Chapter — Iman's Narration
The morning bell echoed through St. Paul's corridors like a gavel striking down on a courtroom case I hadn't agreed to be a part of. The first period had barely begun, yet Ahad was already in motion—no trace of last night's storm in his expression, not even the faintest ripple of guilt. He was as calm as a lake pretending it didn't have monsters beneath.
Mrs. Brigainza was scribbling something on the blackboard when Ahad rose from his seat. He didn't ask. He never asked. He simply walked up to her desk, bent slightly so only she could hear, and spoke a few words. I couldn't catch them, but I saw her eyebrows lift, her gaze flick to me, and then her nod—slow and deliberate—like she was signing a quiet contract with the devil himself.
He turned back, expression unreadable, and moved straight toward Suhail—the boy who had been my partner for the first two weeks of term. Suhail was nice in the way that calm people are—he didn't pry, didn't talk too much, didn't laugh too loudly. The moment Ahad stopped beside our desk, Suhail froze, his pencil still poised over the half-written heading in his notebook.
"Move," Ahad said simply. Not harsh. Not loud. Just… inevitable.
Suhail's Adam's apple bobbed. He looked at me for half a second, as though hoping I might intervene. But I knew better. Everyone knew better. Picking a fight with Ahad was like picking a fight with fire—you could win the argument and still end up burned.
Less reluctantly than I expected, Suhail stood, collecting his books and sliding them into his bag. Zaffar, was summoned with a flick of Ahad's chin. They exchanged seats like chess pieces moved by an unseen hand, Suhail taking Ahad's spot without a word.
Now Ahad was next to me.
He sat down with a sigh, leaning back in his chair as though the morning shuffle had been nothing more than a light exercise. "Morning," he said, like we were two normal classmates greeting each other before algebra.
I didn't answer. My pen moved across the page, my notes suddenly more important than they had ever been in my life.
"Not talking?" he asked, tilting his head to catch my eyes.
I kept writing.
"You know," he continued in that maddeningly casual tone, "this desk is better for you. Less glare from the window. And I can keep an eye on you."
There it was. The truth slipped in like a knife, sharp and easy.
Mrs. Brigainza turned from the board to explain the day's topic, her accent curling around each word like lace. I tried to focus, but Ahad's presence next to me was loud—louder than her voice, louder than the scribble of pens around us.
When the first period ended, Ahad leaned closer, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of his cologne—sharp, citrusy, something that clung stubbornly to fabric.
"You'll get used to it," he murmured.
I finally looked at him. "Used to what?"
His lips curved. "Me being here."
"Why are you here in the 1st place ahad".I asked little infuriated
"Didn't you witness,i requested miss brigainza to change my seat with Suhail?"
I wanted to say something sharp, something that would cut through the smirk and wipe it clean. But the truth was, my throat locked. The way he said it wasn't just about this seat. It was about everything.
Second period came, then third. He was exactly as he always was—answering questions when teachers asked, cracking jokes to Zaffar , tapping his pen in a rhythm that set my teeth on edge. The more normal he acted, the more unreal the morning felt, as though I'd dreamed last night's tension entirely.
By the time recess came, I had convinced myself to breathe. The courtyard was buzzing with the usual chaos—laughter, shouts, the clatter of tiffin boxes opening. I sat with Daisy under the jacaranda tree, its purple flowers scattered like fallen confetti on the grass. She was halfway through telling me about her younger brother's disastrous attempt at making maggi when I noticed Ahad leaning against the wall near the water cooler, his gaze fixed on me.
Not on us—on me.
It wasn't a glare. It wasn't even a stare meant to intimidate. It was worse—it was the kind of look that said he'd already decided where I fit in his plans, and I didn't get a vote.
Sara noticed my distraction and followed my line of sight. "Oh," she said, eyebrows rising. "Your shadow's here."
"He's not my—" I began, but the words tangled in my mouth when Ahad pushed off the wall and started walking toward us.
He didn't hurry. He didn't need to. People naturally moved out of his way, as if the air around him warned them not to get too close.
"Sara," he said when he reached us, his tone polite but dismissive, "can I borrow Iman for a minute?"
Sara looked at me, then at him, then shrugged like she'd just been spared a pop quiz. "Sure. She's all yours."
I wanted to throw her a look that said traitor, but Ahad was already guiding me away from the tree, his hand hovering near my back—not touching, but close enough to feel the heat.
When we were far enough from the courtyard noise, he stopped. "You're avoiding me," he said.
"I'm trying to live my life," I corrected.
"That is avoiding me."
I crossed my arms. "What do you want, Ahad?"
He studied me for a moment, as if weighing how much truth to hand over. Then: "To make sure you're where I can see you."
"You're not my—" I began again, but he cut me off with a slight tilt of his head.
"No," he agreed. "I'm not. But I'm not someone you should be trying to hide from either."
I hated how his words felt less like a threat and more like a statement of fact.
The bell rang for the next period, snapping whatever strange current had been building between us. Without waiting for my response, he started walking back toward the main block, fully expecting me to follow.
And I did. Not because I wanted to. But because somehow, in ways I couldn't explain, it was easier than fighting him in the middle of the hallway with half the school watching.
