Chapter thirty one-What
From the day this marriage became real , Saba realized that this love was built differently. It wasn't loud or performative, but it was constant, attentive, deeply present. The way he cared for her lived in the smallest details — the way he watched her when she spoke, the way his hand always found hers without thinking, the way he noticed her moods before she ever gave them a name. With him, she felt seen, not just desired. Respected. Chosen. Every single day.
Her feelings for him were layered — love, admiration, gratitude, and a powerful, undeniable attraction that never seemed to quiet down. Their intimacy was not something she endured or negotiated with herself; it was something she craved. Whenever he touched her, she could never deny him. She didn't want to. The way he kissed her, slow and sure, as if he already knew the answer her body would give him. The way he held her — firm, protective, possessive in a way that made her feel safe rather than trapped. Even the simplest touch from him unraveled her completely. He didn't rush her, yet he always carried a quiet urgency, as if being close to her was both a need and a pleasure. Most nights, they ended up together, tangled in each other, finding it almost impossible to pull away, even when sleep waited impatiently beside them.
This was something she had never experienced with her first husband. Yes, there had been intimacy. They were active, and she had been attracted to him. She had known pleasure with him — she did not deny that. But it had been different. Back then, she was younger, unsure, still learning herself. It had been her first experience of marriage, of a man's body, of what intimacy was supposed to look like. Sometimes she wanted it; sometimes she didn't fully. Yet she gave herself anyway, because she believed that was her role, her duty as a wife. Want and obligation often blurred into the same shape.
With Adnan, there was no blur. Everything was clear.
Perhaps it was because she was older now. She knew her body. She knew her desires. She knew what she wanted and how to guide him toward it, and he listened — eagerly, attentively — as if pleasing her was not a task but a joy. The moment he put his hands around her, the moment his lips hovered near her skin, she melted. There was no resistance, no hesitation. Her body answered him before her mind could even pretend to object. She wanted him intensely, hungrily, in a way she had never known before.
This urgency — this deep, almost aching need to be close to him — was new. She had never felt so engaged, so present, so completely involved in another person. She loved everything about him: the way he touched her, the way he kissed her, the solid reassurance of his body against hers. His weight, his scent, the warmth of his skin drove her mad in the best possible way, especially when he was inside her — when the world narrowed down to nothing but their shared breath and the quiet intensity between them.
It was a feeling so powerful that resisting him felt impossible. Even the thought of not touching him, not being touched by him, felt wrong. She was entirely his — mentally, physically — and somewhere along the way, without fear or regret, her soul had followed.
And that was what frightened her most.
She was afraid of losing this. Afraid of losing him. Afraid that something might come and steal this love from between them, this rare, fragile, beautiful thing she had found so late in life. But even in that fear, there was gratitude. Because she had known it. She had felt it. She had lived it.
And now that she had, she knew one thing with absolute certainty:
She would not want anything else.
====
They were on the rooftop this time.
Not the dramatic part of the house—no sweeping views, no curated furniture. Just concrete tiles still warm from the day, a low wall, a couple of mismatched chairs someone had dragged up years ago and never brought back down. The city hummed beyond the edges, distant and unconcerned.
Saba stood near the railing, leaning forward slightly, watching the lights blink awake one by one. Her dupatta fluttered in the breeze, brushing her arm.
Adnan came up behind her without sound.
"Careful," he said lightly. "If you lean any further, I'll have to rescue you. Again."
She didn't turn. "You enjoy that far too much."
"I enjoy being useful," he replied. "It's my best quality."
She smiled despite herself.
He moved closer, his presence settling easily behind her. One hand came to rest at her hip—natural, unclaimed—and stayed there as he continued talking, his voice calm, conversational.
"You always come up here when you're thinking," he said.
"And you always follow," she countered.
"Occupational hazard. Husband."
She leaned back into him without comment, her shoulder brushing his chest, the contact so familiar it didn't interrupt the moment at all.
She finally turned, one eyebrow lifting. "Is that in the job description?"
