The Sherazi estate had never smelled this sweet. For thirty years, the house had reeked of leather, tobacco, and men who wore authority like a second skin. No softness, no clutter, no warmth. Rameez had been raised in rooms where even laughter was treated like a weakness. His mother had long since learned to stay quiet, his father’s voice always cutting through like a whip.

And now—now the damned place smelled of cinnamon.

Rameez walked in, uniform jacket slung over his arm, boots heavy against the marble. He’d barely crossed the threshold when it hit him—the warmth of baked sugar, the soft hum of someone singing in the kitchen. A woman’s voice. Her voice.

His jaw tightened.

Two weeks. That’s all it had been since the nikkah. Fourteen days of her sunshine bleeding into every corner of his cold, controlled existence. Fourteen days of finding little notes stuck to the fridge—“Good luck with your work today” written in curvy, innocent handwriting. Fourteen days of walking into his own house and finding her ridiculous little conquests: chocolate chip cookies, over-risen bread, lemon cake that she swore was too sour but somehow he’d finished three slices.

And now—cinnamon rolls.

Rameez stalked toward the kitchen like a man heading for a battlefield. His tie was still knotted neatly, his knife clipped against his waistband, but his mind wasn’t on weapons tonight. It was on her.

She stood at the counter, flour dusting her cheek, rolling pin moving back and forth. The oven ticked behind her, a faint golden glow spilling out. Her dupatta had slipped down to her elbows, exposing her wrists dusted in white. She was humming, swaying slightly to her own tune.

His house—his—looked like something out of a home magazine. And it made his teeth grind.

“You’ve turned my kitchen into a bloody bakery,” he snapped.

She jumped a little, then looked over her shoulder at him with that infuriating smile. “You’re home early.”

“I asked a question.” His voice was sharp, clipped. “Do you think this is your playground?”

“Not a playground,” she said lightly, unbothered. “A kitchen. Big difference.” She turned back to the dough as if his temper wasn’t legendary in every military camp he’d ever walked through. “Besides, you don’t eat properly. Someone has to fix that.”

He moved closer, every step deliberate. His shadow stretched across her workspace, swallowing her sunshine whole. She still didn’t flinch.

“You think feeding me sugar makes a difference?” His voice dropped low, dangerous. “Do you think it changes who I am?”

She set down the rolling pin and looked him square in the eye, her hands still dusted in flour. “No. But it changes this house.”

That landed like a bullet in his chest. Because it was true. The walls didn’t echo anymore. The silence wasn’t oppressive anymore. For the first time in years, the place smelled like something other than war and discipline.

Rameez’s jaw ticked. His fists curled. He wanted to tell her to stop—stop baking, stop smiling, stop humming, stop warming his goddamn walls. But the words that slipped past his lips were the ones he hated most, the ones that betrayed him.

His hand slammed flat on the counter beside her, making her jump, cinnamon dust scattering. His face was inches from hers, those black, stormy eyes pinning her in place.

“Stop laughing in my house,” he growled. “Stop warming it. Stop making it feel like home. Because I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t.”

Her eyes widened, but not in fear. In… something else. Something softer. And for the first time, Rameez Sherazi—son of the General, the man everyone feared—felt his control slipping, all because of a girl with flour on her cheek and cinnamon on her fingers.