Haris's POV
"As Hazel said - I am ready to listen to you. For a lifetime, if that's what it takes. But please - please - do not break me again. If you do, I don't think I'll find another breath."
My chest tightened.
Now I understood. Her chest ached because of me. Because of what I had done.
Ya Allah, I'm so sorry for hurting you, my jaan, I thought, the weight of it settling heavily on my shoulders.
I felt terrible. But regret alone changes nothing - only my actions could now. And I intended to change them. Every single one.
I exhaled slowly, letting my thoughts settle, then leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth. My forehead came to rest against hers. Our breaths mingled quietly in the space between us.
"I'm sorry, jaan," I whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt you that night. I was trying to protect you - from myself. Because I never wanted you to get hurt. But in the end... I did exactly that."
I paused, searching for the right words.
"Yes, there was someone I once had feelings for. But it wasn't love - not in the way that truly matters. I had only intended to send a proposal after completing my degree. By the time I was ready, she was already engaged to someone else."
I let out a slow breath.
"You know... being the eldest son is not always easy. Not because my parents are bad - they are wonderful people, mashaAllah. More than I could ever deserve. But sometimes, growing up too fast leaves marks you don't even realise are there."
A memory surfaced, quiet and old.
"When I was in sixth class, I gave a speech for Eid ul Fitr. I stood up on that stage and fumbled - forgot every single line. Walked home embarrassed, and told Mammy and Daddy they shouldn't have come. They were calm about it, normal. They said, 'We know. We told you it might happen. It's okay - try again next time.' Simple words. Honest ones."
I smiled faintly.
"But I still felt like I had failed them. I know I overreacted. Even then, I knew. But that feeling - of not being enough - it stayed."
I exhaled a slow breath.
"As I grew older, I became reserved. Cold. Distant. But for my family, I am still the same Haris Aziz Khan - Mammy and Daddy's responsible boy, my younger siblings' support system. And at the office, I became the cold and grumpy CEO of Khan Architects."
My gaze softened.
"But with you, jaan... I forget all of that. I forget who I'm supposed to be. Because you are my peace. My jaan. With you, I don't have to pretend to be strong all the time. I can be silly. I can be soft. I can simply be - because you are my heart and soul."
I looked at her - really looked at her.
"You changed yourself without me ever asking. Your choices, your routines, even your tea shifted to my black coffee - just to keep me company through late nights. Though I must say, jaan, please don't do that too much. I don't want my bad habits becoming yours."
Then her little finger came to rest gently against my lips.
"Don't say it like that," she murmured. "You know I've always chosen this. My mother taught me selflessness. I didn't fully understand it before... but then you came into my life, and I married you, and I understood."
She lowered her hand slowly.
"Yes, your behaviour hurt me at first. But then you brought my favourite flowers and chocolates - a week after our marriage. You apologised. And on your parents' anniversary, you stood there and confessed in front of everyone that you love me. That I am your first and your last."
Her voice was soft, steady, certain.
"I believed you. From the very bottom of my heart. Because I had already started falling for you - through your actions. The way you noticed when I accidentally ate peanuts on the picnic after we moved to London. The small things you remembered without me ever saying a word."
She smiled.
"You only truly hurt me once - on our wedding night. But every single day after that, you have respected me. You have loved me exactly as I am - clumsy, dramatic, a little dumb sometimes."
Her eyes glistened.
"Your eyes are always filled with nothing but admiration and affection. Only that. Always that."
She raised herself on her toes and pressed soft kisses - to my eyes, my cheeks, my nose, my neck, the corner of my mouth.
Ya Allah. I held her wrist a little more firmly, my breath unsteady.
Then she pulled back and looked up at me with those beautiful dark eyes that held my entire world in them.
"Haris Aziz Khan," she said softly, "thank you. For sharing your story with me."
She stepped back and extended her hand.
"Come. Let's go pray Salah tul Shukr together. As you always say - every second is worth remembering."
She smiled.
365 days.
8,760 hours.
31,536,000 seconds.
"Let's celebrate - in our way."
She held me firmly. Brushed the tears from my cheeks with quiet tenderness.
We made wuzu together. Prayed side by side.
After the dua, I softly blew Ayatul Kursi over her. Then we lay down, and she settled close - my jaan, my peace, my home.
Then I felt it - her breath, warm and gentle, as she blew a dua and Ayatul Kursi over me in return.
Ya Allah.
"I love this masjid," I said quietly. "Thank you for convincing my father to make it ours."
"Ours," she echoed softly, with a smile in her voice. "I love the architecture too. I love everything about it."
She tilted her head.
"How will you ever repay me?"
I held her a little closer.
"Just stay with me until Qiyamah," I murmured. "Until Jannah. Nothing more. That is all I ask."
I felt her exhale - long and peaceful.
I noticed how exhausted she looked. How her eyes were beginning to drift. The Birmingham cold had likely gotten to her again - she was always too sensitive to it.
Tomorrow, I decided quietly. We move to the apartment.
"Let's go home, jaan," I said softly.
