It was nine at night.

The house was wrapped in an unsettling silence — no sound of her anklets, no trace of her voice echoing through the walls.

I sat on the edge of our bed, still in my office suit, holding a small piece of white paper in my trembling hand. Her handwriting stared back at me.

“Samir, I’m going to India. To Appi’s house.”

Just that. Nothing more.

And I was left speechless.

For a moment, I couldn’t decide what hurt more... The fact that she left without telling me, or that our small argument had pushed her this far.

"You left Paris, Sahara… and you didn't even care about informing me?"

I was drowning in thoughts when my phone rang. It was Aziz.

I picked it up in an instant.

“She’s home, Samir.” Aziz’s voice carried through the line, and I finally exhaled. A breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

She was safe. That was all that mattered.

“Alright,” I managed to say.

“Did something happen?” There was concern in his tone.

“She’s… she’s being stubborn. She said she’ll stay in India for two months — till bhabhi’s delivery,” I replied quietly, my voice heavy.

After a pause, Aziz said casually, “And what’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong?” I snapped.

"Mai doh mahine uske bhagair, yahan Paris mein kya karunga, Aziz?" She left without a word. Without even looking back. Just that stupid note I want to crush.

(How am I supposed to survive three months without her in Paris, Aziz?)

Aziz chuckled lightly. “Now, don’t tell me you’re flying here too, Samir?”

“Do I have another option?” I muttered, frustration bubbling inside me.

“Why are you yelling at me?” he said, half-asleep. “Honestly, I want you to come. Maybe then Uns will be spared from Sahara’s clumsy care.”

That earned him a small laugh from me.

“My Sahara isn’t that clumsy,” I said, half-offended.

“Oh, she is,” Aziz shot back. “I’ve seen the evidence — all the times you’ve shown up with scratches and bruises because of her ‘care.’ I can’t risk that when my wife’s about to deliver. So yes, you better come — and maybe you two can sort out your married drama while you’re at it.”

Before I could reply, he hung up.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Perfect. She runs off to India after a fight, and I’m flying all the way from Paris to make peace… when I’m not even the one at fault. Just Great.”

___❤️___

By dawn, I landed in India.

It was 5 a.m. when I reached Aziz’s mansion. The morning air was still, the sky bruised with fading stars. Not wanting to wake anyone, I called Aziz.

Within minutes, the door opened.

There he was — half-asleep, his eyes barely open, hair a perfect mess, wearing only black tracks, shirtless. Even in the dim light, his abs caught the faint glow of dawn.

“Assalam walaikum,” I greeted softly, stepping inside.

“Walaikum assalam,” he replied in his deep, gravelly tone, heading to the kitchen and returning with a glass of water.

“Coffee?” he offered.

“No, I’ll make it myself,” I said, noticing the exhaustion written across his face.

“Alright then. See you in the morning.” He gave me a small hug before dragging himself up the stairs toward his room.

And I — still in my suit — made my way straight to the kitchen.

After fixing myself a cup of coffee, I walked toward Sahara's room.

I turned the doorknob gently, careful not to wake her.

The room was bathed in the soft glow of a night lamp, cream-colored walls, faint curtains swaying with the breeze. And there she was, lying on the bed in her white kurti, hair scattered across the pillow like spilled ink.

For a moment, everything inside me went still.

It had been twenty-one hours since I last saw her.

Twenty-one hours of silence that felt heavier than years.

I stood there, just watching her breathe-- her chest rising and falling with the same rhythm I once matched my heartbeat to. And though relief washed over me, a flicker of stubborn anger still burned in my chest.

She left without a word.

She hurt me.

And yet, here I was — watching her sleep like she was the only calm left in my world.

After freshening up, I changed into grey tracks and a black long-sleeved t-shirt, my hair still damp from the quick shower. I sat on the couch across from her, coffee warming my hands, my eyes refusing to leave her face.

There was peace in that silence.

A deceptive kind of peace. The kind that comes right before a storm breaks loose.

After finishing my coffee, I walked to the bed and quietly lay beside her. Gently, I lifted Sahara’s head, slid my arm beneath it, and pulled her close. As if my soul had finally found its home again. The moment her warmth brushed against my skin, every worry, every ounce of exhaustion dissolved into nothing. I brushed a few strands of hair from her face, admiring the serenity she carried even in sleep.

