Mariam

I rub my sweat-damp palms against the fabric of my dress, the soft velvet brushing against my skin like a whisper. My eyes trace the flickering candles and lanterns scattered around the space, their warm glow wrapping everything in a quiet, gentle light.

I should've been here thirty minutes ago. But overthinking, the relentless kind that feeds on nerves, had pinned me to my seat long after I parked. I'd wasted fifteen minutes locked in my car, giving myself a pep talk, arguing with my reflection, and convincing myself that this dress wasn't as hideous on me as I kept imagining it to be.

When I opened my door this morning, the last thing I expected was a beautifully wrapped present sitting on the steps. It wasn't until I unwrapped it and peeked inside that I realised it was from Shivyansh.

Tucked beside the stunning, long cherry-red maxi dress was a note:

8 pm, The Claridges, Sevilla. See you soon, my lady ;)

I was almost reluctant to wear the dress, considering how rarely I found myself dressing up these days. But it was too stunning to refuse.

The fabric, a deep cherry red velvet, seemed to breathe with the softest glow. It curved around my shoulders, the off-shoulder neckline tracing the delicate line of my collarbones with effortless grace. The folds at the waist gathered gently, embracing my form before spilling downward in a smooth, flowing cascade that whispered against the floor with every step. The dress didn't just sit on me, it moved as though it had been waiting for me all along.

I blinked, drawing myself back into the present. My eyes slowly lifted from the fabric in my hands to the space around me. The room was bathed in soft, golden light, candles and lanterns scattered like quiet stars, their gentle flames dancing against the walls. Plush seating curved around the room, dark and inviting, while a vase of fresh greenery added a subtle touch of life. The air held a calm warmth, like a hushed breath before something beautiful unfolds.

I hear quiet murmurs around me, people whispering, glasses clinking as they make small toasts. The noise feels distant, more like background music than anything that could break the calm.

My eyes wander toward the far corner of the room, where the light is softer and the space feels quieter. That's when I see him.

Shivyansh's eyes are already on me, steady and focused, taking in everything, my dress, the way I'm standing, the small signs of nervousness I try to hide. Without really thinking, my feet move forward. There's a sudden, unexpected confidence in my stride as I close the distance between us.

As I get closer, the sounds around me seem to blur even further. My breath feels louder than the chatter, and my heart beats just a little too fast. His expression doesn't change, but there's something in the way he's looking at me, a quiet acknowledgement, as if he's been waiting for this moment.

I stop a few steps away from him, suddenly unsure again. The warmth from the candles brushes against my skin, and the soft rustle of the dress feels too loud in the silence between us. For a brief second, neither of us moves.

As I stand there, caught between wanting to step closer and holding back, his gaze doesn't waver. There's a quiet intensity in his eyes now, measured, deliberate, and impossibly magnetic. It's not bold or loud, but it draws me in, as if every glance is a silent invitation I can't quite resist.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches out slowly. His fingers brush mine, hesitant for the briefest moment, before he closes the space. His touch is warm, grounding, and yet charged with something deeper.

Then, with an ease that feels both practised and sincere, he lifts my hand and presses his lips to the back of it. The kiss is soft, deliberate, like the touch of a gentleman, but heavy with a quiet desire that lingers long after his lips leave my skin.

A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips, breaking the tension. I pull my hand gently away, still feeling the warmth of his kiss lingering on my skin. "So this is how you send out invites for a date?" I tease, my voice low and light, "A dress and a set of instructions?"

His eyes flash with amusement, but he doesn't look away. There's a softness in his expression, as if he's pleased I played along and maybe even happier that I didn't run.

"I would've had no problem showing up at your doorstep this evening, Miss Khan, but unfortunately, I got caught up in some work," He explains, bowing dramatically in front of me as a form of apology.

I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head at his ways.

"I suppose we can let it pass this one time. Just this once, though." I say.

He tilts his head slightly, his eyes locked on mine with a glimmer that's impossible to miss, playful, curious, and edged with something deeper. A small smile pulls at his lips as he asks, "So... that means there'll be more of this in the future?"

I bite back a grin, letting the corner of my mouth lift. "Well... I guess it depends on how good today is, Mr. Khurana," I reply, letting the tease linger just long enough before brushing past the moment.

"Well then, I'd better make it worth your while, Miss Khan," he replies, the sincerity in his voice unmistakable, soft but earnest.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches out and offers his hand, his palm open and waiting. My heart skips. I feel the heat rise in my cheeks as I hesitate for the briefest moment, then slip my hand into his. His fingers curl around mine with a gentle firmness, as if he's holding something precious.

