𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was... not sunlight. Not the ceiling.
It was him.
My husband. Still in bed. Lying on his side, eyes closed, breathing all calm and perfect like a man with zero stress in life.
Meanwhile, my heart was a dhol.
Okay. Chill, Zoya. He's just a person. A normal, very normal—ugh why does his hair look like that in the morning?! That is illegal. I want to run my hand in his hair.
His jawline doing that... jawline thing. His lips were....oh wow okay STOP looking at his lips, Zoya.
I chewed my lip nervously. But like... they're just... there. All... symmetrical and...Astaghfirullah. Go read Ayatul Kursi, sis. You're embarrassing yourself.
I inched closer, carefully, like a National Geographic documentary narrator. Observe the wild Zaigham in his natural habitat. Look at the sharp nose. The eyelashes...Mashallah. What kind of genetics—
"You're staring."
My soul left my body. "WHAT?!"
His voice was low, rough with sleep, and when I looked up, his eyes were open, fixed on me.
"I said..." He blinked lazily. "...you're staring at me."
"Yes." I nodded rapidly. "People... sometimes stop breathing in their sleep. I was making sure you weren't dead."
A pause. Then that deep voice, calm as a lake. "Appreciate your concern."
"Anytime," I muttered, pulling the blanket up to my nose.
Great, Zoya. Smooth.Bravo.
He turned slightly, eyes on me now. "You are always this... dramatic in the morning?"
"Only when people accuse me of staring when I was clearly... doing charity work."
He just stared at me silently, which was worse than words because my brain started doing backflips.
Finally, he said, "You talk too much this early."
"And you talk too little!" I snapped. "What are you, a monk? Do you take a vow of silence every morning?"
One corner of his mouth twitched...the closest thing to a laugh from Mr. Emotionless.
"Where are you going?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
"To get ready."
"Already?!" I grabbed his arm without thinking. "No, no, no... five more minutes."
What are you doing, Zoya?!
He looked down at my hand on his arm, then at me, completely unbothered. "Five minutes for what?"
"I don't know!" I said desperately. "For... breathing exercises. Quality bonding time. Marriage is about... conversations."
"Conversations?" he repeated, deadpan.
"Yes!" I scrambled for ideas. "Like... uh... how's the weather? Did you sleep well? Do you believe aliens exist? Important stuff!"
He stared at me like I'd just announced I was joining a circus. Then: "You're impossible."
"Thank you," I said proudly, then realized it wasn't a compliment. "Wait. No. That sounded rude."
He slid out of the blanket, ignoring my dramatic gasp. "Traitor," I accused, watching him head toward the wardrobe.
"Traitor?" he asked, picking his clothes with infuriating calm.
"Yes. Leaving your wife behind like this. Who does that?"
"Normal people," he replied without missing a beat.
"Well, I'm not normal!" I shot back.
"Clearly," he muttered under his breath, but I heard it. I threw a pillow at him. He caught it with one hand like some kind of ninja.
"You can't just—ugh!" I flopped back on the bed. "Fine. Go. Abandon me. Leave me to suffer in this cold, cruel world alone."
He didn't even turn. "You have a blanket."
I gasped. "Wow. So much empathy. Nobel Prize level."
He didn't answer, and went to the bathroom. Unbelievable. Heartless. Probably a robot.
When he finally returned, I quickly looked away like I wasn't just mapping his entire jawline in my brain.
Great start to the morning, Zoya. Fantastic. At this rate, you'll either die of embarrassment or... something worse.
I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting my tie, and in the reflection, she was, perched on the bed like a cat who didn't get the milk she wanted. Arms folded. Lips pushed out in a pout.
She hasn't said a word in the last five minutes, which, for Zoya, is... unnatural.
Is she actually angry? Over what? Because I got up before her? Or because I didn't let her hold me hostage in bed?
God, she's ridiculous.
Her hair's all over the place, falling in messy waves down her shoulders. She's glaring at me now. No, not glaring—thinking. That look means trouble. She's plotting something.
