Until It Was Real

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐎𝐧𝐞

The noon sun had shifted to its lazy glow, spilling inside the villa like molten honey. I was curled up on the floor by the glass doors, sketchbook in my lap, trying to draw the waves outside.

Trying.

Because someone, my husband, was sitting across from me with a book, pretending to read but very clearly not reading. His eyes hadn't left me in the last ten minutes.

I scribbled a wobbly line, my hand shaking under the weight of his gaze. Finally, I snapped my head up. "Stop staring!"

He didn't even flinch. "No."

My jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

A shadow of a smirk tugged at his lips. "You heard me." He leaned back lazily against the couch, one arm stretched across it, eyes holding mine with that impossible calm. "Why should I, when the view is better than the sea?"

Heat exploded in my cheeks. I slammed the pencil down. "Zaigham!"

His smirk deepened, dark eyes glinting like he was enjoying every second of my fluster.

I gasped. "You're impossible!"

"And you're distracting." His voice was velvet, smooth and low, and oh-so-dangerous.

I scrambled up from the floor, hugging the sketchbook to my chest. "That's it, I'm going outside. At least the waves don't flirt back."

I turned toward the door, but before I could step out, his hand caught my wrist.

He murmured, "the waves might get jealous too."

My heart stopped. He let go just as casually, returning to his seat as if nothing happened, sipping his coffee like he hadn't just sent me into a spiral.

I stood frozen for a second, cheeks on fire, before blurting, "Fine! If you're not going to leave me alone, you're joining me."

He raised a brow. "Joining you... where?"

"Outside," I said, thrusting the door open dramatically. "And no excuses this time. Come on, Mr. Khan, let's see if you can survive fun."

He chuckled under his breath but stood, slipping his hands into his pockets, following me out like a predator indulging its prey.

The air outside was crisp with salt, the noon sun gleaming off the restless waves. I marched down the patio stairs, barefoot on the warm wooden planks, half-expecting him to ignore me and stay inside.

But the heavy sound of his footsteps followed.

Of course.

When I glanced back, he was there folding his sleeves to his forearms, eyes fixed on me like I'd given him no choice.

I smirked. "So Mr. Khan does listen sometimes."

He arched a brow, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Don't flatter yourself. I just need to make sure you don't drown while attempting... whatever this is."

"Excuse me?!" I spun to face him, clutching my sketchbook dramatically to my chest. "I was being creative. You, sir, were the distraction."

He stepped closer, shadows falling across my face. "And yet, you did not seem to mind it."

My breath hitched. For a moment, I forgot what I was supposed to say.

Recover, Zoya. Quickly!

I rolled my eyes at him.

"Fine," I huffed, pointing toward the sand. "If you're going to follow me around, we're doing something fun."

A muscle ticked in his jaw, he was amused. "Define fun."

I darted to the little wicker basket set on the patio table, stocked by the villa staff. Fruits, juices, even a frisbee. I snatched it up with triumph.

"This."

He stared at the neon-blue plastic in my hand. Deadpan. "That?"

"Yes, Mr. Khan. It's called a frisbee. Don't tell me the great Zaigham Khan has never played catch."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Zoya..." His voice was dry, "I sign contracts worth billions. Not..." he gestured at the frisbee with disdain, "...plastic plates."

I gasped in mock offense. "Plastic plates?!"

Before he could blink, I threw it. The frisbee spun through the air, and he, utterly unprepared....caught it with one hand like it was nothing.

He looked at it. Then at me. His smirk spread slow.

My stomach dropped.

Uh oh.

He launched it back with terrifying precision. I shrieked, ducking, the frisbee whizzing past me into the sand.

"Zaigham!"

He chuckled low, walking toward me. "What happened, Mrs. Khan? Thought you wanted fun?"

I scrambled to grab the frisbee before he reached me, but his shadow fell over mine as I bent down. In one smooth motion, his hand caught my wrist, pulling me upright, chest colliding with chest.

The frisbee slipped from my fingers.

"Gotcha," he murmured, voice teasing yet heavy enough to make my pulse stutter.

"You're cheating!" I accused breathlessly.

His lips ghosted my ear. "I'm just better."

My heart hammered like crazy.