Hazel's POV
As we reached the Range Rover, the warmth of the night - of everything that had been said, everything that had been felt - wrapped around me like something too heavy and too beautiful to carry alone.
Somewhere between the masjid and the drive home, sleep took over.
I vaguely remembered the warmth of being lifted. My face tucked against Haris's chest. My fingers weakly clutching the fabric of his coat. His heartbeat, steady and sure beneath my cheek.
And then - nothing.
When I woke, soft morning light was spilling gently across an unfamiliar room.
For a moment, I simply blinked.
Then I felt it.
Strong arms, wrapped securely around my waist.
Haris.
He was still asleep behind me, his breathing slow and even, his face lightly buried in my hair. I lay still for a moment, just breathing - just feeling the warmth of him.
Then I noticed.
We were still in the same clothes.
My navy-blue saree. His office suit.
And somehow, that realisation made my heart ache in the softest, most tender way.
He had brought me here. And simply held me through the night.
I smiled to myself and shifted closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his neck.
His arms tightened instantly.
"Awake, jaan?"
I laughed softly. "Hm."
I tilted my head slightly. "Shouldn't we be getting up? You'll be late."
"No," he murmured, pulling me impossibly closer. "We are not going anywhere today. Today is ours."
I turned carefully in his arms to face him - and that was when I finally noticed the room properly.
The high ceilings. The soft cream walls. The grand glass windows with morning light pouring through them like something from a dream.
This was not our apartment.
My brows furrowed. "Haris..."
His lips curved. "What?"
"Where are we?"
He only looked amused.
A sudden thought struck me.
I narrowed my eyes. "You kidnapped me."
He laughed - a full, genuine laugh that filled the room. "So bright, Mrs. Khan. Yes. Your husband kidnapped you."
"Haris Aziz Khan!"
He reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair from my face, his dark eyes softening into something quiet and warm.
"This," he said gently, "is our home."
I stared. "Our... home?"
He nodded. "Jaan House."
The words settled over me like sunlight.
My breath caught. "For real?"
"For real, jaan."
"But why?"
He cupped my cheek with one steady hand.
"Because everything that is mine," he said softly, "is yours."
The tears came before I could stop them.
And before he could say another word, I leaned forward and kissed him.
For a second, his eyes widened.
Then they fluttered shut.
And he melted - completely - one hand finding the back of my neck as though he never intended to let go.
The kiss broke slowly. Not because either of us wanted it to - only because breathing eventually became necessary.
Haris rested his forehead against mine, his fingers still tangled gently in my hair.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then his lips curved.
"Now," he murmured, his thumb brushing softly across my cheek, "shall we spend this morning the way we never properly have?"
I blinked. "How?"
He leaned closer, his dark eyes warm with quiet mischief.
"A lazy morning. No office. No college. No interruptions. Just us."
My heart softened instantly. "That sounds perfect."
He smiled - that rare, devastating smile that always felt like something private. Something only mine.
"Good." He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead before slipping out of bed and offering me his hand. "Come. We'll freshen up and explore our home together."
I looked down at my saree and laughed. "Haris... I don't have any clothes here."
He glanced at me, entirely unfazed. "Wear mine."
I stared. "Your clothes?"
"Yes." His expression turned suspiciously innocent. "You look adorable in them."
My cheeks warmed immediately. "Haris Aziz Khan."
"What?" He was already opening the wardrobe, completely unbothered. "It is a perfectly practical solution."
He pulled out a crisp white shirt and a pair of soft black lounge trousers, holding them out with quiet confidence.
The shirt looked enormous.
I narrowed my eyes. "This will drown me."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "That is precisely why I like it."
I gasped. "You are becoming shameless."
"And whose fault is that, Mrs. Khan?"
Before I could answer, he bent and pressed a teasing kiss to the tip of my nose.
"Go change, jaan."
I had just finished freshening up.
Dressed simply in a white vest and soft black lounge pants, I stood near the window, absently adjusting my watch while waiting for Hazel.
The bathroom door clicked open.
And then - she appeared.
For a moment, mind simply... stopped.
My white shirt hung loosely over her small frame, the sleeves rolled imperfectly to her wrists, the hem falling almost to her knees. The soft lounge trousers were folded at her ankles, making her look impossibly delicate.
But it was her hair that undid me.
Her wavy brown hair was still damp, droplets of water sliding slowly down the strands, darkening the collar of my shirt.
Ya Allah.
Morning light caught against her skin, and she looked like something far too soft and too precious for the ordinary world.
I forgot how to breathe.
She tilted her head, suddenly shy beneath my stare.
"What?"
I exhaled slowly. "Jaan..."
My voice came out lower than I intended.
"Why did I ever give you my clothes?"
Her brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
I crossed the room slowly, unable to look anywhere but at her. Stopping just before her, I lifted one damp strand of her hair between my fingers.
"Because now," I murmured, my eyes holding hers, "I may never recover from this sight."
Her cheeks turned pink instantly. "Haris..."
I leaned closer, my forehead brushing hers.
"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever woken up to."
Her breath caught.
And before she could answer, I pressed my lips gently to her forehead.
