Dinner had ended, but the night lingered.
The house had settled into that comfortable quiet that follows a full meal he faint clatter of dishes being washed somewhere distant, the low hum of the ceiling fan, and the golden glow of warm lights spreading softness across the living room walls.
Grandpa sat in his usual place, slightly leaned forward, completely absorbed in his favorite television serial.
The dramatic background music rose and fell, reflecting in his eyes as though the fictional world on screen mattered more than the real one around him.
Footsteps echoed from the staircase.
Measured. Unhurried.
Grandpa glanced up briefly.
Zayn.
He descended slowly, hands tucked into his pockets, expression composed too composed. His face gave nothing away. Not tiredness. Not excitement. Not thought.
He walked across the room and took the seat directly opposite Grandpa, stretching back comfortably as if the world rested exactly where it should.
He pulled out his phone and began scrolling, the blue light briefly illuminating his sharp features.
After a few seconds, in a casual tone that seemed almost lazy, he asked,
"Grandpa, where's Faqair?"
Grandpa didn't look away from the screen.
"Don't know. Maybe in the kitchen… doing something."
Zayn gave a slight nod.
Silence returned.
On the television, the serial shifted scenes soft music played as the hero took the heroine on a candlelit date. Flowers. Smiles. Gentle confessions.
Zayn's scrolling thumb slowed.
His eyes flicked upward.
His jaw tightened only slightly, but enough to be noticed by someone observant.
Without saying a word, he stood.
He began walking toward the kitchen.
His steps were quiet.
Controlled.
Before he could enter....
"Zayn?"
Grandpa's voice called out.
Zayn stopped and turned, faint irritation crossing his features.
"ohh god … coming, Grandpa. Give me five minutes."
Grandpa waved him off, still immersed in the serial.
Zayn turned again and stepped into the kitchen.
And stopped.
The bright white kitchen lights felt sharper than the warm living room glow. Steel utensils gleamed. The marble counter reflected everything in clean lines.
And in the middle of it all—
Faqair.
Sleeves rolled up. Hair slightly messy. Stirring something with deep concentration.
The faint aroma of butter and spices lingered in the air. A cutting board was filled with neatly chopped vegetables. A recipe video played softly on his phone.
He didn't notice Zayn.
Zayn leaned against the doorway, folding his arms across his chest. His gaze narrowed not angry, not amused.
Curious.
Observing.
Then Faqair lifted the pan and gave it a small toss perhaps trying to look confident.
The pan slipped.
It crashed onto the floor with a loud metallic clang.
Faqair froze.
Slowly… he turned.
Their eyes met.
Zayn didn't move.
He didn't blink.
"What exactly are you doing?" he asked quietly.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
Faqair swallowed.
"I—uh… I was making something for Grandpa."
Zayn arched a brow.
"Everyone just ate."
Faqair's eyes darted around as if an explanation might magically appear on the counter.
"I… actually…"
Footsteps approached.
Grandpa entered, concern lining his face.
"What happened? Something fell?"
Faqair quickly stepped in front of the fallen pan, blocking it with his body like a guilty child hiding evidence.
"No, no, Grandpa! Nothing fell. I was just—"
"He dropped the pan," Zayn said smoothly.
Grandpa blinked.
"Really? Is that true?"
Faqair nodded too quickly.
"Yes! Yes. It slipped. Nothing serious. You please sit down."
Grandpa's eyes shifted between them.
"Then who are you cooking for?"
Faqair hesitated again.
"I was—"
"For you, Grandpa," Zayn answered
effortlessly.
Grandpa frowned. "But I just ate."
Zayn stepped closer, placing a light hand on Grandpa's shoulder.
"It's fine. Nothing's wrong. Go sit."
There was something in his tone — reassuring, but firm enough to end questions.
Grandpa sighed. "Zayn, come. I need to talk to you."
Zayn nodded.
Grandpa walked out first.
The moment he disappeared, Faqair exhaled deeply.
Zayn stepped forward, bracing his hands on the counter. He leaned in slightly, invading Faqair's space.
A slow smile curved at his lips.
"So… preparations have started, hmm?"
Faqair blinked. "Preparations? For what? I'm just learning to cook."
Zayn let out a low laugh.
"Hmm hmm… learn."
Faqair frowned. "Learn what?"
Zayn straightened and walked toward the doorway, then paused.
He turned back , he asked quietly,
"When did all this begin?"
Faqair stiffened.
"Nothing began. Don't assume nonsense."
Zayn didn't argue.
He just smiled.
And walked out.