Meerab stumbled through the door of the small, dimly lit hut, barely able to hold the heavy earthen pot filled with water. Her chest heaved with each labored breath, her entire body drenched with sweat. Strands of her long, disheveled hair stuck to her flushed face, her clothes clinging uncomfortably to her skin. Exhaustion weighed down every inch of her body, and her muscles screamed in protest after the strenuous task she had never done before.
She hadn’t expected carrying a pot of water would be so difficult. Every step back from the lake had felt like a battle. The village women had made it look so easy, but Meerab had struggled, nearly spilling the water multiple times. Now, as she staggered inside, her vision blurred with fatigue, she saw Murtasim lying comfortably on their makeshift bed. He was stretched out, arms folded behind his head, a lazy smile on his face as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He wasn’t just relaxing—he was laughing.
Murtasim’s carefree laughter hit her like a slap across the face. All of her frustration from the morning—the humiliation, the physical strain, the unfamiliarity of such menial work—bubbled to the surface, and she felt a surge of white-hot anger.
Without thinking, she lifted the heavy pot and dumped the water over him in one swift motion.
Murtasim jolted, his body tense as the cold water drenched him from head to toe. His laughter stopped abruptly, his face contorting in shock as water dripped from his hair, running down his chiseled jaw and soaking his clothes.
He blinked a few times, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Slowly, his eyes locked onto Meerab, who stood over him, chest heaving, her breath ragged with both exhaustion and fury. Her eyes burned with righteous indignation as she glared at him, daring him to say something.
Murtasim sat up, his hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping onto the dirt floor beneath him. His dark eyes smoldered as he took in the sight of Meerab—sweat-soaked, flushed with anger, her chest rising and falling with each breath. He was tired of her attitude, her entitlement, her refusal to adapt to the situation they were in.
He’d been patient, far more patient than he ever thought possible. But now, he had reached his limit.
Without warning, he stood up swiftly, towering over her. With one fluid motion, he grabbed the now half-empty pot from her hands and, before she could react, tilted it, dumping the remaining water over her.
Meerab gasped, her body going rigid as the cold water soaked through her clothes, plastering the fabric to her skin. Her wide eyes met his, a mixture of shock and disbelief flashing across her face.
“Murtasim!” she sputtered, her voice trembling with both anger and surprise.
He said nothing at first, his eyes blazing with a mixture of frustration and something else—something darker. His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile as he watched her, waiting for her reaction.
“You—” Meerab’s voice wavered as she tried to form a coherent sentence, but her anger overwhelmed her. Without thinking, she lunged at him, her hands balled into fists, ready to make him pay for what he’d just done.
But Murtasim was quicker. Before she could reach him, he caught her wrists in one hand, his grip firm and unyielding. With a swift movement, he pressed her against the nearby wall, his body pinning hers in place. His chest pressed against her, holding her still as he lifted her wrists above her head, trapping them in his large hand.
Meerab’s breath hitched as she felt the solid weight of his body against hers. She struggled against his grip, her eyes flashing with defiance, but he held her firmly in place. His breath was warm against her skin, and she could feel the heat radiating off his body despite the cold water that had drenched them both.