Then her nose.
Then the corner of her mouth.
Slowly. Deliberately. As though memorising every reaction she gave me.
She let out the softest laugh.
"You are staring."
"I am appreciating what belongs to me."
She gasped dramatically. "How shameless."
"My wife is wearing my shirt," I said calmly. "I believe I am allowed."
And just like that - her laughter filled the room.
The most beautiful sound my home had ever known.
The kitchen smelled of butter, maple syrup, and freshly squeezed orange juice.
I sat on the marble counter, still wrapped in Haris's white shirt, watching him move around the kitchen with quiet, unhurried focus.
It should have looked absurd.
Haris Aziz Khan - feared architect, painfully serious, permanently composed - standing in his own kitchen making pancakes.
For me.
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Why are you staring?"
I smiled. "I'm trying to process that the great Mr. Haris Aziz Khan is making breakfast."
He arched a brow. "For my wife."
The way he said my wife still made my heart stumble every single time.
A few minutes later, he carried everything to the breakfast nook by the window.
Golden pancakes. Fresh strawberries. Orange juice.
And before I could sit properly, he pulled me gently into his lap as though there had never been another option.
"Haris-"
"Sit."
"That was not a request."
"It was not."
I laughed softly but settled against him anyway, my back resting against his chest.
He cut a small piece of pancake and held it to my lips.
"Open."
"I can feed myself."
"I know."
"Then why-"
"Because I want to."
His voice was so calm, so certain, that I obeyed without another word.
He fed me slowly. Deliberately.
One bite for me. One for him.
Then he lifted the glass of orange juice.
I took a sip.
He drank from the exact same spot.
The tiny, effortless intimacy of it made my chest ache in the sweetest way.
I tilted my head back to look at him.
"You do realise this is extremely unfair?"
His fingers tightened slightly around my waist. "What is?"
"The fact that you know exactly how to make me forget the world exists."
His lips brushed my temple.
"Good," he murmured. "Because for today, my jaan..."
He pressed a soft kiss just beneath my ear.
"...I want your entire world to be only us."
His fingers tightened gently around my waist. Then he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to my cheek - warm enough to send a blush rushing across my face.
Before I could recover, his lips brushed mine. Just a soft peck. Teasingly brief. Gone almost before I could return it.
He smiled against my lips.
"Finish your juice, Mrs. Khan."
His thumb traced slowly along my jaw.
"I have something to show you."
I frowned slightly. "What is it?"
The familiar unreadable calm settled over his face.
"If I tell you," he murmured, pressing one final feather-light kiss to the corner of my mouth, "it would ruin the surprise, jaan."
Before I could ask another question, Haris stood.
And then - without warning - he bent, slid one arm beneath my knees and the other around my back, and lifted me effortlessly into his arms.
A startled gasp escaped me. "Haris!"
He looked entirely unbothered. "What?"
"I can walk."
"I'm aware."
"Then why are you carrying me?"
The corner of his mouth tilted upward. "Because I want to."
My cheeks warmed instantly. "You have become completely shameless."
His dark eyes flickered down to mine. "Only where my wife is concerned."
I tried very hard not to smile.
Failed completely.
He carried me through the hallway with slow, measured steps, as though he had all the time in the world.
"Haris Aziz Khan," I said, narrowing my eyes. "Put me down."
"No."
"Haris."
"No."
"You are impossible."
"And yet," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead without breaking stride, "you married me."
I huffed dramatically and folded my arms.
He only smiled.
Then he stopped before the large carved front doors.
With one hand still holding me securely, he pushed them open.
Morning light spilled across polished floors.
And there it was.
Not just a house.
A dream shaped into walls and windows and sunlight.
My breath caught.
And then my eyes found it - engraved in elegant silver lettering near the entrance:
Jaan House
For a moment, the world simply... stopped.
My fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt.
"Haris..."
My voice broke.
He looked down at me, his expression softer than dawn itself.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Khan."
My fingers trembled as Haris finally set me down.
I stood frozen before the silver engraving.
Jaan House.
For a long moment, I could not breathe.
"Haris..."
My voice broke on his name.
He stepped behind me, his hands settling gently around my waist, his lips brushing the side of my neck.
"It is yours, jaan."
I turned toward him, tears already gathering. "Why?"
His dark eyes softened.
"Because home was never a place to me until you."
Before I could answer, he lifted me into his arms again.
"Haris-"
"Tour first," he murmured, pressing a teasing kiss to my cheek.
And then he carried me inside.
The Living Room
Sunlight poured through towering windows, spilling across soft cream furniture and polished wooden floors.
Everything felt warm. Peaceful. Intentional.
Haris lowered me slowly to my feet.
"I wanted the first room you entered to feel calm," he said quietly.
I looked around, my chest tightening. "Why?"
His fingers brushed mine.
"Because peace should always greet you first."
Their Shared Study
The next room stole my breath.
Two desks.
His architectural drafts neatly arranged on one side. An elegant white desk on the other - stacked with literature books, journals, and soft lighting positioned exactly the way I preferred when studying late into the night.