"Very much so." His eyes dipped briefly, unapologetic. "Page one."
She shook her head, amused, and went to sit on the low wall. He watched her do it—openly—and then clicked his tongue.
"That's dangerous."
"This?" She glanced down. "I'm sitting."
"In that light?" he said mildly. "Absolutely reckless."
She laughed. "You're being ridiculous."
"Bold," he corrected, stepping closer, his knee brushing hers as he stopped between her legs. His hand remained at her waist, steady. "I'm experimenting."
She tilted her head. "With what?"
"With not pretending I don't notice things."
Her breath shifted—just slightly.
"Oh?" she said. "And what have you noticed?"
"That you do this," he said, reaching up to tug her dupatta back into place where it had slipped. His knuckles grazed her shoulder as he did it, absentminded, practiced. "When you're relaxed. And that you don't move away anymore."
She didn't.
Instead, she reached out and adjusted the cuff of his shirt, smoothing the fabric as if it needed it. Neither of them commented on the gesture.
"And what conclusion have you drawn from that?" she asked.
"That I'm allowed," he said quietly. Then added, softer, "Tell me if I'm wrong."
She studied him for a moment.
"You're not wrong," she said.
Something in his expression eased—not surprise, not triumph. Recognition.
He leaned in and pressed a brief kiss to her temple, casual as punctuation, then stayed there, forehead near hers.
"Good," he said. "Because I was starting to feel very misunderstood."
She snorted. "You? Never."
His thumb brushed her wrist lightly as he spoke, idle, warm.
"I'm learning," he said, "that if I behave too well, you assume I'm not enjoying myself."
Her lips curved. "Are you?"
He smiled. "Immensely."
The word landed warm between them.
She slid her hand to his chest, feeling his breath shift under her palm. "You're getting cocky."
"Encouraged."
He bent slightly, their foreheads touching now.
"Adnan—" she began.
"And before you say anything," he cut in, quick and wicked, "I fully intend to stop before this becomes a lecture."
She laughed, breathless. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he said, voice low, "you're still here."
She was.
His hand tightened once at her waist—not pulling, just acknowledging—and stayed there.
And that's when—
"Ahem."
They both froze.
Adnan closed his eyes briefly.
Saba's hand slid from his chest, far too slowly to be innocent.
Ahmed stood a few steps back, arms crossed, expression caught between amusement and disbelief. Zahraa was beside him, one eyebrow arched so high it nearly touched her hairline.
"Well," Ahmed said mildly. "I was going to ask if anyone wanted tea."
Zahraa smiled, sweet and dangerous. "But clearly, we've interrupted… rooftop diplomacy."
Saba cleared her throat. "We were just—"
"Discussing infrastructure," Adnan said smoothly, removing his hand from her waist with visible effort. "Very serious."
Ahmed glanced at the space they had just vacated. "Obviously."
Zahraa's eyes flicked to Adnan. "Try not to scandalize the neighbors."
Then, as she turned toward the stairs, she added lightly,
"At least wait until after dinner."
Ahmed chuckled. "Five minutes," he called. "Then we pretend we didn't see anything."
They disappeared.
Silence settled again.
Saba covered her face. "I'm never coming up here again."
Adnan smiled—unrepentant. "Worth it."
She dropped her hand and looked at him. "You're impossible."
"And you," he said, stepping back just enough to give her space, "adjust my cuffs when you're pretending you're not enjoying yourself."
She rolled her eyes.
But she didn't deny it.
======
From the moment Saba became his, he understood that loving her would never be casual. It required attention, patience, and intention — and he gave all three willingly, almost instinctively. Caring for her wasn't something he performed; it was something that lived in him. In the way he adjusted his voice when he spoke to her, the way he studied her expressions as if they were a language only he was meant to learn, the way he made space for her emotions without trying to control them.
His love for her was grounded in respect first. He admired her — her strength, her quiet intelligence, the way life had shaped her without hardening her. She wasn't fragile, but she was precious, and he treated her that way. Being with her didn't make him feel dominant or superior; it made him careful, attentive, deeply present. Loving her felt like a responsibility he was proud to carry.