I shoved at his chest with mock annoyance. "Fine. No more frisbee. Let's do something else before you bruise my ego completely."

He didn't let go right away. His eyes held mine, sharp, unreadable, yet warm in a way that made me dizzy. Then finally, finally, he stepped back, gesturing toward the beach with a tilt of his head.

"Lead the way. I'll play along."

Maybe the mighty Zaigham Khan was learning how to play.

But of course, I underestimated him.

The next second, I squealed as cold sea water splashed against my legs.

I whirled to find him standing ankle-deep in the tide, one eyebrow raised, palm dripping with evidence.

"Uff!" My voice was half outrage, half laughter.

"Retribution," he said simply, smirking like he'd just won a courtroom battle.

"Oh, you asked for it," I muttered, lifting my dress just enough to charge into the shallow water. I scooped and flung a wave at him. He dodged like a professional, water splattering everywhere except his perfectly smug face.

And just like that, it turned into war.

The villa's peaceful shore echoed with our chaos, splashes, shrieks, laughter so unrestrained it almost startled me. He chased me into the water, his long strides far too unfair. I darted sideways, but his hand finally caught my wrist, spinning me right into his chest.

The world stilled.

Water lapped around us, the sun painting him golden, droplets glistening on his jawline. His arm tightened around my waist, holding me steady as if I'd slip away with the waves.

"Caught again," he murmured, his voice rougher now, playful edge melting into something deeper.

My breath tangled in my throat. "You...."

His lips curved, dangerously close. "Yes...Me?"

I froze, my pulse drumming loud in my ears.

Before I could think, I splashed him straight in the face. His shocked expression made me burst into helpless laughter, bending over as I tried to run away again.

"Zoya—" he warned, shaking droplets from his hair, eyes narrowing with a glint that promised trouble.

Too late.

He caught me from behind, lifting me effortlessly off the ground as I screamed and kicked in the air, my laughter echoing into the sky.

"Zaigham! Put me down!"

"No," he said calmly, adjusting me against his shoulder like I weighed nothing. "You started this."

I pounded at his back uselessly, still laughing. "This is not fair!"

He glanced at me over his shoulder, lips twitching. "Neither was splashing me in the face."

"Zaigham Khan, you tyrant—"

"Zoya, careful" he interrupted smoothly, voice dropping, "or I might find another way to quiet that mouth."

Heat shot straight to my cheeks. My laughter faltered into a nervous stutter of breath. He must've noticed because his smirk deepened, satisfied, before he finally set me back down on the sand.

I staggered, catching myself on his chest, our eyes locking again in the orange glow of afternoon sun. His thumb brushed against my wet cheek almost unconsciously, and for a moment, the world was nothing but waves, his touch, and the quiet storm inside me.

"Still think I don't know how to play?" he asked, low and teasing.

I couldn't even answer, my smile gave me away.

By the time we stumbled back into the villa, dripping and breathless, my hair clinging to my face and his shirt plastered to his skin, we looked like two kids caught in the rain.

I couldn't stop laughing every time I glanced at him.

Zaigham Khan, untouchable Zaigham Khan..

..soaked and barefoot, strands of hair falling over his forehead.

We both headed to our room to freshen up.

After freshening up I stepped in the kitchen for lunch. Zaigham was leaning against the counter with his arms folded across his chest, watching me with that unreadable expression of his.

"You?" He arched a brow as I started pulling things out of the fridge. "Cooking?"

"Yes, me." I grinned, tying my hair into a loose bun. "Why do you sound so surprised?"

"I didn't say surprised." He picked up an apple from the basket, taking a lazy bite. "I said...curious."

I rolled my eyes, ignoring him and busying myself with chopping vegetables. But I could feel his eyes burning holes into my back.

"What?" I finally turned, narrowing my eyes at him.

He tilted his head, lips curving into that faint smirk. "Nothing. Just wondering if I should keep the first aid box ready."

My jaw dropped. "Hawww!"

He shrugged innocently, leaning closer now, his voice dipping into that infuriatingly smooth tone. "What? I'm only being practical. Knife in your hand, stove in front of you... anything can happen."

I turned back to my chopping, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest. "Let me cook in peace."

