The family returned from Canada carrying winter with them — snow still clinging to their coats, voices overlapping with stories half-told and retold. Zahraa's laughter filled the entryway. Ahmed followed with tired amusement, Maryam and Mohammed trailing behind, Amal juggling bags and chatter all at once.
Ali and his family stayed behind — settled in their life there now, Farooq tucked safely into his mother's arms an ocean away.
But the first thing everyone noticed wasn't the luggage.
It was Saba.
She stood near the doorway when they arrived, one hand resting instinctively at her side, her posture careful but no longer guarded. Her face looked fuller, softer — not just from pregnancy, but from something settling inside her. There was color in her cheeks. Light in her eyes.
A glow — real this time, not forced.
Zahraa froze for a moment, then smiled slowly.
"You look…" she searched for the word, "…different."
Saba laughed, shy but genuine. "I feel different."
It wasn't a declaration of certainty.
Just acceptance.
She was well into the middle of her fifth month now. Past the point that once felt like a cliff edge. She moved more deliberately, listened to her body closely. If she was tired, she rested. If her back ached, she didn't push through it. She drank her water. Ate small meals. Took her vitamins with ritual seriousness.
Every day came with its own quiet negotiations.
Some mornings she woke calm, almost excited — touching her stomach without flinching, whispering du'as she had memorized and reshaped into something personal.
Other days, fear crept in without warning.
A twinge.
A missed flutter.
A dream she couldn't shake.
On those days, she breathed through it. Counted steps. Let the fear pass without feeding it.
Small victories.
Hope, built carefully — like glass, not stone.
Adnan watched all of it.
He had become gentler in ways that didn't announce themselves. He slowed his steps to match hers. Learned when to speak and when to simply sit beside her. He no longer brushed off her anxieties or tried to logic them away.
If she was afraid, he stayed.
That was it.
At night, he rested his hand over her stomach without expectation, sometimes just there in silence. Other times, he spoke quietly — not promises, not dreams — just presence.
"I'm here," he'd say. Or, "We're okay right now."
And somehow, that was enough.
The changes in the house were impossible to miss.
One afternoon, Ahmed wandered down the hallway and stopped short.
"The room," he said slowly.
Adnan stood nearby, paint smudged faintly on his wrist.
The old furniture was gone.
Not erased — relocated. Some donated. Some carefully boxed. Aqeel's clothes sorted with reverence, not haste. And on a shelf near the window sat the tiger — the one thing Adnan couldn't give away.
It stayed.
A witness.
The walls were fresh now — white, clean, waiting. Not decorated. Not claimed.
Hope, again — careful.
Saba stood in the doorway that evening, watching Adnan paint the last corner. She didn't cry this time.
She smiled.
Later, as she folded baby clothes Zahraa had brought from Canada — tiny, impossibly small — she paused, fingers trembling for just a second.
Then she folded the fabric neatly.
Another victory.
Life didn't rush back into place.
It eased itself in.
Laughter returned in small doses. Meals stretched longer. Conversations softened. Zulkhia watched them both with quiet relief, offering prayers instead of instructions now.
And though fear still visited — because fear always does — it no longer ruled the house.
Hope had learned how to live alongside it.
Carefully.
Patiently.
Day by day.
Every night now ended the same.
Pillows adjusted.
Water within reach.
His hand resting where the baby was growing.
She whispered once, half-asleep, "Stay."
"I'm here," he replied automatically.
She smiled, drifting off.
And Adnan stayed awake a little longer every night—listening to her breathe, memorizing the shape of this happiness, knowing how fragile it was…
…and loving it anyway.
======
She started crying over a commercial.
Not even a sad one.
It was just… a normal ad. A bright, cozy little scene—warm lighting, a table full of food, a family laughing too loudly, passing bread, arguing over who gets the last piece of chicken. A father reaching across to wipe sauce off his daughter's cheek. A mother scolding, smiling at the same time.
That was it.
Nothing tragic.
No dramatic music.
No hospital scenes.
No funerals.
Just love.
Just people belonging to each other.
And somehow, that was enough to break her.
Saba's lips trembled before she even realized it.
She blinked once.
Twice.
Then the tears came—quiet at first, then faster, sliding down her cheeks like her body had been waiting all day for an excuse.
She tried to hide it, of course.
She turned her face slightly toward the cushion, pretending she was "just tired," pretending she wasn't about to lose her dignity in front of the entire living room.