I turned slowly.
"Haris..."
He stepped behind me, his hands settling at my waist.
"So neither of us ever has to work alone again."
A shiver ran quietly through me.
The Kitchen
The marble counters gleamed.
Everything was beautiful.
And then I noticed it.
The counters. Lower. Perfectly measured. Perfectly reachable.
My eyes widened. "You adjusted them."
He leaned lazily against the doorway, watching my realisation unfold.
"You always rise on your toes to reach things."
I stared. "You noticed that?"
His expression turned almost amused. "I notice everything about you, Hazel Ahmed."
My cheeks burned.
Then his voice softened.
"And one day..." He stepped closer. "When our children try stealing pancakes from here, their father will pretend not to notice."
My entire face turned scarlet. "Haris Aziz Khan!"
His quiet laugh brushed against my skin like silk.
The Garden & The Swing.
White lilies stretched across the garden in every direction.
At the centre stood a wooden swing beneath soft climbing vines.
I touched the ropes carefully. "It's beautiful."
Haris stepped behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist.
"For evenings when life feels heavy," he murmured against my hair. "We'll sit here, drink chai, and remind each other that even difficult days still end together."
The tears in my eyes thickened.
The Prayer Room
The room glowed softly.
White prayer mats. Delicate calligraphy across the wall. Sunlight filtering through patterned glass, scattering light like scattered duas.
I stood still.
Speechless.
Haris's hand found mine.
"Every home should have a place where gratitude lives."
I squeezed his hand and said nothing, because nothing needed to be said.
The Empty Room
The next room was simple. Bright. Waiting.
I frowned. "What is this?"
Haris's lips curved faintly. His thumb brushed my knuckles.
"For whenever Allah decides our family should grow."
My breath caught. I looked away instantly, cheeks burning.
His soft chuckle followed me.
"Shy now, Mrs. Khan?"
The Final Door
At the very end of the hallway stood one last door.
My name was engraved across it.
Hazel's Qalb Studio
I stopped breathing.
"Haris..."
He moved behind me. His hands covered mine as he guided them gently to the handle.
"Open it, jaan."
The door slowly swung inward.
And my world stopped.
Sunlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the room in soft, liquid gold.
White walls adorned with delicate framed calligraphy. Shelves lined with every ink, nib, and handmade paper I had ever admired from a distance and never thought to own. A long custom desk near the window, crafted to measurements I had once described half-asleep. The chair. The lighting. The tiny brass tray for fresh lilies. Even the soft cream rug beneath the desk.
Every detail.
Every impossible, impossible detail.
My lips parted.
No sound came out.
Because this - this - was the room I had once described months ago, barely awake, while Haris quietly reviewed blueprints beside me. I had mumbled something about my dream studio. About morning sunlight. About white walls. About a small corner where my calligraphy could breathe.
He had remembered.
Ya Allah.
My knees nearly gave way.
A sob broke from my chest before I could stop it. Warm tears blurred everything.
"H-Haris..."
I turned.
He was standing a few steps behind me, watching me with quiet stillness, his dark eyes searching my face carefully.
As if he was afraid.
Afraid I would not like it.
That thought shattered me completely.
I crossed the distance between us before I even realised I was moving. And then I was in his arms - crying and laughing at the same time, holding onto him as though my heart had become too full for my chest to contain.
"It's exactly..." I tried to speak, but my voice broke.
His arms tightened. "Exactly what, jaan?"
I pulled back just enough to look at him through tear-blurred eyes.
"It's exactly how I dreamed it."
The tension in his face vanished. Something softer - relief - replaced it entirely.
I cupped his face with trembling hands and kissed him.
His forehead. His closed eyelids. His cheeks. The bridge of his nose. The corner of his mouth. Every kiss clumsy and wet with tears.
"H-Hazel..."
"Thank you," I whispered between each kiss. "For listening." Another kiss. "For remembering." Another. "For seeing me."
And then I pressed my lips fully to his.
This time, Haris froze for only a heartbeat.
Then his hands came to my waist, pulling me impossibly closer as he kissed me back with quiet, steady intensity - as if I were the only thing in the world worth being certain about.
When we finally parted, breathless, his forehead rested against mine.
"There has never been a version of my future," he whispered, "that did not make room for your dreams."
My breathing had only just begun to steady when something on the desk caught my eye.
A folded cream envelope. My name written across it in Haris's unmistakably precise handwriting.
To My Jaan.
My fingers instinctively reached for it.
But before I could touch it, warm fingers closed gently around my wrist.
I looked up.
Haris was watching me, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes.
"Not yet."
I blinked. "What do you mean, not yet?"
The corner of his mouth lifted. "There is one more surprise first."
"Haris Aziz Khan-"
Before I could finish, he tugged me lightly forward until I stumbled against his chest.
"You ask too many questions."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Yours."
I narrowed my eyes. "How is this my fault?"
He bent slightly, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
"Because your curiosity is adorable."
My face warmed immediately.
He smiled - that small, private smile he reserved only for me - then took my hand firmly in his.
"Come."
