(new chapter... because i'm happy)

_

I stretched after finishing the last bit of unpacking, letting out a satisfied sigh. My room finally felt like mine. Cozy, organized, and just right.

After dinner, I headed back upstairs, excitement buzzing in my veins. A girls' day out was exactly what I needed—some shopping, exploring, maybe even trying some new food. London had so much to offer, and I wasn't about to waste a single moment.

I flopped onto my bed, grinning at the thought. It's going to be fun.

As I scrolled through my phone, making a mental list of what I needed to buy, my screen lit up with a message.

Zavian: Still surviving, Mashal-e-Mehtaab?

I blinked. My brows pulled together. What?

Still surviving?

Of course, I am. What does he think? That I'd collapse in a heap the moment I left home?

My fingers hovered over the keyboard before I smirked. If he could throw out random nicknames like he was some poetic philosopher, why couldn't I?

Me: Disappointed, Chiragh-e-Shab?

There. Two can play this game.

I watched the screen, my smirk widening when the three little dots appeared. Then they vanished. Then appeared again.

Oh, I had him.

Finally, his reply came.

Zavian: Clever. But your attempt at wit needs work, Mashal-e-Mehtaab.

I scoffed, my fingers already moving before I could think better of it.

Me: And your attempt at mystery needs work, Zavian. What do you want?

I waited, expecting another smug, vague response, but nothing came. A full minute passed. Then another.

And then—

Zavian: You'll see.

I stared. My smirk faded. Excuse me?

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

I narrowed my eyes at the screen. You'll see?

What kind of cryptic nonsense—

Me: If you're trying to be mysterious, it's failing miserably. Just say what you mean, Zavian.

I waited. Nothing. No typing bubbles. No reply.

Typical.

I tossed my phone aside with a huff, flopping back onto my bed. Whatever. Let him play his little games. I had better things to do—like tomorrow's shopping trip.

My phone buzzed.

I snatched it up faster than I'd ever admit.

Zavian: Sleep tight, Mashal-e-Mehtaab.

My mouth fell open. That's it?

Me: That's all you've got? No explanation? Nothing?

Zavian: I don't owe you explanations, do I?

Oh, he was impossible.

I glared at my screen before typing back—

Me: No, but you owe me a refund for wasting my time.

This time, the reply was instant.

Zavian: Tough luck, princess.

I groaned, shoving my phone under my pillow. That insufferable, smug—

I exhaled sharply and turned over, forcing myself to close my eyes.

Fine. Whatever he's planning, I'll deal with it later. Right now, I had a shopping day to look forward to.

And no way was I letting Zavian and his cryptic nonsense take up any more space in my head.

_

Morning came too soon. My phone alarm screamed at me, and I groaned, rolling over to slap it silent.

I stretched, blinking at the ceiling. The excitement from last night came rushing back. Shopping. Exploring London with the girls. A break from certain people who thought being cryptic was a personality trait.

Sliding out of bed, I grabbed my shawlar qameez and headed to the washroom. The cold water jolted me awake, and soon, I was dressed, my hair brushed and pinned back neatly.

A message popped up just as I slipped on my shoes.

Zavian: Don't get lost, Mashal-e-Mehtaab.

I stopped mid-motion, staring at my screen.

Seriously? What was his problem?

Me: Aww, worried about me? How cute.

The typing bubbles appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

I smirked.

Zavian: As if. Just saying—London's big. And you? Tiny.

My jaw dropped.

Me: Well, this tiny person is about to go have the time of her life. Enjoy your day, Chiragh-e-Shab. Try not to be miserable.

No reply.

Satisfied, I grabbed my bag and headed downstairs.

The girls were already waiting in the living room, chattering excitedly. Amma sat nearby, sipping her tea, a knowing smile on her face.

"Ready?" Aisha asked, adjusting her scarf.

"More than ready." I grinned.

And with that, we stepped out into the cool London morning, ready to take the city by storm.

_

We stepped out into the crisp London air, the city already alive with movement. The streets buzzed with people rushing to work, cyclists weaving through traffic, and the occasional tourist pausing to admire the historic buildings. The scent of freshly brewed coffee from a nearby café mingled with the faint aroma of rain on pavement.

