The air in the warehouse had turned thick and stagnant as the sun went down, the industrial fans doing little more than pushing the scent of chemical patina around the room.
I wiped a streak of sweat from my forehead with the back of my gloved hand, looking at the row of lamps. We were halfway through.
Rayan was hunched over a workbench ten feet away, his usual polished humor replaced by a grim focus. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up just like Zayn, his forearms dusted in metallic grey. He was currently debating the finer points of "even pressure" with Zayn, who hadn't stopped moving for four hours.
"I'm telling you, Zayn, if you keep scrubbing that base like you're trying to find oil, you're going to hit the steel," Rayan grunted, not looking up.
"It's fine, Rayan. Just pass the grade-four wool," Zayn replied, his voice raspy from the dust.
I watched Zayn for a moment. He looked... wrecked. His white shirt was ruined, stained with oil and sweat, and there was a smudge of dark patina across his cheekbone. But there was something in the way he was working—without complaining, without checking his watch, without trying to "manage" us—that made my chest tighten.
"Alayna? Earth to Alayna?"
Zara nudged me with her elbow. She was sitting on a crate next to me, meticulously taping off the electrical sockets so we didn't get acid in the wiring.
"I'm here," I muttered, shaking myself out of it.
"You're staring," Zara whispered, a small, tired smirk playing on her lips. "He's actually doing it, isn't he? No suit, no ego. Just... sanding."
"He's fixing a mistake," I said, though the words felt defensive even to my own ears.
"He's fixing his mistake," Zara corrected quietly. "There's a difference."
She was right. The man who had walked into my house weeks ago with a contract wouldn't have been caught dead in a warehouse at 11:00 PM. This Zayn—the one with the bruised knuckles and the tired eyes—felt dangerously familiar.
"Okay, the first batch is ready for the acid wash," I called out, my voice echoing.
Zayn stood up straight, his spine popping audibly. He wiped his hands on a rag and walked over to my station. He didn't say anything, but he stood close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him.
"Show me how to apply the patina," he said.
I picked up the brush, my hands feeling heavy. "It's a chemical reaction. You have to be quick. If it stays on too long, it turns black. If you're too fast, it stays streaky. It's about... timing."
I started to apply the liquid to the brass. We both watched as the bright, garish gold began to deepen into a rich, antique bronze. It was like watching the library come to life in slow motion.
Zayn reached out, his hand hovering over the lamp, tracking the movement of my brush.
"It's beautiful," he murmured.
"It's what it was supposed to be," I replied, not looking at him.
"Sometimes the second attempt is better than the first," Zayn said. His voice was low, meant only for me, and for a second, the sound of Rayan and Zara bickering in the background faded away. "The first one is just instinct. The second one... that's a choice."
I paused the brush, the chemical hissing slightly on the metal. I looked up at him, and for the first time, I didn't see the CEO or the boy who left. I just saw a man who was exhausted, covered in dust, and trying—really trying—to bridge a gap that felt a thousand miles wide.
"Focus on the lamp, Zayn," I said, but my voice lacked its usual bite.
"I am," he whispered.
He didn't look at the lamp once.
"Hey! Romeo and Juliet! Less talking, more washing!" Rayan shouted, holding up a finished base like a trophy. "I want to be in a real bed before Eid actually arrives!"
The moment shattered. I turned back to the work, my heart hammering against my ribs. We still had twenty lamps to go, and the wedding was only days away.
But as I dipped the brush back into the acid, I realized the "prove it" wasn't a challenge anymore. It was happening.
The chemical scent of the patina was starting to make my head swim when my phone, sitting precariously on a wooden crate, began to vibrate violently. It wasn't just a text; it was a video call.
Nawal.
I pulled off my heavy rubber gloves, my hands shaking slightly from the effort of the last few hours, and swiped 'accept.'
Immediately, the screen was filled with the chaotic brightness of our living room back home. It was a jarring contrast to the dim, dusty shadows of the warehouse. My mother, Auntie Warda, and half a dozen distant cousins were visible in the background, surrounded by mountains of shopping bags and unfolded silk.
"Alayna! Where on earth are you?" my mother's voice shrilled through the speaker, loud enough that even Rayan stopped sanding to look over. "It's nearly midnight! The tailor has been waiting for two hours to check the hem on your Mehndi lehenga, and the jeweler called three times about the settings!"
"Mom, we're at the warehouse," I said, trying to keep my voice calm, though I could feel Zayn's presence behind me, gone still and silent. "There was an issue with the library shipment. We had to fix it."
"The library? Now?" Auntie Warda poked her head into the frame, her brow furrowed in disapproval. "Darling, the library will be there after the wedding. But your skin! You look gray! Are you in a shed? Zayn, are you there? Tell her she needs to come home immediately. The florist is coming at 7:00 AM to finalize the stage canopy!"
I felt Zayn step into the frame of the camera. He didn't look like the polished groom they were expecting. He was covered in metallic dust, his white shirt was a lost cause, and he looked exhausted.
"We're coming back as soon as the work is done, Auntie," Zayn said, his voice dropping into that firm, 'CEO' tone that usually ended arguments. "The library is for Waqas Sahab. It takes priority. We'll be back by morning."
"By morning?" my mother gasped, clutching a hand to her chest. "But the Dholki rehearsals! The guest list! Alayna, your cousins from Lahore just arrived, and they haven't even seen you yet!"
The screen was a blur of frantic energy—someone was holding up a gold necklace for me to see, someone else was arguing about the dessert menu, and my mother was listing a hundred things that 'had' to be done before sunrise. It felt like a tidal wave of expectations, crashing into the small, quiet space we had built here among the lamps.
"We have to go, Mom," I said, my heart sinking as the reality of the wedding roared back into focus. "I'll see you in a few hours."
I ended the call before she could protest further. The silence that followed was deafening.
The 'bubble' was gone. The outside world—the one with guest lists, gold jewelry, and a marriage that felt more like a public event than a private union—had just broken down the door.
Rayan let out a long, low whistle. "Well. Back to the 'War Zone' tomorrow, then."
I looked at the half-finished lamp in front of me, then at Zayn. The momentary connection we'd had over the acid wash felt fragile now, like it might shatter under the weight of all those bags of silk waiting for us at home.
"Don't look at the phone, Alayna," Zayn said quietly, picking up a sanding block and handing it back to me. "Look at the brass. We still have twelve to go."
I took the block. My hand was trembling, but as I met his eyes, I realized he was doing the only thing he knew how to do to protect me: he was giving me a job to do so I didn't have to think about the rest.