He led me through the hallway, fingers threaded through mine.
"Haris..."
"No questions."
"You are impossibly dramatic."
"I learned from my wife."
I gasped. He looked entirely unrepentant.
Then he stopped before the glass balcony doors.
Slowly, he stepped behind me. His hands rose to cover my eyes.
"Haris-"
"Trust me, jaan."
His voice dropped low and soft against my ear.
I melted instantly.
He guided me forward. One slow step. Then another. The cool morning breeze brushed against my skin.
And then he stopped.
His lips pressed softly to my temple.
"Now open your eyes."
"Close your eyes first, jaan."
I obeyed instantly.
I felt his fingers gently brush my ears. A moment later, the familiar weight of my old earrings disappeared.
"What are you doing?" I whispered.
"No questions."
Something cool brushed my skin. Then the soft, careful touch of his fingers fastening something new in place. His knuckles grazed my neck.
A shiver raced through me. "Haris..."
"Still."
His voice was low. The kind of low that always made my heartbeat lose its rhythm entirely.
A moment later, his lips brushed the sensitive spot just below my ear. A slow, lingering kiss. Then another, lower along my neck.
My breath caught. "Haris Aziz Khan..."
"Hmm?"
"You are being suspicious."
His quiet chuckle warmed my skin. "That is because your husband is full of surprises."
Before I could reply, he lifted me effortlessly. A startled gasp escaped me. He carried me a few careful steps - and then sat down. Only then did I realise he had settled onto the garden swing and placed me directly in his lap.
My cheeks burned instantly. "Haris!"
"What?"
"You cannot just keep doing this."
His arms wrapped securely around my waist. "I can. I'm your husband."
I tried to glare. Failed completely.
He adjusted me gently against his chest, his chin resting lightly against my shoulder. His lips brushed my neck once more.
"Now," he murmured against my skin, "open your eyes, Mrs. Khan."
Slowly, I did.
And the world blurred.
White lilies. Everywhere.
Dozens of them surrounded the garden, swaying softly in the morning breeze, their delicate fragrance filling the air like a quiet prayer.
For a moment, I could only stare.
And then my trembling fingers rose instinctively to touch my ears.
Lily-shaped.
My breath shattered.
"Haris..."
He tightened his arms around me.
"You once told me white lilies felt like peace."
A kiss against my shoulder.
"So I planted your peace where you would always find it."
The tears came instantly. Silent. Unstoppable.
I turned in his lap, my hands rising to his face.
And all I could do was look at him - at the man who remembered every small thing I had ever loved, and made each one matter.
My fingers stayed on his face, trembling.
I couldn't stop looking at him.
I swallowed hard, then shifted slightly, turning fully toward him. The swing creaked softly beneath us. White lilies swayed in the morning light. And I felt something in my chest finally give in completely.
"I don't understand you," I whispered.
His thumb brushed my cheek. "That is not true."
I shook my head. "You do all this... and you still think I can just stay normal?"
A faint smile touched his lips. "You were never normal, jaan."
I let out a broken laugh. Then my eyes filled again.
"Haris..."
"Hmm?"
"You are my calm."
His expression changed instantly. All teasing disappeared.
I lifted my hand and held his jaw gently.
"You are my calm - my Qalb-e-Jaan - in my chaotic little life."
The words hung between us. Still. Heavy. Beautiful.
His breath slowed. For a second, he didn't move at all.
Then his forehead lowered slowly until it rested against mine.
And when he spoke, his voice was barely there.
"You don't know what you do to me when you say things like that."
A tear slipped down my cheek. "I think I do," I whispered.
His arms tightened around me. Not rough. Not possessive.
Just certain.
Like a man who had finally found something he was never going to let go of.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Only the sound of the swing. The wind moving through lilies. Our breathing, soft and steady together.
Then he lifted his head and kissed the side of my nose.
Soft. Slow. Reverent.
And in that quiet garden full of white lilies and morning light... it felt like everything had finally found where it belonged.
I was still resting against his chest when I felt him shift slightly.
The swing moved gently. White lilies swayed around us.
Then - his breath near my ear. Not rushed. Not playful. Something deeper.
"Haris...?" I whispered.
"Shh."
His voice was different. Like he had stepped out of the world for a moment and only brought me with him.
I stayed still.
His fingers tightened around my waist, grounding me closer. Then he leaned in and began to speak - softly, slowly - like every word had been kept inside him for a very long time.
"You are the silence my heart never knew it needed..."
My breath caught.
"You are the prayer I never learned to ask for... but Allah still answered."
My fingers trembled against his arm.
He paused. Just for a second. Then continued, quieter than before.
"In a world that never stayed still... you became my stillness."
A tear slipped down my cheek before I even realised it. His thumb gently wiped it away.
"If I ever lose myself again... I will find myself in you."
My heart tightened painfully.
"Haris..."
But he wasn't finished.
"You are my peace, Hazel."
A pause. Then, almost like a confession he could only say like this -
"My Qalb-e-Jaan."
Silence followed. Not empty. Full. Heavy with everything we had never known how to say out loud.