But it was too late.
Adnan noticed immediately.
He always noticed.
He was sitting beside her on the sofa, half-listening to Amal and Zulkhia talking about their time in Canada, and Zahraa teasing Mohammed about how he'd complain the second snow touched his shoes.
Adnan had been pretending to read something on his phone.
Pretending.
Because his attention was never really on the screen anymore.
It was always on her.
So the moment he felt her shoulders tighten—just slightly—
the moment he heard the smallest shift in her breathing—
He looked at her.
And his entire body reacted like someone had lit a fire under him.
"Saba?" he asked quickly, voice low.
She didn't answer.
She only wiped her cheek with the back of her hand like she was angry at her own face for betraying her.
Adnan leaned closer, alarmed now.
"Jaan… what happened?" he asked, eyes scanning her like he was searching for a wound. "What did they say? What's wrong?"
That got everyone's attention.
Amal stopped mid-sentence.
Zahraa turned immediately, eyebrows lifting.
Even Zulkhia went quiet, her eyes narrowing with motherly instinct.
Saba sniffed hard and wiped again, more aggressively this time—like she could erase the emotion with force.
"Nothing," she muttered.
Adnan didn't believe her for a second.
"Nothing?" he repeated, clearly panicking now. "You're crying."
"I'm not crying," she lied, while a tear fell in real time.
Adnan blinked. "That is literally a tear."
Zahraa covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.
Amal leaned forward, curious. "What happened? Did you feel pain? Saba, are you okay?"
Saba's cheeks went red instantly.
"Stop looking at me," she snapped, mortified.
Adnan's eyes widened like a man who had just been yelled at by a queen.
But he didn't move away.
If anything, he moved closer.
His hand found her shoulder gently, his thumb rubbing small circles as if he could soothe her back into control.
"Tell me," he whispered. "Please."
Saba stared at the TV like it had personally betrayed her.
Then she said it.
In the smallest, most furious voice.
"They love each other."
Silence.
A beat.
Then Adnan stared at her.
"…What?"
She pointed at the screen with shaking anger.
"That family," she said, voice cracking like she hated herself for it. "They love each other."
Adnan looked at the commercial again.
A family eating dinner.
Laughing.
Passing plates.
He looked back at her.
"That's it?" he asked softly.
Saba nodded, eyes shining again because her stupid emotions had no loyalty.
And then she said, so bitterly, so defensively—
"It's stupid."
Zahraa let out a tiny sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
Amal's face melted instantly, her eyes filling.
And Zulkhia…
Zulkhia didn't speak.
She just watched Saba the way only a mother could—
not with pity,
but with recognition.
Adnan turned fully toward Saba, his panic shifting into something else now.
Something gentler.
Something aching.
He reached for her properly then, pulling her into his chest with a careful strength, like he was afraid she'd break if he moved too fast.
Saba resisted for half a second.
Out of pride.
Out of embarrassment.
Out of habit.
Then her body gave up.
She melted into him, forehead pressing into his shoulder as her tears came again, quieter now, softer, like her heart had finally found somewhere safe to leak.
Adnan held her tightly.
Not suffocating.
Not dramatic.
Just… there.
Solid.
His chin rested against her hair.
His hand cradled the back of her head, protective and steady.
"It's not stupid," he murmured.
Saba sniffed, voice muffled against his shirt. "You say that now."
Adnan didn't hesitate.
"I will say it always."
The words weren't loud.
But they were absolute.
That made her cry harder for a second, and she hated it, because she didn't want to cry harder, she wanted to be strong, she wanted to be the woman who didn't crumble over a dinner table commercial like a teenage girl—
But she couldn't.
Not anymore.
Not with everything inside her.
Not with the fear.
Not with the hope.
Not with the fragile little life growing in her like a secret she still didn't know how to trust.
"I'm a mess," she whispered, voice trembling.
Adnan kissed her hair.
Slowly.
Like a promise.
"You're pregnant," he said simply.
As if that explained everything.
As if that forgave everything.
Saba let out a wet laugh through her tears, half embarrassed, half relieved.
Zahraa wiped her own eyes discreetly and stood up abruptly like she had something urgent to do in the kitchen.
Amal cleared her throat and followed her, pretending she wasn't smiling.
Even Mohammed suddenly became extremely interested in his phone.
Zulkhia didn't move.
She only watched her son hold his wife like she was something sacred.