"Mm," he hummed thoughtfully. "But admit it, you like it."

I stole a quick glance at him over my shoulder, and his eyes caught mine instantly, locking me in place. I quickly turned back, my cheeks warm.

"Don't look at me like that," I muttered.

"Like what?" His voice was amused now, and I could hear the smirk without even looking.

"Like... like you know something I don't."

"I do," he said easily.

I whipped around. "What?"

He leaned his elbows against the counter, still perfectly calm. "That you're already flustered, and lunch hasn't even started yet."

I stared at him, utterly scandalized. "No one will believe me if I ever say this, that Zaigham Khan the great Zaigham Khan, teases."

He smirked slowly, taking another bite of his apple, voice low and steady. "Of course, because this side is only reserved for his wife."

My hands stilled, I smiled.

He pushed off the counter now, stepping closer, until I could feel him behind me, his presence like a shadow. "It's true."

"Zaigham..." I warned, but it came out softer than I meant.

He chuckled quietly, deliberately brushing past me to reach for a glass, though I knew he was only teasing me with the nearness.

"Focus on your cooking, Mrs. Khan," he said casually. "Because if you mess it up, I won't spare you."

I turned my head, glaring at him, but the smirk on his face told me he was enjoying this way too much.

"Oh, really?" I shot back, crossing my arms. "Then you can cook your own lunch."

"Tempting." His eyes sparkled with challenge. "But I'd rather watch you get all worked up like this."

"Unbelievable," I muttered, but couldn't stop the smile tugging at my lips.

I was stirring the curry with all my focus when suddenly I felt warmth press against my back.

I froze. No matter how many times but his closeness always flutters me.

"Stop..." I breathed out, when his arms had slipped around my waist, pulling me back into his chest.

"Hmm?" His chin rested lightly on my shoulder, his voice a deep rumble in my ear. "Don't mind me. Carry on."

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, incredulous. "Excuse me? How am I supposed to carry on like this?"

"You're doing fine," he said smoothly, his hands tightening ever so slightly around my waist, his breath brushing against my hair. "I just thought the chef could use some... moral support."

I tried to wiggle out of his hold, but he only pulled me closer. "Zaigham, let go. You're distracting me."

"Am I?" His smirk was audible. He deliberately leaned closer, his lips almost brushing the curve of my ear. "Good."

My knees nearly buckled. "You're— Imposible!"

He chuckled low in his chest, and I felt the vibration ripple against my back. "That's the second time you've said it today."

"And it won't be the last if you don't move."

Instead of listening, he reached for the spoon in my hand, covering my fingers with his larger ones. "Like this," he murmured, guiding the stir gently, though it was completely unnecessary.

I shot him a glare over my shoulder. "You don't even know what I'm making."

He gave me that infuriatingly calm look. "True. But I know I like it already."

I blinked. "How?"

His lips curved into a slow, confident smile. "Because you're making it."

My heart tripped over itself. "Stop—"

"Why?" His voice dipped lower, teasing, warm. "It makes you blush every time."

"Mr.Khan!" I whirled around, and he had the audacity to look completely unbothered, his smirk tugging at his lips.

"Stop disturbing me," I said, poking a finger against his chest.

He leaned in slightly, his gaze locking onto mine, unblinking. "Nope."

I blinked at him, my throat tightening, and then quickly turned away before I melted entirely.

"Ugh," I muttered again, shoving the spoon back into his hands this time.

"You," he said smoothly, brushing his fingers along mine as he took it, "are adorable when you're annoyed."

I smacked his arm with the towel, and his laughter echoed in the kitchen, before he caught my wrist mid-swing, pulling me back into that infuriating back hug again.

I puffed my cheeks, stirring the simmering curry with exaggerated effort before throwing him a sideways glare.

"Remind me again why I let you into thekitchen?"

Behind me, I heard the low rumble of his laugh, the kind of sound that wrapped itself around me no matter how much I tried to ignore it.

"You didn't let me," he said casually, "I claimed the right to stand here. Perks of being your husband."

I rolled my eyes, though my lips betrayed me with a tiny smile. "Perks? No, Mr. Khan, it's a punishment. You distract more than you help."

His chin lowering until his lips hovered just above my ear.