I turned my face slightly, my eyes closed.
His hand rested over my heart, as if making sure I was real. As if he needed proof I was still here.
And in that moment - surrounded by lilies, held in his lap, wrapped in his voice - I understood something very clearly.
This was not just love.
This was home.
The world had softened again.
His arms still around me. The swing moving gently. White lilies swaying like they were breathing with us.
Then -
His phone vibrated. Once. Then again.
He didn't move. It rang.
He didn't look at it.
"Haris..." I murmured.
"It's nothing."
But it rang again. This time, something in his expression shifted - a small line forming between his brows.
He slowly reached into his pocket. Looked at the screen.
And I felt it instantly. The air changed. Not anger. Not panic.
Control.
"Stay here," he said softly.
"I am here," I replied.
He nodded once. Then stood, carefully placing me back on the swing before stepping a few feet away.
I watched him answer. His voice dropped instantly.
Cold. Professional. CEO Haris.
"Yes."
A pause.
"...Say that again."
Silence. Then his grip on the phone tightened.
"I am not repeating myself twice."
A longer pause.
"No. That decision is final."
His fingers flexed. Something sharp passed through his eyes.
Then - "Mark Evans."
My breath caught slightly at the name.
He turned slightly away from me, voice lowering further. "What exactly do you think you are doing contacting me during non-operational hours?"
I stayed still. I could feel it now - business, pressure, power, and underneath it all, restrained anger held with perfect control.
Then his voice dropped. Dangerously calm.
"If you touch my wife's share structure again without my consent-"
He stopped.
A breath.
His eyes closed for half a second.
When he spoke again, it was slower. "Do not finish that sentence."
Another pause. Then - "I said I will handle it."
His hand tightened around the phone.
"Send the revised documents. I will review them personally."
Click.
For a moment, he didn't move. Just stood there. Breathing once. Twice.
Then he exhaled slowly and turned back toward me.
Just like that - the storm was gone. Only Haris again.
He walked back and sat beside me on the swing as though nothing had happened. But I saw it - the exact moment he looked at me and softened. Like I was the only place he didn't have to be strong.
"Everything okay?" I asked quietly.
He nodded. "Yes, jaan." A pause. "Nothing you need to worry about."
His fingers found mine again. Warm. Steady.
And the world returned to lilies. To silence. To us.
The silence returned gently - like nothing had ever tried to break it.
Haris sat back beside me, his arm automatically finding its place around my waist again, as if his body had simply decided I belonged there.
"Done?" I asked softly.
"Yes," he said simply. No explanation. No weight passed back into my world.
Then - unexpectedly - his expression lightened.
"Lunch," he said.
I blinked. "Lunch?"
"Yes, jaan." A pause. Then, with that quiet authority he always carried so effortlessly - "We are going inside. Choosing outfits. Then I am cooking."
My eyes widened. "You are cooking?"
His lips curved slightly. "I am capable."
"That's not what I meant-"
"I know."
He stood and held out his hand.
"I want a slow day," he said quietly. "No calls. No interruptions." His thumb brushed over my fingers. "Just you."
Something in my chest softened instantly.
"...Okay," I whispered.
It turned into something I didn't expect.
Soft chaos.
He opened the wardrobe like it was a serious architectural decision. "Hm."
"What?" I asked from the bed, watching him with amusement.
"This one." He held up a white dress.
"No."
He paused. "...No?"
"It's too formal."
He stared at me. "This is casual."
"Not in my definition."
A faint exhale left him. Then he looked again and pulled out a soft pastel outfit.
"This?"
I nodded slowly. "Better."
"Good," he said, with the gravity of a business deal successfully concluded.
Then he picked his own outfit. White shirt. Rolled sleeves. Black trousers. Simple. Effortless. Perfectly Haris.
By the time we reached the kitchen, I realised something very important.
He was actually cooking.
And confidently.
"I didn't know you could do all this," I murmured, leaning on the counter.
He didn't look up. "There are many things you don't know about me yet, Mrs. Khan."
My heart skipped. "Mrs. Khan..." I repeated softly.
He finally glanced at me. A small pause.
"Yes," he said. Like it belonged there. Like it always had.
Later, everything moved outside.
A small table. Soft sunlight. White lilies still swaying in the distance.
He placed the food down carefully. Then pulled my chair back.
"Sit."
I did. He sat opposite me - then immediately stood again.
I frowned. "Haris?"
He came back and placed my plate in front of me himself. My heart tightened a little. "You don't have to-"
"I want to."
Simple answer. Always him.
We ate slowly. No rush. No world beyond this garden.
Only laughter when he pretended not to notice how much salt he had added, and my deeply dramatic reaction.
"You are trying to poison me."
"I am trying to feed you."
"That is worse."
His eyes softened instantly. "You will survive, jaan."
"I'm not entirely sure."
Then - without warning - he leaned forward and held a bite out to me himself.
"Open," he said quietly.
I obeyed. And forgot entirely what I had been arguing about.
The sun moved a little lower.
He reached across the table and wiped a small drop of sauce from the corner of my lip with his thumb.
