A/N: First chapter in Meerab's POV, ahhhhhh! We get to find out if y'all were right in saying "aag dono taraf barabar lagi hai" and in your speculations about what's going to happen next! See y'all on the other side :)

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In the quiet sanctuary of her room in Karachi, Meerab sat before her vanity, brushing her hair, lost in the reflection that mirrored back more than just her image. Around her, the room was scattered with the chaos of preparation—suitcases gaping with new outfits, their vibrant colors a silent homage to the man whose gaze softened when his eyes met the hues of pinks, reds, and yellows on her.

She ran a brush through her hair, each stroke rhythmic, calming. "It's easy," she murmured to her reflection, a semblance of assurance in her voice. She drew in a breath, her chest rising with resolve. "Just take a deep breath... and say it."

"I love you, Murtasim," she whispered, the words floating through the stillness of her room.

A smile bloomed across her features, a blush tinging her cheeks at the sound of her own confession. It felt silly, yet exhilarating, to admit such a feeling to her own reflection. She looked away, her eyes shining with the truth she'd been too scared to voice aloud.

Returning her gaze to the mirror, she tilted her head, considering. "I like you?" she tried, as if testing the waters. But the phrase seemed lacking, insufficient to encompass the depth of what pulsed through her veins.

Meerab's gaze lingered on her own eyes in the mirror, the depths of which held a story only she knew in its entirety. It was a tale that began with mere attraction, a recognition of something potent and compelling in the man who was Murtasim.

Meerab's love for Murtasim had arrived unbidden, a tempest that had swept into her world without warning. It was as if the skies of her heart, once clear and serene, had suddenly darkened with his presence, an electric charge filling the air, heralding the storm to come. She had not anticipated the whirlwind, had not prepared defenses, for how does one brace for a storm they do not see brewing on the horizon?

He had come into her life with the force of a gale, defying every thought she had of who she would one day end up with. His smile, his stern looks, his unexpected kindnesses—each moment with him was a gust that shook her foundations, a clap of thunder that echoed in the empty chambers of her heart. Before she knew it, he had inundated her thoughts, flooded her senses, and drenched her soul with an intensity that left her breathless.

Like a tempest, he had found his way through the slightest cracks in her resolve, pouring into her life with the ease of rain through a sieve. She had no defenses against him; he saturated every thought, soaked through every layer of her being until she was awash with feelings she couldn't stem. And just as a storm leaves its mark on the landscape, Murtasim had indelibly marked her heart, reshaping it in his image, transforming her inner world as thoroughly as a deluge alters the land.

Now, in the aftermath, just like the world following a storm, everything felt more intense—the colors of emotion more vivid, the landscape of her life irrevocably changed. She was left with the realization that, no matter how unexpected or tumultuous, Murtasim's presence in her heart was as elemental and undeniable as the rain that falls to the earth.

He had ruined her for anyone else. Of that she was sure.

Meerab sighed, remembering those early days that summer when they first went to the village—the way he had apologized for his actions after yelling at her about his camera, attentively listened to her as they embarked on a trip, offering comfort without words, showing care with his actions. He had dismantled, piece by piece, the image she had constructed of him, revealing someone far more complex and considerate.

The memory of being physically tethered to him brought a flush to her cheeks. Being handcuffed to Murtasim, her hand in his, her body pressed up against him for hours had been unexpectedly enlightening; it was in those moments of proximity that she'd acknowledged the pull of attraction. That the fluttering in her stomach when he was around wasn't an ailment but a symptom of her burgeoning feelings for him.

It was the way he recognized her struggles, the silent understanding in his eyes when others chose to overlook her plight. He never offered her pity, only a shared strength that came from knowing she was seen and valued. That silent solidarity had been the foundation upon which her love began to build.

In the quiet solace of his presence, Murtasim cared for her with a gentleness that never needed vocalization. His actions, tender and attentive, seeped into the cracks of her broken spirit, filling them with a warmth that whispered of safety and understanding. Each unspoken gesture, every nuanced glance that conveyed his concern, became a balm that soothed and mended the fragile pieces of her being.

Murtasim's care came without the heavy price tag of obligation that Meerab had so often felt from others. Where others made a spectacle of their kindness, ensuring she felt the weight of their favors, Murtasim's gestures were different—quiet, constant, and selfless. With him, there were no strings attached, no looming debts of gratitude. He gave not out of duty, but from a place of genuine concern, never once holding it above her head.

For Meerab, who was accustomed to the loudness of empty gestures that left her feeling more like a charity case than a person of worth, Murtasim's subtle acts of care were a revelation. He didn't need to announce his support.

A smile curved Meerab's lips as she recalled a moment where he had needed her to know—the time when Murtasim's jealousy had surfaced over a pair of shoes. The way his demeanor had changed when she teased that Areeb might have been the one to bring them to her. His reaction had been telling, a display of possessiveness she found endearing, it had kept her up at night, smiling at the ceiling like an idiot.

Her heart swelled with affection as she thought of Murtasim's unexpected gestures: the pet goat he had gifted her, not out of frivolity but from a genuine desire to provide her companionship. He had instructed the house staff to prioritize her choices, an acknowledgment of her presence and preferences that was rare in the patriarchal setting of his home.

And then there were the phone calls throughout the months that followed, the ones he made amidst his packed schedule, just so she could hear the comforting sounds of Murtasimbakri. These small but significant actions spoke volumes of his caring nature, a side of him that perhaps not everyone got to see.

Yes, Murtasim was a man of contradictions, capable of warmth and distance in equal measure. But to Meerab, those fluctuations were part of his charm. They made him real, they made him Murtasim—the man she had fallen hopelessly in love with. A man who, with all his complexities, had become the most important part of her world.

