It was the third week of her staying over. Daniyal hadn’t known peace since day one.

She wore her dupatta loose around the house, always humming something annoying, drinking Rooh Afza like it was lifeblood. Her anklets clinked when she walked past his room. Her curls bounced when she laughed with his mother.

And every night, he laid awake on the charpai, hand on his chest, whispering

“Bas ek baar keh de… bas ek baar keh de, aur main poora ghar utha loon.”

⸻

That afternoon, it was hot. Too hot. She walked in wearing her pastel shalwar kameez, cheeks pink from the heat, hair wet from a quick rinse, towel thrown over her shoulder. His mother told him to fix the cooler in the living room.

He did.

And then stayed.

Watched her sit on the floor and peel mangoes. Juice staining her fingers. Arms sticky. Knees folded. That tiny, infuriating laugh echoing around the room.

She looked up. “Why are you staring like that?”

Daniyal didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

He just said, low and sharp,

“Tell your parents I’m ready.”

She stilled. “Ready for what?”

“Nikkah.”

She blinked. “What?”

He stepped forward, serious as death. “I don’t want to look at you in this house for another day unless you’re mine.”

Her voice was a whisper. “Daniyal—”

He cut in. “I’m not your cousin. Not your brother. Not your friend. I am the man who’s losing his mind watching you live here like a guest.”

Silence. Fan whirring. Her chest rising.

He pointed to the mangoes.

“You peel them like they’re yours. Laugh like this is your home.” “Then be mine. Let it stay yours.”

She just stared, wide-eyed. Speechless.

And Daniyal… he wiped his hands, looked at the stairs, and muttered,

“Say no. I’ll leave. Say yes… and I’ll go talk to your father tonight.”

Then walked away—leaving her, the mangoes, and a heart thudding too loud for this house to ignore.