Dhaagey: The Ties that Bind Us

51. what stays on

Author's Note: Hi y'all! I am glad so many of you enjoyed the last chapter (quietly for most of you it seems, lol). Onto the next chapter (almost 12K words) - some fluff, some cough-cough, little plot. I am feeling awfully indulgent and nice right now, so my Dhaagey babies shall live happily. See you on the other side!

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Meerab wasn't sure what normal was anymore.

Not after all they had been through. Not after the weeks of blood and bruises, hushed voices, sleepless nights. But this, this quiet morning, steeped in sunlight and the distant sound of Maa Begum scolding someone for refusing second helpings of parantha, this she could grow to love.

This, perhaps, was a version of normal she could belong to.

Armaan and Hamza had returned home earlier that morning. The harvest called, as did their family. Both men pulled away reluctantly, like stitches tugged from a seam they hadn't meant to be sewn into. They had given too much already: weeks of worry, nights spent near her side, nights spent near him. They had watched her fall apart and held her together, and now they deserved to return to their own lives.

And yet the house hadn't fallen quiet in their absence.

Rumi remained, her laughter a ribbon that wove through the halls like incense. Maryam had dragged her to the village market again this morning. Arsalan loitered somewhere near the kitchens, undoubtedly angling for leftover mithai. And Maa Begum was in her element, feeding everyone to her heart's content, ruling over breakfast with a ladle like a queen with her scepter.

Even without the full crew, it felt...full.

It was the kind of noise that hummed with life, not tension. The kind that wrapped itself around her spine and whispered, everything is okay now.

And perhaps the reason it felt normal was because Murtasim had returned to his desk.

Because he was working again.

The great weight of responsibility had crept back onto his shoulders and he had allowed it, strong enough to carry it. She loved seeing him where he belonged, not just by her side, but back in the role he had carried so fiercely most of his life. And he wore it again, this crown of land and people, as though he had never been forced to lay it down.

Yet, the room he worked in now seemed different, lighter.

It bore newer signs of life. A new normal.

A stray pair of her earrings glinting on the corner of the desk. Her lip gloss beside his ink pot. A shawl she'd forgotten, still draped on the back of the second chair. The scent of mint, bergamot, sandalwood, and roses – his, hers, theirs – hung in the stillness of the room.

When she had peeked in earlier that morning and asked, softly, if he needed help, he hadn't refused.

He had simply looked at her, held her gaze with a small smile, and patted his lap.

And that was how she'd ended up like this.

Perched in his lap, her legs draped comfortably on either side of his thighs, the hem of her pale pink shalwar kameez spilling around them like pooled silk.

Her arms were wound around his shoulders, her chin tucked just beneath his jaw, the soft scruff of his beard brushing her cheek every time he shifted.

His pen moved across paper with slow precision. Contracts. Land records. Harvest calculations. She wasn't sure. His mind was elsewhere. But his body... his body was entirely hers.