Her thoughts drifted back to the previous summer, to the moments when Murtasim's avoidance had been a palpable presence between them. Each time she had sought an answer, his silence spoke volumes, yet his eyes—a mirror to his soul—betrayed a shared sentiment he was reluctant to voice.

The ache of his indifference had pushed her to immerse herself in the village's woes, to drown out the longing with purpose. Yet, in the tumult that followed, as Murtasim's barriers crumbled and he stood tall beside her, she found clarity amidst the chaos.

She loved him, with a certainty that shone like a beacon through the storm.

It was an absurd twist of fate, she mused. If someone had told her she would fall for Murtasim years ago, she would have scoffed at the absurdity. Yet, she had.

He had always been a handsome enigma, his sudden transformation the summer they first went to the village—the beard, the well-groomed hair, the impeccable attire—had caught her off guard, rendering her speechless. His attractiveness had never been the issue; it was the perceived rigidity of his views that had built walls between them.

However, as she peeled back the layers, engaging in conversations that revealed the depth of his convictions, she found a man of substance. His views, though steeped in tradition, were not impervious to change. He had shown her that, stomping down the last resistant part of her. He reasoned, he listened, and he adapted—a man of his word, of action, grounded in the reality of his responsibilities.

In the village, she saw him for who he truly was—a man who worked tirelessly, who extended kindness without seeking accolades, who saved without expecting salvation in return. He was intelligent, and above all, he was caring, especially towards her.

How could she resist falling for the man who had seen her at her lowest and reached out with a steady hand? The man who had carried her burdens as if they were his own, who had noticed the smallest details and acted upon them. The man who made her laugh, who bought her a pet goat just for the sake of companionship, and who, despite his busy life, made time for her, if only to let her speak to a goat over a call.

In those moments, and in countless others, her heart had tumbled, headfirst, into love with Murtasim Khan—the man who had redefined strength not as the absence of vulnerability, but as the courage to show it.

Meerab had accepted the truth in the silence of her heart, but now she was ready to voice it out loud, she had to.

She looked intently at her own reflection, her eyes conveying a determination that had taken months to muster. "I love you," she declared to herself, the phrase feeling both foreign and intimately familiar. She shook her head gently, knowing she needed to find the right words, the ones that resonated with the depth of her feelings, the ones that Murtasim would understand with all his heart.

"In Urdu?" she pondered aloud, her voice echoing softly in the room. "Mein tumse pyaar karti hoon?" The words felt too formal, too distant for the raw emotion she wanted to convey.

She tried again, a little softer this time, "Tumse mohabbat hogayi hai?" But it still didn't capture the essence of her emotions. It was too poetic for the simple truth she held within.

"Ishq?" The word was a whisper, a sacred term that held a weight she wasn't sure she could bear. It was too intense, too profound.

"Keep it simple, Meerab," she chided herself gently, a small smile tugging at her lips. "It's hard enough as it is." She needed to find the balance, the words that were true but not overwhelming.

Her eyes drifted to the open book of Rumi and Ghalib poems on her dresser, the highlighted passages a testament to her search for the right expression. "Nahi nahi, I am not going to read him poetry," she dismissed the thought with a light-hearted chuckle. This moment required honesty, not the borrowed words of a poet, no matter how eloquent.

"I love you," she repeated, letting the phrase settle in her heart, becoming more comfortable with each utterance. "I love you... Murtasim." A giggle escaped her as she kicked her feet playfully, a lightness spreading through her. The words felt right, pure and unadorned.

As she stood up, ready to face the summer that awaited her, she hoped that when the moment came, when she was finally standing in front of Murtasim, the words "I love you" would flow as naturally as the monsoon breeze that heralded the season of renewal. She hoped her heart would guide her, and the truth she held within would find its way to the surface.

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The car rolled to a stop inside the imposing gates of the Khan Haveli, its engine cutting out with a finality that seemed to echo Meerab's own sentiments. She had always seen this place as a grand but somber cage, and yet, as she stepped out, her heart raced with the prospect of seeing Murtasim – her fellow prisoner in this gilded enclosure.

The Haveli loomed before her, its ancient walls whispering secrets of the past, its windows like eyes that had witnessed a thousand stories. The air was heavy, scented with jasmine and marigold from the gardens, but underneath it all was the unmistakable undercurrent of anticipation.

Her arrival had always been met with a peculiar mix of welcome and imprisonment, but today, excitement bubbled within her. The same arches that cast long, restrictive shadows now promised the possibility of stolen moments with Murtasim. The Haveli, with all its oppressive grandeur, couldn't contain the butterflies in her stomach.

Yet, the reality was as stark as the sun casting sharp outlines on the stone paths – Murtasim was nowhere to be seen. His absence was a tangible thing, a silent space where once there might have been a greeting, a smile, or a glance that lingered just a moment too long.

As she was led through the familiar corridors, her footsteps echoed, a lonely sound that mirrored the hollow feeling inside her. The walls that had once made her feel trapped now seemed to close in further, a reminder of the isolation that awaited her without Murtasim's presence.

When Murtasim was around, it was as if the sun had risen within its chambers, casting away the gloom with the golden hue of his presence. He was the light that turned the oppressive silence into a symphony of life, the warmth that softened the hard edges of her gilded cage.

When he was around, the Haveli transformed. The sunlight cascaded through the latticed windows, playing a delicate dance on the marble floors, infusing the air with vibrancy. His footsteps were a percussion that set a new rhythm to the day, a promise that the darkness would retreat to the corners, fearful of his radiant energy.

In his absence, the sun seemed to set prematurely within the Haveli, the shadows lengthening, eager to reclaim their dominion. The light dimmed, a twilight descending, turning the once comforting spaces into a cold reminder of her solitude.

