๐๐ก๐๐ฉ๐ญ๐๐ซ ๐ ๐ข๐ฏ๐
It was another "typical" day at the office, which meant Zoya Khan was a walking whirlwind of energy, noise, and zero concept of inside voice.
She entered the workspace dramatically, balancing a giant tote bag on one arm, a stack of client files in the other, and holding a dangerously full cup of espresso in between like a circus act.
"Make way, make way, caffeine courier coming through!" she sang, dodging interns and desks with impossible grace for someone in heels.
The office staff had long since accepted that Zoya operated on her own chaotic frequency. No one questioned it anymore.
"Good morning, Mr. Edward!"
"Hi Zoey! Love your scrunchie today."
"Kabir Bhai, fix your tie before Mr. Akroo Khan makes it his personality trait."
Giggles followed her trail.
Finally, she reached his office.
She exhaled dramatically and pushed open the door without knocking, as usual.
"Your espresso, Mr. Khan," she declared with mock solemnity. "May it bless your soul and unfreeze your corporate heart."
Zaigham didn't look up from the file spread neatly in front of him. "You're late."
"Only by three minutes and I brought coffee. That cancels it out."
"Punctuality isn't a pizza coupon, Zoya."
She snorted and walked toward the desk, balancing the espresso and the file in her arms, humming a random jingle from a shampoo ad.
But just as she reached the edge of the deskโ
Her heel slipped slightly, catching on the edge of the rugโ
She stumbled forwardโ
The cup of espresso flewโ
SPLASH.
Brown liquid splattered across the pristine file in front of Zaigham. Some spilled onto her hand, scalding hot.
"Aaahโouch!" she yelped, dropping the file and shaking her hand furiously. "Ow ow ow owโit's hotโ"
She looked up, still blinking through the burn, and froze.
His face.
Was stone.
Dead silent.
Zaigham stared at the espresso-covered file like she'd just committed a federal crime.
Thenโ
"What did you do, Miss Khan."
His voice was low. Dangerous.
She looked at her hand again, slightly red. "IโI didn't mean toโmy heel slippedโ"
"I ASKED WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!" he roared suddenly, slamming the desk with both hands.
She flinched.
Everyone outside the glass office paused.
"DO YOU EVEN HAVE ANY IDEA HOW IMPORTANT THIS FILE WAS?"
"WE DON'T EVEN HAVE A SPARE COPY OF THIS! THIS WAS THE ONLY FINAL DRAFTโ"
"I said I didn't mean toโ" she whispered, eyes wide.
"YOU KNOW WHAT, ZOYA? YOU ARE NOT ONLY RECKLESS BUT CARELESS AND IRRESPONSIBLE."
"A LITERAL KID. IT'S LIKE HANDLING A TODDLER IN THE WORKPLACE."
Her mouth opened slightly, stunned.
"I trusted you with one thing this morning. ONE. To bring coffee and not set the office on fire. AND YOU STILLโ"
She winced again and glanced at her burnt hand.
"YOU'RE TWENTY-TWO. GROWN UP. ACT LIKE IT. GET SOME SENSE INTO THAT SMALL brAIN."
Tears had started brimming in her eyes. She wasn't saying anything now.
Her throat tightened, her mouth trembling, hand still stinging from the burn...but nothing hurt more thanโ
"I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW I'M SUPPOSED TO SPEND A LIFETIME WITH SUCH AN IMMATURE, IRRESPONSIBLE GIRL!"
Dead. Silence.
Even he went still.
She blinked at him, eyes wide and glistening, lips parting to say something, but nothing came out.
Instead, a single tear rolled down her cheek.
Her eyes dropped from his to the ruined file, to her burnt fingers... and then she turned on her heelโ
And ran out the door.
The sound of the door banging shut echoed like thunder.
The room was too quiet.
His own words rang in his ears louder than anything else.
He exhaled sharply, eyes falling to the espresso-stained pages in front of him, ruined, yes, but suddenly, they didn't feel worth it.
His gaze shifted to the chair she'd just been in.
And then to the cup on the floor.
Then her laptop. She'd dropped it too in the chaos. Her tote still hung on the side of the chair.
She didn't even take her bag.
He slowly sat back in his chair, the anger draining fast, replaced by a cold weight in his chest.
She was hurt.
And he had shouted.
And the worst part... her tears.
He clenched his jaw.
Zaigham. What the hell did you just do.
He pushed back the chair, stood up, his pulse erratic.
The guilt was instant. But not shallow.
She was chaotic, yes. Loud, ridiculous, full of drama, but she was trying. Always. And she cared.