"Are you going to keep staring at me like you're planning a crime," I said calmly, buttoning my cuff, "or are you finally going to say whatever's in that head of yours?"
Nothing. She just turned her face away with the most dramatic eye roll I've ever seen.
Cute. Annoying. But cute.
She huffed. Crossed her legs. Picked up her phone, tapped the screen, and put it back down without looking. Twice.
I swear, this girl doesn't know how to sulk quietly. It's like she wants me to notice without actually saying it.
And... I do notice. Every little thing. The way her fingers are drumming on her thigh, the way she bites her lip when she's annoyed or nervous.
Does she even know what that does to me?
I fastened my watch, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw her glance at me again. Quick, like she thought I wouldn't catch it.
"You'll strain your neck," I said casually, sliding the watch on, "if you keep snapping your head to look at me like that."
She froze. Busted. And now she's pretending to check her nails.
I slipped my jacket on slowly, watching her from the mirror. She's really committed to the act—head tilted, fingers stretched, studying invisible imperfections like her life depends on it.
"You don't even have nail polish on," I said flatly.
Her head snapped toward me. Too fast. She bit her lip, caught off guard, and then—of course—rolled her eyes again like I'm the one overanalyzing life.
"I wasn't... looking at you," she mumbled, chin tilted up.
I walked toward her—slow, deliberate. Each step made her straighten a little more on the bed, like a deer watching a lion approach.
"Good," I said, stopping in front of her. "Because if you were, you'd have to admit something."
Her brows knit together. "Admit what?"
"That you missed me," I replied, my voice low.
Her lips parted. She blinked, once, twice, like her brain needed time to process. "Wha—I—No! I did not miss you! You were literally in the room!"
I tilted my head. "And yet... you've been sulking since I got up."
"I was not sulking." Her voice went up half an octave. She clutched a pillow to her chest like a shield.
"Really?" I rested my hands on either side of her, leaning just enough for her to feel my presence without touching her. "Then what was that look about? The one you gave me. Like you wanted to throw something at me."
Her eyes darted everywhere but mine. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" I asked softly, studying her face. She's trying so hard to hold her ground, but her grip on that pillow is tight, and her cheeks... yeah, they're pink.
I let the silence stretch a beat longer, then said, "You're a terrible liar, Zoya."
She opened her mouth, probably to argue, but I didn't give her the chance. I reached forward and gently tugged the pillow away, tossing it aside. Her gasp was sharp, but I ignored it.
Now there was nothing between us. Just her, sitting there in her soft morning chaos, and me, standing over her like I own every second of this moment.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, because her voice never stays steady when I'm this close.
"Nothing," I said, leaning closer so my breath ghosted against her ear. "Just here for your five minutes, the one you requested before."
Her breath hitched....loud enough for me to hear it. And, if she keeps looking at me like that...wide-eyed, lips parted—I'm going to forget all about breakfast.
"That was um-I-uh—"
I straightened just enough to look into her eyes. She's nervous, but there's something else there too. Something that makes my chest tighten in a way I can't explain.
"You ready to go downstairs?" I asked, my voice calm like I didn't just set her entire brain on fire.
She blinked, then nodded a little too fast. "Y-Yeah."
I smirked faintly. "Good. Let's go."
It was evening when I got back from the office. I had wanted to take the day off, but there was an important meeting I couldn't miss.
Loosening my tie as I stepped inside, I muttered, "Assalam u Alaikum."
Zoya appeared in front of me, her face lit up with a bright smile. "Walaikum Assalam," she replied warmly.
I took off my coat, and she immediately reached out to take it from me. I looked at her my heart fluttered unexpectedly—seeing her perform these little wifely gestures was... something else.
I followed her into the living room where everyone was having coffee.
She handed me a glass of water and sat beside me on the sofa, scrolling through her phone.
I couldn't help but wonder.
What's gotten into her? Looks like Deeda gave her another lecture on how a wife should treat her husband.