Yet, even as the Haveli returned to its sunless state, the afterglow of his presence lingered, a subtle warmth that clung to the drapes, a faint light that refused to die in the corners where they had shared words. It was this residual glow of Murtasim, this solar echo, that Meerab clung to, a silent prayer that the sun would rise again, that the darkness would once more be banished by the sheer force of his being.

She hated that she had been barred from the village where he always shone, a place that had become a part of her, a place where she had left pieces of her heart. The whispers of the trees, the laughter of the children, and the vibrant colors of the marketplace seemed to call out to her, but the voices of her father and Maa Begum echoed louder, cementing the walls that kept her away. Murtasim's own voice, gentle yet final, had agreed, and that had hurt more than any other admonishment.

A day later, when Murtasim did return to Hyderabad, his eyes seemed to slide past her, as if she was nothing more than a wisp of smoke from the burning incense that filled the halls of the Khan Haveli. The soft clinking of the fine china, the shuffling of servants, and the rustling of silks were mere background noise to the silence that hung between them.

The previous summer's warmth had faded...again, replaced by a cold distance that seeped into her bones. There were no more stolen glances, no more moments of shared laughter. Even the earthy fragrance of his cologne, which once lingered in the air long after he'd left a room, seemed to have dissipated, leaving nothing but memories in its wake.

He did bring Murtasimbakri with him though, her four-legged confidant, became her solace, her only connection to the time she had spent in the village with Murtasim. The goat's presence was a balm to her loneliness, her bleats and playful nibbles a distraction from the growing despair. Murtasimbakri was a living reminder of Murtasim's care, a care that now felt like a dream she was desperately trying to hold on to.

Meerab's room was a sanctuary where Murtasimbakri was allowed to roam free, her soft fur and warm breath against Meerab's skin offering a semblance of the affection she craved. The goat would often lay her head in Meerab's lap, her gentle eyes holding more conversation than she had had with Murtasim in weeks.

The absurdity of her situation wasn't lost on her; her confidantes were indeed a whisper of her mother's memory, a man who seemed to have forgotten she existed, and a goat who knew nothing of the complexities of human love. Yet, of the three, only Murtasimbakri responded with a presence that was tangible and real. Meerab whispered her secrets and dreams into the goat's floppy ears, sharing her heart with the only creature that seemed to listen.

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The air within the Khan Haveli was abuzz, charged with a sense of expectation that seemed to seep into the very fabric of the house. Servants moved with a swiftness that was unusual, their whispers a cacophony against the backdrop of clinking silver and rustling fabric. Meerab felt the energy of the place, a mix of anxiety and anticipation that left a tangy taste on her tongue.

A week had passed since her arrival, each day stretching out like an eternity in Murtasim's absence. The house was suddenly thrown into action, Maa Begum was a whirlwind, her presence dominating the Haveli as she prepared for an unknown event with a fervor that was both impressive and intimidating.

Maryam, with her usual nonchalance, seemed oblivious to the undercurrents swirling around the Haveli. Her only contribution to the conversation was a shrug and a passing comment about the status of their host – Yussef Ali, the Provincial Minister of Sindh for Agriculture, Supply & Price, a man Meerab had only seen on television.

For a feudal lord like Murtasim, connections with influential politicians such as Yussef Ali were likely invaluable. She knew it could bring advancements in agricultural methods, supply chain improvements, and even political protection against challenges that might arise.

Yet, Meerab couldn't shake off the feeling that there was more to this visit than a mere social call. Maa Begum's meticulous arrangements and the subtle tension that hummed in the air were clear indications that this evening held significance beyond her understanding. The very fact that Murtasim would be joining them straight from the village, bypassing the comforts of home to be present there, was telling.

The thought of staying behind flickered in Meerab's mind, a brief respite from the constant presence of Maa Begum. Yet the chance to see Murtasim, to breach the silence that had grown between them, spurred her to accept the invitation. She wanted to see him, needed to understand the chasm that had opened up with his silence.

Meerab dressed herself in an elegant pink suit, the color of a delicate summer dawn. The fabric was light, airy, and seemed to float around her. The suit itself was beautifully adorned with intricate embroidery and sparkling accents, perhaps it was a bit much...but his eyes lingered when she dressed up.

To complete the ensemble, she took the time to curl her hair into soft waves, cascading gently down her shoulders. She recalled the way his gaze would inadvertently follow the bounce of her curls, a subtle but sure sign that he found the look appealing. Each curl was a silent conversation, a whispered hope that maybe today, of all days, he would not only notice but perhaps let his guard down just long enough to reveal the admiration she often felt hidden behind his stoic façade.

As they set off for the farmhouse, the road unfurled before them like a ribbon, the car's movement a steady rhythm that matched Meerab's heartbeat. She tried to focus on the passing scenery, the fields rolling by, the farmers tending to their crops, but her senses were elsewhere. She could already imagine the feel of Murtasim's gaze, the sound of his voice, the scent that was uniquely his, a blend of earth and something indefinably masculine.

Meerab's fingers tapped an erratic rhythm on her knee as the car swept through the verdant countryside. The expansive estate that emerged on the horizon was more akin to a regal manor than a simple farmhouse, its opulent architecture a stark contrast to the rustic charm of the surrounding land. The freshness of the air filled her lungs, and the distant roar of the Indus River resonated, a natural symphony that should have been calming, yet it did nothing to ease the fluttering in her stomach.

Upon arrival, they were greeted with warm smiles by Yusuf Ali, his wife Nabeela, and their daughter Asma. The family's wealth was palpable in their demeanor and the luxury that surrounded them. The garden where they convened for tea was a picturesque setting, the manicured lawns sloping gently down to the banks of the river, the water's powerful rush a backdrop to the polite conversation.

