𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬

29

Airah POV:

My head feels light as I slowly open my eyes. The room is blanketed in darkness, with just a sliver of sunlight peeking through the heavy curtains, casting a faint, golden glow that barely reaches the corners. The air is cool and still, and a gentle silence fills the space.

I become aware of a strong arm wrapped around me from behind, its warmth and weight both surprising and comforting. It wasn't there when I drifted off after fajr salah, when my body was wracked with fever and my mind clouded with delirium. Now, there is a steady, reassuring presence at my back.

My eyes adjust to the dim light, and I slowly turn my head to see him. He is so close, his head resting just beside mine, his breath warm against my skin. His face is relaxed in sleep, the usual tension gone, replaced by an almost childlike peace.

His features are softened in the dim light; his brows smooth, his lips slightly parted, and his long, dark eyelashes casting delicate shadows on his cheeks. His hair is tousled, falling carelessly over his forehead in a way that makes him look both rugged and vulnerable.

My gaze shifts to his jawline, strong and defined even in repose. It catches my attention, the sharp contrast to the softness of his other features. Almost without thinking, I raise my hand, my fingertips gently tracing the line of his jaw. The skin is warm and smooth beneath my touch, and he stirs slightly at the contact, his embrace tightening just a fraction.

I move my hand upwards, fingers threading through his hair. The strands are soft and slightly wavy, slipping easily through my fingers. I marvel at the texture, the way it feels so familiar yet always new, and the intimacy of this quiet moment.

Suddenly, he stirs and his eyes flutter open, startling me. I stop, my eyes widening in surprise, and I snap my hand back, feeling a flush of embarrassment. He blinks a few times, adjusting to the dim light, then his gaze focuses on me.

A slow, lazy smile spreads across his face, and he chuckles softly, his eyes softening at the edges. His laughter is deep, resonant from just waking up. "صباح النور يا زهرة" (Sabah al-nur ya zahra), he says in Arabic, his voice a rich, soothing rumble. His words shock me; it takes me a moment to process the greeting. We had learned some Arabic as children, but while I had skipped many lessons, Arsalan had mastered the language.

I understand "صباح النور" (good morning), but what does زهرة (zahra) mean? Maybe I should have mastered the language. But I knew atleast this much. Must be because of the lack of practice. "Kesa feel ho raha hai ab?" He asks. "Alhamdulillah," I say still thinking of the meaning. If I ask him what it means he would definitely make make fun of me and would tease me by saying that I shouldn't have skipped so much classes and stayed till the end until I learned the whole language. So I try to escape, "Uh....I think I should go make breakfast." I say trying to slip out of the bed.

"You're not doing it. Tum aaj rest karo, mein kar luga."

" But-"

" I'm not going anywhere." He says firmly. At that, I slowly slip out of the bed, "Kaha ja rahi ho?"

"Washroom." I say with an awkward smile and slip out of his room.

As I stand in the bathroom, washing my face, my mind drifts to what he said last night. Through the fog of fever, I had struggled to remember his words clearly. "تصبح على خير يا عصفوري الصغير" (tusbih 'ala khair ya asfouri as-sagheer). The memory surfaces clearly now. Standing there, the realization hits me.

(Tusbih 'ala khair) "تصبح على خير" means "May you wake up to goodness" while "یا عصفوري الصغير" (ya asfouri as-sagheer) means "my little bird." He called me his little bird. The affectionate nickname, the tenderness in his voice, all come rushing back, and I'm taken aback by the depth of his words.