He gives my hand the slightest squeeze before turning and pulling me along with effortless grace. I follow, my steps light, caught between nervous excitement and the thrill of simply being led.

He leads me through the softly lit room, his hand still wrapped around mine, until we reach a quieter corner tucked away from the others. The gentle hum of conversations and laughter fades here, replaced by a calm hush that feels almost like a secret.

Stopping beside a small table, he releases my hand, but his eyes never leave mine. With a graceful motion, he pulls out a chair and gestures toward it. "Please," he says, his voice low and inviting, "have a seat."

I smile, amused by his old-fashioned manners, and let him guide me down into the chair. The velvet of the seat brushes against the fabric of my dress, grounding me for a moment as I settle in. Before I can respond, he pulls out the chair across from me and sits down, his posture relaxed but purposeful, as if this small gesture is all part of a carefully composed invitation.

For a moment, we simply sit there, close, connected by the quietness, and aware of the space between us.

"So, Miss Khan," he begins, his tone light but steady, "do you always let handsome men pull you into secret corners like this?"

I arch an eyebrow, amused. "Only when the invitation comes with a promise and a lot of... effort," I reply, keeping my voice playful but teasing.

His eyes darken just enough to make my breath catch, though his smile remains easy. "Then I suppose I'll have to keep trying," he says, his voice softer now, the words carrying more meaning than before.

I bite back a laugh, looking down for a moment before meeting his gaze again. "Careful. You might just set the bar too high."

He chuckles, but there's a warmth in his eyes that lingers longer than the sound. "Setting the bar high... seems like the only way to keep up with you," he says quietly, almost as a compliment, "Considering the fact that you never left me the chance to ask you out first."

For a brief second, the air between us feels charged, not with bold gestures, but with something deeper, something slower, more deliberate. I feel the flutter in my chest, unsure whether it's nervousness or excitement.

"Well, I was getting impatient.. " I admit, letting the words hang between us, half-laughing but embarrassed.

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. "Hmm..." His eyes flicker with something more intense, though he smiles again. "I'll make sure not to keep you waiting any longer than, Ma'am."

I smile back, unable to hide the warmth spreading through me. "That doesn't sound so bad."

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that makes the smile feel genuine, almost boyish. "Good," he says softly, as if the word itself is meant only for me. "Because I plan on making it up to you... in more ways than one."

I feel heat rise to my cheeks again, and I look down briefly before meeting his gaze once more. His eyes hold mine without pressure, but there's a quiet intensity there that makes my breath catch.

"What ways exactly?" I ask, my voice lighter than I feel, but my pulse betraying me.

He tilts his head, considering the question as if it's a delicious secret. "For now, let's say... I want to learn everything that makes you smile," he replies, the playful edge still in his tone, but softened by sincerity.

The corners of my lips curl up before I can stop them. "You'll need a lot of patience then," I say, teasing him.

"I don't mind," he answers without hesitation. "I've never been good at waiting... but I'd wait for you."

His words hang in the air, and for a brief moment, I forget how to breathe. There's something in the way he says it, no grand declarations, no dramatic flourishes, just a quiet promise, like a whispered vow meant only for us.

I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of how close we are. The soft candlelight catches the curve of his jaw, the slight movement of his lips when he breathes. My fingers, resting lightly on the table, twitch without my permission, and I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, pretending it's nothing.

He watches every small movement, not intrusively, but with a focus that feels both tender and intense. The space between us seems to hum with unspoken words, each glance, each breath pulling us closer without either of us daring to make the next move.

I gather a little courage, letting the silence stretch just long enough before I speak. "You really are serious about this, aren't you?" I ask, my voice softer now, as if afraid that saying it too loudly would shatter the fragile connection between us.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, his eyes stay fixed on mine, calm and steady, but warmer, like he's listening not just to the words, but to everything I'm holding back. There's a softness there, a kind of quiet devotion that makes my breath hitch. It's not overwhelming, not forceful, it's patient, attentive, as if he's memorising each expression, each shift in my face.

"I've never been more serious about anything," he says at last, his lips curving into a smile that's gentle, reassuring. "I've never even been so serious about my work, trust me, you're truly some sorcessors"

Heat floods my cheeks again, and I bite back a nervous smile. "You're impossible," I whisper, half in amusement, half in disbelief at how easily he disarms me.

