Author's POV

Inayat Mirza sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, staring at the quiet room. How had she landed here? Her childhood best friend, Shahyaan… now her husband. She could still hardly believe it.

Shahyaan’s wife had died giving birth, leaving him broken, vulnerable, and suddenly responsible for a tiny life that needed him—and yet, couldn’t rely on him fully yet. Inayat couldn’t stand to see him like that. She had stepped forward, offered herself as a wife, because that’s what friends do, right? When your best friend needs you the most, when life leaves them raw and exposed, you step in. You don’t hesitate.

And it wasn’t just for the baby. Not only for him. She knew he carried so much pain inside, the kind of pain that didn’t let him breathe, didn’t let him cry, didn’t let him lean on anyone. He wouldn’t until she forced him to. She had married him for that reason too—to be the one to pull that pain out, slowly, carefully, even if he resisted.

Her parents had agreed. Shahyaan was a good man, deserving of trust and care. And now, here she was, sitting and waiting, telling herself she didn’t expect anything romantic, didn’t expect sparks or sudden feelings. This was a pact of care, friendship, and responsibility. Nothing more… at least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

Inayat's POV

The door opened, and my heart skipped a beat.

Shahyaan stepped in, holding little Zayan in his arms. The baby’s cries cut through the quiet room, tiny fists flailing as he struggled against the bottle of powder milk Shahyaan was trying to feed him. Shahyaan’s brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line, clearly frustrated. He adjusted the bottle, rocked him gently, murmured soft words—but nothing worked. The cries only grew louder, sharper, filling the room.

I shifted slightly in my heavy dress and moved toward him, trying to keep my voice calm. “Let me,” I said softly, reaching out my hands.

Shahyaan hesitated, then carefully handed Zayan over. The moment he felt my arms, the crying began to soften. I whispered gentle, meaningless words, swaying slightly, letting him feel my warmth. Slowly, his tiny fists relaxed, eyelids drooping, and a soft yawn escaped him.

I smiled, pressing a tiny kiss on the top of his little head and adjusting the blanket around him. Carefully, I laid him on the bed, tucking him in so he could sleep. His breathing evened out, soft and steady—finally asleep.

I stood there for a moment, watching Zayan’s chest rise and fall in calm rhythm. The room felt heavy—not just because of my dress, but because of the unspoken words between Shahyaan and me. He shifted on his feet, avoiding my gaze, and I could feel the awkward tension pressing down on both of us.

Finally, I cleared my throat, breaking the silence. “Bring me lactation pills.”

Shahyaan froze, his eyes widening as if I had asked something impossible. The air between us thickened, charged with an energy neither of us could name.

I continued, ignoring his stunned expression. “Zayan is one month old. Powder milk isn’t good for him. Bring me lactation pills tomorrow.”

He blinked, still processing my words, and then stepped closer, his voice low, rough with emotion. “I don’t know how to thank you, Inayat. The… the thing you’ve done for me and Zayan… I… I will be forever indebted to you.”

I felt a flutter in my chest, a mix of pride and something heavier I couldn’t name. “You don’t owe me anything, Shahyaan,” I said softly, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m just… doing what needs to be done.”

Shahyaan stood there, eyes dark and fixed on me. Not just my face—he was taking me in from head to toe, slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing every curve, every movement. My chest tightened, heat blooming across my cheeks, my heart hammering so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

I tried to steady myself, to look away, but his gaze held me captive, raw and intense, stripping away any pretense of calm. Every inch of me felt exposed under the weight of his stare, and a shiver ran down my spine, though I couldn’t tell if it was fear, anticipation, or something else entirely.

Finally, his jaw clenched, the tension in his body snapping me out of my daze. “You should change and sleep. It’s late,” he said, his voice low, controlled… but laced with a heat that made my pulse spike even higher.

He turned toward the door, his steps purposeful.

“Where are you going, Shah?” I asked softly, a flicker of unease in my voice.

He didn’t turn back. “I’ll be sleeping in the next room. If you need any help, just call me.”

And with that, he left, the soft sound of his footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving me alone with Zayan—and a heart still racing from the weight of his gaze.