“I can’t live a moment without you, Sahara,” I whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before surrendering to sleep beside her.

___❤️___

Around ten, I stirred awake. I turned to get up but froze midway — because there she was. Sahara, tangled in the bedsheet, her messy hair scattered over the pillow, breathing lightly, looking nothing less than a dream. For a second, I just wanted to pull her into my arms again and bury my face in her chest, to lose myself in the rhythm of her heartbeat.

But then reality hit — I was still angry with her.

Controlling the storm inside, I slipped out of bed, grabbed a towel, and walked into the bathroom. The cold water did little to calm me.

When I stepped out, drying my damp hair with the towel and wearing only my black trousers, she was sitting up on the bed. The moment her eyes met mine, everything went still, like time itself had stopped.

“Samir?”

Her voice cracked through the silence. My name on her tongue after twenty-four hours — and just like that, my heart betrayed me. Was this all it took to melt my anger? Just one word from her lips?

I straightened my shirt and said coldly, “Kaho.”

She took a hesitant step closer. “You left your work… just to come here? Why?”

“Why?” I turned to face her. “Agar tum apne shauhar ko chodke, use bina batai, bas ek behuda chitti rakh ke aa sakhti ho toh kya mai apni biwi ki ek jhalak dekhne ke liye Paris seh India nahi aa sakta, kya?”

(If my wife can walk out on me, leaving nothing but a foolish letter behind, then can’t I leave Paris to see the woman who made my life worth living?)

My tone was sharper than I intended, but I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t built to yell at her — yet my voice trembled with the weight of what I felt.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she murmured softly, her eyes dropping. “Why take the trouble?”

Her words sliced through me like glass.

“Meri Ana neh mana hein kiya tha, par.... Kambhakth Mohabbat neh jhukne peh majbur kardiya,” I said quietly.

(My mind told me not to, but my heart… it bowed to love).

She looked up, guilt flickering across her face. “You were busy with your new collection, Samir. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Disturb me?” I laughed under my breath, bitterly. “Do you even hear yourself, Sahara? How could you ever disturb me? Only my heart knows how I survive a single day at the office without seeing you. You have no idea how much I love you… And you think I get disturbed by the only woman I breathe for?”

My voice cracked — half fury, half heartbreak.

Her eyes welled with tears. She grabbed my shirt from my hand and threw it on the bed.

“I loved you too, Samir,” she whispered. “And I lived years without you. What’s the difference?”

I stepped closer, catching her hand, pulling her toward me. One hand clasped hers tightly; the other rested on her waist. Her breath hitched — we were close enough to hear each other’s heartbeat, close enough for mine to lose its rhythm.

“There’s a huge difference, Sahara,” I murmured, lowering my voice until it trembled against her ear.

“How?” she asked, trying to free her hand, but I tightened my grip.

“Jab tumhe mujhse mohabbat hui, mai tumhare paas tha, Sahara. Lekin jab mujhe tumse mohabbat hui, tum mere paas nahi thi.”

(When you fell in love with me, I was right beside you. But when I fell in love with you, you weren’t there).

Her breath stilled. My voice broke, but I had to say it.

“When you realized your love, it was within reach, Sahara…

But when I realized mine, the woman I loved had already walked out of my life. The one I called my best friend turned out to be my first and last love — and when I finally understood that, you were gone.”

She looked at me, eyes shimmering. “Is that my fault?”

I shook my head. “No. I’m not blaming you.”

“Then I stayed years without you too, Samir. Doesn’t that count?”

Her words ached in my chest. “Tab tumhe mujhse narazgi thi, Sahara, aur mujhe bas mohabbat thi, meri pehli mohabbat.... Jab insaan ko mohabbat hoti hai aur jab woh apne mehboob seh milta toh joh woh yehsasaat mehsoos hoti hai na ki woh saamne hai aur tumhara dil behaal ho raha hai ki, jahan tum bas use apni mohabbat ka izhaar karna chahate ho par kar nahi paata, jahan bas use dekhne ke liye aur uske saath waqt bitaane ke liye bahaane banate ho, woh sab maine mehsoos nahi kiya.. Aur tumhe pata hai...”