She'd brought coffee. She'd limped in despite her heel slipping.
And she got burned.
And instead of checking her hand, he'd torn her down.
He rubbed his face with both hands.
"I'm such an idiot."
He stood up and left the room with quick strides.
I sat in the corner of the rooftop, knees pulled to my chest, chin buried in my arms.
My hand still stung like fire, but honestly? That wasn't the reason my eyes were burning.
It was the words.
The tone.
The way he said "I don't even know how I'm going to spend life with someone like you."
Like I was some mistake he couldn't return.
And then-
Thump thump thump.
Footsteps. Fast. Sharp.
My stomach dropped.
Don't be him. Please don't be him.
As he reached the rooftop, slightly out of breath, his eyes locked on her instantly.
There she was.
Curled up in a corner. Arms hugging her knees. Shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. And for the first time, something unfamiliar gripped his chest.
A sinking, heavy kind of ache.
He'd made her cry.
Zoya.
The girl who didn't know how to sit still. Who filled silences with loud opinions and bad jokes. Who barged into his life like she belonged there... and maybe she did.
But right now, she was just small. And hurt. And silent.
His footsteps slowed. Words hovered near his mouth but didn't come out. He wasn't used to this, soft moments. Vulnerable people. Feelings.
Still, his voice came, low and awkward.
"Zoya..."
She didn't look up. Just tightened her arms around herself.
"P-Please go away. I don't want to talk to you right now," she whispered. Her voice cracked, and she wiped her face with her sleeve.
He exhaled, crouching beside her, slowly, cautiously.
"Zoya... please look at me."
Please.
Even the word felt foreign on his tongue. Pleading? He never pleads. He commands. Orders. But now... now he just wanted her to look at him.
And she did.
And his heart twisted painfully.
Her eyes were always so bright. But now? Now they were dull. Watery. And they blamed him.
"I didn't mean what I said," he muttered. "Any of it."
She stared at him, not convinced.
"You said you don't even know how you will survive with me," she said. Her voice was quiet but sharp. "That I'm immature. That I'm not serious enough."
His mouth parted, as if he had something to say... but nothing came. He blinked, then looked away. Jaw tense.
"I said it in anger."
"That makes it okay?"
"No," he said instantly. Quietly. "It doesn't. And I...I am sorry."
That made her shocked because he just apologized to her, the man who doesn't even repeat his words second time.
She looked at him for a long beat, brows furrowed. "So you do think I'm a handful?"
He hesitated. "...You are."
Her mouth opened in disbelief.
"Butโ" he continued quickly, "you're my handful."
Zoya's jaw dropped. "Are you... trying to be romantic right now? Because wow. Terrible timing."
He actually let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Almost.
"You drive me crazy," he admitted.
"Well, you drive everyone crazy," she shot back, sniffing. "So I guess we're even."
He turned to her again, more serious now. "You're not a kid, Zoya. You're not careless. And you're not someone I regret being... connected to."
"Connected to," she repeated blankly. "You make it sound like we're stuck in a group project."
He pressed his lips together, suppressing what might have been a smile.
She studied him for a second. "So... you don't hate me?"
"No."
"You don't like me being your wife?"
He stiffened. Eyes flicked to hers, startled.
"IโI didn't say thatโ"
"But you didn't say no."
His throat bobbed in a hard swallow. "Zoya..."
Her voice softened. "Just answer."
He stared at her. His brows twitched, almost like the words physically hurt to admit, but they came.
"I... want this marriage to work."
That silenced her. Completely.
She blinked. "Okay... that was, wow. A big deal for you, huh?"
He didn't reply. Just looked away, clearly uncomfortable.
Zoya smiled faintly, tear marks still streaked on her cheeks. "You're terrible at this."
"At what?"
"This. Feelings. Talking. Apologizing."
She tilted her head. "But you're trying. I can tell."
He looked back at her then, finally. Eyes steady.
"Promise you won't yell at me like that again," she said.
He looked at her.
"Zaigham."
"I... I promise."
"Swear?"
His brows twitched. "I'm not swearing."
She crossed her arms with a dramatic sniffle. "Then I don't forgive you."
"Zoya."
"Say something nice, then. Anything. You owe me that."
He blinked like she had just asked him to sing opera.
She tilted her head, expectant.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then muttered, "You're... not unbearable."
She gasped. "Wow. I'm swooning."
He sighed. "You're impossible."
But his voice had softened again. And something flickered behind his usually cold eyes.
Then, without warning...she lunged forward and hugged him.
Zaigham froze. Completely. Like someone had hit pause on him.
Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. Her cheek pressed against his chest like it was the most natural place to rest. He had no idea what to do with his hands.
She didn't seem to care.
After a full five seconds, he awkwardly....very awkwardly....lifted one arm and placed it around her. Then the other.
She hugged him so casually but only he knew what was happening to his heart, it was foreign.
"You're weird," she murmured into his shirt. "But I like your weird."
He didn't say anything.
But he didn't let go either.
And when she finally shifted back, her hand brushed too hard against the wall, making her flinch.
He immediately caught her wrist.
"You're hurt?" His brows pulled together as he examined the redness.
"It's fine," she said, wincing.
"It's not," he muttered, frowning. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you were busy... um, being mad at me?"
He shook his head slightly. Frustrated, at himself this time.
"Let's get this treated," he said after a pause, voice calm but firm.
He stood, then extended his hand down to her.
She looked at it like it was a foreign object.
She eyed it suspiciously. "Is this a trap?"
"Zoya," he warned quietly.
He didn't say anything, just waited. And after a beat, she placed her smaller hand into his palm. He closed his fingers around hers and gently pulled her up.
But instead of letting go, his hold got firm on her uninjured hand, as they walked toward the rooftop door.
The silence between them wasn't awkward anymore. It was... something new. Unnamed.
Unknown. And it fluttered gently between their joined hands and his unreadable expression.
Zoya couldn't stop sneaking glances at him.
And Zaigham couldn't ignore the warmth of her hand in his. Or the way his heart hadn't stopped racing since he found her crying.
The walk to his office was quiet. Not the awkward kind...just...unnamed.
Like something was shifting, but neither of them knew what.
Zoya's hand stayed in his the entire time. She didn't question it again. He didn't offer an explanation.
His grip wasn't tight. Just... secure. Careful.
Inside the office, he let go gently and motioned for her to sit near the little glass table. She did, looking around awkwardly.
Zaigham walked over to the cabinet, pulled out a first-aid box, and set it down. His brows were drawn, sharp and focused like always. But she noticed something in his hands.
Hesitation.
He opened the box and pulled out an ointment and bandage. Then walked over, crouching again, just like he had on the rooftop.
"Give me your hand," he said softly.
Zoya blinked. "You will do it yourself?"
He looked up. "Do you see anyone else here?"
She snorted. "What if you mess up and I lose my hand?"
He exhaled slowly, clearly trying to be patient. "Zoya."
"Okay, okay," she gave in, placing her hand in his. "But if it gets infected, I'm suing you and this overpriced office."
He didn't reply.
His fingers held hers firmly, but not rough. She watched his face as he began applying the ointment, his grey eyes narrowed in concentration, lower lip slightly tugged inward.
No one would believe Zaigham Khan was doing this.
Her voice came quiet this time.
"You've never done this before, have you?"
He paused for a second. Then resumed. "No."
"Thought so. You're weirdly... gentle."
He glanced at her, a flicker of something crossing his face. "Is that a problem?"
"No," she said softly, then smiled. "It's just new."
Silence again. Just their breaths and the faint sounds of the city outside.
When he finished wrapping the bandage, he didn't let go right away. His thumb brushed her knuckles once, barely noticeable. Then again, slower.
Zoya swallowed.
His eyes lifted to hers, and this time... he didn't look away.
It wasn't like the earlier gazes. This one longer.
Unspoken words. Unasked questions. A thousand unsorted emotions.
Zoya blinked. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
He didn't answer.
"Do I have something on my face?" she asked again, more nervous now. "Oh my Allah, is it the crying? I must look like a raccoon."
Still nothing.
She shifted in her seat, suddenly self-conscious. "Say something, Zaigham. This silence is starting to feel likeโ"
"You always talk this much?"
That caught her off guard.
Her mouth opened. "I... what? Iโyes? Maybe? Depends on my mood."
"I noticed."
Her heart skipped.
She tried to ignore it. "Well, you always talk this little. You should be charged with emotional withholding or something."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's not a real crime."
"It should be," she whispered.
They stared again. Not awkward. Just real.
Finally, she said, quietly, seriously this time, "Thank you. For this."
"I hurt you. Treating it was the least I could do."
"But you also said sorry. That was... new."
And then..without warning, she leaned forward and gently poked his shoulder.
He blinked. "What was that?"
"Just checking if this is real," she said with a crooked grin. "You're being soft. You never are."
"Maybe it's just you."
That silenced her.
Completely.
For once, Zoya had no words. Just wide eyes.
Zaigham stood then, collecting the first-aid kit and placing it back into the cabinet. Like he hadn't just said something dangerous.