Making our way to the metro, we passed a street musician playing the violin, his melody soft yet captivating, blending beautifully with the hum of the city. Aisha tossed a coin into his open case, and he smiled, nodding in appreciation.

The metro ride was an experience in itself. The train rattled as it sped through tunnels, lights flickering past the windows. A businessman sat nearby, immersed in his laptop, while a group of teenagers laughed over something on their phones. A mother tried to keep her toddler entertained with a stuffed panda, and an elderly man in a tweed coat read a thick novel, completely unbothered by the rush of morning commuters.

Sophia leaned closer, pointing at the map above the doors. "Next stop, Borough Market!" she said excitedly.

As we emerged from the underground station, the vibrant energy of the market instantly wrapped around us. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling street food, freshly baked bread, and exotic spices. Stalls overflowed with colorful produce, handmade chocolates, and artisan cheeses. A vendor called out, offering samples of juicy strawberries, while another expertly flipped crepes, the buttery aroma making my stomach rumble.

"This," Yuki breathed, taking it all in, "is heaven."

And I couldn't help but agree.

_

For two hours, we wandered through Borough Market, trying samples of everything that caught our eye—rich, creamy cheeses, fresh figs, and warm, buttery pastries that melted in our mouths. Aisha nearly lost her mind over the spicy samosas, while Sophia dragged us to a stall selling handmade chocolates, insisting we try at least one. I snapped photos of everything—the food, the colorful stalls, the old cobblestone paths—and sent them to my family group chat. Mihra responded almost immediately with, "Take me with you next time 😭."

Yuki, the most organized of us, reminded us of our plan to head to Westfield London. So, after stuffing ourselves with enough free samples to count as a full meal, we made our way to the subway.

The ride was smooth, the underground hum of the train lulling some of us into a comfortable silence. A toddler on the opposite seat waved at us, giggling when Isabella made a funny face at him. The train rocked slightly as we sped through the tunnels, the fluorescent lights casting a warm glow over the passengers.

When we finally arrived at Westfield London, the sight of the massive shopping mall had us all practically vibrating with excitement. Rows upon rows of stores, glistening glass displays, and the scent of coffee and expensive perfume filled the air.

"Alright, ladies," Aisha grinned, cracking her knuckles. "Time to shop till we drop."

And we did exactly that.

_

"Look at this bag," I said, holding up a sleek, caramel-brown tote, the leather buttery soft under my fingers. It was classy but practical, big enough to fit all my essentials but stylish enough to make a statement.

Aisha, who was busy admiring a deep emerald-green handbag, glanced over and nodded with certainty. "This bag was made for you, Iman."

Sophia leaned in, inspecting it with a critical eye. "Hmm... elegant, practical, and a little too expensive," she teased with a smirk. "Just like you."

I rolled my eyes but grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Isabella, who had been off browsing another section, suddenly appeared beside me. "Guys, look at this." She held up a vibrant red handbag, sleek and structured. "Tell me this doesn't scream 'main character energy'?"

Yuki peeked over her shoulder and nodded. "It does. You need it."

We spent another thirty minutes debating over bags before finally making our purchases. With shopping bags in hand, we headed toward the food court, lured in by the warm scent of cinnamon and freshly brewed coffee.

"Coffee first, then round two?" Aisha suggested, already making her way toward a café.

I chuckled, adjusting my bags. "I like the way you think."

_

We weren't even halfway to the café when a deep, amused drawl stopped me in my tracks.

"Mashal-e-Mehtaab, what a coincidence."

The familiar nickname, laced with that infuriating smugness, sent an annoyed shiver down my spine. I turned around slowly, already knowing who I'd find.

Zavian stood there, effortlessly leaning against a railing, dressed in all black like he just stepped out of a high-end fashion campaign. His sharp eyes flickered with something unreadable as he took in the shopping bags in my hands.

"Didn't take you for the shopaholic type," he mused, his lips twitching like he was holding back a smirk.

I raised a brow, tilting my head. "And I didn't take you for the lurking-in-a-mall type, but here we are."

Aisha, Sophia, and the rest of the girls looked between us, their curiosity barely concealed. Isabella leaned in slightly. "Friend of yours?" she whispered, amusement in her tone.