His eyes crinkle at the edges as he laughs softly, a sound low and soothing. "Maybe," he says, his gaze never leaving mine, "but only for you."

I glance away for a second, pretending to focus on the flickering candle between us, but when I look back, he's still watching me, quietly, affectionately, as if every small movement I make is something to cherish. A small shiver runs down my spine. For a fleeting moment, it feels like the world has narrowed to just this corner, this table, this gaze that holds me without asking for anything more than my presence.

He leans back, a slow smile tugging at his lips, as though he takes quiet pleasure in watching me squirm. The candlelight catches the edge of his jaw, tracing a shadow that makes him look softer, sharper, and impossibly close all at once. "So," he murmurs, low and amused, "what else do you enjoy... besides making people feel like they're standing on sacred ground just by being near you?"

Heat blooms across my cheeks before I can stop it. I let out a soft laugh, trying to sound casual, though my lips betray me with a small, shy curve. "That's hardly true," I reply, but my voice wavers, betraying more than I intend.

His eyes, dark and quietly amused, soften as he tilts his head, studying me with a stillness that makes my breath hitch. There's an almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth, a softness in his gaze that makes it feel like he's seeing me for the first time. "Oh, it is," he says, steady, deliberate. "One of them, right now, is under your spell."

A warmth spreads through me, sudden and undeniable, curling around my chest. I lower my gaze to the candle, pretending to study its flickering flame, but I feel him still watching, memorising the lift of my brow, the tilt of my shoulder, the faint flutter of my eyelashes. The sensation is unnerving, yet oddly comforting.

I straighten in my chair, inhaling slowly, and meet his gaze again. "Well... aside from that," I say, finding a thread of courage, "I bake. Mostly cakes. I like experimenting, sometimes it's a disaster, but sometimes... it turns out better than I imagined."

His smile widens, genuine and unguarded, and there's a soft crinkle at the corner of his eyes that makes him almost boyish, almost vulnerable, as if he's sharing in the secret of my small confession. "Nothing can be a disaster if it's made by your hands," he murmurs, eyes lighting up in a way that makes my chest flutter.

He leans forward, elbows resting lightly on the table, fingers brushing against the edge, a subtle echo of the warmth he brings into the space between us. His gaze doesn't waver; it lingers on me, attentive, curious, as if he's tracing the edges of my soul. "It's creation... like painting," he says softly.

I blink, caught off guard by the ease with which he reveals himself. "You paint too?"

His smile deepens, hesitant yet sincere, and he shifts slightly, the movement small but deliberate, as if closing a gap between us without touching. "Yeah," he admits quietly. "Nothing professional... I just lose myself in colour when words aren't enough, or when I need to escape."

Something shifts inside me, subtle but electric. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly unsure where to rest my eyes, aware of the way his gaze follows each motion like it could map my very thoughts. "I paint sometimes as well," I whisper, "I like how colour can say what words cannot."

His eyes soften, tender, deepened by something unspoken. "I know," he murmurs. "Art speaks volumes that words cannot. And sometimes all you have to do is pick up a brush and let out those feelings on a canvas. At least that's better than wasting words on people who won't ever understand their meaning." The faint curve of his lips is more intimate than a kiss, more revealing than any words.

He watches me, absorbing the cadence of my speech, the lift of my hands, the pause between words. The space between us hums with slow, deliberate energy, alive, intimate, unspoken. I feel it too, the invisible threads connecting us: the way his fingers twitch as if holding back, the way his shoulder leans subtly closer without crossing the line.

My heart beats a quiet rhythm, echoing in my chest, each thump in time with the warmth radiating from him. For a moment, the world shrinks to this fragile, luminous space, to the shared rhythm of breaths and glances. I want to say more, to spill the depth of my heart, but his gaze renders words fragile, unnecessary. So I smile, soft and tentative, a blush tracing my neck, letting the silence speak for me.

Time drifts on like soft smoke, curling around us, unnoticed. The conversation fades into comfortable silences punctuated by laughter, small and genuine, echoing quietly between the walls. When the food arrives, we pause, momentarily breaking the spell of the candlelight.

I watch him carefully cut his slice, the way his fingers brush the edge of the plate, and something about the careful, almost distracted focus makes my chest flutter. "You really measure everything so precisely, huh?" I tease lightly, a smirk tugging at my lips.

He looks up, eyebrows raised, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Only when it matters," he replies, and the corner of his mouth quirks, teasing, softening into a grin that makes my stomach twist with warmth.