I watched him walk and pause in front of the room he and his late wife had shared. And then he entered inside the room and closed the door. My chest tightened at the sight. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what he was going through—the quiet emptiness, the memories lingering in every corner. My heart ached for him, for Zayan, for all of it. And yet… here I was, the accidental intruder into this world of loss, trying to be everything he needed.

I shifted in my heavy dress, finally peeling it off and throwing on something comfortable—a loose T-shirt and tracks. Perfect for chasing a one-month-old human alarm clock. Normally, I’d sleep till noon without a care, but today wasn’t normal. Shahyaan had to leave for work by nine, and though he hadn’t asked me to do anything, I’d do it anyway. Ten alarms set. Not one, not two… ten. Because one would clearly be ignored by my own lazy self.

I curled up on the bed, holding Zayan close. He squirmed, tiny fists flailing, but eventually relaxed. His steady breathing lulled me into a light sleep, and I allowed myself a few minutes of peace.

The next morning, my alarms went off like a war drum, and I groaned, slapping them all off like a defeated soldier. I tried to crawl back under the blanket, but Zayan’s cries pierced through the quiet like a tiny siren.

I bolted upright, rubbing my face and muttering, “Shit, shit, shit… I’m married now… and I have a baby.”

I scooped him up, his small weight settling into my arms, and my chest squeezed. Poor thing… he had lost his mother, and here I was, stepping into a role I hadn’t trained for. “Don’t worry, Zayan… I’ve got you,” I whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his tiny head.

I tried feeding him powder milk, grimacing at the bland taste, and then carefully placed him in the baby stand so he wouldn’t topple over. Thank heavens newborns slept most of the day—my tiny mercy.

“Okay, Inayat,” I muttered to myself, tying back my messy bun, “first mission: breakfast. Don’t burn the kitchen. Don’t poison the baby. Don’t scare Shahyaan… or yourself.”

I stormed into the kitchen like a general inspecting the battlefield. Vegetables everywhere, bread stacked like tiny towers, and a lone red chili glaring at me from the counter. I froze for a dramatic second, pointing at it. “Aree khala, aap yaha!” (Auntie, you’re here!) I laughed at my own joke, because someone had to.

Chopping onions, I started narrating my life like a full-blown cooking show. “Hmmm… Shah will leave for work soon, come back by six… tab tak (by then)… how many Shinchan movies can I watch? Umm… maybe four, hainaa? (right?) I think so. But… konsa dekhungi? (which one should I watch?) Ya Allahh… yeh alag problem hai! (oh God… this is a totally different problem!)” I waved the knife dramatically as if the onions were judging me, and giggled at my own ridiculousness.

Mixing, flipping, stirring, and dropping a few things here and there, breakfast slowly emerged from the chaos. Golden omelettes, perfectly toasted bread—not bad for my first morning officially trying to be a responsible wife.

And then… the moment of doom.

Shahyaan appeared.

He stepped out of his room like some Bollywood hero in office attire—shirt crisp, hair flawless, shoes polished, and posture straight enough to make furniture jealous. My eyes widened, I nearly dropped the spatula, and my heart decided to start doing somersaults. He scanned me from head to toe, and I could practically hear the dramatic background music playing in my head.

And then—silence. Nothing. Not a word about my T-shirt and tracks. Usually, before marriage, he would’ve thrown a sarcastic remark, a teasing scowl, or even dramatic sighs about how much he hated casual clothes and adored me in Indian outfits. But today… nada. Not a single word.

I muttered to myself, loud enough for the chili to hear, “Isne apni awaz kho di ya dimag… ya dono? (Has he lost his voice or his mind… or both?) Nahi… matlab ek raat mein insaan badal sakta hai kya? (No… I mean, can a person really change in one night?) Research karna padega… hmm. (I’ll have to research this… hmm.)”

Trying to calm my wildly beating heart, I turned back to the counter—and then I saw it.

Shahyaan gently kissed Zayan’s forehead, careful not to wake him. My chest squeezed. The man, so composed, so mature, so… perfect in his own serious way, showing this tenderness to his child. And me? I was in a messy bun, T-shirt, and tracks, talking to a red chili like a crazy person, flipping omelettes like a ninja with no training.