Everyone was gossiping, coffee cups on the table...Zaviyaar with his never-ending jokes, Laiba and Aaliya laughing at him. I stayed quiet, taking the single-seater across her.
And then Ibrahim, her maternal cousin.
Of course. The last guest who just wouldn't leave. Always smiling too wide, always talking too much.
And always looking at her.
"Zoyaaa!" He dragged out her name like they had been separated for years, not hours. "Finally, you're free. I thought you were going to ditch us."
She looked up, grinning. "Why would I ditch you?"
He laughed, sliding into the empty spot right next to her, too close.
Way too damn close for my sanity!
I felt my jaw tighten.
She didn't notice. Of course she didn't. She was busy laughing at something he said about the aunties at the walima. Her eyes sparkled, head tilted back slightly, that ridiculous smile on her lips.
And all I could think was: Why the hell is she smiling like that at him?
I picked up the coffee pot from the table...not because I wanted coffee, but because I needed something in my hands before I put them around his neck.
"Want some?" I asked her, my tone calm, smooth.
She turned to me, surprised, because I never asked. "Uh... sure."
I poured slowly, deliberately, pretending not to notice Ibrahim still leaning in, telling her some story about their childhood.
"Remember that time we snuck into the kitchen and stole sheer khorma before Eid dinner?" he was saying, his eyes on her.
She laughed again...louder this time. "Oh my Allah, yes! You got caught and blamed me!"
He grinned. "What else are cousins for?"
I set the cup down in front of her with a little more force than necessary.
"Careful," she muttered, giving me a look.
My eyes flicked to Ibrahim for half a second.
If he noticed, he didn't show it. He kept talking, leaning back like he owned the space. My space.
"So, Zoya," he said casually, "after all this wedding madness, you should come with us for a day out. Just the cousins. Old times, you know?"
I didn't even let her answer.
"She's busy," I said, folding the newspaper open. "Married life. Responsibilities."
She whipped her head toward me, eyes blazing. "Excuse me?"
I glanced at her once, calm.
She narrowed her eyes like she was plotting my murder, then turned back to Ibrahim with that nervous little laugh she does when she's annoyed but pretending she's not.
"We'll see," she said lightly.
I clenched my jaw.
He smirked like he'd just scored a point. Then he had the audacity to lean in again, elbows on the table, grinning at her like they were sharing a damn secret.
"So," he said, his tone full of challenge now, his eyes flicking briefly to me before landing back on her, "when you're done being busy, I'm kidnapping you for a day. Non-negotiable."
The Audacity of this guy.
The conversation went on, but I wasn't listening anymore. I was watching. Every tilt of her head toward him, every time he made her laugh like that—it scraped something raw inside me.
And when his hand brushed deliberately against hers as he reached for the sugar bowl.
That was it!
I set the paper aside, stood up, and looked at her. "Zoya, come with me."
She blinked. "What? Why?"
"Now." My tone left no room for argument.
She muttered something about me being rude but followed anyway, her dupatta trailing as she walked ahead.
The second the door closed behind us in our room, she spun around, eyes flashing. "What is wrong with you?!"
I stepped closer.
"What's wrong with me?" My voice was calm. Too calm. "You tell me, Zoya. Sitting there like—like you didn't even notice him practically breathing down your neck."
Her mouth fell open. "No, he was not, are you—wait—are you jealous?!"
I didn't answer.
"Zaigham—"
"Don't." My voice was low now. "You think this is funny?"
She swallowed hard, her bravado cracking for a second. "I—I was just talking—"
"Laughing," I corrected. "Smiling like—" I stopped, jaw tight. "Like that."
She stared at me, wide-eyed.
"News for you, Mrs. Khan." I leaned in. "That smile? It's mine."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Good. Let her stay quiet for once.
I stepped closer. And closer. Until her back hit the wall with a soft thud. Her breath escaped in a shaky exhale, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
I placed one hand on the wall beside her head. Then the other. Trapping her in. My cage. My space. Ours.