(You stayed out of anger, Sahara. I stayed out of love. When I was hurting, I still prayed for you. When I was dying to see you, I smiled for you. You were my beginning, my peace, my chaos — and I never got to live that first, innocent love everyone talks about. The nervous confession. The reckless joy. The desperate urge to just look at you. I was robbed of all of that. And you know what...”

I let go of her hand slowly. The silence between us was heavier than any scream could have been.

Our eyes met, both filled with pain neither of us dared to show. Why?

I turned, picked up my black shirt — Ralph Lauren, crisp, cold — and started buttoning it with trembling fingers.

“Finish what you were saying, Samir,” she called softly from behind.

​“What’s the point?” I said, forcing a faint smile. “You won’t understand.”

​“I won’t let you leave without finishing it.” She stepped closer, determination replacing the tremor in her voice.

​I sighed, meeting her eyes. “Then listen carefully, Sahara. You are my life. I can’t breathe without you. You stayed away from me for twenty-four hours and you didn’t even think I deserved to know where you were. Like seriously… you’re so busy that you don’t have time for your own husband, Sahara?”

The pain in my chest twisted, sharp and merciless.

​"I know we haven't been able to give each other much time these past few months," I continued, my voice straining, "But that doesn't mean you just leave. Do you have any idea how terrified I was when I walked into this house and didn't find you here? No smile, no voice... no one to run to the door and embrace me. After all these years together, you still didn't think I deserved to know what was wrong?"

​I felt the foundation of my composure crumbling. I was broken, and for the first time, I wanted her to see every single piece.

​"I just... I didn't want to disturb you while you were working," she whispered, her eyes wide.

​"Bhaad mein jai mera kaam!" I snapped, the frustration finally boiling over. "If you had just told me, I would have dropped everything. I would have brought you back to India myself. But instead, you chose this. You chose to disappear from my sight. It breaks my heart that my wife, my best friend, doesn’t have even two minutes for me.”

Silence. Her silence. And that was worse than anything she could’ve said.

"Mai tumpe hukum toh nahi chala sakhta, lekin fariyaad toh kar hein sakhta hoon... Mujhe nahi pata ki tum mere bhagair reh sakhti ho yaah nahi par mai, Sahara? Mai tumhare bhagair ek pal ke liye bhi nahi reh sakta, isliye please mujhse, mera sukoon mat chino..."

(I don’t have the right to command you,  but I can still plead with you. I don’t know if you’ve found a way to live without me, Sahara. Maybe you have. But me? I can’t survive a single moment without you. You are my peace—please, don't take that away from me).

I turned toward the door, walking slowly, giving her every chance to stop me. Just say my name, Sahara. Say Samir, and I’ll stay. I was screaming inside, but my lips stayed sealed.

“I’m going to Aziz’s office,” I whispered, and walked out before my stupid, hopeless heart melts for her again.

___❤️___

On the way to the dining table, I forced my breathing to even out.

But the moment I stepped in, I saw something that tugged a smile out of me—the kind that comes unwillingly, but comes anyway.

Uns bhabhi sat on the chair, her beautiful baby bump glowing under her maroon dress. She was feeding the last bite of aloo ka paratha to Aziz, who was frantically juggling files for his meeting.

Before he could swallow, Amira Ammi arrived from the kitchen with another hot paratha and dropped it onto his already overflowing plate.

Aziz groaned.

“Ammi, please—I have a meeting—”

“Meeting se zyada zaroori tumhari sehat hai,” Ammi scolded.

“And so is listening to your wife,” Uns added proudly, stuffing another bite into his mouth while he tried to dodge her hand.

The whole moment was chaotic, messy,   hilarious. But in a soft, familiar way… it was home.

The moment Aziz saw me, he dramatically yelled, “Ah, Samir! Please save me!”

Uns bhabhi and Ammi turned, both giving me warm smiles.

I walked toward them, greeting them before taking a seat.

Ammi’s hand cupped my cheek, soft and affectionate, immediately soothing the hollow ache Sahara had left in me.