We eat slowly, savouring bites and letting the conversation meander. A story I tell earns an exaggerated groan from him, followed by laughter that rolls out low and easy, vibrating through the quiet space. I find myself laughing too, more freely than I have in a long while, drawn into the effortless rhythm between us.

At some point, mid-laugh, our hands brush, accidentally, I think at first, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he lets his fingers linger near mine, small warmth radiating through the brief contact. My heartbeat catches, rapid and uneven, and I glance at him. He meets my gaze with that same quiet intensity, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.

"Here," he says softly, reaching again, this time more deliberately, his fingers brushing mine as he passes the dessert plate across the table. The contact is fleeting, tentative, yet it sparks something inside me, a flutter I can't quite name.

We fall into an easy rhythm, conversation flowing, jokes about tiny, absurd things. He laughs at my impressions; I laugh at his exaggerated disbelief, at the way his eyes crinkle in the corners. Each shared smile, each laugh, feels like a small brushstroke painting the space between us with something quiet and tender.

At one point, our hands touch again, not forced, not deliberate, just a natural extension of the moment. I feel the warmth seep in, the electricity in the gentle press of his fingers, and the world around us shrinks until it's just him and me, light and laughter and the slow, intoxicating pull of being near someone who seems to see you entirely.

The night stretches, soft and unhurried. The candles burn lower, casting dancing shadows across the table, and still we sit, talking, laughing, savouring food and the rare, precious ease of company that doesn't demand, that doesn't rush. His hand finds mine once more, resting there lightly, as if anchoring both of us in this fleeting, perfect moment. I don't pull away. I can't.

And in that simple, quiet touch, in the shared laughter over the absurd and mundane, there's a tenderness blooming, filling the spaces between us with something like warmth, home, and love.

The laughter eventually softens, replaced by comfortable quiet, the kind that comes when time has stretched lazily and shared moments have left their trace. The plates are mostly empty, the remnants of dessert forgotten as we talk and smile at each other.

I glance at my watch and realise I've lost track of time. "—uh, I'll be right back," I murmur, standing. "Just... need to freshen up."

He nods, a small, approving smile on his lips, as if even this brief pause has his quiet blessing. "Take your time," he says softly, watching me with that steady, unwavering gaze.

I slip away toward the washroom, heels clicking lightly on the floor. Inside, the space feels small, private, and mercifully still. I lock the door behind me and catch my reflection in the mirror, the candlelight from the dining room spilling faintly through the slightly ajar curtain of the door.

I press my fingers to my lips, noticing the red lipstick that's smeared slightly from talking and laughing. The colour is bold, bright against the warmth of my flushed cheeks, and I take a slow breath before carefully smoothing it, brushing over the edges until it's neat again. The mirror reflects more than just my face; it captures the subtle racing of my heart, the warmth that lingers from his gaze, the quiet flutter in my chest at even the smallest memory of his touch.

I twist the lipstick tube in my hand, pausing to look at myself. The reflection staring back seems both familiar and strange, aware in a way I haven't been all evening, aware of the night, of him, of the delicate, intoxicating tension that hums just beneath the surface.

For a moment, I just stand there, hand still poised near my lips, breathing steadying itself, and I feel the faint echo of his presence even though he's still out there, at the table.

Tonight... tonight has been different.

I've spent so long holding myself steady, composed, measured, walls built high, carefully constructed, hiding the small, unpolished parts of me that rarely see the light. Laughter, relaxation, letting someone in... those don't come often. Not for me. I am usually the observer, the steady hand, the one who keeps everything in line. But tonight... I feel something shifting.

It's as though he sees me. Really sees me. Not just the composed, polite version, not just the surface, not just a pretty arrangement of colours and lines that others might admire from afar. He looks past all that. He looks at the spaces in between, the pauses, the stumbles, the quirks, the things I thought I could hide. He looks at me and... I don't have to perform. I don't have to be anything but this, messy, bright, nervous, bold and... human.

And somehow, that is both terrifying and exhilarating. The walls I've carried for years, walls built to protect, to control, to hide, are quietly crumbling tonight, not by force, but by the gentleness of someone willing to see what lies beneath. I feel understood, not as a painting to be admired, but as a living, breathing thing, complex, vibrant, flawed, and beautiful all at once.

I inhale slowly, letting the weight of it settle, the warmth rising in my chest. For the first time in a long time, I feel a freedom that doesn't come from perfection or control, but from being seen. And it scares me. And it thrills me. And I wouldn't trade this feeling for anything.