Her eyes went even wider. "Zaigham..."
The way my name broke on her lips almost undid me.
Almost.
I leaned down, close enough that my breath feathered across her skin, making her shiver. My voice dropped to a whisper.
She swallowed hard, her voice barely a tremor. "W-What?"
Her lashes fluttered shut for a second. I didn't stop.
"That laugh you gave him?" My jaw clenched. My voice roughened. "It's mine."
I tilted my head lower, my nose almost brushing her cheek as I whispered near her ear, "That soft look in your eyes when you talked to him?" My mouth hovered a breath away from her skin. "Definitely mine."
Her breath came out fast now, uneven, like her heart couldn't keep up. My own heartbeat was pounding like war drums, but my control stayed razor-sharp.
"This space—" I moved forward an inch, pressing my body just close enough for her to feel the heat, the intent, without touching improperly. "—is mine."
Her hands curled into fists against the wall like she needed something to hold.
"Zaigham..." she whispered again, and this time her voice cracked.
I pulled back just enough to see her face. Her cheeks flushed pink, lips parted as if every breath was a fight.
My eyes dropped to her mouth.
God, those lips.
One second and this entire room would burn.
"Tell me something, Zoya." My voice was soft, but it vibrated with unspoken tension. "Why are you shaking? Afraid of me?"
Her eyes widened, panic and something else flickering there. "N-No..."
"Then what is it?" I leaned in even closer, making her gasp. "Hmm?"
She bit her lip...hard. And my entire body went rigid.
"D-Don't look at me like that," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
"How am I looking at you?" My lips almost touched her ear now.
"Like..." She stopped. Couldn't finish.
I smirked slowly, the tension coiling like a live wire between us. "Like, I want to ruin anyone who even thinks of you? Because that's not a look, Zoya."
My voice was silk over steel. "That's a promise."
Her eyes locked on mine then, and for one charged second, the entire world narrowed.
I lowered my head a fraction more, our lips a whisper apart—
Knock. Knock.
The sound detonated like a bomb in the silence.
We froze. Both of us.
"Bhai?" Rayyan's voice floated from the other side of the door. "Taya Jaan is calling you downstairs!"
I closed my eyes, exhaling through clenched teeth, every nerve screaming in protest.
Slowly, I looked at her. She was still pinned, still trembling, still looking at me like I'd stolen the ground from under her feet.
I leaned in one last time, my mouth grazing her ear, my voice a low growl.
"This conversation isn't over, Mrs. Zoya Zaigham Khan." I whispered.
And then I stepped back, leaving her breathless, her pulse wild, and my own control hanging by a thread after one last glance at her breathless figure as I walked toward the door.
What was that?!
Like, seriously—WHAT was that?
My pulse hasn't slowed down. Forget slowed down—it's still sprinting like Usain Bolt.
My entire body feels like it just ran through a furnace and came out... melted.
The way he looked at me... Ya Allah.
I don't think I'll ever get that look out of my head.
Those grey eyes weren't soft, not even for a second. They were sharp, hard, claiming...like they were speaking a language only my stupid, messed-up heart understood.
And when he said "mine"?
Oh My Allah.
Who even says that in real life?! Who leans in like that, with that voice, like a storm about to hit, and claims you without even touching you?
I thought it only happened in those Wattpad stories.
And why... WHY did he have to look like that while doing it?
That little muscle ticking when he was pissed...why is that attractive?! Someone explain to me why my brain thinks it was HOT now!
And those eyes. Damn those eyes. When they burned into mine, I swear, I felt it everywhere. Not just in my stomach.
Control yourself, Zoya!
I hated how small I felt next to him. Not weak... no. Not weak at all. More like... overpowered. Completely at his mercy. And the worst part?
I didn't dislike it. Not even a little.
I should have. I should have shoved him away and screamed at him. Instead, I was standing there like an idiot, drinking in every inch of that dominance like it was oxygen.
Possessive Zaigham Khan is... dangerous.