Me and Aziz… we were Ammi’s spoiled grown-up sons. Not our fault—she made us like that. Always pampering us, always protecting us from her daughter's scoldings.

Right now, she was staying with bhabhi to take care of her and honestly, the house felt warmer for it.

“Ab late ho hi gaye ho,” I said, taking a bite of the paratha, “toh kyun na saath mein tumhare office chale?”

Aziz threw his hands up.

“You guys don’t understand! I HAVE to attend this meeting and close the deal!”

He was a chaotic mess trying to defend himself, but he had already lost—because he was arguing with Uns bhabhi.

“It’s all your fault, Nader!” she said, taking another piece of paratha. “Maine uthaya tha tumhe! Tum nahi uthe! Aur main toh tumhe khali pait bhejne se rahi!”

She shoved another bite into his mouth.

My laughter burst out uncontrollably.

Aziz glared at me. “It’s not funny, Samir!”

But honestly… he looked adorable.

That dark blue Armani suit, his long wolf-cut hair falling over his forehead, the light stubble, and those sharp ocean-blue eyes—it was a whole vibe.

Finally defeated, he finished his breakfast. Then, bending down, he kissed bhabhi’s bump softly, then her forehead, before rushing toward the door.

“Samir! Bring my office bag!” he yelled, answering another call. I stood up, grabbed the bag, and turned...

And froze.

Sahara was walking toward me. Wearing a red saree.

No. No. Absolutely not. I am NOT melting now. My heart protested weakly.

But she… Ya Allah, she looked breathtaking.

Her wet hair fell over her shoulders.

Her natural beauty glowed effortlessly.

The red lipstick—my weakness—looked sinful. Those delicate golden jhumkas swayed with every step. And her eyes… her eyes could ruin me in ways nothing else ever could.

My grip on Aziz’s bag loosened. It almost slipped. I almost dropped it, actually, I almost dropped myself.

Because all I wanted in that moment was to pull her close, bury my face in her neck, and forget the whole world.

Her scent drifted toward me. That was it.

If Aziz hadn’t shouted, “SAMIR!”, I swear, I would’ve embraced her right there in front of everyone.

I cleared my throat, trying desperately to compose myself. I walked right past her—

But Allah… her fragrance hit me again.

No, Samir. You’re upset. Remember that. Idiot.

Somehow, with superhuman control, I managed to keep walking. I didn’t turn back. Didn’t touch her. Didn’t breathe too close.

I walked out of the house, got into the passenger seat of Aziz’s black Porsche, and shut the door.

But inside? My heart was still standing there… Looking at her. Breaking for her. Always loving her.

“By the way… how’s work going?”

Aziz asked so casually that for a moment, I just stared at him.

His face was calm. Too calm. As if he wasn’t driving me through the ruins of my own frustration.

“I came to you to save my married life,” I snapped, “and you want to discuss work?”

“Tell me first,” he repeated, unfazed.

I exhaled harshly. “Don’t ask. It’s a mess. Fashion Week is approaching, deadlines are killing me, and half my designs are still not ready. It’s going horrible.”

Aziz nodded thoughtfully. “So you’re that busy… that you can’t even talk to your wife?”

The accusation stung like a slap. I turned sharply toward him.

“Busy? And for Sahara?” My voice broke into a hollow laugh.

“For her, Aziz… I’ve been working from home for an entire month. Just to see her a little more.”

“Then where did the problem start?” He sounded genuinely confused.

“She doesn’t have time for me.” The words spilled out, heavy, bitter. “Two months, Aziz. It’s been two months since we sat together for even one meal. Maybe—” A painful chuckle slipped out.

“Maybe she doesn’t understand me anymore.”

Aziz’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “Or maybe you don’t understand her.”

My brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Samir,” he said gently, taking a smooth turn, “The issue isn’t time. The issue is understanding the other person’s state of mind.” I stared at him, waiting.

He continued. “Let me tell you something from my own life.”

I leaned back, listening.

“I’m a CEO,” he said. “My schedule is in my hands. No night shifts. No emergency calls. But Uns…” His voice softened, so much warmth, so much love, “…she’s a surgeon. Emergency cases come anytime. Even if we’re on a date....if the call comes, she has to leave. And most of her shifts, you already know… are at night.”

