Jaan-e-Azlan❤

48

With the family's prayers trailing behind them like a protective veil, her tayi ammi and Dadi walked on either side of Mantasha, their arms linked with hers to support her fragile frame. The transition felt sacred, a quiet procession that replaced the trauma of the past week with all this.

When they reached the heavy mahogany doors of Azlan's room, her tayi Ammi paused, pressing a final kiss to Mantasha's forehead.

"We will have all your things shifted tomorrow," Tayi Ammi whispered, her eyes shining with a mother's relief. "Tonight, just sleep in peace. You are in your true home now. No shadows can reach you here."

Dadi squeezed her hand, her voice thick with a prayer. "May Allah keep your bond eternal. Khayal rkhna, meri jaan, apna b aur mery bachy ka b. He is finally breathing because you are standing next to him."

They guided her inside and helped her sit on the edge of the expansive bed. The room smelled of sandalwood and crisp linens, a masculine sanctuary that suddenly felt softened by her presence. After a few more hushed blessings, the elders retreated, closing the door with a soft, final click that signaled the beginning of their life together.

Mantasha sat in the silence, her heart fluttering. A few minutes later, the door opened. Azlan walked in, and the moment his eyes landed on her sitting on his bed, the last of his guarded walls crumbled. He looked at her as if she were a miracle he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed to keep.

"Are you okay? Is the room too cold? Do you need more pillows?" he asked, his voice a frantic rush of concern as he moved toward her.

"I'm okay, Azi," she replied softly, her voice still a bit strained. "I'm just... tired."

"I'll be back in five minutes. Don't move," he said, his eyes lingering on her for an extra second before he went to freshen up. He returned shortly, dressed in a simple charcoal-gray shirt and lounge pants. He didn't go to his side of the bed. Instead, he went straight to the medicine tray, his movements surgical and focused.

"Here," he said, handing her a glass of water and her tablets. "Take these. I don't want you to feel even a hint of pain now."

He watched her swallow the medicine, his gaze intense, as if he were personally fighting the chemicals to make sure they worked. Once she was settled, Mantasha expected him to lie down beside her. Instead, to her utter shock, Azlan walked to the foot of the bed.

He pulled over a small velvet ottoman and sat down at her feet.

"Azi? What are you doing?" she asked, her eyes widening.

He didn't answer. He reached into the nightstand and pulled out a bottle of lavender-scented lotion. He poured a generous amount into his palms, rubbing them together to warm the cream before gently taking her right foot into his lap.

"Azi, no... please," Mantasha stammered, her face flushing. "You shouldn't be sitting at my feet like this. It doesn't feel right."

Azlan looked up at her then. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with a raw, agonizing devotion that made her breath catch.

"Misha, look at me," he whispered, his voice cracking. "For the last seven days, I have lived in a nightmare where I couldn't touch you, couldn't help you, couldn't even take the pain away from your body. I felt like the most useless man on this earth."

He began to massage her feet with slow, rhythmic strokes, his strong hands incredibly tender against her skin. "Your feet are swollen. Your body is exhausted from fighting that poison. If I can take even an ounce of that tension away, I will sit here for a hundred years."

"But Azi—"

"No," he interrupted, his thumb pressing into the arch of her foot with perfect pressure. "In that basement, I promised Allah that if He gave you back to me, I would spend every breath serving you. This is about being the man who almost lost his soul."