Then, softly, she murmured—
"Let her cry, Adnan. The heart gets heavy in this month."
Adnan nodded once without looking up.
"I know," he whispered.
Saba's fingers curled into his shirt.
She didn't say thank you.
She didn't need to.
She just stayed there, breathing him in, letting herself be held.
And after a moment—when her tears slowed and her body softened—
Saba lifted her face slightly, eyes swollen and shining, and gave him a small, embarrassed smile.
A real one.
Adnan's heart clenched so hard it almost hurt.
He brushed his thumb under her eye, wiping away the last tear with a tenderness that made her stomach flip.
"There," he murmured. "Better."
Saba sniffed. "No."
Adnan blinked. "No?"
She leaned in closer, voice small and shameless.
"Do it again."
His mouth twitched.
"You want me to wipe your tears again?"
She nodded, dramatic and serious.
"Yes."
Adnan laughed under his breath and kissed her hair again—longer this time.
And Saba, finally…
smiled despite herself.
Not because the fear was gone.
Not because she suddenly believed in safety.
But because for the first time…
she wasn't carrying it alone.
=====
She woke in the early morning to voices.
Not loud. Not urgent.
Just… gentle.
The kind of softness that belonged to a house still half asleep—walls quiet, curtains barely breathing with the breeze, the world outside still dark-blue and patient.
At first, Saba thought she was dreaming.
Because the voice was his.
Low. Warm. Careful.
And it wasn't speaking to her.
It was speaking to someone else.
To something small and unseen.
To something she still didn't fully dare to claim.
"…you have to be kind to her," Adnan murmured.
Saba stayed perfectly still, lashes resting against her cheeks, her breathing slow—too controlled, too deliberate, like if she moved too quickly the moment would vanish.
His hand was on her stomach.
Not heavy.
Not possessive.
Just… there.
A warm palm anchoring her in the quiet.
"She's doing her best," he continued, voice soft with conviction, like he was defending her in a room full of people who couldn't understand. "She's scared… but she's still trying."
Saba's throat tightened instantly.
Her eyes burned.
She swallowed carefully, silently, refusing to make a sound.
Adnan's fingers shifted slightly—barely a stroke across her skin, as if he was soothing both of them.
"You don't rush her," he whispered, almost stern now. "You don't scare her."
A pause.
Then, softer:
"You stay."
Another pause—his voice turning into something quieter than a promise.
"We stay."
Saba's heart clenched so hard it felt like it physically moved inside her chest.
Because those words weren't for the baby.
Not only.
They were for her, too.
For the part of her that still woke up bracing for loss.
For the part of her that still believed happiness was a trap.
Her eyes filled completely, tears slipping sideways into her hairline.
She blinked them away slowly, like she was afraid even her tears might disturb him.
Adnan's voice dropped even lower, almost a breath.
"I know it's dark in there," he murmured, a faint smile hiding in the sound. "But your mother is stubborn. You'll see."
Saba almost laughed.
Almost.
It came out as the smallest, broken exhale.
That was when her body betrayed her.
A tiny shift of her shoulder.
A slight movement of her knee under the blanket.
Nothing dramatic.
But Adnan froze like she'd caught him doing something private.
Like she'd walked in on his heart.
His hand stilled on her stomach.
His breathing changed—caught, then steadied.
And when she finally opened her eyes and turned her head slightly toward him, she found him looking down at her with that rare, unguarded expression.
The one that didn't try to be strong.
The one that was just… him.
"You were talking," she said sleepily.
Her voice was soft. Thick with sleep. Thick with emotion she couldn't hide fast enough.
Adnan cleared his throat, like a man trying to pretend he hadn't been praying out loud with his whole soul.
"Was I?" he asked, too casually.
Saba's lips curved, her eyes damp and shining in the dim light.
She nodded faintly.
"He heard you."
Adnan's face shifted—something tender breaking through his composure.
Not panic.
Not fear.
Just relief.
Like he'd been holding his breath for months without realizing.
He leaned down slowly, careful with her, careful with the space between them, as if this softness was sacred and easily cracked.
He kissed her forehead.
A quiet, steady kiss.
One that didn't ask for anything.
Only gave.
"Good," he murmured against her skin.
Saba closed her eyes again, tears slipping free this time without shame.
Adnan stayed close, his palm still warm on her stomach, his thumb moving in the smallest circles like reassurance written in touch.