As the group sat under a canopy, surrounded by the vibrant hues of blossoming flowers, the Ali family's affluence became ever more apparent. Asma, with her graceful poise and the subtle glint of her jewelry catching the sunlight, seemed to embody every quality revered in their social circles. Meerab couldn't help but notice the way Maa Begum's eyes lit up as she interacted with Asma, her laughter a little too hearty, her gaze a little too approving.

With every compliment Maa Begum lavished upon Asma, Meerab felt a sharp pang in her chest. Asma's status as an only child, the heir to vast lands and influence - with the death of her older brother in a recent accident- was subtly underscored in every exchange. The implications of this meeting began to coalesce in Meerab's mind, a realization that chilled her to the bone.

This visit wasn't just a social call; it was a showcase, a display of Asma's eligibility for Murtasim.

Asma would be the ideal bride for the Khan family, the kind of wife who would bolster Murtasim's standing with her silent support and unquestioning compliance. She would bring with her acres and acres of land, a number larger than what the Khans already owned. The sinking feeling in Meerab's heart grew heavier with each passing minute.

This was a setup—a matchmaking exercise for Murtasim—and with every laugh, every shared glance between their families, Meerab's anxiety grew.

The questions swirled in her mind like the leaves in the autumn wind.

Did Murtasim know about this?

Would he approve?

Could he possibly consent to such a union, knowing what it would mean for them?

He had to be unaware; the Murtasim she knew, the one whose gaze held hers with unspoken words, wouldn't have allowed this charade to unfold.

Or so she hoped.

The doubt gnawed at her, the worry that perhaps she didn't know him as well as she thought, that maybe the feudal ties that bound him were stronger than the bond she believed they shared. The laughter, the chatter, the clinking of fine china—all of it became a distant cacophony as Meerab grappled with the realization that perhaps she had read Murtasim all wrong.

Maa Begum was in her element, unbeknownst to Meerab's plight, adoring Asma's every word and gesture. Maryam seemed politely engaged, offering the occasional nod and smile, while Haya's eyes held a flicker of disapproval.

Meerab watched Asma with a reserved curiosity. Asma's voice was light, almost too sweet, as she spoke of trivialities, her words skimming the surface of topics with no depth. When Asma's gaze finally met Meerab's, there was a simplicity in her eyes that was unsettling. Her conversation felt devoid of substance, focusing on the aesthetics of the occasion, the latest whims of fashion, and her eagerness for marriage. Her admission of pursuing a Bachelor of Arts only "to help future children with homework" echoed the patriarchal expectations of their society.

Asma's inability to maintain eye contact with the elders, her deferential demeanor, all seemed to construct the archetype of the quintessential feudal wife—a silent shadow to her husband's life. This was the life Asma not only accepted but aspired to, a life where her ambitions did not stretch beyond the domestic sphere.

Perhaps she was being too harsh...but she couldn't find even one thing she liked about the woman.

When Murtasim finally made his entrance, Meerab's heart skipped a beat. He was the epitome of sophistication, his crisp navy suit accentuating his formidable frame, his hair styled away from his face, highlighting his sharp features. But his eyes, those windows to his soul that once searched for her in any room, now glanced over her as if she were just another fixture in the decor. His polite apologies for his tardiness did nothing to conceal the coolness that had settled over him.

Meerab's chest tightened at the sight. The man she loved, the man she had hoped to reach out to, seemed to have drifted further away, retreating behind a façade of formality and distance. Asma's timid attempts to engage Murtasim were met with polite responses...he didn't look past Asma like she was a shadow, that apparently was reserved only for Meerab.

Meerab ached to break through to him, to understand this sudden change, to know if his heart had swayed or if she had read him wrong all along.

Her senses were painfully alert, each part of her tuned to Murtasim's presence. Yet, he remained aloof, his gaze never lingering on her, his attention seemingly captured by the formalities of the gathering. Meerab's eyes, heavy with unspoken questions, darted towards him, seeking a glimpse of the connection they once shared. Did he truly see a future with Asma, a woman whose world was so far removed from the passions that burned within him?

As the evening wore on, the sense of alienation grew. Meerab felt as if she were witnessing the unfolding of a play where she no longer knew her role, where the script had been rewritten without her knowledge. Murtasim, once her confidant and co-conspirator, now appeared as a stranger, leaving her to wrestle with the doubt and fear that perhaps he had chosen a path that led away from her.

The clinking of fine china suddenly felt suffocating to Meerab. The fragrance of the roses from the garden did little to ease the tightness in her chest. Maa Begum's voice was as smooth as the silk draped on the table, her words carefully chosen to extol Asma's virtues as the future Khaani.

Maa Begum's voice, tinted with a joy that seemed to mock Meerab's despair, filled the air. "Asma will be the perfect Khaani. She's been learning since childhood," she declared with a pride that set Meerab's nerves on edge.

Meerab's gaze was fixed on Murtasim, searching for any sign of dissent in his stoic expression. The usual warm timbre of his voice was absent, replaced by a silence that was louder than any words. She wanted to believe he was unaware of the reason behind their visit, that he was as much a pawn in this orchestrated meeting as she felt. But his silence was beginning to speak volumes, painting a picture she was desperate to ignore.

"And she's so good with kids," Maa Begum's voice continued, eliciting a hollow laugh from Meerab internally. A hollow pang hit Meerab; she knew the truth. Asma's interactions with her little cousin, Adam, seemed more for show than born out of genuine affection. The little boy's presence was often treated as an annoyance rather than a joy, and Meerab had seen Asma's impatience firsthand.

