Zafar rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, exposing his forearms up to the elbows.
He looked... breathtaking.
The soft kitchen light hit him just right, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the gentle curves of his expression. The wooden-patterned tiles under his feet only added to the warmth of the scene, making everything look like a scene out of a drama. Or maybe... a dream?
And me?
I peeked into the mirror again. My hair was a little messy. My black coat looked chic over the dress, though. My brown heels peeked from the slit of my dress—no nail polish, but my feet still looked decent.
"What are you looking at?"
His voice snapped me out of my daydream.
"Huh?"
When did he get so close?
Was he a magician? Just a moment ago, he was stirring tea.
He extended his hand toward me.
Like an owl caught in headlights, I just stared at him with my eyes wide open—frozen, unsure, holding my breath like a fool.
From his coat pocket, he pulled out two lipsticks. He studied both, chose the matte red one, and before I could react...
He applied it on me.
Yes. With his own hands.
If this isn't love, I don't know what is.
He then pulled out his phone, flipped on the front camera, and angled it toward me, as if asking, "How does it look?"
"Hmm, it looks good," I whispered.
He smiled, satisfied. Then returned to his tea, humming softly.
"Hayati, pass me milk from the fridge."
"Okay."
"Hayati, sugar please."
"Okay."
"Hayati, taste this."
"Okay."
He dipped a spoon in the pan, gently blew over it, and brought it to my lips.
I sipped.
"How is it?" he asked, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"It's good."
"Good?"
"The best, darling."
"Alright," he smirked, content.
We served the tea to our kind neighbors and insisted on helping with the dishes, despite their refusal.
Back home, the smoke had cleared... but the damage hadn't.
The pressure cooker had exploded outside the kitchen. Its remains now lay lifelessly in the lounge. It had apparently bounced around before slamming into our glass cabinet—shattering it, along with my imported Turkey dinner set.
"Zafar!" I wailed. "That was imported! From Turkey!"
Tears streamed down my face as I collapsed dramatically onto the sofa, clutching my head in anguish.
Zafar sat beside me... and quietly rested his head in my lap.
And just like that—we both fell asleep.
When I opened my eyes again, it was morning. Zafar was gently shaking me awake.
"Come on," he whispered. "Sleep on the bed."
At around 10, the doorbell rang. It was Uncle from next door, holding a breakfast tray.
"Auntie said you two probably didn't clean the kitchen last night... so you'll need something to eat this morning."
Zafar looked at me and said, "Yesterday should've been a movie."
I smiled faintly, placed my tea down, and replied, "No. It deserves to be a novel."
He chuckled.
Then, casually, he picked up my cup and sipped from it.
This man... impossible.
Even if I make two cups of tea, half of mine always ends up in his hands.
We'll have to renovate the kitchen now. Definitely.
So yes, this is how our very first date ended up at our neighbors' place.
But we wouldn't change a thing.
We loved it.