When he turned back, she was still staring at him.
"...What?" he asked, almost awkward now.
"You can't just say things like that and walk away."
He raised a brow. "Why not?"
"Because it messes with my heart rhythm."
That almost-smile returned again. But he turned away to stop it from showing.
I stepped into the house, the dull throb in my hand still there, but not nearly as loud as the way my heart was thudding against my ribs.
Please don't notice. Please don't notice.
Of course, I should've known better.
Laiba's voice hit me first.
"Zoya! What the heck happened to your hand?!"
I froze.
Within seconds, all heads turned.
Mama, already halfway down the stairs.
Ruman api, poking her head out of the kitchen, spoon still in her mouth.
Zaviyaar, lifting his head from his half-dead position on the sofa.
Laiba, walking straight toward me with wide, dramatic eyes.
Zayyan bhai and Rayyan bhai paused whatever game they were playing by the stairs.
Ayat practically teleported to my side.
And thenโ
Zaigham.
Leaning near the far wall, arms folded. Calm. Watching.
I cleared my throat and waved my bandaged hand slightly. "It's nothing, really. Just a small burn."
Mama reached me instantly. "Burn?! How? Where? Let me see!"
I stepped back instinctively. "I swear it's nothing major. Laiba's straightener. I was doing those TikTok curls, okay? Blame my dumb brain."
Laiba frowned. "My straightener hasn't moved from my cupboard for three daysโ"
I kicked her shin, whispering quickly, "Don't snitch."
She squeaked. "Oww! You liar!"
"I'm saving both our reputations. Be quiet."
"Zoya," Ruman api said as she walked in, raising an eyebrow, "since when do you even own a comb, let alone use a straightener?"
"Shut up," I muttered. "I was trying something. Clearly, it went well."
Mama sighed. "Beta, did you put burn cream? Did you disinfect it? I'm going to get Dettolโ"
"NO!" I shouted, a bit too loud. "It's really fine. I've already treated it."
Baba looked up from his spot beside Dada Jaan. "These girls are always up to something. In our days, we didn't experiment with wires and fire."
Dada grunted. "That's because you didn't have TikTok."
Deeda chuckled, shaking her head. "You children will make me old before my time."
"You're already old," I whispered.
"Did you say something, Zoya?" Deeda asked sweetly.
"No, Deeda," I smiled. "Just that you look lovely today."
Layla Chachi stepped into the hallway. "What's all this noise?"
"She burned herself," Laiba reported like a robot on speed.
"I'm fine," I jumped in quickly. "It's minor. I just want food now."
"Can you even hold a spoon?" Ayat snorted.
"I'll eat like a princess. One of you feed me grapes."
Zaarib bhai rolled his eyes. "We're having biryani, not a Greek feast."
"You can mash it and spoon-feed me like an angel," I said dryly.
Aaliya crossed her arms. "You're so dramatic."
"I'm in pain," I said, holding my hand up again. "And hungry. Mostly hungry."
Through all the teasing and chaos, my eyes kept betraying me.
I looked at Zaigham he was sitting silently on the sofa now.
His gaze dipped to my hand, then to my face, and something in his jaw shifted. Just slightly. Like he was biting back words.
I looked away first.
Aayan bhai squinted at me suspiciously. "You sure you burned it with a straightener? Because this looks more like a stove burn."
"She probably tried to boil milk again," Zayyan bhai offered.
"You boil milk once without supervision and everyone loses faith in you," I muttered.
Rayyan chimed in. "You also set off the smoke alarm."
"Okay that was ONE timeโ"
"Twice," Laiba corrected.
"Anyway!" I shouted over them. "I'm starving. Please let me eat before I lose the will to live."
"Don't expect anyone to cut your meat for you," Nouran api warned with a smile.
"I will pay someone to feed me," I declared.
"Inaya might," Aaliya teased. "She's sweeto."
"No, thank you," Inaya said quickly, backing away.
I made my way toward the dining room,
Dinner at the Khan house could easily pass for a mini circus. Or a news channel debate.
Everyone talked over each other, voices loud, hands flying, laughter spilling across the table.
"Zaviyaar, why are you wearing socks with watermelons on them?" Laiba narrowed her eyes. "Are you five?"
"Excuse you, it's called fashion expression," he retorted, stuffing his mouth with biryani.
"Expression of what? A fruit salad?"
Ayat giggled. "I think they're cute. Childish, but cute."
Meanwhile, Haneen was moving around the table like a waitress who hadn't been paid in years.