The kind of dangerous you don't run from. The kind you secretly... want more of.
And the way he leaned in...slow, controlled, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me. Like every breath, every word was planned to break me apart piece by piece. And it worked. Because now I'm sitting here, trying not to combust, replaying his voice in my head like some cursed song on loop.
What is happening to me?
Why does this feel like the start of something I'm absolutely not ready for... but dying for at the same time?
If there was an Olympic sport for avoiding eye contact, I'd have the gold medal. Maybe even break the world record. Because right now, at this table, surrounded by what feels like half the population of the country, my one and only mission is: Do. Not. Look. At. Him.
Easier said than done when I can feel his eyes on me. Like lasers. Like my skin knows where he's sitting without me even turning my head. Which, by the way, is exactly what I'm NOT doing.
"So, beta, how was the function? Everything went well, na?" Taya Jaan's voice broke my reverie.
I smiled sweetly, forcing my attention on the elders at the head of the table. "Yes, perfect. Everything was beautiful. All thanks to Tayii Jaan's planning."
Tayii Jaan's face lit up like fairy lights. "Hai na? I told them nothing beats a classy walima."
Laiba chimed in, grinning. "Classy, yes... except for the part where Rumman Api almost tripped in her heels while doing the salaam."
"LAIBA!" Rumman Api's scandalized gasp echoed through the room as laughter erupted.
"I did NOT trip!" Rumman insisted.
"Yes, you did," Zaviyaar said, already halfway choking on his water from laughing. "You looked like you were performing some traditional dance—"
"Beta, manners," Chachu cut in, trying not to laugh himself.
"Sorry, sorry," Zaviyaar said, still grinning wickedly.
"Hey, you're one to talk, bhai" Inaya jumped in. "Who was the one getting lectured by Mama for eating three desserts before dinner?"
"I call it appetizer research," Zaviyaar said with a straight face, making everyone laugh harder.
Meanwhile, I was nodding, smiling, laughing at the right moments... all while NOT looking where my husband is sitting like a calm, silent storm.
Every time someone passes the dish near him, I feel the pull. My fingers itch to glance. Just a little. Just for a second. But no. Nope. Not happening.
"Tayii Jaan." smiled warmly at me, sliding a dish across the table.
"Zoya beta, have some more," she urged gently.
"Yes, I'm taking it," I said softly, reaching for the serving spoon....when another hand brushed mine.
My entire body froze.
Of course. Of course, it's him.
I didn't even need to look. The air shifted instantly, like someone dimmed the lights inside me.
Grey eyes. Unblinking. Focused. Intense.
He slid the bowl toward me without a word, but his fingers grazed mine again. Not accidental. Definitely on purpose. And that small, sharp smirk on his lips? Oh, he knew. He knew what he was doing.
"Pass the naan, beta," Baba said from his side, snapping the tension for a second.
Zaigham leaned back so calmly, so casually, like he didn't just shatter my entire nervous system, and passed the basket baba. Meanwhile, I was sitting there wondering if it was medically possible to die from blushing too much.
I was about to take a sip of water when—
"Zoya?" Laiba's voice cut through like a knife. "You're so quiet today. What's the scene? Did Mr. Husband scold you?"
My soul just... packed its bags and left the building.
The entire table went silent for two seconds. Then—BOOM—laughter exploded like a bad firecracker.
"Laiba!" I hissed, kicking her under the table hard enough to make her yelp.
"Ouch! What was that for, Mrs. Khan?" she teased, rubbing her leg dramatically.
A chorus of "Oooooh" came from every corner of the table. Fantastic. Just fantastic.
"Leave her," Dada Jaan said kindly. "She's just shy. Brides are always shy."
"Shy?" Zaviyaar grinned evily. "You mean plotting her revenge in silence. I know that look."
"Oh my Allah, someone shut him up," I muttered under my breath, stabbing my food like it personally offended me.
"Let her be," Nouran api rolled her eyes. "She's tired. That function was like... ten hours long."