Back in class, he slid into his seat beside me as though nothing had happened. The day rolled on, normal in every external sense. But inside my head, it was anything but.
Because I knew now, without question, that Ahad wasn't going to let the seat change be temporary.
And maybe, just maybe, I wasn't entirely sure I wanted it to be.
Alright — I'll write this as a full 1200+ word chapter in Iman's narration, keeping it extra spicy but still portraying Ahad as a green flag in the reconciliation.
We'll show her hurt, his persistence, the hand-holding moment in the empty colony street, her trying to control her tears, and their cute yet intense back-and-forth leading to a soft ending.
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Chapter — Iman's Narration
The rest of the day passed like I was moving through water—slow, heavy, and muffled.
I don't think anyone in class noticed how little I spoke to Ahad. Or maybe they did, but no one dared point it out. The thing is… I wasn't trying to be dramatic. I wasn't giving him the silent treatment for fun. I was hurt.
He'd seen me with Hashim this morning—walking together to assembly—and the way his eyes locked on us, it was like a replay of the Hafiz days. That same flash of possessiveness, that silent you're mine look. I hate that look. I'm not anyone's.
What's worse is how quickly he'd slipped back into that controlling mode—switching seats, watching me like he owned the air I breathed. I know he thinks he's protecting me, but it stings that he seems to believe the second I talk to another guy, I must like him. That my attention can be bought with a few smiles. It's insulting. And more than that, it hurts, because I thought Ahad knew me better than that.
By the time the final bell rang, my mood was cemented into stone. We walked out of the school gates together like we always did—side by side, our bags slung over our shoulders. But the air between us was thick with unspoken things.
He talked. I didn't.
At first, it was little things—how the physics test was going to be a nightmare, how Zaffar had actually gotten a question right in math for once, how the canteen samosas had been suspiciously edible today. I kept my eyes forward, nodding occasionally but not giving him more than the bare minimum.
If he noticed, he didn't let it stop him. His voice filled the silence I refused to break, like he'd decided that if I wasn't going to talk, he'd do it for both of us.
We turned into our colony. The streets were quiet, the evening light stretching our shadows across the pavement. That's when he did it—he reached out and caught my hand.
Not roughly. Not yanking me back. Just… firm enough that I stopped walking.
I looked at him, startled, my fingers caught in his. "What are you—"
"What did I do wrong this time?" he asked, cutting me off. His tone wasn't defensive. It wasn't angry. It was searching.
I tried to pull my hand free. He didn't let go.
"Iman," he said again, softer this time. "Tell me."
I stared at him, swallowing down the tightness in my throat. "Just because I talk to a guy," I said, my voice shaking more than I wanted, "doesn't mean I'm interested in him. It doesn't mean you get to decide what it means. I'm not…" I exhaled hard, willing the tears back. "I'm not something you get to guard like a trophy. I thought you understood that."
His eyes didn't waver from mine. "You're hurt because you think I switched seats and got angry just because you spoke to Hashim."
"That's exactly what you did," I said, pulling my hand again. Still no release.
"No," he said simply. "You're wrong."
I blinked at him. "Excuse me?"
"I told Mrs. Briginsza to change the seats yesterday," he explained, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Before any of this. She said to remind her my request of changing seats today . That's it"
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
"As for Hashim," he continued, "you can talk to whoever you want. Sit with whoever you want. I'm not stopping you." He tilted his head slightly. "But the guys you talk to? They need to know where the line is. And making sure they stay in their limits…" His lips curved just slightly. "…that's my job."
I stared at him, caught between irritation and something warmer I didn't want to name.
"I don't like Hashim," he said flatly. "Not when it comes to girls. I don't trust him to keep his limits. That's why I was looking at him this morning. Not because I was angry with you."
My shoulders eased despite myself. "So you weren't…"
"Mad at you?" He shook his head. "Not for a second."
The thing is… he looked so annoyingly sincere when he said it. And maybe, deep down, I knew it was true.
"You're impossible," I muttered, looking away so he wouldn't see the corners of my mouth betraying me.
"And you," he said, finally letting my hand go, "are dramatic."
"Dramatic?" I turned back to glare at him. "You grabbed my hand in the middle of the street like some—"
"Because you wouldn't stop ignoring me," he cut in, smiling now.
I hated how much I wanted to smile back.
We started walking again, slower this time. The silence between us wasn't heavy anymore; it was lighter, threaded with something I couldn't quite name.
"You really think it's your job to keep guys in their limits?" I asked after a beat.
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
"And who made you boss of that?"
He glanced at me sideways, eyes glinting in the fading sunlight. "No one had to. It's just what I do."
I rolled my eyes, but my chest felt warm in a way I didn't like admitting.
By the time we reached the turn where our paths split, the tension from the morning was gone. I stopped and looked at him, still feeling a little stubborn but mostly… not.
"So we're fine?" he asked, reading my expression like it was printed in bold letters.
I pretended to think. "Maybe."
He smirked. "Definitely."
And before I could argue, he stepped back, giving me that half-smile that always seemed to pull the ground out from under me. "See you tomorrow, Iman."
"Yeah," I said, walking away before he could see the grin I was fighting. "Tomorrow."