I interrupted, restless. “But why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I can understand Sahara,” he replied quietly, “and you can’t.”

I sighed in frustration. “You’re just confusing me more.”

“No,” he said patiently, “I’m trying to explain.”

“And how’s that?” I challenged.

“Because of Und night shifts,” Aziz continued, “We hardly get time together. She comes home exhausted from the hospital exactly when I leave for office. Days go by when we don’t even share one proper meal. Then there are my business trips… she can’t join because of her surgeries… and I rush through work to get home quickly because she’s alone.”

A soft sadness passed through his eyes.

“Mohabbat meh bahut saari qurbani deni padhti hai jise jatai nahi jaati....”

(We both make sacrifices for each other… silently. Quietly. Without announcing it.)

“Kyun?” I asked, genuinely curious.

A slow, knowing smile appeared on his lips.

“Agar jataadu toh Mohabbat kaisi?”

(Because if we start listing our sacrifices… then what remains of love?)

My breath caught.

His words hit deeper than anything had in a long time.

"Sahara understands you, Samir," Aziz continued. "She understands your passion so deeply that she didn't want to disturb you. She came here not to leave you, but to give you the space to focus on your dream without the guilt of neglecting her. She was protecting your work."

He looked almost offended as he added:

“You think leaving you was easy for her?”

I swallowed hard.

“There is nothing above Sahara for me,” I whispered. “If my work is hurting her, I’ll quit. I swear on everything I love.”

“Idiot,” Aziz muttered.

“You still don’t understand.”

I looked at him, puzzled.

“No marriage is perfect,” he said. “Not arranged, not love. You need to understand each other. And talk. You and Sahara… you throw accusations first and apologise later.”

His voice softened further.

“You love her. She loves you. But neither of you is willing to say what you feel. You both hurt quietly… and the silence is killing you.”

His words cracked something inside me.

Something I hadn’t realised was breaking.

I ran my hand through my hair, exhaling slowly.

“So… now what?”

“Go home,” he ordered. “Talk to your wife.”

“Fine,” I said. “Drop me here. I’ll take a cab.”

"I’m already late," Aziz sighed, pulling a U-turn with a look of mock helplessness. "I might as well drop you off. And moreover, you and Uns came into my life only to raise my blood pressure.” I laughed despite myself.

“I won’t hear anything against my bhabhi.”

“Bhabhi ke chamche,” he muttered darkly. “Just wait until it's my turn to vent, then we'll see.”

I noticed the lingering shadow in his eyes. "Why are you so stressed lately, anyway? Is everything okay?"

​"It’s nothing," Aziz said, his voice softening with a raw vulnerability I rarely saw. "Just Uns. The pregnancy, the surgery... I just worry about her constantly. I can't help it."

​"Everything will be fine. Don't overthink it," I reassured him, patting his shoulder.

Something in his tone, gentle, protective, vulnerable, It made me realise something very important: Aziz and Uns didn’t have a perfect marriage. They had an understanding. A silent, wordless language of love.

Where he noticed the way her shoulders slumped after a long shift. Where she knew when he needed quiet even before he said a word. Where they didn’t need time-- they just needed each other.

And that’s when it finally hit me. Maybe things weren’t breaking between me and Sahara. Maybe… I just needed to understand her the way Aziz understands his wife.

As we drove toward the house, the weight on my chest shifted, not gone, but clearer.

Because for the first time in weeks,

I knew what I had to do.

I had to go home. I had to talk to her. I had to choose her. Again. And again. And again.

Breakfast was done, and the three of us, me  Ammi, Uns Appi were curled up together on the couch like old times.

Ammi was gently massaging warm oil through Api’s hair, her fingers slow and experienced, and I sat beside them, my head resting on Appi’s shoulder.

But my mind… It was nowhere in that room.

It was full of him. Full of Samir.

Does he really think I don’t understand him?

Maybe he was right to feel that way… maybe it was my fault. I should’ve told him before leaving for Appi’s house. But what else could I have done?

If I had told him, he would’ve insisted on coming with me. He would’ve left everything — meetings, deadlines, fashion week preparations — just to be with me. And I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to become the reason he neglects the dream he built brick by brick.