"Yes," Layla Chachi said, smiling. "The bride needs rest."
Zaigham finally spoke then...his voice calm, collected, but with that undercurrent only I could feel ripple through my skin.
"She will," he said, and didn't break eye contact with me.
Oh. My. Allah.
I looked away first...obviously...because self-preservation is important when your husband is basically radiating dark, stormy Greek-god energy at the dinner table.
Ibrahim walked in, taking the empty chair across from me.
"Hey, sorry, I was on a call," he said smoothly, flashing that perfect smile at everyone. And then... at me. For a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
Oh no. Nope. No. Universe, why do you hate me?
"Finally!" Laiba grinned at him. "You missed the entire aunty-roasting session."
"Oh, I'll catch up," Ibrahim chuckled, sliding his fork through his salad. Khala...sat proudly next to him, clearly happy her golden boy was here.
Khala gave him an approving pat on the arm. "I told you not to take that call, beta. Look at them, they've almost finished dinner!"
"I had to, Mama," Ibrahim said with an easy smile. "Client urgency."
"Client urgency," she repeated proudly, glancing at the entire table. "Always so responsible. Such a good boy."
Oh My, somebody make this stop. I can hear wedding shehnai in her tone already.
"Responsible?" Laiba snorted. "Please, Khala, don't lie. This guy once left his wallet at home and made ME pay for his food."
The whole table burst into laughter. Except for one person.
Zaigham.
He didn't laugh. Didn't even blink. Just continued cutting his meat in perfect, controlled motions. But I saw it—the tight clench in his jaw, the way the muscle ticked like a warning sign.
Oh boy.
"I paid you back!" Ibrahim shot Laiba a mock glare.
"Yeah, after like... two years!" Laiba countered, flipping her hair dramatically.
"Stop fighting like kids, Mama said, chuckling. "You both haven't changed at all."
"Nope," Rumman Api said with a grin, sipping her water. "Some people never grow up."
"Unlike others," Zaviyaar jumped in slyly, eyes darting between me and Zaigham. "Some people grew up and got married."
I swear to Allah, if I had laser eyes, Zaviyaar would be a pile of ashes right now.
"Speaking of grown-up," Khala spoke sweetly, giving me that look. "Zoya beta, you must be so tired from all these events."
I plastered on my best smile. "A little, Khala."
"And yet," Ibrahim chuckled softly, leaning slightly forward, "she's here with us. That's impressive."
"Yes, well," Zaigham's voice cut in before I could even blink. Calm. Too calm. "She knows how to carry herself."
Ibrahim's brows lifted a fraction, his lips curving into that smile of his.
"Of course," he said lightly.
"Zoya," Deeda's voice broke through, warm and kind, "did you like the dessert?"
"Yes, Deeda, it's amazing," I said quickly, forcing a smile as my cheeks burned hotter than the biryani spices.
"She always liked gulab jamun," Ibrahim added casually.
I almost choked on air.
"You remember that?" I managed to say, trying to sound normal.
"Of course," he shrugged like it was no big deal. "You used to fight for the last piece."
Laiba cackled. "Used to? She fought me yesterday too!"
The table roared with laughter again.
I slid under the duvet, deliberately turning to the other side, away from him. My heart was still racing from dinner, from his jaw clenching every time Ibrahim spoke. Why was he like this? Why was he looking at me like... that?
I kept scrolling on my phone, pretending to be busy. If I looked at him right now, I'd combust. I could feel his gaze burning into the back of my head.
And then his voice, low and steady, broke the silence.
"Zoya."
Oh no. Not the voice. The voice that sounded like it carried authority in its veins. I swallowed and hummed like it was no big deal. "Hmm?"
"Tomorrow," he said calmly, "you're coming to the office with me."
My heart jumped to my throat. Office? Already? I twisted around to face him, ready to argue. "Excuse me? Tomorrow? Like tomorrow-tomorrow?"
