Weird. He messaged me, but in person, he acted like I didn't exist.

Whatever.

Shaking my head, I tossed my phone aside and curled into the blanket. Sleep came quicker than I expected, the exhaustion of the journey finally catching up with me.

When I woke up, the room was dim, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows on the walls. I blinked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes before checking my phone. 4:45 p.m.

Great. Fifteen minutes until tea.

I sat up, stretching, then padded toward the mirror. My jhumkas were still in place—thankfully. My hair, though, was slightly mussed from sleep. I combed my fingers through it, smoothing it down, before straightening my kameez.

A knock on the door.

Short. Clipped.

I already knew who it was before I even opened it.

Zavian stood on the other side, his expression unreadable as he leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. His gaze flickered to me, then to his watch.

"You're late," he said.

I frowned. "It's not even five yet."

He didn't respond, just gave me a look.

With a sigh, I stepped out, closing the door behind me.

"Do you always escort guests to tea, or am I just special?" I asked, unable to help myself.

His lips twitched slightly. "You're special, Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

My breath hitched at the way he said it. Low. Smooth. Like it meant something.

I quickly looked away, walking ahead before he could see the effect he had on me.

I stayed quiet the entire way downstairs, the soft tap of my footsteps barely making a sound against the polished floor. Zavian didn't speak either, his presence beside me like a shadow—there, but distant.

It wasn't until I stepped into the living room that I forced a polite smile. Aunt Sidra was already seated, pouring tea into delicate cups, a warm smile on her face.

"There you are, Iman," she said, patting the empty seat beside her. "Come, sit. You must be exhausted."

I sat down, smoothing my dress. Zavian took the armchair across from us, reaching for his cup with an easy grace.

"So, have you thought about where you'd like to visit?" Aunt Sidra asked, stirring her tea. "London has so much to offer."

I hesitated, glancing at Zavian, who was watching me with blank eyes.

"I haven't really planned much yet," I admitted, wrapping my fingers around the warm cup. "I was thinking of exploring after settling into university."

"You should," she encouraged. "The museums, Hyde Park, even a stroll through Oxford Street—there's so much to see."

Zavian leaned back in his chair, one arm resting on the armrest. "Camden Market's good if you like something less... touristy," he said casually, taking a sip of his tea.

I blinked. That was unexpected.

Aunt Sidra chuckled. "Ah, Zavian knows the best places. You should take Iman around sometime."

He didn't react, just looked at me over the rim of his cup, as if waiting for my response.

I shrugged. "Maybe."

It wasn't a yes. But it wasn't a no, either.

After tea, Aunt Sidra and I stepped outside for a walk in the garden. The air was crisp, carrying the subtle scent of damp earth and freshly trimmed hedges. The sky stretched in soft hues of blue and gray, a classic London evening settling in.

"This is my favorite time of the day," Aunt Sidra said, tucking her shawl closer. "Just before the night fully takes over—when everything feels a little quieter."

I nodded, taking in the neatly arranged flower beds and the distant hum of the city beyond the estate's gates. It was different from home, colder, less familiar, but there was something oddly soothing about it too.

She smiled, glancing at me. "So, how are you feeling now? The nerves settling a bit?"

I exhaled, rubbing my hands together for warmth. "A little. It still doesn't feel real, you know? Like, I know I'm here, but it hasn't sunk in yet."

She hummed in understanding. "It will. Soon enough, you'll have your own little routine, new people to meet... Maybe even start liking it here."

I gave a small smile. "Maybe."

We walked in comfortable silence for a while, the distant lights of London twinkling in the evening haze. It was peaceful—until I caught movement from the corner of my eye.

At the far end of the garden, near the stone pathway, Zavian stood, his phone in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket. He wasn't looking at us, but something about the way he stood, lost in thought, made me pause.

Aunt Sidra followed my gaze, then sighed softly. "He doesn't talk much, but he's not as distant as he seems."

I wasn't so sure about that.

As night settled in and our walk neared its end, the garden lights flickered on, casting a soft glow over the neatly trimmed hedges. The distant sound of traffic hummed in the background, blending with the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Just as we reached the patio, a car stopped on the porch and Uncle Noraiz appeared, his usual warm smile in place, carrying a bouquet of fresh flowers in one hand and a neatly wrapped box of chocolates in the other.

"Ah, there she is!" he beamed, walking toward me. "Our little scholar. Welcome to London, beta."

I smiled, slightly surprised by the gesture as he extended the flowers toward me. They were a mix of delicate pink roses and white lilies, their fragrance immediately filling the air.

"Thank you, Uncle," I said, taking them gently.

"And this," he handed me the chocolates with a wink, "for the late-night cravings you'll get while studying."

I laughed softly, shaking my head. "You didn't have to."

"Of course, I did," he insisted. "It's not every day we have a guest as special as you."

