Azlaan's POV
The low hum of the café blended with the muted symphony of a city waking under rain — the steady patter against glass, the rustle of papers and the clink of porcelain cups. The scent of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air — sharp, grounding — yet my mind was already half elsewhere, already balancing numbers, contracts, and the inevitable meetings that filled my days.
Business had become mechanical to me — a rhythm of signatures, percentages and conversations that led to predictable outcomes. Every deal, every meeting, every exchange carried the same weightless efficiency. It was routine, safe, and entirely devoid of surprise.
Or so I believed.
Until the moment I looked up.
She stood by the doorway, the light spilling in behind her like an afterthought of the storm — soft and golden against the muted gray of the café's interior. Her hands clutched a stack of folders to her chest, and for a heartbeat, everything — the voices, the world itself — seemed to still.
Aleena.
Her name struck something deep inside me, something I hadn't touched in years.
For a second, I wasn't the composed professional the world saw — not the man who negotiated multi-million-dollar contracts or the one people described as calm, unreadable, efficient. No — in that second, I was someone else entirely. The man who had once stood under a monsoon sky, drenched and waiting, while a girl with trembling eyes had whispered an apology he'd never forgotten.
The memory hit me like the scent of rain after months of drought.
And now, that same girl — was standing here. Her lips were pressed together, her shoulders squared, as though she were bracing herself for a storm of a different kind.
When she saw me, something flickered across her expression — recognition, disbelief, then an almost imperceptible attempt to conceal it. The professionalism in her demeanor didn't falter, but her eyes... her eyes gave her away.
"Mr. Khan," she greeted softly.
"Ms. Hadi," I returned, the words tasting foreign on my tongue.
The formality was expected, necessary — but it felt wrong. Her name was meant to be spoken differently, without walls between us. Still, I let the distance stay, because it was safer that way.
We shook hands. Her fingers were soft, hesitant, a tremor just barely discernible against my palm. For a fleeting second, I wanted to tell her she didn't have to be so careful — that she didn't need to wear the armor of professionalism with me. But I didn't. Years of restraint, of habit, held me still.
We sat.
She began speaking — clear, deliberate, each word measured with care. She spoke about numbers, projections, and growth curves, flipping through her presentation with the quiet precision of someone who'd practiced every gesture. Her voice carried an even rhythm — smooth and low — but I could hear the edges of nervousness woven between syllables.
And then there were the tremors.
A slight shiver when she reached for her pen. A barely-there pause when I asked a question. A quick intake of breath before she answered. She was holding herself together with remarkable grace, and yet I could see the effort it took.
There was something heartbreakingly human in that restraint.
As she spoke, my attention drifted — not from lack of interest, but because the sound of her voice felt too familiar. I remembered that same tone, softer, less guarded, days ago in the rain — when she'd said sorry.
She was a professional, seated across from me in a café meeting that should've been purely transactional. And yet, every time her gaze met mine — even for a fraction of a second — I saw it. The unspoken recognition. The same awareness that had rooted me to the spot when she'd first walked in.
She would falter for the briefest heartbeat, then recover — tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her voice smoothing over the pause as though it had never happened.
By the time she finished, I already knew everything I needed to — not about the presentation, but about her.
I closed the folder slowly, deliberately, more to stretch the moment than from necessity.
"Thank you," I said, my voice quieter than intended. "I'll get back to you... on this topic."
A flicker of confusion crossed her face, subtle but unmistakable.
"I mean," I added, allowing a faint smile, "I'll get back to your company."
Her shoulders relaxed slightly, the smallest breath of relief escaping her lips. That sound — soft, almost inaudible — lodged itself somewhere deep inside me.
When she stood to leave, I rose too. The instinct was automatic, polite — but as she gathered her folders, I felt the oddest ache in my chest.
"Thank you, Ms. Hadi," I said, and this time, her name slipped out gentler, carrying more weight than I intended.
She looked up briefly, as if she'd heard something in my tone, then nodded — small, reserved, professional — before turning to go.
I watched her walk away, the sway of her silhouette framed against the fading drizzle outside. Through the window, I saw her pause by her car, close her eyes for a moment, and rest her head against the seat — a brief, private exhale of exhaustion and something like relief.
That image — her vulnerability, her quiet strength — stayed with me long after her car disappeared into the gray.
The rest of the day unfolded like an echo — meetings, phone calls, the sound of my own voice detached and automatic. My mind, however, kept drifting back to the café, to the tremor in her hand, to the moment her eyes had almost met mine and both of us had looked away.
By the time I reached home, night had settled over the city. The rain had softened into a mist, wrapping the streets in a kind of muted calm.
As soon as I entered, Dadu's voice called from his room.
"Azlaan, beta — come here for a moment."
He was sitting in his armchair, that same calm, knowing expression on his face — the one that had a way of making me feel twelve years old again.
"How was your day, Azlaan?" he asked casually.
"It was good, Dadu," I said, hesitating before adding, "Busy."
He hummed, eyes twinkling with quiet amusement. "Busy, hmm? You seem... distracted lately."
I frowned slightly. "Distracted?"
He leaned back, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Yes. Your Dadi and I were talking. We think it's time you considered settling down."
I gave a quiet laugh, more to deflect than anything else. "Dadu, I—"
He waved a hand. "I've been thinking of speaking to Amin about someone."
My heartbeat faltered. "Amin dadu ?"
He nodded. "Yes. Amin's granddaughter — Aleena."
For a second, I couldn't speak. The sound of her name in his voice felt surreal, almost scripted by fate.
"Dadu, I don't..." I began, then stopped. The truth — that I'd already met her, that she had haunted my thoughts all evening — felt too fragile to voice. "I don't love anybody."
He smiled softly, his gaze patient. "Love comes later, beta. But sometimes, you meet someone who makes you want to find it."
From the doorway, Dadi's voice joined his, warm and certain. "She's a wonderful girl, Azlaan. Grounded, kind — the sort of person who'd bring peace to your heart."
I looked at them both — their faces calm, wise, and somehow already knowing.
"She's..." I paused, the word catching in my throat. "She's different."
Dadu's smile deepened, a quiet knowing glint in his eyes. "Then maybe, my boy, it's time you stop looking for reasons not to feel."
Later that night, I found myself standing by the window of my study, hands buried in my pockets, staring at the reflection of slicked lights scattered across the city. The air smelled of earth and quiet beginnings.
Once, I'd seen her through the rain — a fleeting figure I thought I'd imagined.
Now I'd seen her again — real, graceful, trembling in the most beautiful way.
And for the first time in years, the walls I'd built around myself didn't feel like safety.
They felt like distance.
Distance from something — or someone — I was suddenly terrified to lose again.
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