Jaan-e-Azlan❤

47

The morning air was crisp as the hospital's automatic doors slid open, revealing a convoy of black SUVs that looked more like a royal escort than a discharge. Azlan moved with a focused, almost meditative slowness, his arm wrapped firmly but gently around Mantasha's waist.

He didn't let the nurses assist her to the car. Every step she took, he mirrored, his body acting as a human crutch. He felt the slight tremor in her legs, the way she leaned into his side, and his grip tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to let her know he was her anchor.

"Slowly, Misha. I've got you," he whispered, his voice a soothing low rumble near her ear.

When they reached the armored SUV, he tucked her into the plush leather backseat as if she were made of the finest crystal. He didn't just shut the door; he climbed in beside her, pulling the door closed with a muted thud that shut out the rest of the world.

The drive was silent, but it was a silence filled with a thousand unspoken words. Azlan took her hand, his fingers interlacing with hers, his thumb tracing the small bruises left by the IV drips. He didn't look at his phone. He didn't look at the city passing by.

He just looked at her.

Mantasha leaned her head back against the headrest, her eyes fluttering shut. The sunlight filtered through the tinted windows, dancing across her pale face. Occasionally, she would open her eyes to look out at the trees, her gaze hungry for the colors of the world she had almost lost. Every time she moved, Azlan's eyes followed. He watched the way her chest rose and fell, the way her hair caught the light, as if he were memorizing her all over again. He didn't blink, terrified that if he did, the dream would shatter and he'd find himself back in that dark phase of his life.

When the car stopped, the front doors of the villa flew open. Her Dada abu, father, and Taya Abu were standing on the steps, their faces alight with a joy that had been absent for a week. Her Tayi Ammi and Dadi were at the front, their eyes already brimming with happy tears.

"Our daughter is home, Alhamdulillah!" Dada proclaimed, his voice thick with emotion.

Azlan helped her out of the car, shielding her from the light breeze with his own body. As she stepped onto the marble floors of the foyer, the women of the house swarmed her with gentle hugs and kisses, their hands fluttering over her as if to convince themselves she was really there.

"You look so thin, meri bachi", Tayi Ammi cried, stroking Mantasha's cheek. "But don't worry. I have been in the kitchen since Fajr. You will eat until you're a Khan again."

Despite the crowd's excitement, Azlan saw the exhaustion beginning to cloud Mantasha's eyes. He swept her up into his arms, ignoring the protests of the family. "She needs to rest," he said firmly, though his smile was kind.

He carried her up the grand staircase to her room. When he pushed the double doors open, Mantasha gasped.

Izhaan was standing by the window, a bashful but proud grin on his face. He had spent the last forty-eight hours transforming her room into a floral sanctuary. There wasn't a corner that wasn't covered in white lilies, her favourite jasmine, and soft, pastel roses. Fairy lights were draped like stars over her canopy bed, and the scent was so heavenly it felt like stepping into a dream.

"Do you like it, Princess?" Izhaan asked, stepping forward to take her hand. "I wanted it to look like the garden, since you couldn't go outside yet."

"It's beautiful, bhai," she whispered, her eyes shining. "Thank you."

Azlan placed her on the bed, settling her into the mountain of silk pillows Izhaan had arranged. The rest of the cousins—Sarim, Ghazan, and Shahmeer—hovered at the doorway, their usual loud banter replaced by a soft, protective presence.