He didn't even look up from his phone. "Yes. I want you back at work. You've been gone long enough."
"Mr. Khan!" I sat up, clutching the blanket dramatically. "I just got married. Can I breathe before you throw me into client files again?"
Finally, he looked up, one brow raised. "You've been breathing just fine, Zoya."
My jaw dropped. The audacity. "Wow. Romantic. So romantic, Mr. Khan. My heart is literally melting," I muttered sarcastically.
Before I could process, his hand wrapped around my wrist...not rough, not hurried, just firm enough to make my stomach flip...and he pulled me toward him in one smooth motion.
I landed against his chest with a startled gasp. "Zaigham!" My hands were awkwardly pressed against him, and he didn't even flinch. His arm was around me now, holding me there like it was the most natural thing in the world.
My brain short-circuited. Literally fried.
First of all, when did breathing become illegal?
Second, WHY DOES HE SMELL LIKE HEAVEN?!
"You sulked through dinner," he said simply, his voice near my ear, calm like we weren't physically melting into each other.
"I was not sulking," I snapped, my voice coming out way shakier than intended. Ya Allah, why was my heart doing gymnastics?
He tilted his head slightly, and I felt his breath near my temple. "You were," he said. "And for what?"
I swallowed hard. Words? Never heard of them. I forgot how to English. Or Urdu. Or breathe.
"You... you were being..." My brain screamed for help. "...annoying," I finished weakly.
He chuckled. A low, deep sound that made my entire existence glitch. "Annoying?"
I nodded, staring at his shirt buttons because looking into his eyes right now would probably kill me. "Yes. Annoying."
He didn't argue. He didn't let go either. His grip on me stayed firm, like I belonged exactly where I was. And then, in that calm, commanding tone, he said,
"Sleep, Zoya. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
He let me go and lay back down like nothing happened, while I... I was lying there, heartbeat echoing in my ears, wondering if oxygen was still free in this country because I sure couldn't find any.
I turned my back to him, clutching the blanket like it was a life raft. My brain was still short-circuiting. And what kind of man just... does that and then acts like nothing happened?
I huffed quietly, scrolling my phone in the dark like it held the answers to life's mysteries. After a while, my eyelids started to droop.
Except... except something felt different.
Before I could react, an arm slid around my waist. Firm. Possessive. Pulling me back against him like I was a pillow that owed him rent.
My breath hitched. Loud enough that I prayed he didn't hear. Spoiler: he definitely heard.
"Zaigham..." I whispered, my voice embarrassingly squeaky.
"Hmm," came his lazy, deep reply. His face was in my hair now, his breath warm against my neck. "What is it?"
"What—what are you doing?" I stuttered like a broken record.
"Sleeping," he said simply, like we weren't practically fused together at this point.
I'm not saying I dislike it... but I can't just accept it so simply, right? RIGHT?!
"This is... this is not sleeping!" I whispered, clutching the blanket tighter. "This is—illegal!"
I felt him chuckle against my back, why does that feel like an earthquake in my ribcage? "Illegal?" His voice was dripping with amusement.
"Yes!" I snapped. "I have rights, you know!"
"And I have a wife," he murmured, pulling me even closer, his tone calm but his hold iron-strong. "So I'm exercising mine."
I almost passed out. Just right there. Instant help needed. Somebody call my mama.
"This is not fair," I muttered under my breath, glaring at the darkness.
He shifted slightly, his lips dangerously close to my ear now. "Go to sleep, Zoya," he said softly, but there was something in his voice... something that made my whole body hum like live wire.
"Y-you're so bossy," I whispered, because clearly, I have a death wish.
"And you talk too much," he replied smoothly, giving my waist the slightest squeeze before settling in.
And just like that, Mr. Khan was asleep. Like nothing happened. Meanwhile, I was lying there, wide awake, heart doing cartwheels, face hotter than a tandoor.
I closed my eyes, trying to calm down.
Except when I finally did drift off, his arm was still around me. And his grip never loosened.
To be Continued....