"Should I take that as a compliment, Mrs. Khan?" he whispered, his breath sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

My hand stilled on the spoon. "N-no," I said quickly, but my voice betrayed me, breaking just enough to make his lips curl into a smile I couldn't see but felt.

He hummed. "Strange. Because it sounded very much like a compliment."

I dared a glance over my shoulder, only to find his eyes glinting with amusement, far too close for my comfort. "Zaigham..." I warned softly.

I don't know at this point how many times I have said his name.

"Yes, love?" he answered, all innocence. But the way his arm tightened around my waist, pulling me back into him, was anything but innocent.

Before I could answer, his teeth caught the edge of my earlobe in a teasing bite that made my breath stumble.

"Zaigham—!" The word escaped in a shaky whisper, half warning, half surrender.

He only hummed in response, the sound vibrating against my skin, before his lips began to trail lower, brushing feather-light along the curve of my neck. I instinctively leaned back into him, betraying myself completely.

I felt the ghost of a smirk against my skin as he murmured, "Hmm... I'll take that as a yes."

My fingers clutched at the counter, torn between melting and resisting. "Zaigham, stop—" I tried again, though my voice was anything but convincing.

But who was I kidding? He did not stop at all.

And yet, gathering courage, I quickly reached for the spoon in my hand and lifted it sharply between us like a tiny shield. "If you burn this curry," I whispered breathlessly, eyes darting anywhere but him, "I swear I'll make you eat every last spoonful."

He pulled back just enough to see my flustered face, laughter glinting in his eyes as if I'd just amused him more than anything else.

I tried focusing back on the curry, but the way his arms refused to leave my waist made every little movement feel like an effort.

"At least let me finish—"

"Finish fast then," he interrupted lazily, his chin still resting on my shoulder.

Rolling my eyes, I grabbed a spoonful of curry and lifted it toward him. "Fine. Taste this and tell me if it's okay."

He leaned forward, but instead of obediently tasting, his gaze flickered to me in that mischievous way I had started recognizing too well.

"Mr. Khan..." I protested.

Too late.

He leaned down, not for the spoon but for my lips, brushing against them so lightly that my hand jerked, and some drops of curry fell straight onto his shirt.

I gasped. "Oh no!"

He glanced down at the spot, then slowly back at me with a smirk that spelled trouble. "Your fault."

Before I could defend myself, his finger dipped into the curry, and in one smooth swipe he brushed a tiny smear across my cheek.

"Eww, Zaigham!" I squealed, smacking his arm.

He was already laughing. "Now we're even."

"Oh, we're not even," I muttered, scooping a little sauce on my fingertip and managing to dab it on his jaw before he caught my wrist again.

The look in his eyes turned dangerous, playful, and my breath hitched. "Careful, woman. Do you really want to start a war you'll lose?"

I narrowed my eyes in mock defiance. "Maybe I do."

I regretted the moment those words left my lips because for a moment it looked like he was going to sweep me up again, but instead he chuckled low and let go, shaking his head. "Finish cooking, warrior. I'll set the table."

I blew out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, cheeks still hot as I turned back to the pot.

Behind me came the clink of plates as he began arranging the table, so casually as though he hadn't just reduced me to a flustered mess.

By the night, the villa had slipped into a hushed stillness. Only the faint hum of the night breeze reached through the open balcony doors.

We retreated to our room, the lamps casting a soft amber glow. I sat cross-legged on the bed in his black hoodie, while he stretched out, his head finding its place on my lap as if it belonged there.

It feels like the clothes Zaigham arranged for me have been of little use, because ever since we have been here, I've only been wearing his hoodies. They're far more comfortable, and my dear husband never complained. Instead, he said, I like seeing you in my clothes.

My hand moved almost instinctively, fingers slipping into his hair. His eyes closed, lashes against his skin.

"You're quiet," I murmured after a while.

He didn't open his eyes. "For once, I'm allowed to be."

I frowned lightly. "Allowed?"

His lips curved faintly. "When I'm here," he said slowly, "with you... I don't have to keep the world at bay. I don't have to be Zaigham Khan." His voice was low, edged with something I rarely heard from him, vulnerability wrapped in calm honesty.

