Until It Was Real

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧

Saturday Night ....

After a week full of emotional drama.

Dinner was done, the elders had retreated to their caves of peace...including Nouran Api, Zaarib bhai, Ayyan bhai and yes, even Mr. Grey-Eyed.

Which left just us: Zayyan Bhai, Zaviyaar, Inaya, Ruman Api, Laiba, Rayyan Bhai, Aaliya, Ayat, and of course, me...the glue holding this circus together.

"Okay but like... what now?" Ayat groaned dramatically, collapsing onto the floor like the world betrayed her.

"We already played four rounds of carrom and no one flipped the board," Zaviyaar said, shocked at our sudden maturity.

"Only because I was winning," I tossed a popcorn at him.

"You cheated!" Laiba argued.

"Prove it," I grinned, stretching like a lazy cat on the carpet, twirling my scarf around my fingers.

The room was alive with cousin chaos, but it lacked the spice. And then a bulb went off in my head so bright I'm surprised I didn't scream.

I sat up, a mischievous smile crawling on my face.

"Let's play Truth or Dare," I said with a glint in my eye.

Eight heads turned toward me like I just dropped the plot twist of the season.

Rayyan Bhai grinned. "Finally. The real party begins."

Everyone screamed in agreement.

Laiba went first. "Okay," said Aaliya, trying not to laugh. "Go to the kitchen, ask the chef for an ice cube, bring it back here—"

"Not scary yet," She said, arms crossed.

"—and then loudly pretend it's your life coach and give us the advice it tells you."

She stared at her. "You're not okay."

"We never were," Ruman said proudly.

Ten minutes later She returned, dramatically holding up the ice cube like it was a sacred artifact.

"O wise ice," She whispered, kneeling. "Tell me.....was it a red flag when he ordered his steak well done?"

The room BURST into laughter.

"It says yes," She nodded solemnly. "And also? He had three podcast playlists. Not one. Three. All about 'unlocking masculine energy.'"

Zaviyaar nearly fell off the bean bag. "STOP, I CAN'T brEATHE."

Ruman Api being dared to prank call her old tuition teacher and ask for a refund because "she still doesn't understand algebra."

Zayyan Bhai had to text "I'm pregnant" to our family WhatsApp group and then leave the group. We were laughing so hard someone actually did choke.

Ayat being asked to act like a lost tourist and ask the house guard if he speaks French.

Rayyan Bhai...our poor, respectable finance dude...being forced to dance to Kala Chashma in complete seriousness while we all acted like backup dancers. I wish I was joking.

"I've never seen a more offbeat moonwalk," Zaviyaar commented, shaking his head like a disappointed father.

Rayyan Bhai flopped onto the beanbag. "I'm deleting all your phone numbers after tonight."

"Can't delete family, bro," I replied sweetly.

"You're adopted."

"I wish."

Then came Zaviyaar's dare...and it was gold.

"Inaya," Aaliya said with her evil little grin, "you're giving him this one."

Inaya blinked slowly like a villain. "Zaviyaar... call a pet store right now. Tell them your pet iguana just went missing, and he only responds to 'Shahrukh Khan.'"

I CHOKED.

He stared in disbelief. "What?"

"You heard her," Ayat said, nearly crying from laughter.

Zaviyaar sighed, pulled out his phone, and Googled a number.

Speaker on.

Ring ring.

"Hello, City Pets?"

"Hi. Uh. Yes. I need to report a missing... iguana."

Silence on the other end. Then a cautious: "Sorry, what?"

"Iguana. His name is Shahrukh Khan. He's green. Moody. Likes heat lamps. He escaped out the window and we're worried he'll... dance in traffic."

By now, we were howling. Inaya had collapsed into Laiba's lap. I was on the floor, tears streaming down my face.

The poor shop employee was fully invested. "Sir, do you have a picture?"

"Yeah. But he only responds if you say, 'K-k-kiran.' Please spread the word."

Click. The guy hung up.

We screamed.

Zaviyaar threw a cushion at Inaya. "You're all banned from my wedding."

"If you ever get married," Laiba muttered.

We kept going. Each round louder, dumber, funnier.

Ruman had to speak in Shakespearean English for 10 minutes.

Aaliya had to paint someone's nails blindfolded (Ayat still has green polish in her hair).

Ayat had to propose to the wall.

Zayyan Bhai had to rap Twinkle Twinkle like Eminem.

I dared Inaya to send "I'm craving halwa" to her male coworker at 11 p.m. She did. He replied with a thumbs up.

Then, finally...

It happened.

My turn.

Ruman turned to me slowly. Her eyes gleaming. The entire circle paused.

"Zoya," she purred. "Truth or dare?"

"Dare."

Ruman Api.

