It’s been two hours since she left him on read.

Not delivered. Not replied. Read.

Zohair’s mind has spiraled into every possible dramatic theory, including (but not limited to): • She’s been kidnapped. • She saw his gym story with that girl in the background and is now marrying her cousin in revenge. • She hates him now because he said “okay lol” instead of “okay jaan.”

So naturally, he does what any sane man would: Shows up at her house in joggers, sweat still drying on his neck, holding two packets of Chips Oman and a very specific guilt-ridden expression.

He rings the bell once. Then again. Then texts:

🐸: i know ur ignoring me but i brought emotional support snacks 🐸: also i look hot rn. not saying that’s a reason to open the door but like. it is.

No response.

So when her sister comes down to grab a delivery and leaves the gate open, Zohair does what any man in crisis would:

He walks right in.

By the time she appears at the doorway — in her oversized tee and that expression that could kill a man in a single blink — he’s already sitting cross-legged on the sofa like he lives there.

“Hi,” he says. Innocent. Smiling. Dimples fully loaded. “I brought peace offerings. They’re spicy and full of preservatives. Just like our fights.”

She glares. “Zohair—”

“I KNOW,” he blurts, leaping to his feet. “I know I was being annoying last night. I shouldn’t have made that joke about your presentation voice sounding like ARY News. I panicked. You were wearing glasses. You looked too smart. It scared me.”

Her arms cross. Lips tight. She’s not budging.

So this man — this fully grown MMA gym trainer — drops to his knees, hands folded in full maafi-mode.

“I haven’t had a single protein bar today. You think I can survive that? You think creatine alone can fix the hole you left in my chest?”

Silence.

He tries again. “I’ll delete that TikTok I made about you snoring. I swear.”

“You posted that?!”

“NO but I almost did and then didn’t and that shows growth.”

She exhales, arms dropping just a little.

He reaches up like a child asking to be picked. “Please. Just touch my hair a little. Or slap me. Just physically acknowledge me.”

And finally—finally—she laughs. Low and reluctant and betrayed by her own dimples.

Zohair immediately clutches his chest. “OH THANK GOD. I was about to cry and sweat at the same time. Which is not safe for hydration.”

She rolls her eyes, but her hand reaches out to flick his ear, and he leans into it like a puppy who’s just been allowed back inside the house.

“I hate you,” she mutters.

“I know,” he grins, standing up and tucking her into his side like she’s made of silk. “But you still picked me. Which makes you legally insane. But also my jaan.”

He kisses the top of her head like it’s holy ground.