How was I supposed to know he’d still drop everything… And come here just to see ME?

Pagal aadmi. A whole package of drama and cuteness. And then his silent treatment… That stubborn quiet anger… It was eating me alive.

Maybe I should call him…?

My thought broke when Uns appi’s complaint filled the air.

“Ammi, look! This little one on the right is kicking up a storm today,” Uns Appi said, a breathless laugh escaping her lips as she pressed her hand against her stomach. “He’s definitely Aziz’s son. Only his child could be this restless.”

​I chuckled, leaning over to gently caress the taut curve of her baby bump. “Arrey, why assume? It could easily be a daughter as spirited as her mother.”

​Ammi laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners—a map of a lifetime of kindness. “You have a point, Sahara. My Aziz isn't actually that mischievous. I bet it’s a daughter, exactly like Uns—determined to make her presence felt.”

​“Don’t take his side, Ammi!” Appi huffed, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her. “He’s been driving me absolutely crazy lately.”

​Ammi began expertly braiding Appi’s hair, her movements rhythmic and soothing. “What has the my son done now?”

​“It’s his worrying, Ammi! Who cares for someone this much?” Appi’s voice softened, the ‘complaint’ melting into something far more tender. “He doesn't let me lift so much as a glass of water. He’s doing everything himself—the house, the errands, the care. He isn’t even sleeping properly because he’s constantly checking on me. It’s going to affect his health. And the moment I try to help, he’s right there, lecturing me with that serious face of his.”

Her complaints were real — but the softness in her voice…

That was love. Unfiltered, overwhelming love.

I watched her, trying to understand. To me, it didn’t sound like she was annoyed at Aziz bhai. It sounded like… she was scared for him.

“Just say you’re worried about bhai, Appi,” I teased, nudging her shoulder.

“SAHARA!” Appi glared at me, and Ammi burst out laughing, shaking her head at our bickering.

When her laughter died down, Ammi looked at me with those gentle, knowing eyes of hers. “Sahara, leave their drama… tell me what’s going on between you and Samir?”

My breath hitched. Her hand reached for a towel, and she slowly started drying the tips of my damp hair, like she always did since childhood, lovingly, patiently, as if she were drying away my worries too. I let my head drop into her lap.

“I don’t know, Ammi,” I finally whispered.

“There’s this strange distance between us. He thinks… I don’t understand him.”

My voice broke. Just a little… but enough for Appi to look at me with concern, and for Ammi’s fingers to soften against my scalp.

“This is our first real fight,” I continued, tears pricking my eyes. “And I hate it. I hate being away from him. I hate this silence. I hate myself for leaving. I don’t know why I did this. I can’t even breathe properly without him!”

Ammi stroked my hair the way only a mother can. A healing touch, a silent hug.

“Then try to understand why he felt that way,” she said quietly. “Nobody thinks something for no reason, Sahara. Maybe he is hurting somewhere. Maybe he needs reassurance from you.”

Appi tapped my arm lightly. “Samir is dramatic. But so are you. Instead of holding onto who hurt who… ask him why he felt that way. Talk. And please…”

She pointed at her belly. “Before I deliver, you both better sort it out. I can’t handle two babies and two grown babies together.”

Her tone was bossy, but her eyes were soft.

For the first time in two days… I smiled.

Their love... Ammi’s warmth. Api’s concern. Aziz’s protectiveness. Samir’s silent hurt.

It all crashed into me at once.

With those thoughts swirling inside me, I stood up and walked toward my room.

My heart was beating too fast, too loud.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, clutching the blanket.

There was only one thing left to do now. I had to fix this. I had to talk to him. I had to bring back what we lost in the silence.

Now… I just needed to win Samir back.

I leaned closer to the mirror and reapplied my deep-red lipstick—the shade he always noticed even when he pretended not to. My hair fell freely over my shoulders, cascading down the deep red saree I’d chosen for him. He had seen me before he left for bhai's office today, and still… not a single word.

Even if he didn’t say it, I know he thought plenty. After all, my Shehensha has a soft, easily-melted heart—he just hides it behind that stoic expression.

I was just about to video call him, hoping he’d see me and lose that stubborn anger of his, when a soft knock echoed on the door.