I step toward the door, taking a slow, steadying breath. The narrow corridor outside is quiet, tucked away from the soft hum of the dining room, almost hidden, almost intimate.

As soon as I step out, a hand catches my wrist, pulling me lightly into the shadows. My breath hitches, sharp and sudden, and I find myself pressed gently against the wall.

Shivyansh is there, close enough that the warmth from his body reaches me, the faint pulse of his heartbeat echoing through the narrow space. His eyes lock onto mine, dark and unwavering, a slow, confident smile tugging at his lips. He's flushed, just like me, his breathing steadying but quick, and the world outside this hidden corridor seems to dissolve.

"Mariam," he says, low and deliberate, "you are... angelic tonight."

The words aren't hesitant, they don't stumble, they settle over me, deliberate, intimate, like they were meant only for this moment. He tilts his head slightly, letting his gaze linger, tracing the curve of my face as if memorising it, but without touching. The warmth in his eyes feels tangible, almost like a caress, and my pulse hitches at the quiet power behind his words.

He reaches a hand and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, fingers brushing my skin with that effortless intimacy that makes me shiver. His thumb lingers, grazing lightly against my cheek.

I can't look away; I don't want to. There's something in the way he watches me, not just noticing, but truly seeing, as if I exist wholly in this narrow, shadowed corridor. My hands feel suddenly still, my breath shallow, caught in the gravity of his presence.

"You, this dress," he murmurs, his voice smooth and measured, "it... It catches the light in a way that feels like it was made for you alone. The colour, the way it drapes... It's elegant, but there's fire in it, too. It moves with you like it belongs to you, like it's alive, like every fold and curve is meant to mirror you."

His eyes hold mine as he continues, a quiet reverence threading his tone. "You look like a painting I could stare at forever, but one I would never dare touch, because it's too precious, too alive. And yet, here you are, standing in front of me, impossible and mesmerising."

I laugh softly, almost nervously, looking down at my dress and running a finger along the fabric. "Honestly... I thought I didn't look good in this," I admit, voice quiet, vulnerable.

Shivyansh's gaze doesn't waver; he tilts his head slightly, studying me like he's memorising every nuance of my expression. His fingers trace a faint, idle line near mine, brushing it just enough that the warmth seeps into my skin. "Mariam," he murmurs, voice low, almost tender, "you have no idea how much you captivate me... even like this, even when you think you're ordinary."

My chest tightens, a flutter of heat spreading through me. The brush of his hand lingers, teasing but unhurried, and I catch myself leaning just a fraction closer without meaning to.

Then his voice drops a notch lower, confident and magnetic, carrying a dangerous sort of charm. "Sweetheart," he murmurs, letting his words wrap around me, "you have no idea about the chokehold you have on me. You look... fucking adorable. And adorably... fuckable."

I flush instantly, warmth rising in my cheeks, neck, and ears, my pulse hammering in my throat. I bite my lower lip, unable to stop the nervous, breathless laugh that escapes me. The narrow corridor feels impossibly small now, alive with the heat between us, the lingering brush of his hand, and the way he looks at me, as though I'm the only thing in the world that matters at this very moment.

I swallow, my chest tight, every nerve alight. My gaze drifts upward, taking him in, the line of his jaw, the subtle shadow under his cheekbones, the way his lips curve in that slow, knowing smile that makes the air between us feel charged. His eyes catch mine, dark and intense, and I feel a jolt of heat run straight through me.

Slowly, deliberately, my eyes lower, tracing the shape of his lips. I don't look away, mesmerised by the way they seem to promise something I've been craving without knowing it. I can feel him noticing, the faint narrowing of his gaze, the almost imperceptible parting of his lips, the slight shift in the angle of his body as he leans toward me ever so subtly.

His hands move before I can think. One slides around my waist, the warmth of his touch grounding me, pulling me closer, steadying me even as my heart races. The other rises to cradle my face, his fingers brushing lightly along my jaw, thumb tracing the curve of my cheek with a feather-light pressure that makes my pulse thrum in my throat. Every touch feels deliberate, magnetic, a silent promise carried without words.

The corridor feels impossibly small, the air between us dense and electric, each exhale shared, each heartbeat echoing against the walls. I breathe in shallow, uneven gasps, aware of the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of him, the subtle mix of warmth and something faintly woodsy that makes the world narrow to the space between our lips.

My gaze flickers between his eyes and his mouth, and the pull becomes irresistible. I rise slowly onto my tiptoes, pressing closer, feeling the gentle resistance of his body beneath my touch, the way his hands anchor me without pressure, letting me feel safe yet exposed, delicate yet desired.