Something tugged deep in my chest. I traced a line across his forehead with my thumb. "And who are you then?"

Finally, he opened his eyes, dark grey and unreadable yet softer than I'd ever seen. "A man who found peace in the most unlikely place."

I smiled, my fingers stilling in his hair. I hadn't expected words like that from him.

Trying to mask the way my heart thudded, I teased, "You make it sound like I rescued you from a battlefield."

"You did," he said simply, not a trace of jest in his tone. "Every day I walk into one. And every night I come back here... to this." His hand came up, brushing across my knee gently, grounding me. "That is enough."

For a long moment, I let the silence stretch between us, my fingers weaving slowly through his hair, my pulse still racing from how effortlessly he disarmed me with words.

"You make it sound so easy," I finally whispered, breaking the quiet. "Peace... belonging... like it just happens."

His eyes flickered open again, steady on mine. "It doesn't just happen, Zoya. You create it... or you fight for it. Most people don't even realize when they've found it until it's gone."

Something inside me stirred, and before I could stop myself, the words slipped out. "What if I ruin it? What if I'm not... enough?"

The confession surprised even me. I had never voiced that fear out loud, not even to myself. But under the weight of his gaze, there was no space for pretense.

His brow lifted slightly, and instead of brushing my worry away with empty comfort, he studied me like he always did, with that unnerving precision that made me feel seen in ways no one else had managed.

"You think I would have allowed you this close if you weren't?" His voice was quiet, but there was a steel edge in it that made my chest tighten. "Zoya, I don't waste time. I don't waste myself. And I certainly don't gamble with what I cannot afford to lose."

My breath caught. "And... me?"

He didn't look away, not for a second. "You are not a gamble."

I bit my lip, my throat thick, trying to steady my voice. "Then what am I?"

For a moment, he just looked at me, his gaze unblinking, steady, as though he were engraving my face into the very core of his being. Then he exhaled slowly, his hand closing over mine with a grip that felt unshakable, eternal.

"You," he said, voice low and weighted with truth, "are not a part of my life, Zoya. You are the pulse beneath it. Without you, I move... but I do not live."

His thumb traced my skin as if it were a vow.

"You are the hush that calms the chaos in me, the only place my demons fall silent. You are the one thing I do not wear a mask for, the one soul before whom I am not Zaigham Khan... but simply a man."

His gaze burned into me, dark, unwavering.

"Zoya, You are the axis I revolve around, the breath that steadies me, the only truth untouched by the lies of this world. You are both the wound and the remedy, the fire that consumes me and the peace that rebuilds me."

His voice almost a whisper now, rough with intensity.

"You ask what you are to me? You're the prayer I never had the courage to make, but He still placed you in my path. Untouched. Pure. As if the world conspired to keep you safe just so you'd end up here."

My breath caught. His words were too raw, too heavy for me to carry quietly. I bent forward and pressed a slow kiss to his forehead, lingering as though I could tuck his confessions inside me.

When I pulled back, my voice trembled, but it carried a quiet strength.

"And do you know what you are to me, Zaigham?"

His eyes held mine, and I held them, refusing to look away.

"You're the shade beneath a tree when the sun burns mercilessly.

You're the anchor that steadies me when the world tries to pull me apart.

You're the rare kind of strength that doesn't cage me.

.. it protects me. You're home, you're promise.

If I am your peace..." I smiled faintly, brushing his hair back from his forehead, "then you are my certainty.

The one thing I can lean on without fear of falling. "

For a long heartbeat, he didn't move, didn't speak. Just watched me, with that unreadable intensity that always stole my breath. Then his hand lifted, covering mine against his temple, holding it there as though it was the only truth he trusted in this world.

I smiled looking at him. "I love you" I whispered.

"I love you too, Zoya." He whispered back.

The emotions I saw in her eyes. I saw them multiply into a thousand emotions reflected in her eyes.

Love. Trust. Affection. A softness that asked nothing of me, and yet silently demanded everything.

I pushed myself up from her lap, my gaze locking with hers, unflinching. For a heartbeat, the silence stretched like a test of endurance.

I knew what her eyes pleaded for. I always knew. But I remained still, controlled, my lips curving faintly in a smile that revealed nothing.

