Rayan Zafar had been in love with her since she was twelve and beat him at carrom in front of both their families—and didn’t let him forget it for five years straight.

Now, she was twenty-three, finishing her Master’s, dupatta wrapped loose over one shoulder, and still making fun of him like they were kids fighting over the last slice of cake at daadi’s house. Except now, it wasn’t just cake. Now, it was his whole heart on the table. And she didn’t even know she was holding it.

Or maybe she did. Maybe she was just too sweet to say anything when he lingered at the dining table during chai. When he remembered her deadlines and dropped off notes “just in case.” When he gave her little sister rides to her tuition center, even though it was 20 minutes out of the way.

His mom had started making jokes. Hers had started making duas.

Rayan didn’t mind sharing. Never had. Not his food, not his chargers, not even his Spotify playlists.

But right now?

Right now, standing at the edge of the living room, watching some random cousin-of-a-friend-of-an-aunty lean a little too close while talking to her like she was up for grabs?

He felt something unfamiliar twist in his gut.

She laughed politely, tucking a strand of hair back beneath her hijab. She wasn’t flirting—he knew her. But the guy was pushing it. His smile too wide. His compliments too rehearsed.

Rayan didn’t even realize he was moving until he was there, standing just slightly behind her, body angled like a silent warning. She noticed first—turned halfway toward him like she always did, like gravity worked differently when he was around.

“Rayan,” she said, surprised. “You okay?”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m good.” Then to the guy, tone pleasant but cool: “Didn’t catch your name.”

The guy straightened up, laughed nervously. “Oh, I’m—uh, just here with my cousin.”

Rayan nodded once. Then looked at her—really looked at her. The curve of her shoulder brushing his sleeve. The half-empty chai cup still in her hand. The way she was smiling too politely, the way she always did when she didn’t know how to walk away without hurting someone’s ego.

So he made it easy for her.

He held out his hand, palm open and steady. “Come on. Your mom was looking for you.”

She blinked, caught off guard. But she placed her hand in his, fingers warm against his.

He didn’t look back as he led her out of the room.

Only when they were alone in the hallway did she speak, voice soft. “My mom wasn’t looking for me.”

He stopped walking. Turned just slightly, gaze locked on hers.

“I know,” he said, voice low, calm, and firm.

“But he was looking at you like he could just have you. And I wasn’t about to stand there and let him think that.”