Inayat's POV

Shahyaan’s face was pressed against his palm, and I was practically vibrating with suppressed laughter. “Ohhh… this is going to be pure chaos,” I whispered, trying to calm my giggles.

And then… the storm hit in human form.

“INAYAAAAT!”

My bestttttt friendddd, Alia, burst in like she owned the place, hair perfectly messy in that ‘I woke up like this but secretly fabulous’ way. Hands on her hips, eyes wide, grin spreading from ear to ear.

Shahyaan groaned audibly, still pressing his palm to his forehead. Pain in the ass. Literally. Him and Alia had never clicked since school, and now… me, the newborn, Shahyaan, and Alia—apocalypse-level drama in one room.

“Aliaaaa! Tu yahan kaise?!” I squealed, throwing myself at her like a marshmallow. (Alia! How are you here?!)

She sniffed the air dramatically. “I smelled chaos… and breakfast.”

Shahyaan’s eyes darted to me, silently pleading: Please, let me vanish into thin air. Lucky for him, office timing was his secret weapon.

I saw his escape plan forming and smirked. “Shah, office is waiting. Run before she eats your sanity along with my breakfast!”

He didn’t argue. He bolted like a man possessed—thank God.

Just as he reached the door, I yelled, “Aate waqt… lactation pills lete aana!” (Bring the lactation pills when you come back!)

The world froze. Both Shahyaan and Alia froze. Eyes wide, like cartoon characters.

I leaned on the doorframe, smirking. “Abee tharkiyon… Zayan ke liye bol rahi hun, Shahyaan ke liye nahi!” (You perverts… I’m talking about Zayan, not Shahyaan!)

Shahyaan’s eyes widen to that extent that it might come out anytime, his face turning into a tomato-level red. Alia gasped dramatically, hands over her mouth, almost fainting from the scandal.

Without hesitation, Shahyaan turned, bolted down the hallway, and disappeared. Saved by his office timing.

Alia spun around, glaring at me. “Woman… hesitate!”

I threw my hands in the air, laughing so hard I nearly dropped my spatula. “Hesitate? Me? Never! Chaos is my cardio!”

Alia clapped her hands. “I am loving this… I need tea. And gossip.”

I frowned, setting my spatula down. “Wait… what gossip?”

Alia leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Come on… don’t act like a fool. Yesterday’s gossip!”

“Yesterday’s gossip? What happened yesterday?” I asked, tilting my head.

Alia groaned dramatically, waving a hand at me. “Abee, jahil aurat… wo toh tu batayegi na kya hua kal?” (Hey, clueless woman… you’re the one who will tell me what happened yesterday!)

I blinked, confused for a second, then muttered under my breath. “Abee, chutiya aurat… kal shadi hui hai meri, or kya hoga?” (Hey, idiot woman… I just got married yesterday, what do you expect to happen?)

Alia gave me a look—half shock, half smug grin—like, Yes! Exactly. Now what?

And then it hit me. I slapped my forehead dramatically. “Abe toh direct puch na ki… I and Shah had sex or not! Yeh gol gol baat ko kyu ghuma rahi hai?” (Why are you beating around the bush instead of just asking directly if Shah and I had sex?)

Alia’s eyes widened, jaw practically hitting the floor. “Behen… tu thoda hesitate karna Sikh ja! Aise itna boldly kaise bol leti hai tu?” (Sister… you should learn to hesitate a little! How can you speak so boldly like this?)

I crossed my arms, pouting slightly. “Muh se.” (Out loud, of course.)

Alia threw her hands up dramatically. “Allah bachaye Shahyaan ko tujhse!” (God save Shahyaan from you!)

I laughed.

Alia leaned closer, eyes narrowed. “Ab jawab de… kya hua kal?” (Now answer… what happened yesterday?)

I leaned on her shoulder casually, shrugging. “Kuch bhi nhi hua.” (Nothing happened at all.)

I got up, heading to make tea. “Chai peeyegi?” (Want some tea?)

Alia’s face lit up. “Chai ke liye main kabhi na bol skti hu?” (Could I ever say no to tea?)

She paused, squinting at me. “But… what do you mean by ‘kuch nahi kal’?” (Nothing happened yesterday?)

I stirred the tea, rolling my eyes. “Kuch nhi hua… matlab kuch nhi hua. He slept in another room.” (Nothing happened… I mean nothing happened. He slept in another room.)

