The rain tapped gently against the windows as evening settled over the house. Ezra was asleep. The fire was lit. And for the first time in days, Zafar wasn't glued to his laptop or phone.
He sat beside Zoha on the floor, their backs resting against the couch, legs stretched out. It was quiet—too quiet. But not in a cold way.
Zoha was the first to speak.
"Tell me something about little Zafar. What was he like?"
He didn't respond at first. His jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the flames.
She touched his hand gently. "You don't have to... but I'd like to know the boy who grew into the man I love."
That word.
Love.
He blinked. Slowly.
Then—he whispered, "He was lonely."
Zoha didn't interrupt. She just listened.
"I was six when I realized my parents didn't love each other," he began. "They were married for the name, not for the bond. My father was powerful, feared, and too proud to show affection. My mother... she was always dressed in gold but empty in the eyes. She hated touch. Especially mine."
Zoha swallowed hard. She stayed still, letting him go at his own pace.
"I had everything money could buy. But not once did someone hold me when I cried. Not once did anyone tell me I mattered more than the empire they were building. I learned how to silence my feelings early. Because in my house... emotions were weaknesses."
His voice cracked slightly.
"Once, when I was 10, I got in a fight at school. I had bruises all over. I came home, hoping someone would care. Instead, my father clapped me on the back and said, 'Good. Make them fear you.' That day, I stopped hoping for hugs."
Zoha's eyes brimmed with tears, but she didn't reach out yet. She sensed he had more to say.
"By the time I turned 15, I knew everything about business, weapons, politics. But I didn't know how to look someone in the eye and say 'I'm hurting.'"
He took a deep breath.
"And then came her. My ex-wife. She was beautiful, clever, cold. Just like my mother. I thought that was love. But it was just... control. She married me for power. And when she gave birth to Ezra, she cried—not out of joy, but out of resentment. She left without saying goodbye. Just left a note. I held Ezra in my arms that night and realized—I didn't know how to love him either."
Zoha couldn't hold back anymore.
She reached out, wrapping her arms around his chest, burying her face into his neck.
"You learned how, Zafar. You did."
His arms circled her tightly.
"I'm still learning," he said, his voice softer now. "But Zoha… with you, I don't feel like I'm faking it."
She looked up, her hand gently cupping his cheek.
"Because with me, you're safe."
They sat like that for a long while. The rain outside stopped, but the warmth inside only grew stronger.
That night, Zafar didn't make love to her in desperation or possession.
He loved her gently, like someone who had just learned what love meant for the very first time.
And Zoha held him like someone who understood that even the strongest men carry quiet wars in their hearts.