I turned—

And in that single moment, my breath scattered and returned all at once.

Samir stood leaning against the doorframe, one hand holding a bouquet of fresh white roses, the other resting on the left side of his chest as if trying to calm the storm inside. His neatly styled hair, the faint but intoxicating scent of his manly perfume, the sharp cut of his Lauren suit… and those innocent eyes that didn’t blink even once while staring at me…

It melted every bone in my body.

“Aur kitni dafaa mere dil ki dhadkano ko tez karogi, mohtarma?” he murmured.

Heat rose to my cheeks instantly—no, not just my cheeks, my whole face turned red under that one line. I had missed this. I had missed him—his flirty lines, his soft teasing, the way he looked at me as if I was the only woman that existed.

“Well, if your heart is so weak, what can I do?” I tried to sound casual… but my voice betrayed me.

He smiled, slow and devastating. “Pehle nahi tha… lekin jab se tumse mohabbat hui hai, apne aap kamzor hota gaya.”

He stepped closer, turned back for a moment to close the door, and then walked toward me with that gaze… The same gaze that made my breath tighten and my heartbeat thud against my ribcage.

Allah, why was I suddenly nervous around my own husband?

“Sahara,” he whispered, his voice soft, addictive, warm enough to melt the coldest parts of me, “I am sorry… jaan.” He raised the bouquet.

When I reached out to take it, our fingers brushed. His cold as ice, mine warm as water. A simple touch, yet it felt like an electric shock between us.

Come on, Sahara. He’s your husband… why are you nervous like a newlywed woman?

Even inside my mind I couldn’t gather myself.

I placed the bouquet on the bed and turned back— But before I could even inhale, Samir wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me into a tight embrace.

And there it was..The missing piece. His cold, my warmth. A perfect fit.

It struck me then—it had been two months. Two long, dragging months since we had even held each other properly. I hadn't realised how empty I’d felt until this moment.

My arms rose on instinct, circling around his neck, pulling him closer—closer than breath.

“I’m sorry—” I began.

“You don’t have to be,” he murmured, burying his face into my neck, placing the softest kiss there. “Not for anything.”

But I couldn’t stop.

The words spilled out of me, cracked and trembling.

“I don’t know what came over me today day… maybe it was your absence, Sahara. Maybe it was the way everything felt too heavy. I shouldn’t have said those things… I’m sorry, jaan, I’m so sorry.”

​I felt his grip tighten, his silence now a comfort rather than a weapon. I reached up, patting his back, trying to pour all my regret and love into that one gesture.

Finally, I whispered, voice breaking, “I should have told you I was coming here instead of just leaving that note. But trust me... I missed you every single second.”

His hold loosened just slightly, just enough for him to cup my face between his cold palms. His thumbs wiped the tears I didn’t even realise had formed.

Maybe relationships don’t break from lack of love. Maybe they shatter in the moments when love is there but words aren’t. And maybe… Just maybe… We were fixing that today. Together.

He broke the embrace with a soft chuckle and casually strolled to the windows.

“Toh jaaaan—”

“No, Samir. Not here.” I stopped him mid-sentence, raising a hand like a warning. Because when he stretches that one word—jaaaan—it only means one thing: He has officially lost control.

He blinked dramatically, pressing a hand to his heart. “Arrey, main toh kahin chalne ki baat karne waala tha, Sahara. Tum bhi na… hamesha wahi sochti rehti ho.”

How shameless can one man be?

And worse—how shameless I am too becoming because of him.

Before I could even understand, he pulled the curtains shut, every single one covering the entire room in a warm, dim morning darkness.

“Samir… what are you doing?” I asked, confused and slightly alarmed.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes glinting.

“Mahol bana raha hoon, jaan.”

And then— He removed his coat… Rolled up his sleeves… Veins rising against the skin of his forearms..

Ya Allah. Why does he do this? Why does my husband insist on testing my sanity at every opportunity?

I snapped, “Accha, tum bas mahol banate raho… kuch karna mat!”

I turned toward the door, determined to escape this ridiculously dangerous atmosphere, but before my fingers even touched the handle, He caught my wrist.

In one seamless, effortless motion, he swept me up into his arms, as if I weighed nothing at all.