And for the first time in days…
Saba didn't feel like she was waiting for something to go wrong.
She felt—just for a moment—
like she was allowed to believe.
Like hope wasn't a punishment.
Like love could be something safe.
And beside her, Adnan whispered again—so softly it barely existed—
"Be gentle with her."
Then, after a pause:
"…and I'll be gentle with you, too."
=====
He found her in their room, curled into the corner of the couch like she belonged there—like the house had been built around her comfort.
A blanket covered her legs, one hand tucked under it, the other resting lazily on her stomach as if she still didn't fully trust that this was real… but her body did. Her hair was loose, spilling over her shoulder, thick and dark and a little wild, and her face was soft with that sleepy pregnancy glow that made Adnan feel like his heart had learned a new language.
Not love.
Something deeper.
Something terrifyingly tender.
Adnan had just come out of the shower.
His hair was still damp at the ends, his skin warm, clean—he even smelled clean.
Or so he thought.
He stood there for a second, just watching her.
The way her lashes looked heavier than usual.
The way her lips were slightly parted like she'd been dreaming.
The way she looked safe.
And it hit him—quietly, violently—that this was the woman he almost broke.
He crossed the room without thinking.
Leaned down, bracing one hand on the back of the couch, the other slipping gently to her shoulder as he dipped his face toward hers.
Saba tilted her chin up.
Slow.
Like she was allowing him.
Like she was being generous.
Like she knew he needed it.
And just as his lips were a breath away—
She lifted one finger and pressed it to his mouth.
"No."
Adnan froze.
Blink.
"No?" he repeated, like his brain refused to accept the word.
Saba nodded with grave seriousness, eyes wide and innocent, as if she was protecting the world from disaster.
"No."
Adnan stared at her like she'd just declared war.
"Why?" he asked, offended. Confused. Still hovering like a man who hadn't been rejected by his own wife in his entire life.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, lips twitching like she was fighting a smile.
Then she said it.
"Your perfume."
He paused.
"My… perfume?"
"Yes," she repeated, absolutely scandalized on behalf of her own nose. "It's nasty."
Adnan pulled back a little, genuinely wounded.
"Nasty?" he echoed, like he'd been slapped by the concept.
Saba shrugged under the blanket, completely unbothered, looking at him like he was the one being dramatic.
"It's attacking me."
Adnan's mouth fell open.
"I literally just took a shower," he said, voice rising in disbelief. "I'm clean."
Saba pointed at his shirt like it was the enemy.
"That. That's the problem."
He looked down at himself, then back at her.
"This T-shirt?"
"Yes."
"This T-shirt that you've stolen from me fifty times?"
"That one," she confirmed, eyes innocent. "It smells like… you."
He exhaled, relieved for half a second—
Then she added, very calmly:
"But like… aggressively."
Adnan's eyes widened.
"Aggressively?"
Saba nodded. "Like you're trying to seduce me with chemicals."
Adnan let out a sharp laugh, half disbelief, half suffering.
"So you're refusing to kiss me because my shirt is too… me?"
Saba gave him a tiny smile.
"Correct."
He leaned closer again, voice lower now, playful—but there was something underneath it.
Something that wanted.
"Saba…"
She lifted her palm and pressed it gently to his chest, stopping him with a soft, coquette firmness.
Not rejection.
Control.
"Go change," she said sweetly. "Then I will kiss you."
Adnan blinked.
"That's blackmail."
"That's boundaries," she corrected, proud, as if she'd invented maturity.
He stared at her for a long second.
Then his eyes dropped to her mouth.
Then to her hand.
Then back to her eyes.
Like he was measuring how much patience he had left in his body.
He sighed dramatically, like a man carrying the weight of the world.
"Fine," he muttered.
Saba's smile widened.
Victory.
But just as he turned to go, he looked back over his shoulder, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Two kisses," he said.
Saba blinked. "What?"
"Not one," he added, suddenly serious. "Two."
She scoffed, but it was the kind of scoff that was secretly pleased.
"Adnan, go change your nasty perfume-shirt."
He pointed at her.
"Two."
Saba rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were already warm.
"Okay, okay. Two. Go."
He left with the satisfied stride of a man who had negotiated peace terms successfully.
And Saba watched him go, lips pressed together, smiling like she'd won…
…but her eyes softened a little too.
Because this—this silly teasing, this normal warmth—
was the kind of marriage she never thought she'd get to keep.