And yet, beneath that tenderness lived a powerful attraction — one that surprised even him.
He desired her not with impatience, but with certainty. The kind that settled into his bones and stayed there. Every time he touched her, it felt deliberate, meaningful, as if his hands already knew what her body needed before she spoke. He loved the way she responded to him — how easily she softened, how quickly the distance between them disappeared. Her reactions were never forced, never hesitant, and that awakened something fierce and protective in him.
Their closeness was addictive. Nights slipped into mornings without either of them noticing the hours pass. Being with her felt natural, inevitable, like gravity doing its work. Leaving her side was always difficult — not because of obligation, but because being apart felt unnecessary, almost wrong. She drew him in effortlessly, and he let himself be drawn.
He sensed, without her needing to explain, that this was different for her. That she was not reliving something familiar, but discovering something new. And that mattered to him. He didn't want to take from her; he wanted to meet her where she stood now — experienced, self-aware, honest in her desires. When she guided him, trusted him, opened herself emotionally and physically, he felt chosen in a way that humbled him.
What he loved most was how complete their connection felt. It wasn't just touch or closeness — it was the way her mind stayed with him, the way her presence lingered even in silence. When she rested against him, when her breath aligned with his, he felt anchored. Grounded. Necessary.
Knowing that she was afraid of losing him only made him more certain of staying.
Because he, too, feared the thought of losing this — losing her, losing what they had found together so unexpectedly, so profoundly. Loving her had rearranged him. It had taught him patience, devotion, and a depth of intimacy he hadn't known before.
She wasn't just his wife.
She was his choice — every day.
And now that he had known this kind of love, this kind of closeness, he understood one simple truth:
There was no life he wanted that did not include her.
======
The movie kept playing, forgotten now.
Saba shifted closer, her hip pressing into his side, deliberate enough that he felt it immediately. Adnan's arm adjusted without thought, sliding behind her, fingers resting at her waist—light at first, testing. She didn't move away. Instead, she leaned back into him, the curve of her body fitting too easily against his.
"Still watching?" he murmured near her ear.
"Mmm," she replied, eyes on the screen, though her attention had clearly wandered elsewhere. "I like the background noise."
His thumb traced a slow, absent circle against her side. "Convenient."
She turned her head slightly, just enough that her lips brushed his jaw when she spoke. "You're the one distracting me."
"Am I?" His voice lowered. His hand tightened—just a little.
She reached back, fingers finding his wrist, holding it there. "Very."
That did it.
He leaned in, mouth grazing the corner of hers first—not a kiss yet, just a promise of one. She tilted her head instinctively, breath catching, and he smiled against her skin.
"You do that on purpose," he said softly.
"Do what?"
"Make it impossible to pretend I'm composed."
She turned fully now, facing him, one knee sliding between his legs as she settled closer. Her hand rose to his collar, fingers curling there, grounding him.
"You like pretending?" she asked.
"Only when I'm losing."
She kissed him then—slow, deep, unhurried. Not rushed. Not cautious. The kind of kiss that knew exactly where it was going and wasn't afraid of the path. His hand moved to her back, palm firm, pulling her in until there was no space left to negotiate.
She sighed into his mouth, the sound soft but unmistakable, and he answered it with pressure—steady, controlled, full of intent. When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, breaths tangled.
"This is a terrible movie night," she murmured.
He chuckled, brushing his thumb along her lower lip. "We should complain."
"Later."
His mouth found her cheek, then her jaw, then the hollow beneath her ear—kissing, lingering, tasting her patience. Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging just enough to make him pause.
"Careful," he warned quietly.
She smiled, eyes dark. "I am."
They stayed like that—touching, teasing, kissing in slow intervals—heat building but not tipping over. No urgency. No rush to finish anything.
Just the delicious knowledge that they could.
And that, for now, was more than enough.