Then didn't move his hand away.
Just stayed there. Looking at me. Soft. Quiet. Almost like he was memorising this exact version of his life.
"This," he said finally.
"What?"
"This is what I wanted."
My voice softened. "This?"
He nodded once.
"You."
A pause. Then, even quieter - "Always you."
Lunch ended in a warmth I didn't want to leave.
But peace, I've learned, never stays silent for too long.
His phone rang again.
He looked at it once. Then stood.
"Stay here," he said softly.
I frowned. "Again?"
His eyes softened instantly. "This one will be quick."
And it was. I only caught fragments. Controlled voice. CEO tone. Finality.
"Yes. The structure is approved. No further interference."
A pause.
"If you attempt to bypass again, you will not be speaking to me next time."
Click.
When he returned, his expression had already softened the moment his eyes found me. He sat beside me like nothing in the world had ever been wrong. And kissed my forehead once. As if resetting everything back to us.
Night - The Balcony
The sky had deepened into soft blue-black. Still. Quiet.
We sat on the balcony wrapped in a single blanket, two cups of hot chocolate between us, steam rising slowly into the cool evening air.
Haris pulled me closer instantly. "You're cold."
"I'm fine."
"You're always 'fine' when you are not."
I smiled. "You're annoying."
"And you love it."
I didn't answer. Because he was right.
He lifted his cup, then gently pressed it into my hands. "Drink."
I took a sip. Then immediately turned to him. "Too sweet."
His lips curved. "That's intentional."
"Why?"
He leaned closer, his arm tightening around my waist.
"Because you are my marshmallow."
My heart skipped instantly. "Haris..."
Before I could respond, he leaned in and kissed the corner of my lips.
Soft. Slow. Warm.
My breath caught. "You're impossible," I whispered.
"And you're mine," he replied simply.
Hazel's Gift
I shifted slightly, suddenly remembering.
"I also have something for you."
His brows lifted. "For me?"
I nodded and pulled a small box from beside me.
He opened it slowly.
Inside - cufflinks, a watch, a tie pin, and a small engraved plate.
His eyes narrowed slightly in curiosity. He picked it up. Read it. And paused.
"Mera Sukoon Sirf Tum Ho."
Silence.
Then he looked at me. Long. Still. Something softer breaking open in his expression.
"You made this?" he asked quietly.
I nodded.
His thumb brushed over the engraving once more. Then he closed the box carefully.
And pulled me into his arms.
Not teasing. Not playful. Just... holding me. Tighter than before.
"Hazel," he said softly.
I hummed against his chest.
"You don't know what you do to me."
I smiled. "I think I do now."
A pause. Then his lips pressed to my forehead. Slow. Loving.
The wind moved gently across the balcony.
Hot chocolate cooling beside us. His arms still around me.
And for the first time... nothing felt unfinished.
Only peace. Only him. Only us.
Then, very quietly, his lips found my ear.
And he whispered - in both languages, the way only he ever could:
"You are the sweetness of my life. I don't know how to explain that you are my peace. I think about you day and night. You live in all my dreams. I don't know how to say that you are the story of every thought I have."
"Aap meri zindagi ki meethaas ho. Main kaise bataun ke aap mera sukoon ho. Main har din, har raat sirf aapko sochta hoon. Aap mere har khwab mein rehte ho. Main kaise bataun ke aap mere har khayal ka afsana ho."
"Mera sukoon sirf tum ho."
My whole heart stilled.
And in that quiet, wrapped in lilies and lamplight and the warmth of everything we had built together -
I believed him.
As I finished speaking, I felt her go still against me.
The last word had barely left my lips when I pulled back slightly - just enough to see her face.
Her eyes were full.
Tears she wasn't trying to hide. Tears she wasn't even aware of, I think. They simply came, the way truth always does - quietly, and all at once.
Ya Allah.
My chest did something I still don't have a word for.
Not pain. Not sadness.
Something far more dangerous than either.
Certainty.
I reached up slowly and brushed the tear from her cheek with my thumb. She didn't look away. She just looked at me - the way she always does - like I am somehow both the question and the answer at the same time.
I don't deserve that look.
But I have decided, for the rest of my life, to try to.
I pressed my lips to her forehead and held them there.
"Mera sukoon sirf tum ho," I whispered against her skin.
And I meant it.
More than any blueprint I have ever drawn. More than any building I have ever built.
She is the only thing I have ever made that truly matters - us - and I did not even build it alone.
Allah gave her to me.
And I will spend every remaining second of my life being worthy of that gift.
pressed my lips to her forehead and held them there.
For a long moment, I simply stayed like that.
Not moving. Not speaking.
Just breathing her in.
Then I pulled back and looked at her - really looked at her - the way I don't always let myself in the daylight, when the world is watching and I am supposed to be composed.
But here, on this balcony, wrapped in night and lilies and the scent of her -
I let myself look.
And what I saw undid me completely.
"You know what you are to me?" I said quietly.
She blinked, still tearful, still soft.
"Hmm?"
My thumb traced her cheek slowly.