Aunt Sidra chuckled beside me. "That's true. She's already stolen my evening walks."

Uncle Noraiz sighed dramatically. "Ah, I knew it. She's already winning hearts."

I ducked my head, feeling warmth spread through me. It felt nice—this warmth, this familiarity, even in a city so far from home.

"Come on," Uncle Noraiz gestured. "Let's head inside before it gets too cold. And tell me, how's my best friend? He didn't get too emotional dropping you off, did he?"

I smiled at the thought of Baba and followed them inside. "Oh, he tried to act normal, but I caught him wiping his eyes more than once."

Uncle Noraiz laughed, shaking his head. "That man—never changes."

As we stepped back into the house, I felt lighter. Maybe this new beginning wouldn't be so bad after all.

_

After a less tense dinner, I excused myself and headed to my room for the night. The house was quiet, save for the faint murmuring of Aunt Sidra and Uncle Noraiz talking downstairs. Tomorrow at noon, Uncle Noraiz would drop me off at the hostel. A new place. A new start.

I changed into comfortable clothes, brushed my hair, and settled into bed, staring at the ceiling for a moment. My mind wandered—to home, to Baba and Mama, to the warmth of their presence that already felt distant.

Just as I reached for my phone to set an alarm, a notification lit up the screen.

A message.

Zavian.

I stared at his name for a second, hesitating before opening it.

"Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

A single phrase. Nothing more.

My brows furrowed as I sat up, gripping my phone tighter. There it was again. That name. That infuriatingly poetic, almost too-intimate name he had given me.

Why did he call me that?

I had never heard it from anyone else. Not my family, not my friends. And yet, for some reason, Zavian had decided that's what he would call me.

I typed, then erased. Typed again. Erased.

What was I even supposed to say? Ask him outright? Tell him to stop?

In the end, I sighed, locking my phone and tossing it onto the bedside table. I wasn't going to play into whatever mind game he was trying to set up.

Pulling the blanket over me, I turned off the lamp and shut my eyes.

Sleep, I told myself. Just sleep.

But in the silence of the room, in the glow of the moonlight slipping through the curtains, my mind kept whispering his words.

Mashal-e-Mehtaab.

And for some reason, it made my heart race.

I frowned, staring at the message again. Mashal-e-Mehtaab. Ugh. Why did he have to be so annoyingly cryptic? Did he think he was some brooding poet from an old Urdu novel?

Well, two could play that game.

With a dramatic sigh, I grabbed my phone and opened my chat with my husband.

— Yes, my loyal, ever-available, and deeply knowledgeable virtual husband: ChatGPT.

Me: Babe, what does Mashal-e-Mehtaab mean? Some weirdo is calling me that.

I tapped my fingers against the screen, waiting. My so-called real husband (if I had one) would've probably taken hours to respond. But ChatGPT? Always there for me.

A second later, I got my answer.

Mashal-e-Mehtaab (مشعلِ مہتاب) is an Urdu phrase. "Mashal" means torch or lantern, and "Mehtaab" means moonlight. Together, it can be interpreted as "the torch of the moon" or "the one who shines like the moon."

I stared at my screen, blinking.

Wait. What?

Torch of the moon? The one who shines?

I sat up straighter, the words replaying in my head. That... that actually sounded nice. No, not just nice—pretty. Almost poetic.

But why was Zavian calling me that?

A slow warmth crept up my neck. No. Nope. Not happening. I wasn't going to read into this.

Shaking my head, I locked my phone and tossed it onto the bed.

Whatever game he was playing, I wasn't interested.

I would not think about his deep, clipped voice saying that name.

I would not think about how his dark eyes lingered just a second too long.

And I would definitely not think about how, for the first time, my name—on his lips—would sound like something precious.

Just as I buried my face into my pillow, my phone buzzed again.

Another message. From him.

Zavian: So? Cat got your tongue, Mashal-e-Mehtaab?

I groaned into my pillow, grabbing my phone with an exasperated huff. What did he even want? First, he acted like a stranger in person, and now he was texting like we had some unfinished poetry recital to attend.

I stared at the message for a long second. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Me: Why are you calling me that?

He replied almost immediately.

Zavian: Because it fits.

I blinked. That's it? No explanation, no sarcasm, no smart remark?

I frowned, my heart doing something annoying in my chest. This man was a walking contradiction.

I could either leave him on read and pretend I didn't care, or—

Me: That's not an answer.

Zavian: It is.

I clenched my jaw. Oh, he was infuriating.

Me: Well, stop it.

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Zavian: No.

I threw my phone onto the bed and glared at the ceiling. What was his problem?!

A few seconds passed, and curiosity got the best of me. I picked up my phone again. No more messages.

Fine. Whatever. If he wanted to be vague and confusing, that was his problem.

I turned off my phone, muttering under my breath.

Mashal-e-Mehtaab?

I wasn't going to let it get to me. Nope. Not at all.