Haris POV -
Westfield London was loud.
Too loud.
Lights flashing. People rushing. Voices overlapping.
Haris had always hated crowds.
But today... Hazel walked beside him.
Her fingers were lightly wrapped around his sleeve, trusting him to guide her through the chaos.
And somehow-
the noise didn't matter anymore.
A salesman greeted them politely as they entered the boutique.
"Take your time," Haris said softly, turning to her.
"If you don't like something, we don't buy it. I don't want to impose. Not even a little, samjhi jaan?"
Hazel looked at him for a long moment.
Then she smiled.
"I trust your choice," she said gently. "But only if you trust mine too."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I choose your outfits," she continued, eyes sparkling.
"And you choose mine."
Dangerous offer.
"Deal," Haris replied, already knowing he had lost.
They moved slowly through the racks-
Green for mehndi.
Gold for nikah.
Deep blue and black for walima.
Hazel picked up a royal blue kurta and pressed it lightly against his chest.
"This colour," she whispered, "was made for you."
Haris immediately lowered his gaze.
"You don't look," she teased softly. "I am your wife."
"And you are my amanah," he replied calmly.
"I lower my gaze even for what belongs to me."
Her smile softened at that.
Then-
Hazel disappeared into the trial room.
Minutes passed.
"Hari," her voice called.
He stiffened. "Yes?"
"Can you come here?"
A pause.
"I... need help."
His heartbeat faltered.
He stood outside the curtain, eyes fixed firmly on the opposite wall.
"I'm right here," he said steadily. "Tell me."
The curtain shifted.
And Hazel stepped out.
Pink.
Sleeveless sharara.
Soft. Flowing. Beautiful.
Dangerously so.
Haris inhaled sharply and turned his face away instantly.
"Hazel," he said quietly, almost pained,
"please change."
She froze.
A breath.
"I can't look at you like this," Haris said quietly. "You are my amanah, jaan... not a woman meant for the world's eyes."
She turned to go back inside.
But before she could-
Haris gently caught her wrist.
Not forceful.
Just enough to make her pause.
"Mr. Aziz-" she whispered.
He didn't let her finish.
With one slow movement, he twirled her softly. The pink fabric swayed like a blush in motion.
Carefully... reverently... he removed her glasses.
His thumb brushed near her temple.
He leaned close-close enough that she could feel his breath-but he did not touch her lips.
"أحبكِ يا حياتي."
Uhibbuki ya hayati.
(I love you, my life.)
Then he pressed the softest kiss over her eyelids.
Gentle. Controlled. Sacred.
Hazel blinked, completely flustered.
"Mr. Aziz Khan!" she whispered urgently. "This is not our bedroom."
His lips curved slightly.
Her cheeks burned.
"This is London," he added calmly. "Not Lucknow. I'm allowed to kiss my wife here."
She looked around nervously.
He chuckled under his breath, placed her glasses back carefully, and stepped away.
"Go, jaan," he said quietly.
"Before I forget my sabr."
For a moment-
their eyes locked.
Heat. Love. Restraint.
Then he turned away again.
Because loving her was not possession.
It was protection.
It was amanah.
Hazel POV -
Dishoom, Covent Garden, was warm and glowing.
The clinking of cutlery. The scent of spices. The soft hum of London outside.
Hazel pushed her glasses up nervously.
"Can I ask you something... honestly?" she asked.
"Always," he replied without hesitation.
She swallowed.
"Do you ever feel like I look... clumsy? Dumb? With glasses? Not... enough?"
Haris went completely still.
The food arrived warm, fragrant with spices.
Hazel reached for the naan, dipping it into the red sauce - but a small streak brushed against the corner of her lip.
Haris noticed immediately.
He didn't say anything at first.
Just watched.
"Marshmallow," he murmured softly.
She frowned. "What?"
He leaned closer - slow, deliberate - his thumb brushing the corner of her lip, warm against her skin.
Her breath paused.
"You missed a spot."
Her cheeks burned. "You could've told me."
"And lose the chance?" he replied calmly.
She tried to glare at him, but failed.
He brought his thumb to a napkin, cleaning it carefully - as if even that
small touch meant something sacred.
"Eat properly," he said.
"You're too precious to walk around with evidence of my distraction."
Hazel kicked him lightly under the table.
He smirked.
Then he reached across the table and held her hand firmly.
"You are not my half because I am incomplete without you," he said quietly.
"You are my half because with you... my soul feels at peace."
Her eyes filled instantly.
"I don't love you despite who you are," he continued.
"I love you as you are."
A pause.
"And if Allah ever tests us... and I ever make a mistake... or fail you-"
His voice lowered.
Hazel squeezed his hand.
"I will ask you first," she said calmly.
"About your intention."
Her gaze didn't waver.
"Not the world. Not rumours."
A breath.
"Because what we built... is on trust."
Something in his expression softened.
Outside the restaurant, cold air fogged her glasses.
Haris noticed immediately.
Without saying a word, he removed them gently and wiped them with the edge of his shirt.
She stared at him.
"Marshmallow," he said casually.
Her eyes widened. "Don't call me that here!"
He smirked faintly.
"Why? It suits you."
She kicked him lightly. "Someone will hear!"
He leaned closer - slow and deliberate -
"It's our secret," he murmured. "Only I'm allowed to call you that."
Her heart melted instantly.
Ya Allah.
This man.
Later......
❥ Ice Cream Moment
When dessert arrived, he took the first spoon without asking.
She blinked. "You don't even like sweets."
He ignored her and held it near her lips.
"Open."
She obeyed.
The chocolate melted softly.
Then she scooped some and held it toward him.
He sighed dramatically.
"Marshmallow..."
"Open," she ordered.
He did.
He never did when it came to her.
As they walked to the car, he pulled her closer instinctively.
The world could stare.
He would always lower his gaze.
Because loving her wasn't possession.
It was ibadah.
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