A minute later, he came back.
Different shirt.
Cleaner scent.
Less offense to her delicate, dramatic soul.
He stopped in front of her like he was presenting evidence in court.
"There," he said. "Changed."
Saba tilted her head, inspecting him like a professional.
Slowly.
Thoroughly.
Enjoying the power.
Then she patted the couch beside her.
"Come here."
Adnan sat.
Immediately closer than necessary.
His knee brushed hers.
His arm rested behind her like a cage he wasn't closing yet—just reminding her he could.
He leaned in slowly this time, giving her the chance to stop him again.
But she didn't.
Saba caught his face between her hands, thumbs resting against his jaw, and pulled him in.
Softly at first.
Like she was tasting him.
Like she was deciding if he'd earned it.
Her lips met his.
Warm.
Slow.
Then deeper—like she'd been holding back all day and finally got tired of pretending she had self-control.
Adnan's breath hitched.
His hand slid to her waist, steadying her, anchoring her like he was afraid she'd disappear again if he didn't.
Saba kissed him again, longer this time.
More certain.
Her mouth moved against his like she was reminding him:
I'm here. I chose you. I'm not leaving.
And then her breath caught.
A quiet sound slipped from her throat—unplanned, involuntary—before she could swallow it back.
Adnan went still for half a second.
Like the world stopped to listen.
His grip tightened just slightly.
Not rough.
Not demanding.
Just… affected.
Like her voice did something to him that nothing else could.
Then he kissed her again—lower, slower—like he was smiling into her mouth.
Like he was savoring her.
When they finally broke apart, Saba stayed close, forehead resting against his, lips still brushing his like she wasn't done.
Adnan's voice came out rough.
Satisfied.
Almost disbelieving.
"That was… two?"
Saba's eyes fluttered open, dazed and smug.
"No," she murmured.
Adnan's brows lifted.
Saba leaned in again, lips brushing his—barely a kiss, more like a promise.
"That," she whispered, "was one."
Adnan stared at her like he'd just realized his wife was a menace.
A dangerous one.
A sweet one.
A pregnant one, which somehow made her ten times more fearless.
His mouth parted, half laugh, half helplessness.
"Saba…" he murmured, like her name was a warning and a prayer.
She smiled slowly.
Then she kissed him again.
This time she didn't hold back at all.
And Adnan—finally—stopped trying to pretend he could.
=======
They were out for a short walk near the shops, nothing planned, just air and movement and a reason to get Saba out of the house for a bit. She walked slowly now, one hand resting unconsciously at her side, the other hooked into Adnan's arm.
He didn't rush her.
He never did anymore.
They stopped near a small stall selling scarves. Saba reached out, fingers brushing over soft fabric, distracted, her attention fully claimed by colors and textures.
That was when it happened.
A man standing nearby—mid-thirties, polite, harmless—smiled at her.
Not a stare.
Not bold.
Just a look that lingered half a second too long.
"Beautiful color," he said casually, nodding toward the scarf she was holding. "It suits you."
Saba smiled back, reflexive, kind. "Thank you."
She didn't think twice about it.
Adnan did.
He didn't react immediately. No tension. No words. Just a quiet recalibration in his body, like something inside him had straightened its spine.
A simple moment.
A stranger's compliment.
A polite smile.
And then Adnan's hand slid to the small of her back—firm, quiet, possessive in the way that didn't ask permission because it didn't need to.
"It does," he said smoothly, eyes on the man. "My wife always chooses well."
The word wife didn't just land.her throat tightening. Her fingers going still on the fabric.
Because that is the moment she realizes:
He's not playing anymore.
It settled.
Like a stamp.
Like a claim.
Like something that made the air around them tighten—softly, dangerously.
The man nodded, smiled awkwardly, and walked away.
Saba didn't move right away.
She just stood there for a second, holding the scarf in her hands like she'd forgotten why she wanted it in the first place.
Then she looked up at Adnan.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Her eyes slid to his face… then down to his hand still resting against her back.
And something in her expression changed.
Not anger.
Not discomfort.
Something warmer.
Something that sparkled.
"My wife?" she repeated, voice low, sweet… almost amused.
Adnan didn't flinch. "Yes."
Saba tilted her head slightly, lashes lowering as if she was studying him like a secret.
"You said it like you were warning him," she murmured.
Adnan's jaw tightened, but his eyes stayed calm. "Maybe I was."