I whispered to myself, partly awe, partly panic: “Okay… heart, control. Don’t faint. Just… cook. And maybe don’t scream if he notices you talking to the chili.”

I took a deep breath and reminded myself, he’s used to my crazy antics, of course he won’t scream or throw me out… but wait, he’s quieter than usual. Huh. That’s weird.

Just then, his calm, low voice cut through the sizzling pan noises.

“Inayat, I’m leaving for the office.”

I froze mid-flip. Quiet. Too quiet. I spun around, eyes wide, hands flailing. “Aree, aise kaise! Abhi toh bas 8:30 hue hai! Office toh 9 baje hai aur yeh breakfast… itni subah-subah uth kar kya maine padosiyo ke liye banaya hai?!” (Hey, how is this possible! It’s only 8:30! Office is at 9, and this breakfast… did I wake up this early just to make it for the neighbors?!)

“Inayat, you don’t have to—”

“Abeee, oyee, drama queen, shut up!” I cut him off mid-sentence, waving the spatula like a tiny sword. “Come here… sit and eat quietly!”

He let out a long, resigned sigh but obeyed, sliding onto the chair without a word. My frown deepened as I watched him—so quiet, so unusually calm. Shahyaan Malik, my loud, teasing, sarcastic, forever-too-serious best friend… and now husband, was sitting there like a statue, silently letting me boss him around.

Normally, he hated all my “abee-oye” chatter, my nonstop antics, my bold yapping at everyone in the world. With others, he was reserved, private, untouchable. But with me… he used to put up with it, laugh at it, even tease me back. And now? This… this odd quietness made my brain short-circuit. Why is he acting like this? Did someone steal my Shahyaan overnight?

I shook my head and muttered under my breath, trying to convince myself, No, no, give him time… so much has happened. Of course, he needs time. Just… survive breakfast without overthinking everything, Inayat.

We both sat down at the small dining table, plates in front of us, forks in hand, but a strange silence hung in the air. The only sound was the occasional ding from my phone as reels played in the background.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low but steady. “Inayat… I’m sorry for leaving Zayan with you last night. You—”

I cut him off mid-sentence, my hands pausing over my plate. “Bhaang pee rakhi hai sorry ki? Sorry ke brand ambassador ban rahe ho? Itnaa sorry sorry kis liye? Aur what do you mean by leaving Zayan with me? Mere sath nahi chorte toh kiske sath chorte? Dimag kharab ho gaya haii! I understand that you’re in grief… you need time… but Shah, I am here to take care of you both by my own will, so don’t feel guilty for a second. You didn’t force me into anything, and—”
(Did you smoke something to say sorry? Are you becoming the brand ambassador of sorry? So much sorry, for what? And what do you mean by leaving Zayan with me? If not with me, then with whom would you leave him? My mind is going crazy! I understand that you’re in grief… you need time… but Shah, I am here to take care of you both by my own will, so don’t feel guilty for a second. You didn’t force me into anything, and—)

Before I could continue, he held up a hand, almost pleading, and said quietly, “Maaf kar do meri maa… meri galti. Maine kuch kaha.”
(Forgive me… my mother… my mistake. I said something wrong.)

I frowned, lips pursed, eyes narrowing slightly, then turned back to my phone, whispering under my breath, “Gadha kahi ka…”
(What an idiot…)

Just as I was about to tuck my phone away and return to my slightly chaotic breakfast, the doorbell rang—sharp, insistent, and completely unwelcome at this exact moment.

I almost jumped out of my chair. “Ughh… who could that be now?” I muttered, reaching for the door.

Before I could even move a step, Shahyaan’s hand shot out and gently stopped me. “I’ll get it,” he said, voice calm but carrying that faint edge of ‘don’t mess with me’ that I secretly loved.

I sat back, smirking to myself. “Aha… finally, the quiet hero saves the damsel from… answering the door?” I whispered, turning back to my plate.

Shahyaan got up, his movement smooth and precise, like some perfectly choreographed action scene, and walked to the door. He swung it open—and immediately facepalmed himself. Hard.

“Uh-oh,” I whispered to myself, giggling behind my hand. “This is going to be… interesting.”

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