Asma's own mother, Nabeela, added with a fond smile, "Oh, she loves them. She dotes on her younger cousins so much, she wants four or five of her own." She said, painting her daughter as a maternal figure eager to raise a large family.

Maa Begum's chuckle resonated through the room. "Of course, enough heirs to take care of the Khan and Ali affairs," she said, casting a meaningful glance towards Murtasim.

The conversation flowed like a river, but Meerab felt stranded on a desolate shore. With each laugh, each mention of heirs and matrimony, the distance between her and Murtasim expanded, her heart sinking deeper with every passing moment.

Meerab's eyes once again sought Murtasim, pleading for him to break the facade, to reject the role that had been cast for him, to deny his involvement in this setup that seemed to be pushing them apart. But he sat there, sipping his tea, his face betraying nothing of the thoughts behind his guarded eyes. Had he known about this meeting's true purpose? Was this his silent acquiescence to a future that Meerab had no place in?

Did he want this? The docile, perfect feudal wife in Asma who wouldn't dare to meet his gaze directly? The silence was maddening, the unanswered questions piling up like a wall between

"She has an eye for housekeeping too," Nabeela's voice broke through the background noise, laden with maternal pride as she spoke of Asma.

Maa Begum nodded in agreement, her voice laced with approval. "Of course, I can see it from how she serves things," she remarked, casting a quick glance at Meerab, who felt the unspoken comparison slice through her like a knife.

Meerab's gaze was fixed on Murtasim, her eyes begging him to meet her stare, to acknowledge the silent plea she was sending him. But he was lost in his own world, deep in conversation with Yussuf Ali, oblivious to her silent suffering.

Feeling a lump form in her throat, Meerab stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the patio stones. "Excuse me," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as she pushed past the extravagant spread of teacups and pastries.

Asma's offer to show the gardens rang hollow in her ears, the invitation feeling more like a taunt than a gesture of hospitality. Meerab couldn't trust herself to keep the tears at bay, not with the charade playing out before her eyes.

She turned away, her steps quick and purposeful, seeking solace in solitude. The sweet fragrance of the garden was now tinged with the bitter scent of heartache, and the once welcoming embrace of the outdoors felt suffocating.

As she walked further away, the sounds of laughter and conversation faded into the background, replaced by the rustling of leaves and her own ragged breaths. She needed a moment, just a moment, to gather the shattered pieces of her composure before she allowed herself to break down completely.

Meerab's mind was a whirlwind of confusion and pain, the festive atmosphere around her feeling like a distant echo as she grappled with her realization. She had first assumed the gathering was purely a professional courtesy, a platform for networking and discussing business prospects.

But she had been wrong.

The truth hit her with the force of a thunderclap—the casual chatter, the meticulously arranged high tea, it was all a setup. Maa Begum wasn't just mingling; she was negotiating a union.

Meerab truly believed it would come to pass, she had thought that Muetasim would walk in and shut it all down.

But she had been wrong.

Meerab felt a growing sense of despair. Did Murtasim really want this? Was this the future he desired, to be aligned with someone like Asma? The thought twisted in her like a knife, and she couldn't help but wonder where that left her, where it left the unspoken words and emotions that she thought they had shared. She thought he liked her, if not loved her, how was she to explain his actions if that wasn't true?

Had she been wrong about that too?

Her heart ached, her mind raced, but it was the sudden panic erupting from the riverside that brought her spiraling back to the present. The sound of splashing water and frantic cries snapped her attention to the banks of the river.

Adam, the innocent child who had tried to engage with the adults, was in the water, his small arms flailing helplessly as the current threatened to pull him under. The stark fear in his eyes was a jolt to her system, galvanizing her into action.

Asma stood paralyzed at the river's edge, her voice high-pitched with terror as she called out her cousin's name, yet her feet remained rooted to the spot, as if the very idea of leaping into the river to save him was beyond her comprehension.

Without a second thought, Meerab's shoes and dupatta were off, and she was moving towards the river's edge, her despair forgotten, her heart pounding in her chest.

Meerab's senses were heightened to a razor's edge. Her feet, now bare, slipped and slid over the slick stones that lined the riverbank, each step an urgent push against time. The cold rush of the river swallowed her cries for Adam, the little boy's name becoming a silent mantra on her lips as she plunged into the turbulent waters.

The icy grip of the river encased her, and she felt the current's greedy pull, a force that threatened to sweep her away. But her focus was singular — the small, floundering form of Adam, barely keeping above the water's surface as the current pushed him downstream towards her. She powered through, her strokes desperate but strong, until she reached him, her arms wrapping around his tiny, trembling body.

Her muscles burned, her lungs screamed for air, but she held Adam close, her resolve steel. The current however kept pushing both of them further downstream no matter how hard she tried not to let it.

It was then that she felt it — the solid presence of Murtasim, his arm cinching around her waist. His strength was a lifeline, a loud promise of safety. Together, they battled the river's wrath, Murtasim's powerful strokes guiding them towards the bank, away from the drowning pull of the river.

As they reached the shallows, quite a distance away from where she had jumped in from, the world seemed to slow down. The roar of the river faded to a dull grumble in Meerab's ears, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as they clambered up the bank. Murtasim's grip was unyielding, his chest heaving against her back as he hefted them both to the safety of the shore.

The world seemed to blur around Meerab, the verdant greens and sunlit sparkles of the riverbank fading into a backdrop for the panic seizing her heart. Adam was motionless, his youthful face drained of color, stirring a primal fear in her chest. She set him down and shook him gently, her voice a broken whisper, "Adam!"