"Zayyan, take more curry. Inaya, why are you only eating rice? That's not a proper mealโ"
"Chachi, it's literally a mountain of riceโ"
"Eat protein, beta. You're turning into a stick."
"I like being a stick," she mumbled.
In the middle of this chaos sat Zoya, silent, smiling on autopilot, pushing food around on her plate.
Her fingers still throbbed beneath the bandage, each movement of the spoon a small punishment. She tried switching hands, only to send her roti almost flying into Aayan's glass.
"Wow, Zoya," he deadpanned. "Trying to assassinate me?"
She gave a mock innocent look. "Oops. My hand slipped."
"Sure it did."
Nobody questioned her sudden loss of appetite. No one asked about her bandage.
Except one person.
Zaigham's eyes hadn't left her once.
He sat silently across from her, sipping water, occasionally nodding to a conversation, but never really looking away from her.
Not when she flinched trying to pick up her spoon.
Not when she winced as curry touched the side of her burn.
Not even when she put down her spoon with a tight-lipped smile and stood up.
"I have a presentation to prepare, guys," she chirped, voice slightly too cheerful. "Important stuff. Deadlines. Big words. You won't understand."
"Excuses, excuses," Rayyan muttered.
Zoya fake-smiled and walked off, tossing her napkin like a soap opera heroine.
Nobody followed.
Except his gaze.
Zoya's Room โ Later That Night.......
Her stomach was staging a full-blown protest by now.
She lay on her bed with a cushion behind her back, laptop open, document blank, face twisted in dramatic suffering.
"Why didn't I eat?" she groaned aloud. "Oh right. Because my hand is basically fried chicken now."
The hunger pangs intensified.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway.
She didn't look up. "Laiba, I swear if you're here to ask for my charger again, I will bite you. I am literally starving. You didn't even offer to feed me like a good sister after seeing I couldn't eat. Heartless woman."
The footsteps came closer.
Still didn't look up. "If you think I'll be moved by your guilt, you're wrong. I'm this close to throwing you out the window and writing a passive-aggressive post about it online."
Still closer.
She finally turned with a groan, hand raised mid-rant. "Listen, I know I can be dramatic butโ"
And froze.
It wasn't Laiba.
Zaigham stood in the doorway, holding a plate of food and a glass of water.
Her eyes widened. Her voice? Gone.
He stepped inside without a word and set the plate gently on the table beside her laptop.
"You didn't eat," he said simply.
She stared at the food. Then at him.
"How do you even- were you spying on me? That's creepy. You're creepy."
No response.
"You're like... weirdly silent all the time. You don't talk, you just appear like a Victorian ghost and do stuff. It's unsettling."
Still nothing.
"Also, you didn't bring dessert. So... minus points."
He picked up the spoon and sat beside her.
She blinked. "Wait, what are youโ?"
"You said you couldn't eat," he said without looking at her.
"Yeah, because burnt fingers. Remember the whole pain-and-suffering vibe I had going on?"
"Then I'll feed you."
Pause.
Stare.
"Excuse me, what?"
He met her eyes calmly. "I'll feed you."
She looked at him, then at the spoon in his hand, then at the plate like it was bomb.
"This is weird."
He scooped up a bite of rice and brought it toward her.
She stared again. "Zaigham Khan. Mr. Silent Moodboard CEO. Feeding me."
His expression didn't shift. "Do you want me to or not?"
"Do I want to? No. Will I allow it because I'm dying of hunger? Yes."
He didn't even flinch.
The first bite reached her lips.
She hesitated. Then opened her mouth.
A second later, she chewed slowly.
"This doesn't make us friends," she mumbled, her mouth full.
"Okay."
"And I still think you're emotionally blocked."
"Okay."
"And you still haven'tโ"
"Eat."
She sulked but opened her mouth again.
After three more bites, she muttered, "I can't believe you're doing this. This is like... husband material energy. Not that I'm giving you any points."
He glanced at her. "I didn't ask for points."
"You're still not getting any."
Another pause.
She swallowed. "Why are you like this?"
"Like what?"
"Silent. Stoic. Emotionally unavailable."
He didn't respond for a beat.
She went quiet.
Then smiled, just a little.
"You're lucky I'm adorable."
He exhaled through his nose. "That's debatable."
Zoya gasped. "Rude!"
She looked at him between bites, eyes softer now. Watching the way his fingers moved carefully, how he didn't rush. How his thumb rested lightly on the spoon's handle as he steadied the food near her mouth.
The way his gaze flicked to her lips when she ate.
Something about this felt... intimate.
Too Foreign.
Too new.
Too much.
To be Continued.....