"Something like that," I muttered, still glaring at him.

Zavian's smirk deepened. "Now, now. That's no way to greet your husband."

I inhaled sharply, heat creeping up my neck. "Keep your voice down," I hissed.

He chuckled, clearly enjoying my irritation. "Why? Afraid someone will hear?" His voice dipped lower, teasing. "Or are you still adjusting to the fact that you're mine?"

I clenched my jaw, fingers tightening around my shopping bags. "Excuse me? Mine?"

He hummed, unbothered by my rising annoyance. "Legally, yeah."

I opened my mouth to retort, but Sophia suddenly clapped her hands together, looking far too entertained. "Okay, I need details. Who is this?"

Zavian turned to her with that same infuriating smirk. "I'm her worst nightmare."

I groaned, resisting the urge to throw my shopping bags at him.

"He is not my husband," I declared, my voice slightly higher than necessary. My friends looked at me with raised brows, their curiosity intensifying. I turned back to him, glaring. "Fancy coming from you. Skipping from cryptic nicknames to full-blown husband claims? Wow. Bold move, Zavian."

Zavian's smirk didn't falter. If anything, it deepened as he tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was the most amusing thing in the world. "You wound me, Mashal-e-Mehtaab. Already denying me?" His voice dripped with mock hurt, but the devilish glint in his eyes told me he was thoroughly enjoying this.

I scoffed, folding my arms. "Denying what exactly? When, pray tell, did we even get married? In my dreams or yours?"

His chuckle was low and smooth, sending an annoying shiver down my spine. "Neither. But if you keep blushing like that, I might start considering the idea."

I blinked. My what now? Blushing? Oh, no.

I straightened up immediately, clearing my throat as I shot him a death glare. "You're impossible."

"And you're adorable when you're flustered," he countered smoothly, shoving his hands into his pockets, the lazy smirk never leaving his face. "But back to the real question—what are you doing here, Iman?"

I stilled.

The way he said my name—smooth, deliberate, like he was testing how it tasted on his tongue—made my cheeks heat. First time he ever used my name.

I hated how my pulse betrayed me. How, for a split second, it felt like a win.

I quickly masked it with irritation. "I don't think that's your business," I bit out, crossing my arms in defiance.

His smirk deepened, dark eyes gleaming with amusement. "Touchy."

I rolled my eyes, shifting my bags in my hand. "I'll take my leave," I muttered, already turning away.

But, of course, he wasn't done.

"Leaving so soon?" His voice was laced with mock disappointment. "And here I thought we were having a moment."

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "The only moment we'll ever have is the one where I pretend you don't exist."

Zavian tsked, taking a slow step closer. "Harsh, Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

I swallowed, lifting my chin in defiance. "Look... stop calling me that."

His smirk didn't waver. If anything, it deepened. "Why?" he drawled, eyes dark with amusement. "Does it make your heart race?"

I let out a sharp breath, rolling my eyes. "Oh, please. The only thing it does is annoy me."

"Mm." He hummed as if considering my words. "Strange, because you don't seem annoyed."

I narrowed my eyes. "How exactly do I seem then?"

He took another step forward, and I instinctively stepped back, only to find my heel brushing against the edge of a curb. Great. Trapped.

His smirk turned positively wicked. "Flustered," he murmured.

I clenched my jaw, my pulse betraying me with how fast it pounded in my ears. "You're delusional."

Zavian tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving mine. "Am I?"

"Yes," I snapped. "You think you can just show up, act all—" I waved a hand in his general direction. "That—and expect me to react?"

He arched a brow, as if intrigued. "But you are reacting, aren't you?"

I let out a frustrated huff and moved to step past him, but in one swift motion, he shifted, blocking my path.

I glared up at him. "Move."

His lips twitched. "Say 'please'."

"Oh, I'll say something," I muttered under my breath, fisting my shopping bags tighter.

Zavian chuckled, low and deep. "That's what I thought."

And then, just as smoothly as he had cornered me, he stepped aside, hands still casually tucked into his pockets. "Go on then, Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

I threw him one last glare before stalking past him, my face burning.

I hated how smug he was.

I hated how he knew he got under my skin.

But most of all, I hated the fact that my stupid heart was still racing long after I walked away.

_