"Oh come on, Zavian!" I groaned, watching my husband laugh shamelessly as he rocked our newborn daughter in his arms. "You can do better than Farkhanda!"

Zavian only laughed harder, the rich sound filling the room. Uncle Noraiz and Aunt Sidra shook their heads in exasperation, while Mama and Baba exchanged amused glances. Across the room, Mihra nudged Nimra—who was cradling her year old son—whispering something that made them both beam.

But Dadi? Oh, she wasn't as amused. She tsked, her expression stern. "Mere amma ka naam Farkhanda tha, Zavian beta," she said, crossing her arms, though Dada chuckled beside her. (My mother's name was Farkhanda, my son Zavian.)

Zavian's laughter immediately softened, and with that boyish charm of his, he slid onto the couch beside Dadi, resting his head playfully against her shoulder. "Dadi, meri jaan, I was only joking," he assured her, eyes twinkling with mischief. Then, he turned toward me, sending me a knowing smirk before looking back at the family. "Me and Iman already decided on the name... Ghazal."

The room fell silent for a moment before a collective aww filled the air.

"Ghazal," Nimra repeated, smiling. "It's beautiful."

Dadi's stern expression melted, her weathered hands reaching out to cup Zavian's face. "Bohot khoobsurat naam hai," she murmured approvingly. (It's a very beautiful name.)

I watched, my heart swelling, as Zavian placed a soft kiss on our daughter's forehead. "Because she's poetry," he said, gazing down at her with a love so pure it made my breath catch. "Just like her mother."

And just like that, my world was complete.

Arham walked in, cradling his two-and-a-half-year-old daughter in his arms, her tiny fingers tangled in his shirt as she blinked sleepily at the room. Behind him, Ali trudged in, looking like he had just survived the worst day of his life.

Without a word, Ali slumped down beside Nimra, exhaustion etched into his features. But the moment his eyes landed on their son, his expression softened instantly. Nimra leaned in, whispering something into his ear, and just like that, a slow grin broke across his face—one that melted away every trace of his earlier frustration.

Sameeha and Arsalan walked in, each carrying one of their twin daughters, while balancing a cake between them. My eyes lit up the moment I spotted it.

"Cake! Cakeee!" I practically bounced in my seat, eyes locked onto the sugary delight.

Zavian chuckled beside me, shaking his head in amusement. "You just had lunch, Mashal-e-Mehtaab," he teased.

"And?" I shot back, already reaching for the knife. "There's always room for cake!"

Sameeha laughed, setting the cake down on the table. "I swear, Iman, sometimes I think you love cake more than Zavian."

Zavian smirked, folding his arms. "Oh, there's no 'sometimes' about it. My wife would sell me for a lifetime supply of chocolate fudge cake."

I gasped dramatically, placing a hand over my heart. "How dare you accuse me of such treachery!" Then, after a pause, I grinned. "But... depends on the brand."

Everyone burst into laughter, and just as I reached out to cut a slice, a tiny hand smacked mine away. I blinked, looking down to see Arham's two-and-a-half-year-old daughter pouting at me.

"Me first, Aunty Iman!" she huffed, crossing her arms.

I gasped again, looking at Zavian. "Betrayal! From the tiniest of traitors!"

Zavian laughed, scooping her up. "You've got competition, sweetheart."

I playfully narrowed my eyes at the little girl before sighing dramatically. "Fine, fine. But only because you're cute." I handed her a tiny plate with a piece of cake, watching as she giggled and clapped.

The room filled with warmth, laughter, and the scent of sweet frosting. I looked around at my family, my heart swelling. This—this was happiness.

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We landed back in London just as my summer break was coming to an end. Ghazal cooed softly in her father's arms, her tiny fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt as Zavian adjusted his sunglasses, his sharp gaze scanning the airport. Ever the cautious man.

His two men moved ahead, grabbing our luggage with practiced efficiency while Zavian kept one arm securely around our daughter, the other resting protectively on the small of my back as we walked.

"You know," I teased, glancing up at him, "most husbands just worry about unpacking after a trip. Not sweeping the perimeter like they're in a war zone."

Zavian smirked but didn't take his eyes off our surroundings. "Most husbands aren't me, Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

I rolled my eyes, but a small smile tugged at my lips. He was always like this. Always aware. Always ready. And after everything we had been through, I wouldn't have it any other way.

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Five years later:

Epilogue

The summer air was thick with the scent of blooming jasmine, the golden hues of sunset spilling over the sprawling fields beyond our home. Our home. A place we had built near my family's haveli, a place where love thrived, and chaos was a daily occurrence.

Mihra and Nimra were over, their husbands—Arham and Ali—lounging comfortably in the sitting area, engaged in some lighthearted debate about cricket, while our children turned the living room into a battlefield.