Alia screamed like she saw a ghost. “KYAAAAA!!!”

I waved a hand toward Zayan, whispering sharply, “Dheere… Zayan soo raha haiii.” (Quiet… Zayan is sleeping.)

Alia groaned, exasperated. “Abee akal ki andhi aurat… what do you mean he slept in another room?” (Hey, you blind fool… what do you mean he slept in another room?)

I turned to her, hands on hips. “Abe, tu behri ho gayi hai? Yaa tujhe baat kam samajh aa rhi hai? Baar baar same cheez kyu repeat karwa rahi hai.” (Hey, have you gone deaf? Are you understanding less now? Why are you making me repeat the same thing again and again?)

Alia waved her hand, frustrated but amused. “Main thik hu par tu pagal ho gayi hai! How can he leave you and sleep in another room? You guys are married!” (I’m fine, but you’ve gone crazy! How can he leave you and sleep in another room? You guys are married!)

I snapped, cutting her off mid-rant. “And he lost his wife a month ago. Shayad tu bhul rahi hai, aalu ki....We didn’t get married because we were in love. We got married because he needed someone to take care of Zayan, and I married him because I wanted to take care of him. Of course I am going to treat Zayan as my own child… no doubt about it!” (And he lost his wife a month ago. Maybe you’re forgetting, idiot! We didn’t get married because we were in love. We got married because he needed someone to take care of Zayan, and I married him because I wanted to take care of him. Of course I’m going to treat Zayan as my own child… no doubt!)

Alia blinked, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between shock, admiration, and sheer amusement. “You… are… something else, Inayat.”

I smirked, pouring tea into her cup. “Chaotic, dramatic, and brutally honest. I know! I am the besttttt. ”

The whole day slipped by in a mix of chai, gossip, and Zayan’s cuddles. Alia and I kept talking nonstop—she with her never-ending questions and me with my endless sarcasm. Between changing Zayan’s nappies, singing lullabies, and laughing at Alia’s “married-life” theories, time ran faster than I expected.

By afternoon, my phone buzzed. Shahyaan’s name flashed on the screen. I answered.

His voice was clipped, straight to the point. “Inayat… my parents are coming in the evening. Along with some relatives. Your parents too. Just be ready.”

Before I could reply, the line went dead. No salaam, no pleasantries, nothing.

I stared at the phone. “...Accha?”

Alia arched her brows dramatically. “Bas? That’s it? No ‘take care,’ no ‘see you soon,’ no ‘do you need anything?’—just robotic orders?”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re overthinking, Aalu.”

She narrowed her eyes, pointing a spoon at me. “No, no. I’ve seen him looking at you. There’s something fishy. Mark my words.”

I waved her off. “Please. Don’t write imaginary love stories in your head. We had a simple nikkah, Alia. No grand wedding, no drama—just two families. That’s all. A few relatives are now showing up, that’s why he said that.”

Alia huffed but then got to work. “Fine. If nothing else, at least you’re going to look like a proper dulhan today. You can’t meet relatives in your cartoon pajamas.”

And before I knew it, she had me sitting with hairpins, bangles, and a dupatta pinned on my head like I was some freshly-married heroine. She left soon after to change at her place—thank God she lived in the same colony, or I would’ve been doomed alone.

By evening, the house was full. Parents on both sides, and yes, the promised “few” relatives—which by the look of it meant “half the family tree.” Everyone was chatting in the living room, laughter filling the space.

And then the front door opened.

Shahyaan walked in, his presence instantly noticeable. His eyes flicked toward me for half a second—just half—and then darted away, as if looking at me too long was dangerous.

He greeted everyone with a polite, “Assalamualaikum,” his voice steady. Then he headed straight to his room, muttering something about freshening up.

I pressed my lips together, then stood up. “Main paani le aati hoon.” (I’ll get some water.)

Glass in hand, I walked to his room and nudged the door open.

And froze.

His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, his chest bare. No six-pack, no movie-hero abs, but… oh Allah… the man was fine. Lean, strong shoulders, a natural build that didn’t need any gym show-off.

I realized I was staring—shamelessly staring.

Then he cleared his throat.

I jumped, eyes snapping up to meet his.

“Need anything?” he asked, one brow raised.

And like an idiot, I blurted, “Yesss… you.”

He choked on air. I blinked. My own words hit me a second late. “I mean—water! You needed water, so I brought it!”