Time stretches. The world falls away. There is only the brush of his chest against mine, the warmth of his hands along my sides, the faint tremor in my own arms as I lean in. And then, careful, tentative, yet undeniable, I press my lips to his.

The kiss is brief, a soft, feather-light peck that barely brushes against his lips. It's almost a question, delicate and hesitant, lingering just long enough for my senses to ignite. I pull back slightly, chest fluttering, breath catching in my throat, and stare at him. His eyes are fixed on me, dark, steady, and unreadable, and for a moment, I'm lost in their intensity.

"I... I'm sorry," I begin, voice low and uncertain, words trembling as if speaking them aloud might break the fragile tension.

But he doesn't let me finish. With deliberate confidence, Shivyansh leans in, and before I can react, his lips find mine again. This time, there is no hesitation, no softness, only a slow, searing intensity that takes my breath away. His hands, one cradling my face, the other pressing gently but firmly at my waist, anchor me to him, drawing me closer into the heat of the moment.

The kiss is all-consuming. His lips are warm, insistent, moving against mine with a controlled fire that makes my pulse race. My hands rise instinctively to his chest, tracing the taut muscles beneath his shirt, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my fingertips. Every nerve in my body is alive, every sense heightened, the subtle scent of him, the warmth of his skin, the sound of our mingled breaths, it all coils around me like electricity.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, pressing closer, and the narrow corridor seems to vanish, leaving only the heat between us, the brush of our bodies, and the undeniable pull that neither of us can, or wants to, resist.

When he finally breaks away, just enough to let us breathe, my lips tingle, my chest heaves, and my cheeks are flushed with heat.

"You have no idea," he murmurs, low and intimate, his voice a silk thread sliding across my nerves, "how impossible it is to be near you and not lose myself entirely."

"Every laugh," he whispers, his lips barely moving, "every glance, every little piece of you... It makes me want you in ways I can't begin to control."

I shiver under the weight of his words, my breath catching, my hands resting lightly on his chest as if to anchor myself in the moment. His gaze softens, the intensity easing into something quieter, something that feels like home, like safety, like an undeniable pull I can't resist.

"And when you smile like that," he murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face, "when you let yourself just... be... It's like the world fades, Mariam. Nothing else exists but you. Nothing else matters."

He leans his forehead gently against mine, the press light but grounding, a quiet gesture of closeness that sends a shiver down my spine. His breath mingles with mine, warm, steady, intimate, and I feel the slow, deliberate weight of his presence around me, the way it seems to envelop me, protect me, claim me without words.

"Stay with me," he whispers finally, his voice thick with sincerity and longing, almost breaking with the emotion he holds back. "Be mine, Mariam. Will you... Be mine?"

The words hang between us, heavy, electric, carrying all the unsaid desires, all the fragile vulnerabilities, all the quiet intensity of the night. I feel my heart hammering, warmth rushing to my cheeks, every nerve alive, and I know in that suspended, delicate moment that nothing will ever feel quite the same again.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting his words sink in, letting the warmth of his forehead against mine ground me. My mind spins with everything tonight has been: the laughter, the quiet moments, the way he sees me, not as a performance, not as something to be admired from afar, but as a living, breathing person.

All my carefully constructed walls, the ones I've spent years building to protect myself, feel thinner somehow, dissolving in the presence of someone who looks at me and truly sees me. I've spent so long holding myself steady, measured, cautious and yet, here I am, heart pounding, breath shallow, and utterly exposed, and it feels right.

I think of every subtle glance, every touch, every shared laugh, every brush of his hand against mine, and I realise that I don't want to hold back anymore. I want this.

This closeness, this intimacy, this surrender to the pull between us. I want him. I want all of him, the warmth, the intensity, the reckless tenderness that makes my pulse race.

Opening my eyes, I meet his gaze, dark and steady, and I feel the gravity of his desire, the quiet strength in his words, the raw honesty that wraps around me like a shield. My lips curve into a soft, bright smile, the kind that feels like sunlight spilling through a long-closed window.

"Yes," I whisper, barely louder than my heartbeat, but certain, resolute. "Yes... I'll be yours."

He tilts his head, a slow, satisfied smile playing on his lips, and I feel the world shift, quiet and alive around us, as if everything has aligned to this moment. I rest my hand lightly against his chest, feeling the steady thrum beneath my fingers, and for the first time in a long time, I feel completely, utterly, unreservedly... home.