𝑰𝑺𝑯𝑸 𝑺𝑯𝑼𝑭𝑰𝒀𝑨𝑵𝑨

We getting nasty, baby!

he vibrant hum of the mehendi ceremony fills the air. The music plays softly in the background, a rhythmic dholki beat complementing the clink of bangles and cheerful laughter. The scent of fresh henna mingles with the aroma of marigolds and rose petals scattered across the venue. Elders sit on low cushioned seats, discussing rituals and recalling their own celebrations, while the younger crowd flits around, posing for photos and showing off their intricate mehendi designs.

Zayn stands at a distance, sharply dressed yet effortlessly commanding, his presence striking among the swirling colors. He's supposed to be dealing with a guest, giving instructions to workers, and overseeing the logistics of the event. But his focus falters, his eyes instinctively drawn to her—Nisha.

She's seated on a beautifully decorated swing, her laughter ringing like chimes. Her hands are poised as the artist finishes intricate patterns on her palms. The sunlight filters through the canopy, casting a golden glow on her face, her dewy skin shimmering as though the universe conspired to highlight her presence. Her bangles jingle softly as she moves, and the sparkle of her jewels feels like tiny fireflies dancing in his vision.

"Sir!" A worker's voice breaks his reverie.

"Hm?" Zayn mutters, still fixated on her as she carefully inspects the design on her hand.

"Where should I place these arrangements?" the worker asks, holding a tray of floral decor.

Zayn barely registers the question. "Anywhere," he says absently, his tone detached. His attention snaps back as Nisha rises gracefully, her saree trailing behind her like a flowing river of color. She walks toward him, her steps deliberate, her anklets chiming faintly with every move.

"Zayn," she calls, her voice soft but with a sense of urgency.

He stiffens slightly, his gaze locking on her as though nothing else exists in the bustling ceremony. She stops just in front of him, her mehendi-stained hands held slightly away from her saree, her eyes meeting his directly.

"I've been looking for you," she says, tilting her head slightly. "The caterer is asking for your confirmation on the evening's layout. It's urgent."

For a moment, all he can do is stare. Her cheeks are flushed, either from the heat or her busy running around, and a loose tendril of hair frames her face, teasing his focus further.

"Zayn," she says again, more firmly this time. "Are you even listening?"

He blinks, forcing his voice to steady. "Yes... yes. The layout."

She raises a brow, clearly unimpressed by his lack of attention. "So? Can you tell me, or should I handle it myself?"

"I'll take care of it," he says, though his tone is lower, softer, as though the words are for her ears alone.

Nisha narrows her eyes briefly, then sighs. "Fine. Just... be quick about it." She turns to leave, and his hand twitches involuntarily as though to stop her, but he lets it drop back to his side.

As she walks away, her mehendi-stained hands swaying slightly, the floral fragrance she carries lingers, wrapping around him like an unshakable spell. Zayn exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, the workers nearby glancing at him with faint smirks.

He straightens, muttering to himself, "Focus, Zayn. Focus." But his resolve wavers again as he catches a glimpse of her laughing with her friends, her presence an undeniable pull in the crowd. "Kese rahu mein kaboo mein jab meri sona itni sundaar hoke mere samne aaye, kuch toh sochna hi padega" 

Nisha's POV

Where the hell is this guy? My eyes scan the crowd, searching for him.

"Ek toh yeh saree, uff... aur yeh mehendi," I mutter under my breath, struggling to adjust my outfit. "Zayn, kaha ho tum?"