Bewitched

32

MUNTASSIR

Walking into the supermarket with Mumtaz at 1 AM, right after our wedding dinner, felt surreal. It was just the two of us now, finally away from the chaotic celebrations, still in our wedding attire. I was in my Kaftan, and she was still in her dress, though she'd ditched her heels and was now wearing my oversized Izmir sandals that had been in the car. I glanced down at her feet and chuckled. The sandals looked absurd on her—like a little kid playing dress-up. Her feet barely filled half of them, and every time she took a step, they made a faint slap against the tiled floor.

"Stop laughing," she said, nudging me with her elbow, but she was smiling too. "You're lucky I found something to wear. I wasn't about to stumble around barefoot."

"You look ridiculous," I teased, grinning. "But cute. Really, really cute."

"Yeah, yeah," she said, rolling her eyes but not bothering to hide her grin. "Let's just get some snacks. I'm starving."

The supermarket was busier than expected for this hour. A few people glanced our way, clearly confused by the sight of two people in formal wedding attire wandering through the aisles, but we didn't care. We were too happy, riding high on the joy of the night. We'd spent hours with our families, friends, laughing, eating, and celebrating. But now, it was just us, and I was grateful for the quiet time together before the official ceremony tomorrow morning.

As we walked toward the snack aisle, Mumtaz slipped her hand into mine, swinging it playfully between us.

"This feels unreal," she said softly, looking up at me, her eyes sparkling. "We're actually doing it. We're getting married."

I squeezed her hand, pulling her a little closer. "I know. It's crazy, right? Feels like it took forever to get here."

She smiled, leaning her head against my arm as we walked. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

We turned into the snack aisle, scanning the shelves for our favorites. Mumtaz was always indecisive when it came to snacks—she'd pick up one thing, then put it back, then pick up another. I watched her in amusement as she debated between two different brands of chips, but before I could offer any suggestions, I felt her grip on my hand tighten.

I looked up to see her glaring across the aisle at some girl who was standing there, looking our way.

"Uh...what's going on?" I asked, confused.

"Why is she staring at you like that?" Mumtaz whispered, her voice sharp with irritation.

I followed her gaze and spotted the girl in question—a random stranger who was probably just curious about the guy in the Kaftan and the girl in the oversized sandals.

"Mumtaz," I said softly, leaning closer to her, "I don't know. Just ignore it, okay?"

She shook her head, still glaring. "You need to stop smiling so carelessly. That's why she's staring."

I couldn't help it—I laughed. "Are you serious? I smiled at you, not her."

She turned to me, her eyes narrowing. "I'm not being dramatic, Muntassir. You were smiling, and she probably thought—"

"You're being a little dramatic," I said, still chuckling. "Come on, let's just grab the snacks and get out of here."

"Stop laughing at me," she snapped, her glare intensifying.

But her jealous, angry expression only made me laugh harder. I couldn't help it—seeing her like this, so fiercely protective, so upset over something so small, was kind of adorable. She glared at me for a second longer, then, without warning, dropped my hand and stormed out of the aisle.