There was no response, just the eerie stillness of a child too young to lie so quiet. The cold dread that clutched at her heart spilled over, tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks, mingling with the river water that drenched her. She couldn't let this happen.

Her fingers, trembling with urgency and cold, fluttered beneath his little nose. The absence of breath was a silent scream in her ears. The CPR training she had taken, once a distant memory, surged to the forefront of her mind. He was so delicate under her hands; it terrified her to apply pressure, to possibly cause harm in her attempt to bring him back.

She positioned her hand, heel down, in the center of his tiny chest, and pushed. Each compression was a plea, a demand for life to return to the boy she'd only met hours ago. She counted under her breath, each number a beat in the desperate rhythm she created with her hands.

And then, as if answering her silent prayers, Adam's body convulsed with a violent cough immediately, before she could even get to the rescue breathing. She ceased the compressions instantly, her hands shaking as she turned him onto his side, her voice a soothing chant, "You're okay, breathe, Adam."

His coughing continued, a sound more beautiful than any melody, and his eyes fluttered open. Relief crashed over her, a wave warm enough to counter the chill of the river.

Murtasim's presence enveloped her before she saw him, his dry blazer draped over her shoulders, a shield against the cold. His voice, thick with concern, broke through the haze of her shock. "Is he okay?"

She nodded, unable to find her voice, her gaze fixed on Adam's spluttering recovery.

"Are you okay?" Murtasim's voice came again, closer this time.

Another nod, her breaths hitching as the aftershocks of fear and cold wracked her body.

His hand appeared in her line of sight, offering her a quiet strength. She took it, her grip tight, grounding herself in his warmth.

The jingling of anklets pierced the tension in the air, drawing Meerab's gaze upwards. Asma stood there, her posture rigid with shock or perhaps something else. Anger simmered within Meerab, her voice rising despite the shivers racking her frame, remembering how she had been standing right there. "Do you not know how to swim?"

"I do," Asma stuttered, her voice barely carrying over the rush of the river.

Meerab's disbelief morphed into fury, her words lashing out like whips. "What were you thinking? He's three, he could have died, and you were right there!" Her scream seemed to echo off the water, carrying the weight of her accusation.

Asma's next words chilled Meerab to the bone, "I am wearing white; it'd be improper to step out of the water with my clothes wet."

Meerab's mouth fell open in shock, her mind unable to process the selfishness. "You're unbelievable, such a coward, he's YOUR cousin." Disgust laced every syllable as she turned away, her wet clothes clinging uncomfortably to her skin underneath Murtasim's blazer.

Murtasim's sigh reached her ears, but she paid it no heed, her focus solely on following the maid who cradled Adam. She brushed past Maryam and Maa Begum, their queries about her wellbeing barely registering as she sought refuge and a space to collect herself.

Murtasim's footsteps echoed hers, a familiar cadence that normally would have soothed her. They found themselves ushered towards two adjacent bathrooms set on either side of a study, but before she could step in, Murtasim's voice halted her.

"That was rude of you," he said, his tone laden with disapproval. "She might have been scared, and rightly so— you could have drowned. You're always so careless."

His words struck like a slap, their sting magnified by the fact that these were the first real words he had chosen to speak to her all summer.

Not a greeting, not a word of concern, but a reprimand.

His defense of Asma ignited a fire within her, and in that moment, Meerab couldn't decide what was more infuriating: his silence or his sudden, misplaced criticism.

Meerab felt the heat of her anger mix with the icy droplets cascading off Murtasim's form, creating a steamy haze of frustration. The wet fabric of his shirt outlined the tense muscles beneath, and she couldn't help but notice how the water accentuated his strong features, even as she punctuated her point with a jab to his chest.

"He's three, Murtasim! He could've been swallowed by the river. How can you stand there and defend her inaction? Don't you dare tell me I did something wrong!" Her voice cracked, the tears that she was trying to hold back threatening to trace paths down her cheeks. She was infuriated, not just at his defense of Asma, but at the gnawing uncertainty of why he didn't choose her instead.

She could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy with an emotion she couldn't decipher. It was a look that should've been reserved for intimate confessions, not amidst a maelstrom of confusion. His eyes, usually so composed, now flitted across her face with a desperation that echoed the chaos of her own heart.

The air around them was charged, every droplet of water that fell from Murtasim's hair to the soaked ground seemed to sizzle, as if even the earth beneath their feet was aware of the tension between them.

Meerab's gaze remained locked onto Murtasim's, her eyes tracing the lines of his face, absorbing the sight of him like the rarest elixir. He was finally looking at her, letting her finally see his eyes, and it was overwhelming. She drank in the sight of him, each detail sharpening in her vision as if coming into focus for the first time.

His eyes, dark and deep, held her own with an intensity that was nearly tangible, flickering across her face with a longing that mirrored her inner turmoil. For a moment, the world around them seemed to fall away, leaving nothing but the two of them and the unsaid words hanging heavily in the air. She could hear the distant calls of the others, the rustling leaves in the gentle wind, but it was the sound of his steady breathing that was most pronounced, syncing with her own in a rhythm that felt both foreign and achingly familiar.

The taste of river water still lingered on her lips, creating a bitter reminder of the reality they faced. The scent of wet earth and Murtasim's cologne enveloped her, a combination that should have been comforting but instead added to the sensory overload that threatened to overwhelm her composure.

Her skin prickled with awareness where his gaze touched her, a contrast to the cold dampness of her clothes that clung to her body. The desire to reach out, to touch him, to confirm that this was real and not just a figment of her desperate imagination, was almost irresistible. But she remained still, her body taut with the effort of holding back.