Sitting like an evil mastermind. Grinning like the Joker with better skin.

"Oh no," I said.

"Oh yes," she replied sweetly. "Zoya dear... your dare is..."

Everyone leaned in.

I held my breath.

"...go to Zaigham Bhai's room."

"NOPE." I stood. "Out. I'm not doing that. Disqualified. Next."

Ruman Api raised her brow. "Are you scared?"

"Of what? Him? No! Please."

"Then prove it. Walk into your husband's room and whisper something romantic into his ear."

The room exploded.

Screaming. Applause. Gasps. Someone fake-fainted.

"WHAT?!" I yelled. "I AM NOT—"

"You're married, Zoya," Ruman said, sipping her Sprite like royalty. "Use your rights."

"This is abuse."

Ayat was already pushing me toward the staircase. "Go. Go! We believe in you!"

"Believe in me for what?! I'm going to die!"

Rayyan Bhai shouted behind me, "Best of Luck, Zoya!"

Final Round. The Dare. The Disaster.

I climbed the stairs like I was walking toward any wrestling arena.

Except... slightly more dressed up.

Everyone downstairs was still cackling like cartoon villains.

I stood outside his door. Took a deep breath.

Knocked.

"Come in."

Oh no. Oh no no no—

I stepped inside.

And paused.

Because sweet mercy, what in the Greek tragedy of temptation is this?

Zaigham Khan was standing by the window, wearing a grey tank top and black sweatpants, glasses perched low on his nose, veins flexing across his forearms like sculpted threats.

His hair slightly messy. His jaw shadowed. His posture relaxed but commanding.

I blinked. Twice.

Was this my husband or the trailer of a very illegal Netflix series?

He looked over. Calm. "Zoya?"

I swallowed. "Hi."

His brows rose slightly. "Is something wrong?"

Yes. My sanity.

"Nope," I lied. "Everything's... horrifyingly fine."

He turned fully toward me, one hand still holding a book, muscles shifting beneath that tank top like a problem.

I walked toward him. Slowly.

You've got this, Zoya. You've watched dramas. You are the drama. It's just a stupid dare.

Except I got to him and forgot what language was.

So I just stood there like a malfunctioning NPC.

He looked down at me. "Zoya. Say something."

Right. Say the line.

I tiptoed closer, heart drumming like a tabla solo. Still too short. Ya Allah, the height difference.

So I did what any wildly unstable person would do.

I stepped onto his feet. What the hell zoya?!

He blinked. Didn't even flinch. Just placed a steady hand on my waist to balance me.

OH.MY.ALLAH.

"What are you doing?" he asked, voice lower now, curiosity mixing with quiet amusement.

"Living my worst decisions," I muttered.

He tilted his head.

Before I could back out...I leaned in.

And whispered near his ear:

"You smell so good, dear husband.Like danger... and a storm of spices wrapped in deep, woody vanilla."

He froze.

Then looked down at me, expression unreadable. His grey eyes boring into mine.

I panicked. Started backing away—

But he caught my wrist. Gently. Pulled me back.

I stumbled right into his chest.

Solid. Warm.

"What was that, Mrs. Khan?" he asked, voice dropping like it had no brakes.

"I—I—"

"Is this a new habit?" he murmured, dangerously close. "Storming into my room to whisper compliments?"

I looked up. Wide-eyed. "I—It was just—like—not even—You're distracting, okay?"

"Oh?" He leaned a little closer. "What part exactly?"

Please. Sir. This is a dare. I didn't sign up for cardiac arrest.

I fumbled. "The...biceps—wait what?! l-let me go."

He smirked. Again. After that day. Oh my!

Soft. Low. Like I was entertainment.

"You're not going to tell me what this is about, are you?" he asked, eyes glinting.

"Nope," I said, trying to wriggle out of his grip.

"Then I'll assume you missed me."

"I did not!"

"Liar."

"Excuse me, Honeybun," I snapped, immediately regretting everything.

He stilled. Blinked.

"I'm sorry—WHAT?"

"I didn't mean that!" I shrieked, horrified. "It slipped out! I meant—husband! Just—husband!"

He tilted his head. "Honeybun."

"I swear I will jump out of this window—"

But he was already near to smiling, dangerously amused. "You called me honeybun?"

"NEVER."

"You just did."

I was red. Crimson. Strawberry jam in a human form.

I pushed away dramatically. "Forget this happened. Erase it from your memory. Delete the entire file."

"Forgetting is not in my dictionary Mrs. Khan," he said, turning back to his shelf.

WHAT?!

I fled the room before I could combust.

Ran down the stairs.

I walked into the lounge like a war survivor.

Everyone screamed. "TELL US!"

I collapsed onto Ayat's lap. "I need therapy."