I rushed to keep the glass on the nearby table, turning quickly to escape.

“Inayat.” His voice stopped me.

My heart dropped to my knees. I shut my eyes tightly. Yaa Allah, iss baar bacha lein please. (Oh Allah, save me this time, please.)

I felt him step closer. His presence was warm against my back, his breath grazing my skin. Slowly, I turned, only to find his face inches away.

I stepped back instinctively—only to hit the closed door behind me.

His eyes… they weren’t on my face. They were on my lips.

Ya Allah. My mind raced. Is something stuck on my lips? Did my lipstick smudge? Or… are my lips just so pretty he got lost in them?

My heart thumped like a drum.

Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back.

I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.

He pulled a strip of tablets from his pocket and held it out to me. “Take this once a day.”

I blinked, and then nodded.

And then he added, his tone calm but amused, “By the way, people usually get lost in eyes, not lips.”

I frowned, my cheeks burning. “What—”

He smirked. “You said your thoughts out loud.”

My eyes widened. Oh no. Kill me now.

I spun around to escape, only to bang my forehead against the door. “Ouch,” I hissed in pain.

“What happened?” he asked, almost chuckling.

“Nothing!” I yelped, yanking the door open and fleeing with the medicine clenched in my hand.

Back in the living room, I tried to act normal. My mom’s sharp eyes, of course, landed on the tablets.

“Beta, dawai kis liye?” (Dear, what medicine is this for?)

Without thinking, I blurted, “Mumma, lactation pills hai.”

The room froze. Alia’s eyes bulged out of her head. All the aunties frowned in confusion.

My mom tilted her head. “Beta… woh kya hota hai?” (Dear… what is that?)

“Oh… woh doodh—” (Oh… it’s for milk—) I started to explain, but Alia practically flew across the room.

“Areee! Doodh ubal raha hoga! Chalo, chalo!” (Oh! The milk must be boiling! Come on, come on!)

She grabbed my arm, dragging me to the kitchen before I could finish the most embarrassing sentence of my life.

We entered the kitchen, and Alia whirled on me, eyes blazing like a mother tiger ready to maul her cub.

“Pagal aurat!” she hissed. “Tere muh ko lock karne ka time aa gaya hai. Ek din tu apni hi zindagi barbaad kar degi!” (Crazy woman! It’s time to put a lock on your mouth. One day, you’ll ruin your life!)

I blinked innocently, picking up the kettle. “Ab kya bol diya maine?” (Now what did I even say?)

Alia clutched her head dramatically. “Lactation pills?! IN FRONT of your saas, sasur, sasural, maa, sab relatives?!”

I shrugged, pouring the tea leaves. “Arrey toh kya bolti? Sach hi toh bola maine. Zayan ke liye hai na… what’s the big deal?” (So what? I told the truth. It’s for Zayan… what’s the big deal?)

Alia slapped her forehead. “Tu samajhti bhi hai na? There’s a thing called filters. Log awkward ho gaye waha baithke. Or aunty toh literally pooch rahi thi ‘woh kya hota hai’!” (Do you even understand? There’s something called filters. Everyone got awkward sitting there. Your mom literally asked ‘what is that’!)

I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing, holding the counter for support. “Haa toh soch… agar main explain kar deti na… ‘Mumma, woh doodh jo—’” (Yeah, so imagine if I had explained… ‘Mom, the milk that—’)

Alia clapped her hand over my mouth, her eyes wild. “BANDH KAR! Shut your shameless mouth!”

I licked her palm playfully until she yanked it back, disgusted. “Ufff! Tu insaan hai ya shaitaan?!” (Are you human or the devil?!)

I grinned, dusting my hands. “Thoda thoda dono. Perfect combo.”

Alia groaned, pacing. “Ya Allah, Shahyaan deserves a lifetime achievement award if he survives this.”

I poured tea into two cups, blowing on mine. “Arrey relax, Aalu. He already survived me as his bestfriend he will survive me as his wife too.”

Alia stared at me, then muttered under her breath, “Nahi, main bol rahi hoon… Allah hi bachaye Shahyaan ko tujhse.” (No, I’m telling you… only God can save Shahyaan from you.)

I raised my cup in salute. “Ameen.”

And then we both burst into giggles, the sound echoing through the kitchen while the whole family sat outside, completely clueless about the level of madness brewing inside.

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