Murtasim Khan sat comfortably on the sofa, one leg draped over the other, flipping through the latest farming magazine. He looked every bit the regal man of the house—the brooding, rough, and tough man he prided himself on being. To the world, Murtasim was fearless, unshakable. Even Meerab, with her fiery attitude and endless defiance, couldn’t break through the wall of macho that he meticulously maintained.
But today, today was different.
Meerab breezed into the room, her energy infectious as usual, a bright smile on her face. She was in a playful mood, teasing and joking with him, as she often did. It was one of those moments when they weren't at each other's throats, and he cherished them more than he'd ever admit.
“Oi, Murtasim!” she called out, her tone mischievous as she stood by his side.
Murtasim looked up from his magazine, raising an eyebrow. “What is it now, Meerab?” he asked, though his lips curved into a smile. He already knew something playful was coming; he could see it in her eyes.
Without missing a beat, Meerab affectionately punched him on the arm, just a light tap in her mind. “You and your farming magazines. What, are you planning to move us to some village soon?”
Murtasim chuckled, but the smile quickly faded into a wince. That “light tap” sent a dull ache shooting up his arm. He shifted slightly to mask the discomfort. She was so small, so petite, and yet somehow freakishly strong. For weeks, he’d been trying to brush it off, trying to appear unaffected whenever she playfully jabbed at him.
After all, he was Murtasim Khan, the tough-as-nails landlord, the man who rode horses, handled weapons, and dealt with difficult people without breaking a sweat. How could he admit that his wife, with her tiny fists, was somehow causing him real pain? It was absurd! He'd spent years building this image of strength and resilience. No way was he going to let Meerab shatter it with a few well-placed punches.
But he was nearing his breaking point.
As Meerab laughed and sat beside him, Murtasim rubbed his arm discreetly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She was humming something to herself, blissfully unaware of the damage she had inflicted.
He cleared his throat. “You know, Meerab, one day I’m going to get you back for all these punches,” he said with a smirk, trying to sound casual.
Meerab burst into laughter. “Please, Murtasim, as if you could ever catch me! You’re all talk, Khan Sahib.”
Murtasim’s smirk faltered for a second. He could catch her, no doubt. But at what cost? His arms felt like they’d been battered over the last few weeks. But how could he tell her? No, no. He couldn’t—he had to keep up the facade.
***
It wasn’t the first time Meerab had landed a playful punch or pat. Over the past few months, she’d affectionately hit him on various occasions. Once, after he'd surprised her with a late-night snack, she’d given him a playful shove that nearly sent him crashing into the kitchen counter. Another time, when he’d teased her about her terrible driving skills, she’d whacked him on the back so hard he swore he felt his spine realign. But each time, Murtasim gritted his teeth and played it off like nothing.
He even convinced himself that it was no big deal. It was all in good humor, right?
That was until today.
Meerab was rummaging through her bookshelf, talking animatedly about something—he wasn’t even sure what anymore. He had zoned out, lost in his own thoughts, when suddenly, she turned toward him again, eyes twinkling.
“You never listen to me!” she exclaimed, giving his arm another solid punch.
This time, Murtasim flinched noticeably, his whole body recoiling from the blow. It wasn’t just a wince; it was a genuine reaction of pain. His arm throbbed, and he couldn’t hold back the groan that escaped his lips.
Meerab, for her part, didn’t notice. She laughed. “What’s wrong, Mr. Tough Guy? Can’t handle a little love tap from your wife?”
That was it. Murtasim could feel his resolve crumbling. His ego, that wall of macho toughness, was suddenly far less important than his growing concern for the integrity of his arm muscles.
He cleared his throat, suddenly serious. “Meerab…” His voice was low, almost hesitant. “You’re going to have to stop punching me.”
Meerab looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Stop punching you?” she repeated incredulously, her voice laced with amusement. “Oh come on, Murtasim, you’re not serious. You, the big bad wolf of Khan Haveli, can’t handle a few playful punches from your tiny wife?”
He shook his head, sighing. “I’m serious, Meerab. It… it hurts.”
The room fell silent for a beat, and then, as if on cue, Meerab erupted into laughter. She held her stomach, doubling over as she laughed uncontrollably. “Hurts? You’re joking, right? I’m like half your size! Murtasim, don’t be ridiculous!”
Murtasim frowned, rubbing his arm where she had just punched him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, genuinely unsure of how to make her believe him. “I’m not joking,” he said, his voice more strained now. “It really hurts.”
Still laughing, Meerab shook her head, clearly thinking he was pulling her leg. “Sure, sure, and next you’re going to tell me that my slaps can knock out a horse!”
Murtasim sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Meerab, I’m serious. Your punches are… stronger than you think.”
Meerab stopped laughing just long enough to give him a playful nudge on the arm. “You’re exaggerating, Murtasim! How can I, of all people, hurt you?”
Before he could respond, she playfully punched him again, right in the same spot. This time, Murtasim didn’t even try to hide it. He let out a deep groan, clutching his arm as he winced in pain.
“OW!” he yelled, the sound more dramatic than he intended, but the pain was real. “Meerab! Seriously, stop it!”
Meerab blinked, her laughter fading as she stared at him. For the first time, she saw the look of genuine discomfort on his face. Her eyes widened as she watched him rub his arm, the same arm she had affectionately punched so many times before.
“Wait… you’re serious?” she asked, her voice softer now, filled with concern.
Murtasim shot her an exasperated look. “Yes, Meerab, I’ve been trying to tell you! You may look small, but you’re freakishly strong. I’ve been pretending it doesn’t hurt because—well, because I didn’t want you to think I’m weak or something.”
Meerab gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in shock. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry! I didn’t know!”
Murtasim huffed, trying to stretch his arm out to relieve the lingering ache. “Yeah, well, now you know. I think I need an ice pack.”
Meerab quickly got up, her expression shifting from playful to serious as guilt washed over her. “Murtasim! I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear! I thought you were just being dramatic.”
He chuckled, though it was a weak one. “Nope, no drama. Just a lot of pain.”
She rushed over to his side, kneeling beside him and examining his arm with wide, guilty eyes. “Oh no, I’m such a monster! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
He shrugged, giving her a small smile. “Well, you know… I had to protect my manly image.”
Meerab snorted. “Your manly image? Murtasim Khan, the rough and tough, brought down by his tiny wife’s punches? That’s hilarious!”
He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help laughing. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. But seriously, be gentle next time.”
Meerab pouted dramatically. “I promise, no more punches. Only hugs from now on. I’ll be your gentle little lamb.”
Murtasim smirked, pulling her closer. “I think I can live with that.”
She smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. “Good, because I was starting to think you were indestructible. Turns out, you’re just a big softie.”
Murtasim chuckled. “Maybe. But don’t tell anyone, alright?”
Meerab laughed, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. “Your secret’s safe with me, Mr. Tough Guy.”
As they sat together, Murtasim sighed, feeling the weight of his bruised arm but also the warmth of Meerab’s affection. Perhaps it was worth it after all.
