Enwrapped

Chapter 21

A few seemingly blissful weeks of recovery had passed.

The bathroom door swung open, and whiff of steam left as Muzammil entered the room, towel hanging over his shoulders. His polo t-shirt had wet patches here and there, and clung to his skin with heat and moisture. The pajama pants he'd worn were relatively better, loose and looked comfortable. His hair was dripping wet, droplets dragging down his skin and dipping into his collar, but he hadn't bother to dry it yet.

Saboor sat cross-legged on the bed, watching, memorizing.

It was as if she was drawing or sculpting him with her eyes. Tracing every little feature, every little detail, making sure she missed nothing from his devastatingly handsome self. He turned back towards where she sat, and gave her a heart-stopping grin. Saboor's fingers curled into the bedsheet.

"Come here," she said, beckoning him with her hand. He immediately came forth.

Why did every little thing he did hurt her so much?

She tugged the towel from his shoulder, and it fell into her lap. "Let me dry your hair."

"Saboor," he said, still smiling, "I can do it on my own."

"Let me do it. Please?" Her nose scrunched up in that adorable manner he so loved, and he sighed, giving in. He settled on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping a little under his weight. Saboor shuffled and kneeled behind him on the bed. She took the towel and began threading her fingers through the hair strands, carefully, cautiously patting them dry.

Muzammil sighed in pure contentment. "This is nice."

"I think you're feeling sleepy."

"You're right." He nodded.

Why do I have to let this go? She thought. Her hand paused. She wanted to picture this moment, but pictures didn't have a scent. She could take a vial of his cologne, but it didn't have the warmth of his body. She could have a pillow but a pillow didn't hug her back. Or touch her, or kiss her, or love her like this wonderful, wonderful man.

Before she could pull away, Muzammil caught hold of her wrist. And in one smooth motion, he turned, reached out, and tugged forward-

Saboor gasped as she almost fell into his chest, but held onto his shoulders for support. His hands very lazily came to her waist.

"Easier this way," he said with a smug grin.

Her heart thumped wildly.

She just shook her head though, ignoring the heat blooming on her face and in her chest, and continued drying his hair. His fingers drummed lightly against her clothed skin, and he hummed and sighed.

"This is the ultimate dream, really," he said. "My wife drying my hair after a nice shower. Very filmy."

She nodded but didn't reply.

Muzammmil, please, don't love me this much. It's going to hurt you when I'm gone.

But instead of saying it, she remained quiet.

A while later, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. Tightening his hold on her waist, he reached out and grabbed it.

"Oh, Yusuf," he muttered, answering the call and put it on speaker.

"Assalamu alaykum! Kya meri Sleeping Beauty se baat ho rahi hai?" the dramatic voice exclaimed on the other side. Even Saboor paused to listen, brows furrowing.

Muzammil instantly retaliated. "Walaykum assalam and Khuda Haafiz. I'm hanging up."

"No no, wait! Tu kya kar raha hai?"