises that fluttered in the silence, delicate but resilient as butterflies.

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A/N: Sooooo, what do you think? What was your favourite part?