One year later
"Kisi kay baap sai nahi darti mein! Aj abba aajain sahi, tum sab ki shikayat na ki tou mera naam bhi—"
[I am not afraid of anyone's father! Let dad come home, if I don't lodge a complain against you all then my name is also not —]
"Zaara!"
"Kia Dawaar abhi tou climax ana tha meri acting ka!"
[What Dawaar the climax of my acting was yet to come!]
"Ap ka tou roz ka hai meri jaan, neechay ajain, iftari ka waqt honay wala hai".
[This is you every day activity my life, come downstairs, it's almost time for breaking fast.]
Zaara huffed, resting her hands on top of her hips, she poked her tongue out at him. There was still a lot of time before the maghrib prayer. Pulling her black veil off of the bed, she threw it in her neck with carelessness, walking past him hastily. The closeness of their bodies had her hand brushing against his warm chest. His alluring cologne filled her senses, the grappling warmth of his pectorals warmed up her blood instantly. Once calm and collected, Zaara felt frazzled as she saw his smirk from the corner of her eyes.
They had been married for almost one year, and the change inside their lives were drastic. It was not sudden, things had not taken a one eighty within one night. Instead it was a lot of pushing back and forth, moving between a stagnant river. There were times Zaara felt like ripping her hair out, getting through the icy walls her husband had built around himself was an art she still struggled to master. Many a times she had threatened him, that she would leave if he continued they way he did, but a single look at his crestfallen face and she was a puddle.
She was putty inside his hands, her father teased her about that. There was not a single day that went by that she was not thankful to have him in her life, he was her source of joy, and anguish at the same time. Their relationship began with a mutual fondness for each other, gradually deepening to a deep love that was understood silently without the need of words. They had their problems, stemming from her childishness and his seriousness, but where there was respect, one found ways to live.
Dawaar gripped her forearm, his hand wrapping around her muscles in a grip that would embed his touch into her skin, start a fire, but never leave behind a mark. He treated her like a porcelain doll, with great affection and gentleness that she had no idea his sturdy arms could possess. As he held her at nights, in the width of his arms he would cradle her face with softness and leave behind small kisses, plenty in number and firm in their own way. A blushing mess, his blushing mess.
He pulled her to himself, his thumb rolled over the flesh of her chin, painting it a bright pink in it's wake. She fought his hold, like a fish out of water struggling to get out and escape, like a deer trapped in the jaws of a lion in the mood to tease her. Dawaar's mouth rose an inch from it's dead straight line, his eyes a dark shade of humor. He pinched her chin, his lips brushed the top of her head. Zaara's hands fisted the material of his crisp button down shirt, scrunching it in her grip. Her eyes closed on their own accord, shaky breaths whispered secrets against his chest.
The two had fought last night, an explosive one. To the point that for the first time Dawaar had walked out of their bedroom, into the guest one. She too had sobbed into her palm, appearing for the sehri with eyes swollen worrying everyone at the table. Her happiness was by living in the arms of her husband, she wanted him and him alone, no luxury or hefty gift could amount to the way her heart fluttered anytime they performed a mundane task together.