Rayyan Bhai threw popcorn at me. "Did you do it?!"

"Possibly. Maybe not."

Laiba screeched, "YOU WHISPERED A POEM?!"

"No! It was worse! It was freestyle chaos!"

Ruman Api was just sipping her Sprite again. "I ship it."

"Stop shipping it! I nearly DIED."

Inaya laughed, "You're blushing!"

"I'm overheating from embarrassment!"

And yet... deep down, a tiny part of me was not entirely mad.

Maybe.

Sort of.

Not the point.

"Next round," I groaned. "And nobody dare me again."

Ayat winked. "We'll see."

"AYAT!"

She ran out.

She ran like she'd stolen something... and maybe, she had.

Sanity. Peace. My ability to function like a normal, unaffected human being.

I stood still, back leaning against the shelf. The book in my hand long forgotten. That ridiculous line still echoing in my head—

You smell so good, dear husband. Like danger... and a storm of spices wrapped in deep, woody vanilla.

Spices?

What the hell even—?

I huffed out a laugh under my breath.

It was the most weird compliment I'd ever received. But it had her stamp all over it.

Her.

A walking disaster with zero filter.

I should've dismissed tonight's moment as just another stunt. A silly dare. That was all it was... wasn't it?

Then why—

Why did it linger?

Why did her voice, that tiny breathless whisper, feel like it carved space in my chest?

Why the hell did I hold her when she stepped on my feet instead of stepping away?

I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck.

What's happening to me?

I don't entertain chaos.

I don't like chaos.

I avoid it. Like every man should.

Yet here I am, standing in the middle of my room, heart still a little uneven, wondering.

Ya Allah.

I was spiraling.

All because of her.

All because of Zoya.

My fingers tightened over the edge of the desk as I leaned slightly, trying to clear my head.

It was a dare. A joke.

She probably lost a round of whatever nonsense game they were playing downstairs.

That's all it was.

Still... she didn't have to come.

Didn't have to whisper it like that.

Didn't have to look at me with those wide, hesitant eyes like she was trying to figure me out too.

What are you doing to me, Zoya?

This isn't supposed to happen.

I don't get flustered.

Not by anyone.

But I was.

I felt that tremble when she got close. I noticed her voice breaking. Her hands fidgeting at my chest. And Ya Allah help me, I noticed the way she looked at me. Like I was hers.

Of course you are.

The voice in my head said.

And for a second, I wanted to be.

I sat on the edge of the bed, jaw tight.

How did we go from barely speaking civilly to this?

I shook my head, eyes falling to the floor.

Get a grip, man.

And yet—

It felt like a warning.

A warning that maybe...just maybe...I was already in too deep.

This is it.

I'm never showing my face again. Ever.

I'll move to the laundry room. Or the attic. Or maybe dig a tunnel to the neighbour's basement.

I groaned, flipping onto my side for the tenth time in the past hour. My fairy lights blinked mockingly from the corner of the wall.

Why did I say that?

"You smell so good, dear husband...Like danger... and a storm of spices wrapped in deep, woody vanilla."

What the hell, Zoya.

I clutched my pillow and smacked it against my face, as if I could physically beat the memory out of my brain.

He didn't even react.

No, because that man doesn't react like normal people. He stares. Silently. With those greys that look straight through your soul while you're melting on the spot like a snowman in July.

And don't even get me started on how he looked.

Tank top. Muscles. That watch on his wrist. The glasses.

What crime did I commit to deserve being married to someone who looks like a walking Calvin Klein billboard?

He had to stand there looking like a black-and-white fever dream while I stood on his foot like a lunatic whispering about his cologne.

I sighed dramatically and turned again, now flat on my back, arms stretched like I'd just given up on life.

And to top it off...he held me.

That moment when I almost slipped?

His hand around my waist, like it wasn't even a big deal. Like I hadn't just committed social suicide five seconds ago.

And then—

Oh Allah.

He pulled me back when I tried to run.

I sat up suddenly, clutching my pillow. "He caught my arm," I whispered to myself like it was breaking news. "He literally pulled me back and asked...'What was that, Mrs. Khan?'"

Mrs. Khan.

I buried my face into the pillow again, squealing into it until I nearly suffocated.

This can't be real.

This isn't real.

This is a prank, a dream, an alternate timeline where I have zero dignity.

Just then, from the other side of the bed, a muffled voice broke through my mental crisis.

"Zoya," Laiba groaned, clearly done with life. "Shut. Up. And sleep like a human instead of squealing like a monkey in a high school musical."

I froze mid-squeal.

"Laiba," I whispered. "I'm having a crisis."

"Good for you. Have it silently. Some of us are trying to be normal."

"I can't sleep."