It didn't make sense, this intensity between them, not when he had been so distant, so cold. She didn't understand why he chose to look at her as if she was the only one in his world. It was a gaze that spoke of shared secrets and silent understandings, that spoke of a bond that had formed without permission and now refused to be ignored.

But the confusion, the hurt, it was all there in her heart, clouding her mind, demanding answers.

Why?

Why look at her with such yearning when everything around them suggested that he was stepping into a future that didn't include her?

Why didn't he object when his mother painted a future with Asma?

Why did he stand silent, as if acquiescing to a life with someone else?

The questions swirled in her head, each one a sharp jab to the fragile hope she still harbored.

The frustration bubbled within her, her heart screaming in protest. Asma, with her soft-spoken words and downward gaze, was a stark contrast to the fire that burned in Meerab's spirit. Murtasim's defense of Asma, in the face of Meerab's actions, felt like a betrayal. The man who had shown her compassion, who had been her unexpected anchor, now seemed like a stranger.

Meerab's heart hammered in her chest, each beat echoing the anger and frustration that surged through her veins. "She almost let a child die because she was scared of her white clothes clinging to her and showing some skin," she spat out, her voice trembling with fury. "She thought that was more important than a child's life."

Murtasim's words were like a slap, dismissive and cold. "Most women don't just jump into the water after people—"

She cut him off, her scream slicing through the room. "Oh right, they wait for the mighty man to come, even if that means someone might die." The words burst from her lips, a torrent of pent-up emotion.

She couldn't fathom how he wasn't pulling her into his arms, asking if she was okay, instead of standing there, arguing with her.

"You're perfect for each other—you're both fucking dumb," she hissed, the insult tasting bitter on her tongue.

He was dumb, or perhaps she was the fool, for seeing something in him that obviously wasn't there. She had thought, she had hoped, that he felt the same way about her, but every action of his now seemed to scream otherwise.

"You're being unfair now," Murtasim muttered, his voice a low growl that only served to ignite her anger further.

She glared at him, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. "You're an idiot if you think you'll be happy with her. She has no spine, no substance." Her words were harsh, but she couldn't hold them back, her voice rising with every syllable. "But none of you see that."

His eyes darkened, a storm brewing in their depths as he stepped closer. "At least she doesn't do things without thinking, and doesn't put her life in danger every two seconds," he retorted, his words slicing through the last tether of her restraint.

She could feel the heat of his breath, see the flecks of anger in his eyes, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The soft sound of their breathing filled the room, a counterpoint to the harshness of their words.

This was the man she loved.

But in this moment, he felt like a stranger, one who held her heart but refused to acknowledge it.

Meerab stood there, drenched and trembling, the cold water from the river still clinging to her skin. Her clothes stuck to her body, heavy and uncomfortable. She felt vulnerable and exposed, but it was not the chill of the wet fabric that caused her heart to ache.

It was the distance he had created between them.

Of course, Asma was nothing like her. Asma wouldn't go to cricket matches alone, try to change a village by overnight, or jump into a river to rescue a child. She would never do things without thinking, and put her life in danger every two seconds. "Good for you, you found someone that's nothing like me."

His response was immediate, his voice low and strained. "She's nothing like you," he said, and the hurt in Meerab's chest deepened.

She nodded, the motion sharp and pained.

The problem was painfully clear now; she wasn't what he wanted. She had been foolish to think otherwise, to give the last two years more weight than they deserved, to ignore everything that came before. How could he want her, when what he wanted was out there in the garden, smiling and compliant?

She held back the tears, not wanting to cry in front of him, her vision blurring. She fought through them, her words tainted with anguish and anger. "That's good, you wanted someone like her, right? Docile, good, will never question you, will never force you to change things that make sense, or anything. She'll blindly do what you ask or your mother asks her to do, as long as it doesn't ruin her clothes."

Murtasim stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. His hand reached up, and with a tenderness that contradicted his earlier words, he pushed her wet hair away from her face. His touch was gentle, his fingers grazing her skin softly, sending a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

His eyes, those deep pools of emotion, flickered between hers, searching, probing, confusing her further. It was a gesture so intimate, so familiar, that it harkened back to last summer when he had touched her with the same softness, the same care.

"She's nothing like you," he repeated, and this time there was a different timbre in his voice, something that wasn't there before—a hint of something more, something that Meerab couldn't quite grasp but felt deep in her bones.

Meerab's breath caught in her throat as the tension between them stretched, taut as a wire. Her heart pounded in her chest.

"Good - marry her then," she spat out, the words like acid on her tongue.

It was a challenge, a provocation, a plea, all rolled into one. She wanted him to refute it, to deny it, to say it was her he wanted.

He looked down at her, his gaze intense and unreadable. "I should because she's supposedly perfect," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that reverberated through her. His hand still cupped her cheek, and she wasn't sure shy. The touch sent shivers down her spine, a counterpoint to the heat that flushed her face.

"She is perfect for that madhouse," Meerab said bitterly, her voice barely above a whisper, "your mother loves her."

His eyes held hers, a stormy sea of emotions swirling within them. "But she's not you," he whispered back, and the words hit her like a shockwave, leaving Meerab confused in their wake.

Their faces were mere inches apart, their breath mingling, creating a shared atmosphere that belonged only to them. He smelled of lemonade and mint, a fresh and invigorating scent that made her head swim. Her eyes dropped to his lips, a rich red that promised warmth and solace.

And then, in a moment suspended in time, their lips met. It was a collision of worlds, a meeting of souls, a melding of want and need. Meerab couldn't tell who moved first, who closed the gap, who gave in to the magnetic pull that had drawn them together. His lips were both soft and demanding, igniting a fire within her that she had never known, yet craved.

