"What's this?" I asked, eyeing the envelope Zavian slid toward me across the kitchen counter. His gaze flickered up to meet mine, a teasing glint in his eyes. He raised a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, before he returned to stirring the cake mixture.

"Open it, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice low, the edges of it almost playful.

I hesitated for a moment, my curiosity piqued, before I reached for the envelope, my fingers brushing the smooth paper. As I tore it open, a flutter of anticipation swirled in my chest. What was he up to now?

My fingers trembled slightly as I unfolded the letter inside, and my eyes widened when I saw what it was. The words "Umrah One-Week Package" stood out in bold letters.

I blinked, feeling a rush of emotions flood over me. My heart skipped a beat, and my breath caught in my throat. This was... this was what he had planned?

I looked up at him, and Zavian, still busy with the cake mixture, seemed to know exactly what had just hit me. He turned slowly, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but his eyes—those eyes—were soft with something deeper. Something more.

"You—" I whispered, unable to hide the emotion that surged through me. "You planned this?"

His smirk softened, his expression quiet and tender as he took a step toward me. "You deserve it," he said, his voice low, the weight of his words lingering between us. "I know how much this means to you. And..." He hesitated for a second, the usual confidence in his stance wavering. "We need this, Iman. I need this. To reconnect. To get closer."

Tears welled in my eyes. Of course, Zavian always found a way to surprise me, to show me that even through all the pain, the darkness, and the weight of our world, there was a light.

"You don't have to do all this," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. "But you do it anyway."

Zavian took the envelope from my hands and set it aside, then cupped my face gently. His gaze softened, his thumb brushing the edge of my cheek.

"I'll do anything to make you smile, Iman." His voice was quiet, filled with sincerity, as if those words were all that mattered to him in that moment. "You and me. We deserve peace. Together."

And in that moment, my world felt lighter. For the first time in so long, it felt like we had a chance at happiness, something untouched by the darkness that had once threatened to swallow us whole.

"One week," I whispered. "One week in peace."

Zavian nodded, his smile now reaching his eyes, and the world outside seemed to fade away. For a second, it was just us. And I finally allowed myself to believe—We were fine. More than fine.

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"Will I need this?" Zavian asked, scratching the back of his head as he held out a pair of shorts, looking completely clueless.

I couldn't help but burst into laughter, shaking my head. "Zavian, my dear husband," I teased, leaning back on the bed. "We're not going to the Maldives. We're going to Saudia for Umrah. Remember? It's not exactly a beach vacation, darling."

He blinked at me, looking genuinely perplexed for a second before his expression morphed into a sheepish grin. "Well, I was just trying to make sure I pack right," he muttered, tossing the shorts onto the bed. "Guess I got a little carried away with the whole 'vacation' idea."

I chuckled, shaking my head in mock disbelief. "I think you've got the wrong kind of vacation vibes, my love."

Zavian raised an eyebrow, looking at me with a teasing glint in his eyes. "I'm just trying to stay comfortable, okay? How else am I supposed to make sure I don't overheat with all that desert heat?"

"You're not that hot, Zavian," I said, trying to hold back a giggle. "Save the shorts for when we get back."

He grinned, walking over to the wardrobe with exaggerated slowness, making a show of shaking his head. "You know, I thought you'd be the one to have my back on this. I was just trying to keep it breezy."

"Well," I smirked, "breezy can wait for the beach, mister. For now, I think you'll need a bit more than shorts to get through this trip—like patience and a little bit of modesty."

Zavian chuckled as he folded the shorts and placed them back in the drawer. "Guess I'll leave the beachwear for the next adventure."

"Exactly!" I said, scrambling out of bed, excitement bubbling in my chest. "Let me help—"

Zavian twisted his head so fast I was surprised his neck didn't crack. "NO!"

I groaned, crossing my arms. "Oh, come on."

He grinned, stepping forward and gently pushing me back onto the bed. "Mashal-e-Mehtaab," he murmured, his voice filled with warmth, "you need to save your energy for our first Umrah. It's a journey of worship, not a packing competition." He patted my head like I was a child, and I swatted his hand away with a playful glare.

"If you feel tired, we can always get a wheelchair," he added, his tone light but laced with concern.

I scoffed, sitting up. "Zavian, I'm pregnant, not injured."

He chuckled, crouching beside me, his fingers brushing against my cheek. "I know," he whispered, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "And that's exactly why I want you to rest. Let me take care of you, hmm?"

I sighed, pretending to be reluctant, but my heart swelled at the tenderness in his eyes. "Fine," I mumbled, sinking into the pillows. "But if you pack something ridiculous again, I will get up and fix it."

Zavian smirked, standing up. "Noted. No shorts."

I giggled, shaking my head as he went back to packing, sneaking a glance at me every few seconds as if making sure I was still resting.

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We landed at King Abdulaziz International Airport late Thursday night, the hum of anticipation settling between us. The plan was perfect—performing our Umrah after midnight, on the blessed day of Friday.