Zavian cradled our five-year-old daughter, Ghazal, to his chest as she hiccupped through her sobs. "Baba," she wailed dramatically, burying her face in his shoulder. "Ruaan stole my chocolate!"

From across the room, Ruaan—Nimra's six-year-old son—gasped, clutching his chest as if deeply wounded. "I did not!" he declared, eyes wide.

Nimra, the not so calm mother, arched a brow at her husband. "Ali?"

Ali, merely shrugged, stuffing the last bite of said chocolate into his mouth. "No idea what you're talking about."

Zavian shook his head, his lips twitching as he soothed Ghazal's hair. "You ate my daughter's chocolate?"

Ali grinned unapologetically. "Survival of the fittest."

Mihra snorted while Nimra sighed, giving her husband the signature I'll deal with you later look.

Meanwhile, the eldest, Siara—now almost eight—sat beside Arham, her nose scrunched up in exaggerated disgust as she pecked the chubby cheek of her two-year-old brother, Zayan. He giggled, reaching up to grab a fistful of her hair in retaliation.

"Ugh," Siara groaned, prying his tiny fingers away. "He's so sticky."

"He's two," I reminded her, shaking my head as I leaned against the archway of the room, watching my family. My family.

Years ago, I had never imagined this—never thought my life would lead here, to this moment of absolute, beautiful normalcy. I had a PhD in Biomedical Sciences now, a career I was passionate about, and a home filled with laughter and love. And Zavian...

I turned my gaze to my husband. The man who had once been the Reaper, now the most devoted father, the most loving husband. He caught my eyes, his smirk softening into something deeper, something just for me.

I smiled. And in that moment, I knew—despite everything, despite the darkness we had faced—this was exactly where we were meant to be.

"Baba," Ghazal sniffled against Zavian's chest, peeking up with teary eyes. "You'll fight Ruaan for me, right?"

Zavian's lips twitched, his fingers brushing through her hair. "Should I challenge him to a duel, princess?"

Ruaan immediately perked up, puffing his tiny chest. "I accept!" he declared, standing on the couch with all the confidence of a warrior.

"Oh for Allah's sake, get down from there," Nimra sighed, tugging him back onto the floor.

Siara, the ever-wise older girl, crossed her arms and shook her head at Ghazal. "You don't need Baba to fight for you. Just bite Ruaan next time."

"Aye! Siara!" Mihra gasped, while Arham nearly choked on his tea.

Ruaan, looking appropriately horrified, turned to his mother. "Mama, is biting allowed?"

"Absolutely not," Nimra said firmly, shooting Siara a warning glare.

"Ali," Nimra then added, tone dripping with exasperation, "this is your influence."

Ali, lounging lazily with a smug grin, simply shrugged. "At least she's strategic."

Zayan, oblivious to the chaos around him, chose that moment to climb onto Zavian's lap, pressing a sticky palm to his white kurta. "Up, up, up," he demanded.

"Oh, perfect," Zavian muttered, eyeing the stain now smudged across his clothes. "Mashal-e-Mehtaab, your nephew is out to ruin me."

I laughed, reaching over to scoop Zayan into my arms, his little hands immediately tangling into my dupatta. "He's two, Zavian. You've faced death threats, undercover missions, and actual gunfire—surely you can handle a toddler."

Zavian leaned back, his smirk widening. "Toddlers are more dangerous."

Siara nodded in agreement. "Zayan tried to eat a bug yesterday."

Arham groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. "That's it. I'm locking the windows."

Dadi, who had been quietly observing the chaos, finally let out an exaggerated sigh. "And here I thought I raised sensible grandchildren."

Dada chuckled, sipping his tea. "They are sensible, bas bohot zyada shararti bhi hain (just a little too mischievous)."

"You mean their kids," Mama corrected, motioning toward us. "We raised them well. Look at them now, grown and responsible."

Zavian and Ali exchanged glances before bursting into laughter.

I smacked Zavian's arm lightly. "Laugh all you want, but you are a father of chaos."

"I accept my fate," he said, dramatically placing a hand over his heart.

Ghazal, now over her chocolate betrayal, tugged at Zavian's sleeve. "Baba, can we get ice cream?"

"Only if Ruaan gets some too," Ali interjected, earning an immediate no from Ghazal.

"Ice cream is for good people," she huffed, flipping her hair.

"Oh ho," Ali smirked, "Zavian, your daughter is turning into a mini-you."

Zavian grinned proudly, scooping Ghazal into his arms. "Of course, she is. What else did you expect?"

Dadi clapped her hands. "Bus bus, enough drama. Someone bring out the sweets before I start crying about stolen chocolates."

Laughter echoed through the room as the children, momentarily distracted from their squabbles, cheered for the incoming dessert.

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And as I sat there, surrounded by the people I loved, I felt it again—that overwhelming warmth of belonging, of home. My heart was full.