It had been two days since that moment.
Two days since Zafar almost kissed her.
Two days since he looked into her eyes like she was the only light in his dark, broken world.
Zoha hadn't been able to sleep properly. She'd replayed every second in her mind—his hand brushing her cheek, his breath so close to hers, the torment in his voice.
Why did it feel like something inside her was being rewritten?
Why did she miss him, even though they worked in the same building?
Zafar, meanwhile, had thrown himself into work. He attended back-to-back meetings. Ignored Ezra's daycare updates. Barely spoke to anyone.
But every time he saw her across the office—talking to someone, smiling softly—something twisted in his chest.
Longing.
The kind that eats away at a man's mind slowly… painfully.
That night, Zoha got a text she never expected.
From: Mr. Zafar IqbalEzra is asking for you. Can you come over?
She hesitated, heart racing.
She arrived at his mansion, nerves like fire under her skin.
The door opened before she could knock. Zafar stood there—hair messy, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up.
He looked tired. And beautiful in a way that hurt.
Ezra waddled over and hugged her legs the moment she stepped in. "Zoh-Zoh!"
She laughed softly, kneeling to pick him up. "Hi, my little sunshine."
Zafar watched, something unnameable flickering in his gaze.
"Thank you for coming," he said, voice low. "He wasn't eating until I told him you might."
She smiled gently. "You could've called earlier."
"I didn't want to disturb you."
Her eyes held his. "You never disturb me."
A pause.
"Stay," he said suddenly. "Just for dinner."
The dining table was quiet, warm.
Ezra sat between them, babbling between bites of mashed potatoes.
Zafar watched Zoha more than he ate. She cut Ezra's food gently, wiped his mouth, kissed his cheek like a mother would.
It broke him and healed him—at the same time.
"You're good with him," he said.
Zoha looked up. "I love children."
He nodded, took a sip of water.
"Did you always want a family?" she asked softly.
Zafar's fingers froze on his fork. He looked down. "Once. But life doesn't give you what you want. It gives you what you fear."
Zoha's heart clenched.
"But maybe," she whispered, "what you fear is what you need most."
Their eyes met again. And there it was.
The ache.
The fire.
The undeniable connection neither of them knew how to name yet.
That night, after Ezra fell asleep, Zafar walked Zoha to her car.
As she opened the door, he said something so low, she almost didn't hear it.
"Stay next time. Don't just visit."
She turned, searching his face. "Why?"
His answer was quiet… real.
"Because I feel something when you're around. Something that doesn't hurt."