"You are the most precious thing I have ever been given." A pause. "And I will protect you for the rest of my life."
Her breath trembled.
I leaned my forehead against hers.
"You are the khair in my duas, Hazel."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
"And you are the ameen that Allah placed in my life."
She made a sound - somewhere between a sob and a laugh - and hid her face against my chest.
I held her tighter.
Ya Allah, I thought quietly, thank You.
For giving me someone worth protecting.
For giving me my ameen.
My fingers found her hand slowly.
Tracing each one. Quietly. Absently.
The way I always do when the world goes still enough for me to just... be.
Alhamdulillah.
The word rose from somewhere deep - not from my lips, but from whatever is underneath them. From the place where words don't always reach.
Alhamdulillah.
Because this - her - is not something I earned.
She is something I was given.
And protecting her?
That is not a decision I make.
It is not a promise I remind myself to keep.
It is as natural as breathing.
As automatic as my next heartbeat.
I didn't choose to protect her the way you choose a path.
I simply do - the way lungs breathe without being asked.
My lips found her neck softly.
She didn't flinch. Didn't startle.
She simply tilted slightly toward me - the way she always does - like her body already knows I am safe.
Ya Allah.
I will listen to her.
For every conversation. Every silence. Every half-finished thought she doesn't know how to say out loud.
For a lifetime.
For longer, if Allah wills.
Alhamdulillah for you, my jaan.
Alhamdulillah.
She shifted in my arms and looked up at me.
Her eyes still soft. Still glistening.
"Promise me something," she whispered.
I looked down at her. "Anything."
"Promise me..." her voice caught slightly. "Promise me you'll be in Jannah too."
Ya Allah.
Something in my chest cracked open quietly.
I didn't answer immediately.
Because a promise like that - it deserves more than words.
So instead, I leaned down and pressed my lips to her forehead. Long. Steady. Certain.
Then I pulled back and held her face in both hands.
"Till the last breath I take in this dunya," I said quietly. "And if Allah reunites us - till the first breath in Jannah too."
Her eyes filled instantly.
"Haris..."
She rose on her toes and kissed my cheek.
Soft. Warm. Like a prayer pressed against my skin.
And something in me - that part that is always composed, always controlled - simply dissolved.
I looked at her for a long moment.
Trying to find the words.
There are architects who spend lifetimes trying to describe beauty in structure and form and line.
And then there is her.
And no blueprint I have ever drawn comes close.
"You know what you are?" I murmured.
She shook her head slightly.
My thumb brushed her cheek.
"You are the compassion in every dua I never finished."
Her breath caught.
"The ones I started... and didn't know how to complete." A pause. "Allah already knew. He sent me you as the answer."
A tear slipped silently down her cheek.
I continued softly -
"You are like a warm breeze on a summer evening."
A kiss to her temple.
"The kind that arrives without warning and makes everything feel lighter."
Another kiss - her cheek this time.
"You are like rain."
My forehead came to rest against hers.
"Not the storm. Never the storm."
A whisper now.
"The soft kind. The kind that falls quietly and makes everything it touches feel clean again."
She was crying now. Silently. Beautifully.
"And you are my winter breeze, jaan."
I closed my eyes.
"Cool and gentle. The kind that doesn't freeze - it only reminds you that you are alive."
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Only the night around us. The distant scent of white lilies. Our breathing, slow and intertwined.
Then she pressed her face against my chest and held me - really held me like she was afraid I might dissolve into the very poetry I had just spoken.
I wrapped my arms around her completely.
And whispered into her hair -
"Till Jannah, my jaan."
"Till Jannah."
The night had wrapped itself around us like a warm shawl.
Soft. Unhurried. As if even the sky had decided - not yet. Stay a little longer.
Above Birmingham, the darkness had deepened into that particular shade of blue-black that exists only in the quiet hours. The kind that makes the world feel smaller. Closer. Like Allah had drawn the curtains and left only us inside.
Stars scattered above us carelessly.
Not dramatic. Not theatrical.
Just... there. The way good things always are - quietly present, asking for nothing.
I held her tighter.
Her lavender scent reached me before I even thought to notice it - the way it always does. Soft. Familiar. Like the very last thing I want to breathe before sleep and the very first thing I want to find when I wake.
Like a cherry on top of everything already too good to deserve.
Ya Allah.
Sometimes I look at her - just like this, in an ordinary moment - and I feel it.
That strange, terrifying, breathtaking feeling.
Unreality.
Like this cannot possibly be my life.
Like I will blink and find myself back in that cold, empty version of myself - before her laughter filled my hallways, before her tea mugs appeared on my desk, before she shifted her entire world quietly into mine without making a single sound about it.
Like she is too soft and too real and too here to actually belong to me.
I pressed my lips into her hair.
But she does.
Alhamdulillah.
She does.
I tightened my arms around her - not from fear. Not from desperation.
Just from the deep, bone-settled certainty of a man who knows exactly what he is holding.
The most precious thing he has ever been given.
And above us, Birmingham's night sky stretched wide and still and infinite -
Full of stars that had always been there.
The way she had always been meant to find me.
The end
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