​His bare hands found my waist, his palms warm and steady against my skin. The sheer firmness of his grip sent a jolt through me, causing my breath to hitch and then vanish entirely, trapped in the back of my throat.

Great, Sahara. Brilliant. A saree. A deep red saree?

How did I forget that this man completely loses himself when I wear red!

And I? idiot of the year, wore it voluntarily.

He leaned closer, voice dropping into that husky, dangerous softness that always destroys my self-control.

“Aaj bahut kuch karne ka irada hai mera, Mrs. Farsi. And before you even think of taunting... You Wore Red. You loosened me. So now…”

His fingers tightened slightly on my waist,

“…Face the consequences, Jaan.”

“Ek haath seh utha rahe ho?” I teased, trying to mask how shaken I felt.

(Your lifting me with one hand?)

“Sambhal ke, Shehensha, waise bhi umar ho rahi hai tumhari, kahi haath na tuth jai?”

(Careful, Samir. Your age is catching up to you. What if your arm breaks?)

He was walking toward the bed when he stopped abruptly, turning his head just enough to glare at me.

“I’m trying to be romantic here,” he said dramatically, “And you’re making fun of me, Mohtarma?”

I laughed softly, unable to stop myself.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Please... do continue.”

“Thank. You. Very. Much,” he replied through clenched teeth. But instead of walking forward, he turned his face away in mock annoyance.

That was my cue. I reached up, cupped his jaw, and gently turned his face back toward me. Slowly, deliberately, I leaned closer.

Close enough to feel his breath, close enough that our lips hovered just inches apart. Not touching. Waiting.

He froze. I watched his eyes darken, his jaw tighten, the way his chest rose with a deep, controlled breath.

“Yaah toh karlo, yaah phir maardo,” he whispered, his voice deep and impossibly intimate against my lips

(Either do it or kill me).

That was all it took.

I kissed him. And he didn’t hesitate, not for a second. He devoured the kiss completely.

Soft enough to melt into, strong enough to steal every bit of air from my lungs. His hand tightened at my waist while the other came up to cradle my face, holding me like something precious and fragile and entirely his.

I had just applied my lipstick. He ruined it in seconds.

Of course he did. And I didn’t care. Because his touch, his hands, his lips, every part of him felt like home. Like the place my heart returned to no matter how far I wandered. Like something familiar and grounding and dangerously addictive.

When he finally pulled back for breath, his forehead rested against mine. His voice was softer now, stripped of teasing, stripped of bravado.

“I love you, Jaan,” he whispered.

My helpless heart fluttered so wildly I was sure he could hear it.

“I love you too… Shehenshah,” I whispered.

And this time, I didn’t wait.

I pulled him back in, deepening the kiss without hesitation, without fear, without the distance we had allowed to grow between us. No doubts. No walls. Just us, raw and honest and aching in the quiet of the moment.

In this instant... With my lipstick smeared across both our lips, his scent surrounding me, his breath mingling with mine.

I understood something quietly powerful.

Love isn’t loud. It isn’t dramatic. It doesn’t always arrive with grand gestures or poetic confessions. Sometimes, it’s this.

A soft surrender. A familiar warmth. A home you return to after every storm.

Samir wasn’t just my husband. He was the part of me I didn’t even realize I had been missing for months. And as he held me closer, kissing me again with that same desperate tenderness, I knew...

No matter how many fights. No matter how many misunderstandings. No matter how many days we spent walking parallel lives...

We would always find our way back.

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✨ Happy New Year, My Sweethearts ✨

As this year comes to an end, I just want to send you all my love. May the coming year bring healing, strength, and the kind of happiness that feels like home.

I also owe you a heartfelt apology for my absence. I know I disappeared, but not a single day passed without UKM and you in my heart.

Let’s end this year together with the final UKM update, wrapped in pure love.

And then… let’s step into the new year with something deeper...

Also—little secret for you:

✨ The next TWO chapters are already LIVE on ScrollStack. Just click the button, and the story is yours.

Thank you for staying. Thank you for waiting. And thank you for loving these characters as deeply as I do.

With love, Almas 🤍

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CHAPTER ARSTHETICS:

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