The kiss, her first, eclipsed every fantastical notion Meerab had ever conjured about what it would feel like. Murtasim's lips were a force, not merely brushing against hers but claiming, moving with a rhythm that spoke of raw need. It was a deep, soul-stirring connection that reverberated through her, stealing her breath and grounding her in the moment.

Instinctively, she found herself matching his intensity, her lips parting and pressing back with equal fervor. His hands, warm and steadying, cradled her face tenderly, thumbs sweeping over her cheeks, caressing her, holding her and tilting her head to kiss her harder.

Meerab's fingers, still tingling from where they had prodded his chest, now reached out with a will of their own. They found the damp fabric of his shirt, clinging to his torso, and clutched it. The material bunched between her desperate grasp, pulling him, if possible, even closer.

The hard surface of the wall pressed against her back, a solid contrast to the fluidity of their bodies melding together. She hadn't even felt them moving, but they must have if she was suddenly pressed up against the wall. Murtasim's proximity enveloped her, his presence a protective cocoon. The texture of his lips, supple and insistent, coaxed a shiver that spiraled down her spine, awakening every nerve to the reality of their closeness.

For a heartbeat, he pulled back, and they both gasped for air, their chests heaving in unison. His eyes, dark pools of emotion, locked onto hers in silent conversation, conveying a depth of feeling that words could never articulate. Then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, he leaned in once more, his mouth capturing hers with renewed passion.

The fantasies of kissing him that had danced in her dreams paled in comparison to the reality. The slight abrasiveness of his beard and moustache brushed against her skin, an intriguing juxtaposition to the softness of his lips. The tactile sensation was a new layer of intimacy, an uncharted territory that both thrilled and comforted her.

He pulled away slightly again, her breath came in short gasps, her lungs burning, her lips still tingling from his touch. Her fingers, still clenched in the fabric of his shirt, slowly relaxed, the material slipping from her grasp. The sensation of being lightheaded persisted, a dizzying mix of confusion and desire. Was it from the chilling dampness of her clothes, or the heady warmth that Murtasim's touch had ignited in her? Every nerve ending seemed to buzz, her skin hyper-aware of the place where his hands had been, where his lips had claimed hers.

The room was quiet, save for the sound of their ragged breaths. The rich scent of wet earth from their drenched clothing mingled with the faint fragrance of lemon that clung to him. "Murtasim." His name had slipped from her lips as naturally as a breath of air, a whisper lost in the rush of the river outside.

In the dim light, she saw him stiffen, his body suddenly rigid with what she could only interpret as regret.

His hands fell from her face as if her skin had scorched him, and he stepped back, putting distance between them that felt like a chasm. His eyes, those deep wells of emotion that had just been filled with longing, now looked shaken, wide with something akin to panic or dismay.

"Fuck, sorry, I made a mistake, I didn't mean to do that," he said, his voice rough, the words slicing through the remnants of the moment they had shared.

The apology hit her like a cold wave.

A mistake? Was that all it was to him? A slip of control, a lapse in judgment?

The warmth that had cocooned her moments ago was snatched away, replaced by a chill that had nothing to do with her damp attire.

Before she could muster a response, before she could reach out and grasp at the connection that now seemed as fragile as the last threads of light in the room, he was turning on his heel. His retreat was quick, almost desperate, and he headed for the sanctuary of the bathroom, leaving her alone with the echo of what might have been.

The chill of the room did little to cool the heat that flushed through Meerab's veins as she touched her lips, a disbelieving gesture. They felt swollen from the intensity of Murtasim's kiss, a testament to the reality of the moment they had shared, she conjured it up. He had kissed her.

He had kissed her with a passion that belied the calm, collected facade he always presented.

It wasn't a tentative brush of lips she might have expected for a first kiss—no, it was consuming, a deep, desperate melding that spoke of raw emotion and unspoken truths. His kiss had been a surrender, an upheaval.

Her heart still raced, pounding against her ribcage, a drumbeat echoing the turmoil within. The imprint of his lips lingered, a ghostly sensation that made her shiver anew. The rough scrape of his beard against her skin had been an unexpected thrill, each touch engraving itself into her memory.

Leaning heavily against the cool wall, she struggled to gather her wits. She needed to compose herself, to wash away the evidence of their stolen intimacy before anyone could see. With legs that felt more like unsteady fawns than her own, she made her way to the other bathroom, a sanctuary in the midst of chaos.

The sight that greeted her in the mirror halted her in her tracks. The woman staring back at her was a stranger, one with flushed cheeks, bright, wild eyes, and lips parted and reddened from a kiss that was anything but simple. This was the face of a woman awakened, a woman desired. It was the face of a woman who had been kissed thoroughly, passionately—and then rejected, left to grapple with the aftermath alone.

As the reality settled in, a cold knot formed in her stomach. Murtasim had kissed her, yes, but then he had recoiled, retreated, branded the act a mistake. He had run from her as if she were the source of a great and terrible peril. The contradiction of it all—his heated kiss followed by a cold withdrawal—left her feeling unmoored, adrift in a sea of confusion and yearning.

She reached for the tap, turning it on, letting the sound of running water fill the silence. The mirror bore witness to her transformation, from elation to heartache, within mere moments. The warmth of his coat on her shoulders now felt like a heavy shroud, a reminder of what she had tasted so briefly, and what she feared she might never taste again.

Her thoughts spun, a maelstrom of questions and dawning realizations, but one thought stood clear amongst the turmoil: he had kissed her, but he hadn't meant to.

And that realization was more shattering than any cold river could ever be.

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A/N: Sooooooooo, what do you think? What was your favourite part? And what do you think will happen next? For anyone wanting to show joote this way, I accept Manolo Blahniks or Jimmy Choos in a size EU 40! Much love, xoxo!