I wanted to see if she would cross the line. If her heart would dare speak where her lips hesitated.

So I rose halfway, pretending to turn, as though I had decided to leave the moment untouched.

Yet before I could take a step, her fingers wrapped tightly around my hand.

I stilled.

My smile threatened to break free, but I hid it when I turned back to her, face carefully composed, gaze unreadable.

She sat there, breath caught, staring at me with an intensity she didn't know how to conceal.

And then, she nervously licked her lips.

My eyes dropped instantly, instinctively.

Jaw tightening.

For one dangerous moment, I nearly broke my own restraint. Nearly reached for her the way every inch of me wanted to. But I forced myself still not yet.

And then she shattered every one of my assumptions.

With trembling boldness, she leaned in, closing the space that I had deliberately left between us and pressed her lips to mine.

The control I had held onto so tightly unraveled in an instant.

A smile curved against her mouth as my hand slipped to her waist, pulling her closer with a grip that was no longer careful, but certain. I kissed her back, slow at first, then deeper, as if I had been waiting far too long for her to claim me like this.

Her lips moved with a newfound certainty, and I let her let her unravel me one deliberate touch at a time.

The morning had already slipped into its rhythm when I found myself leaning against the doorway, coffee in hand, watching her.

She sat before the dressing mirror, a brush between her fingers, brows furrowed in concentration. A strand slipped from the braid she was desperately trying to tame, springing loose like it had a will of its own.

She didn't notice me. Or perhaps she did and chose not to care.

My lips curved despite myself. It was a rare kind of sight, someone so unguarded, so unapologetically at ease in a world. She wasn't polished perfection, she was chaos wrapped in sunlight in my tough world.

She tugged her hair loose with a sigh, strands falling wildly around her face.

A small laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

Her eyes shot up to the reflection in the mirror. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she accused, strands of hair sticking adorably to her cheek.

I walked closer, setting my cup down on the dresser. "Very much," I said calmly, leaning down behind her. Before she could move, I caught her hand midair. "Show me."

She blinked at me through the mirror, stunned. "Excuse me? This is not your work, Mr. Khan. I can do it. You can't."

A slow smile tugged at my lips. "Nothing is impossible, Zoya." My voice was deliberately teasing.

"Show me."

Her mouth opened, then closed, then she sighed as if admitting defeat. "Fine. But don't blame me when you ruin my hair and I look like a scarecrow."

I smiled. "Deal."

Her fingers guided mine through the strands once, showing me the braid. I listened quietly, memorizing, while she rambled instructions in a half-dramatic tone about how delicate hair could be.

And then I tried.

"Zaigham, you're holding it wrong...no, not like that! You're pulling too hard...ouch!" she yelped, glaring at me through the mirror while I kept my face carefully serious.

I mumbled a small sorry.

"Stay still," I said softly, untangling the mess with deliberate patience.

"Stay still?" she gasped. "You're the one making knots!"

I bit back a laugh, focusing, ignoring her commentary until the rhythm of weaving fell into place.

A few moments later, I stepped back slightly, letting my fingers slip away.

Her eyes widened in the mirror. The braid, neat, smooth, better than her attempt rested against her shoulder.

"You—how—Zaigham!" she turned to look at me directly, half in shock, half in disbelief. "You actually did it?"

I raised a brow, smug. "Why do you sound so surprised?"

"Because!" she threw her hands up, then immediately touched the braid again as if checking if it was real. "Because you were supposed to fail. I was supposed to laugh at you! How do you even know how to do this?"

"Observation," I replied smoothly, picking up my coffee again. "And patience."

She stared at me for a long moment, lips parted, then shook her head with a small laugh. "This is unfair. You can't be good at everything, Zaigham. It's... it's illegal."

The corner of my mouth lift, my gaze steady on her reflection. "You're right," I murmured, my voice low. "I can't be good at everything. And I'm not."

Her brows drew together, confusion flickering across her face.

I leaned closer, my lips near her ear, my words soft but heavy with truth. "Because I promised myself once that I would never fall in love. And here I am..." My hand brushed lightly against her shoulder. "...failing miserably."

Her cheeks flushed as she lowered her eyes with a shy smile.

I smiled back before pecking the crown of her head.