"Then get married in the morning again and fix it. Now zip it before I throw my slipper at your head."

"...you'd miss."

"Try me."

I flopped onto my pillow, defeated. "You're heartless."

"And you're loud."

1:57 AM

Okay.

So maybe sleepless and starving were my new personality traits now.

I threw the blanket off me and stared at the ceiling like it had the answers to my very dramatic existence.

"I'm just gonna go eat something. Not because I'm avoiding thinking about my very own handsome husband. Nope. Just vibes and midnight cravings," I whispered to no one.

Tiptoeing out of the room like a rebellious raccoon, I crept down the stairs, cursing every squeaky step that made me feel like I was robbing my own house.

The house was dark and silent...too silent, actually...and the kitchen was barely lit by the small stove light glowing over the countertop.

Perfect. Peace. Solitude. Me, my bread, and peanut butter.

I pushed the door open, yawning, still rubbing my eyes...and that's when I saw it.

A silhouette. Broad. Tall. Moving.

EXCUSE ME?

I let out an instant high-pitched scream that could've broken glass...until a warm hand immediately shot out and clamped over my mouth, the other arm pinning me gently but firmly against the fridge door.

I nearly died. Right there.

My soul left my body, filed a restraining order, and started writing an obituary.

Who grabs people in the kitchen like this at night?! This isn't a Netflix thriller!

"Why," the silhouette said, voice calm and tired and way too close to my face, "are you always screaming, woman?"

The fridge light flickered on at the same moment. His hand dropped.

And there they were....those grey eyes I'd started recognizing faster than my own reflection.

Zaigham.

Of course.

"What...are you...some kind of shadow ninja?! I thought you were a burglar!"

He arched a brow. "In my own house?"

I slapped a hand to my chest. "Sir. I nearly swallowed my heartbeat."

He didn't flinch. Just sipped his coffee like I hadn't just had a complete breakdown. "You're the one sneaking around at 2 AM."

"I was hungry, not committing a heist!"

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "You sure? Because the way you screamed, it sounded like you were plotting a murder."

My jaw dropped. "Okay wow. Look at you suddenly being funny."

He didn't even smile. Classic. Just stood there.

I blinked, trying to collect the scattered pieces of my soul.

Also...wait.

Why were we this close? Again?

I squinted up at him and whispered suspiciously, "Aren't you getting a little too touchy-touchy with me?"

He looked down at me, deadpan. "You're the one who always comes running into me."

"Running? Hello? I was cornered against a fridge five seconds ago like a lost potato."

His lips twitched. He wouldn't admit it...but I swear he was trying not to laugh.

Then he leaned in slightly, eyes scanning my face. "You're awfully energetic for someone who nearly passed out from embarrassment a few hours ago."

I immediately regretted all my life choices.

"You....remember that?" I mumbled, one eye twitching.

"You mean the part where you stood on my foot, whispered something about my cologne, and tried to flee like a criminal? Yeah. Hard to forget."

Oh my Allah. "I think I'm gonna throw myself in the oven." I muttered.

He looked amused now, sipping his coffee again like he was watching his favourite TV show. "Try not to. Someone has to finish that bread you came for."

I crossed my arms, stepping aside dramatically and reaching for the fridge. "You know, you're surprisingly annoying when you're not being cold and silent."

I huffed, grabbing a slice of bread and trying to ignore the fact that he was still very much in the room. "I hope you know this was all a trap."

He raised a brow. "The midnight sandwich?"

"No. You. Showing up and standing in perfect lighting and pretending you're not ruining my peace."

He leaned back on the counter, his beautiful grey eyes fixed on me in that unreadable way. "I was making coffee."

"In a movie-scene setup," I muttered.

"Coincidence."

I glared. "Stop being attractive everytime. It's disrespectful."

I put a hand on my mouth. Why are you so impulsive, Zoya?!

He finally smirked.

OH NO.

Brain? Gone.

Appetite? Gone.

Sanity? Also gone.

Just me and my sad peanut butter toast while my husband looked like he'd just walked off a Vogue shoot with a mug in his hand.

"And stop smirking like that," I grumbled.

"I'm not," he said calmly, sipping again.

"You are."

"Maybe it's the coffee."

"It's your face."

He blinked slowly. "Thanks?"

I slapped the bread down. "I'm going back upstairs. Before I say something even more humiliating."

"Too late."

I groaned, spinning toward the door. "You're impossible."

"And you're loud," he replied dryly.

I turned back around with a hand on my hip. "You love it."

He didn't respond.

Just sipped his coffee with a very faint smirk still tugging at his lips.

And my heart did that stupid flipping thing again as I marched out of the kitchen, promising to never, ever come downstairs again at night.

Unless I was sleepwalking.

To be Continued.....