=====
He sat at the long conference table, the room buzzing with voices, laptops open, documents spread like a battlefield map. Clients leaned forward, his brother beside him, both of them dissecting timelines, budgets, risks, and returns. This project had swallowed his days whole. Three days already. Three days away from home. Away from her.
He answered questions automatically, nodded at the right moments, pointed at charts on the screen—but his mind wasn't there. It kept drifting back to her.
The past three days had been reduced to fragments. Stolen kisses at the door. Quick hugs for luck. A soft "be careful" whispered against his collar before he rushed out again. He left every morning before she was fully awake and came back every night to find her already asleep, her side of the bed still warm, her presence lingering like a ghost he couldn't touch.
God, he missed her.
He missed her smile—the one she gave him when she tried not to complain. Her softness. The way her fingers slipped into his hair without asking, grounding him. The way she hugged him like she meant it, like she was holding on. The way she kissed him slowly, as if memorizing him before letting go. The way she said his name—low, familiar, intimate—like it belonged to her mouth alone.
He realized, suddenly, that he hadn't heard her laugh properly in days.
Someone asked him a direct question. He blinked, refocused, answered. His brother shot him a look—stay with us. He nodded, but the truth was brutal: he couldn't focus. Every part of him wanted to be somewhere else. With her.
=====
At the same time, Saba sat at a table in the school cafeteria, lunch untouched in front of her. Her colleagues chatted casually, laughing, exchanging small talk. She smiled, nodded, played her part—but her thoughts were drifting too.
Her phone vibrated.
She glanced down, expecting nothing important.
Then she saw his name.
Her heart skipped. She unlocked the screen and opened the message.
You are mine tonight.
Every inch of you is mine.
Every breath you take is mine.
I miss you so badly it hurts.
I want to be inside you right now — but I will wait for tonight.
Her breath caught.
Heat rushed up her neck, coloring her cheeks instantly. She lowered her gaze, hoping no one noticed the way she froze, the way her body reacted before her mind caught up. He had never written to her like this before—not so direct, not so unguarded.
But she understood.
He was missing her.
And she was missing him just as much.
Three days without a real conversation. Three days of exhaustion, of Ahmad calling him in early and keeping him late. Three days of passing each other like strangers in their own home. She felt it now—her skin warm, her pulse quickening, her body suddenly far too aware of itself.
She tried to sit normally. Tried to look casual. But she knew her cheeks were already flushed, her thoughts anything but innocent.
She hesitated only a second.
Then she replied.
=====
Back in the meeting room, his phone vibrated softly against the table.
He ignored it at first. Forced himself to listen as the client spoke about deadlines. But the distraction gnawed at him. He flipped the phone discreetly, expecting nothing more than a follow-up message.
It was from her.
Then come and take me tonight.
I'm yours — completely.
Every inch of me is waiting for you.
Every breath I take already knows your name.
I've missed you just as badly.
I'm counting every second until you're with me again.
His breath hitched.
He covered his mouth with his hand, pretending to think, but the smile betrayed him. His eyes traced the lines again and again, the words sinking deep, igniting something fierce and possessive inside him. She was opening herself to him—confident, bold, unafraid.
God, he loved that.
"Adnan," his brother muttered sharply, nudging him. "Phone down."
He nodded, set the device aside, tried to anchor himself back into the meeting. This project mattered. It was important—for their future, for their stability. He forced his focus back where it belonged.
At least for a moment.
Then his phone vibrated again.
He sighed internally—of course—and picked it up, ready to silence it without reading.
But the name stopped him cold.
Laila.
The message was short. Sharp.
So you've moved on. Living your life.
Forgetting our Aqeel.
Congratulations.
Everything inside him shifted.
The warmth vanished. The desire evaporated. His body went still, heavy, as if the room had suddenly lost its air. Aqeel's name echoed in his mind like a bruise pressed too hard—painful, familiar, unavoidable.
In a single second, the fire that had filled him moments ago turned into something else entirely.
And the meeting room, once distant and unreal, snapped brutally back into focus.
Found in Each Other