I adjusted my scarf, wrapping it securely around my head, while my gaze drifted to Zavian. Clad in his Ihram, he looked effortlessly dignified, the purity of the white fabric only amplifying his striking features.

"Well, dear husband," I said, a teasing smile playing on my lips as I caught his hand mid-motion, swatting it away. "No touching for the week."

Zavian raised a brow, his smirk slow and dangerous. "Mashal-e-Mehtaab, you wound me."

I laughed, shaking my head. "Rules are rules, Major."

He sighed dramatically, adjusting the folds of his Ihram. "Fine. But just so you know, after this week is over..." He leaned in, his voice dipping lower, "...you're making up for it."

Heat rose to my cheeks, and I turned away, pretending to busy myself with my bag. "Let's just get to Makkah first, shall we?"

His deep chuckle followed as he fell into step beside me, our journey of devotion just beginning.

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The moment we entered Masjid al-Haram, I felt my breath hitch. The sight of the Kaaba before me—grand, majestic, the center of our faith—was overwhelming. My knees felt weak, my heart thudding against my chest as tears blurred my vision.

"Zavian," I whispered, gripping his arm as if grounding myself.

"I'm here," he murmured, his voice reverent, soft. His own gaze was locked onto the Kaaba, emotion tightening his features.

We stepped forward, hand in hand, until we stood before it. The air was thick with prayers, the murmurs of worshippers from every corner of the world blending into a hum that wrapped around us like a sacred embrace. I let go of Zavian's arm and raised my hands, my lips parting with a trembling Allahu Akbar.

Tears slipped down my cheeks, my heart cracking open with love, with gratitude, with everything I couldn't put into words.

"Oh Allah, I am unworthy, yet You have called me here. I am broken, yet You are the One who heals. Ya Allah, accept my prayers. Protect my husband, our home, our love. Keep us on Your path."

Beside me, I heard Zavian sniff softly, his hands lifted, his shoulders taut. I turned my head, watching my husband—the strong, stoic man who had fought wars, spilled blood, carried burdens too heavy for one heart—bow before his Lord.

I had never seen him more vulnerable. More at peace.

We began our Tawaf, our hands brushing as we circled the Kaaba, the crowd moving in harmony like waves in the ocean. I lost myself in the rhythm, in the whispers of prayers, in the weightlessness of worship. Seven rounds, each step shedding the pain, the sins, the fears of this world.

As we completed our Sa'i—walking between Safa and Marwah, just as Hajar had done in her unwavering faith—I felt a different kind of strength settle within me. Faith. Trust. Surrender.

When it was time, Zavian shaved his head, the final act of humility, of rebirth. I ran my fingers over his now bare scalp, smiling through my tears.

"You're beautiful," I whispered.

His lips curled into a small, almost boyish grin. "Mashal-e-Mehtaab, I'm bald."

I let out a watery laugh, shaking my head. "You're my bald Major."

Zavian chuckled before his expression turned serious. He cupped my face gently, his thumbs wiping away the endless tears that wouldn't stop.

"We did it," he murmured.

"We did." I inhaled shakily, leaning into his touch. "May Allah accept it."

"Ameen," he whispered, pressing his forehead to mine.

In that moment, in that sacred place, surrounded by thousands of worshippers yet feeling like it was just the two of us, I knew—no matter what trials lay ahead, no matter what storms threatened to break us—we had been blessed. We had been given a new beginning.

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Our week of bliss and endless prayers had come to an end as we stood in the bustling airport, ready to board our flight. London. The thought made me sigh. I still had a week left of my university break, and though the idea of going back to routine felt dull, spending time with Zavian would make it worth it.

As we settled in the waiting area, Zavian turned to me, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I'm surprised you still haven't figured it out, Mashal-e-Mehtaab," he murmured, a teasing grin playing on his lips.

I frowned, tilting my head. "Figured what?" I asked, absentmindedly tapping his bald head, which was now showing signs of new hair growth.

He narrowed his eyes at me but didn't swat my hand away. Instead, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Check your ticket, princess."

Confused, I pulled out my boarding pass, my eyes scanning the destination. And then—my breath hitched.

Not London. Pakistan.

I gasped, my eyes snapping to his, wide with disbelief. "Zavian!" I squeaked, my heart pounding with excitement. "We're going to Pakistan?"

His grin widened as he leaned back casually. "Thought I'd take my wife home. Let you meet your family, maybe mine too, and—" he paused, his gaze softening, "—give you a break before you get back to university life."

Tears burned at the back of my eyes. Pakistan. His home. My home. Our home. I launched myself at him, not caring about the curious glances from fellow passengers. He chuckled, wrapping his arms around me as I buried my face in his chest.

"You're unbelievable," I mumbled against his shirt, my heart bursting with warmth.

He kissed the top of my head. "Only for you, my love."

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