Saba's lips parted.
Just a little.
And her smile turned wicked in the softest way.
"Oh," she whispered, leaning closer. "So you were jealous."
"I'm not jealous," he said immediately, too fast.
Saba's eyes narrowed in delight. "Adnan…"
She said his name the way women said it when they wanted a man to lose his mind quietly.
His hand pressed a little more firmly into her back.
"You think I didn't see you?" she continued, voice light, teasing, full of honey. "You looked at him like you wanted to bury him under the pavement."
Adnan exhaled through his nose. "He was looking at you."
Saba's smile widened.
She leaned even closer now—so close her breath warmed the side of his mouth.
"And?" she whispered. "I'm still here."
Adnan's gaze dropped to her lips for half a second.
Then back to her eyes.
His voice went lower. "You smiled at him."
Saba blinked innocently.
"Oh no…" she gasped softly, mock-horrified. "I smiled?"
Adnan's eyes darkened.
Saba watched him—watched the way his restraint tightened like a belt around his chest.
And she loved it.
She loved that she could do this to him now.
That she could play with him and not fear that he'd disappear.
"You're being possessive," she said, voice sweet as dessert.
Adnan's mouth barely moved when he answered.
"Protective."
Saba's gaze flicked again to his hand on her back.
Then she slid her own hand up his chest—slowly—fingertips brushing his shirt like she was petting a secret.
"And if I tell you…" she whispered, "I like it?"
Adnan went still.
A sharp inhale.
Like her words hit him somewhere deep.
Saba's smile softened into something almost tender.
"You're cute when you pretend you don't care," she added.
Adnan's eyes narrowed. "Saba…"
She stepped closer, until her body pressed lightly against his—just enough to be felt.
Just enough to make him remember she was real.
Just enough to make his self-control cost him something.
Then she lifted her chin and said softly, almost lazily:
"Say it again."
Adnan frowned. "Say what again?"
Saba's eyes gleamed.
"That word," she whispered. "The one you used like a weapon."
Adnan stared at her for a moment.
Then, with a quiet intensity that made her stomach flip—
"My wife."
Saba's breath caught.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
But enough.
Enough that Adnan noticed.
Enough that his eyes sharpened.
And she hated how much she loved that he noticed everything about her now.
Saba smiled, pleased… then she leaned in and kissed his cheek.
Not a quick kiss.
Not polite.
A slow one.
A kiss that stayed.
A kiss that said good boy without using the words.
Then she pulled back just enough to look at him again.
Her voice dropped into a whisper:
"Good."
Adnan's hand slid slightly—just slightly—lower along her waist, as if he couldn't help it.
Saba didn't stop him.
Instead, she looked up at him with that same teasing softness and said:
"But don't do it again…"
Adnan stiffened. "What?"
She smiled wider.
"Unless you're ready to take me home," she whispered, eyes glinting. "Because I swear, Adnan… I'm pregnant, not patient."
For one second, his expression broke.
A sharp, helpless laugh.
A breath of disbelief.
Then his eyes turned darker again, like the laugh was only the surface of something hungrier underneath.
He leaned down—voice low, rough.
"You're playing with fire Jaan,"
Saba tilted her head, completely shameless now.
"I married fire," she whispered back.
And then she slipped her fingers into his, lacing them tightly.
Not fragile.
Not uncertain.
Claiming him right back.
"Come," she said lightly, tugging him forward. "Before your face starts scaring innocent people."
Adnan's grip tightened around her hand.
And as they walked—shoulders brushing, steps synced—he leaned down and murmured against her hair:
"You're enjoying this too much."
Saba smiled without looking at him.
"Yes," she whispered.
"I am."
Because it was the first time in her life she could tease a man she loved…
…and not fear he'd leave the moment she became too human.
=====
They barely made it into the car before Adnan exhaled like he'd been holding his breath since that man walked away.
Saba shut the door slowly, the sound soft—but the silence between them wasn't.
It was charged.
Adnan started the engine, jaw set, one hand on the wheel.
The other…
Found her immediately.
His fingers slid into hers like it was instinct. Like it was necessary. Like he didn't trust the world unless he was holding onto her.
Saba glanced down at their hands.
Then up at him.
And smiled.
Not sweet.
Not innocent.
The kind of smile that said: I know exactly what I'm doing to you.
Adnan didn't look at her. He focused on the road with exaggerated discipline.
