Ahad's POV
Dinner ended with Mom's loud declaration that the mutton curry reminded her of Sultan Dad's bachelor days when he once tried to cook and nearly set the backyard on fire.
"I was trying to impress you!" Dad grinned, pointing a spoon at her. "You married me anyway."
"Because I thought I could save the nation from your cooking," Mom muttered under her breath, earning a giggle from Aunty Naziya and Dadi
While the elders retired upstairs—Dadi walking with her slow but proud steps and Ami fussing around her like always—I found myself exactly where I always end up on nights like these. Standing in front of the sink. Sleeves rolled. Iman beside me with her hands soaked in suds, ready to wage war against the evil empire of dirty dishes.
"Who made this many dishes?" she muttered, eyebrows drawn together.
"You did," I replied with a perfectly innocent tone. "You brought half your kitchen with you."
Iman blinked. "Excuse me? Your Dad made biryani, and your Mom made kheer. How am I responsible?"
"You came with appetite."
She scooped a handful of soap bubbles and threw it at me.
"Hey! This is a respectable Kashmiri kitchen!"
"Not anymore," she said smugly.
We stood like that for a while. She washed, I rinsed. Sometimes, we switched. Sometimes, we just pretended to be busy while sneaking the last pieces of fried lotus stem off the tray behind us.
"I still remember that time," Iman said quietly, smiling to herself, "when I tried to help your mom in the kitchen and almost put salt in the Lipton tea."
"I remember you did put salt in the tea."
She gave me a look. "Traitor."
"You were nine. I had to drink the whole cup like it was five-star hotel kahwa just so you wouldn't cry."
Iman looked at me for a second longer. Then smiled. And it was that kind of smile—the one you don't really explain but just tuck away somewhere because it feels like home.
"We've grown up in each other's kitchens," she murmured. "No wonder I always come here like it's my second house."
"You mean first house," I corrected without looking at her. "Because technically, you have my WiFi password and you hide my Eid gifts."
She snorted. "I don't hide your gifts. I inspect them for safety."
"Oh, my personal MI6," I said, bowing dramatically.
Just then, from the staircase above, Mom called, "Ahad, Iman, once you two are done throwing dishes at each other, bring up some kahwa for your dad."...he's claiming his knees are on strike just to escape the kitchen chores."
"Caught," I muttered.
Iman whispered, "Your Dad's the real villain here. How do we let him get away with this?"
"Easy," I smirked, grabbing the kettle. "We bribe him with honey in kahwa and let him win at Ludo later."
Iman looked up. "You never let anyone win at Ludo."
I paused, my tone softer this time. "I let you."
She stopped too. Looked right at me. The light above the sink flickered a little, casting shadows on her cheeks, but that didn't stop the smile from curling on her lips.
"Even when I don't deserve to win?"
"Especially then."
We stood there for a second longer. No teasing, no jokes. Just this quiet moment between the clang of dishes and the sound of family upstairs, laughter echoing softly.
And then, like always, she broke it first.
"Okay, Romeo. Don't get emotional. You still owe me for the spoon I broke when I tried opening a jar of pickles with my foot."
"What kind of monster opens jars with feet?"
"Desperate ones," she said, grinning. "The jar was slippery, okay?"
"Sure. Someday I'll tell your future kids what a menace you are."
"By then I'll tell them their Uncle Ahad is the reason I never learned to cook anything more than chai and Maggi."
"Uncle?!" I gasped. "That's it. Disowning you."
We finished the last of the dishes with an unofficial bubble fight that left soap on the floor, on Iman's nose, and somehow—somehow—inside my shirt. Iman doubled over laughing when she saw me trying to scrub soap from my ear.
And then, like nothing out of the ordinary, we carried the tray of kahwa and leftover phirni upstairs—me walking ahead, Iman behind me humming an old Kishore Kumar song that she'd heard my dad sing once.
The thing about nights like this, in houses like ours, with families like these—is that you don't need big declarations. Just a few laughs, some stained clothes, and a shared cup of kahwa to feel like everything's exactly where it should be.
She nudged me as we walked into the room.
"I still can't believe you drank salty tea for me."
I looked at her sideways. "For you? I'd probably drink salty tea again."
"Idiot," she whispered.
"Yours," I whispered back.
And that was enough.