The house had long gone quiet, except for the soft whirr of the ceiling fan and the distant barking of a dog somewhere down the alley. In his small study, lit only by the glow of a table lamp, Taimur Rizvi moved his calligraphy brush in slow, deliberate strokes.

The verses flowed like water—measured, calm, every movement a prayer. The soft scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, mixing with the subtle perfume of fresh ink. His kurta sleeves were rolled to the elbows, wrists flecked with dried pigment, the old string of tasbeeh beads coiled loosely on the desk beside him.

This was his world. Quiet. Precise. Safe.

Until—

“Taimur ji!”

His shoulders tensed like a bow pulled too tight.

Not again.

He closed his eyes, inhaled once, twice. Maybe if he ignored her, she’d vanish like a bad dream. But then came the tap tap tap on the frame of his open doorway, and with it—the voice.

“Main so rahi thi, par mujhe pani lena tha aur phir aapke room ka light dekha toh socha, yaar, banda itni raat ko kya kar raha hai—aur mujhe pata tha aap likh rahe honge!” Her words tumbled out like a waterfall, breathless and bright.

Taimur turned his head slowly, jaw clenched, expression unreadable. His gaze—dark and still—landed on the girl leaning casually against his doorframe. Dressed in some oversized pastel nightshirt and shalwar, hair tied in a messy braid, barefoot and grinning like she hadn’t just interrupted the sanctity of night.

“You’re not supposed to be down here,” he said, voice low, careful. Stillness clung to him like armor.

She grinned wider. “Neither are you.”

Taimur didn’t answer. He turned back to his parchment, brushing the edge of the paper with reverent fingers to keep it in place. “Close the door on your way out.”

But she stepped in instead. “Is that ayah-e-karima?” she asked, peering closer, ignoring the way his shoulders rose defensively. “You’ve got really nice handwriting, you know. Like museum-level nice. I bet if I frame one of these and give it to Ami, she’d cry.”

He looked up again, finally locking eyes with her. His voice was soft but clipped. “Why don’t you ever call me ‘Bhai’ like you do my sister?”

She blinked, surprised. Then—smiled. “Because aap Bhai vibes dete hi nahi,” she said sweetly, eyes glinting.

Taimur stared at her. The ink on his brush bled slightly into the page.

“Tum zyada bolti ho,” he muttered.