Saba leaned back in her seat, voice lazy. "You were very brave out there."
He blinked. "Brave?"
"Yes," she murmured. "Standing there. Acting calm. Pretending you weren't about to commit a crime."
Adnan finally looked at her for half a second, eyes dark. "Saba."
She hummed innocently. "Yes, my protective husband?"
His grip tightened around her fingers.
Saba felt it.
Loved it.
She turned her head toward the window like she wasn't watching him from the corner of her eye, then said softly—
"You said it like you owned me."
Adnan's throat moved.
He kept driving.
His voice came out low. "I didn't say it like anything."
Saba slowly turned back toward him. "You did."
He stayed quiet.
So she pushed—just a little.
"And I liked it too."
That did something to him.
Not dramatic.
Just a shift in his breathing, like the air inside him turned heavier.
His thumb began to rub over her knuckles—slow, steady, absentminded.
A claim.
Saba's voice softened, but it was still playful. "You know… I didn't even want the scarf anymore."
Adnan's eyes flicked to her. "Then why did you buy it?"
Saba shrugged, lips curving. "Because you looked at him like you were about to throw him out ."
Adnan scoffed. "I did not."
Saba leaned closer, whispering like she was confessing a secret.
"You did."
Then, like she couldn't resist, she added:
"It was very attractive."
Adnan's jaw clenched. "Stop talking."
Saba blinked, pretending shock. "Why?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, at the next red light, he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers.
One kiss.
Then another.
Then a third—slower.
Saba's breath caught.
And she hated how much she loved it.
"How many is that?" she whispered.
Adnan kept his mouth against her skin. "I lost count."
Saba smiled. "Liar."
His eyes lifted to hers—brief, intense.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asked quietly.
Saba stared at him for a second.
Then she leaned in even closer, her voice soft, shameless, glowing with warmth:
"No."
The light turned green.
Adnan drove again, but his hand never left hers.
He held her like he was reminding himself she was real.
A few minutes passed.
The city was still asleep. Streets empty. Shops closed. The world quiet.
Saba watched him drive.
Watched the way his shoulders stayed tense like he was still angry at the universe for daring to look at her.
And something inside her softened.
Because this was new.
This wasn't the man who stayed distant.
This was the man who came after her, who held her hand, who called her his wife like it meant something sacred.
She traced her thumb over his knuckles lightly.
Adnan's eyes flicked down.
Then he said, voice calmer now:
"You're enjoying teasing me."
Saba smiled sweetly. "Maybe."
Adnan's mouth twitched. "Maybe?"
Saba tilted her head. "Yes."
He breathed out a laugh, shaking his head once.
Then he turned slightly toward her, eyes warm now—less guarded.
"You know what I was thinking?" he asked.
Saba's brows lifted. "That I'm irresistible?"
Adnan sighed like he was tired of her nonsense. "Yes. That too."
Saba grinned.
He continued, quieter:
"I was thinking… you don't have to prove anything anymore."
Saba's smile faltered—just a little.
Adnan squeezed her hand.
"You don't have to be the strong one all the time," he said. "Not with me."
Saba's throat tightened.
She looked away quickly, blinking.
"Don't talk like that," she murmured.
"Why?"
Because if he kept speaking like that…
She might cry again.
And she didn't want tears.
Not right now.
Not when she felt safe.
So she did what she always did when she was overwhelmed by love:
She turned it into coquetry.
She leaned toward him, lips close to his ear.
And whispered—
"Then drive faster."
Adnan froze.
He turned his head slightly, eyes sharp. "Saba."
She smiled like an angel with bad intentions. "What?"
His voice dropped. "You're not allowed to say things like that to me in public."
Saba blinked innocently. "We're alone."
Adnan looked around at the empty street.
Then back at her.
"…We are," he admitted.
Saba smiled wider. "So?"
Adnan exhaled, like patience was leaving his body in a straight line.
Then he kissed her fingers again—longer this time.
And murmured against her skin:
"Behave."
Saba whispered back, smug and glowing:
"No."
By the time they reached home, Adnan was still holding her hand like he couldn't let go.
And Saba…
Saba was smiling like she'd won something.
Because she had.
She had her husband back.
Not distant.
Not buried in fear.
But present.
Warm.
Possessive in the way that felt like protection, not control.
And for the first time in her life…
She could flirt with love…
…and trust it would stay.