Scene: Her Victory, His Smile – A Soft Evening
Later that day, under the fading light by the university lawn, Gul sat cross-legged on the grass, hugging her tea cup like it was a trophy.
Her eyes sparkled with mischief, cheeks flushed with joy.
She kept replaying the moment over and over, and every time she did, her grin widened.
"I flipped him like this!" she exclaimed, trying to imitate the move mid-sit, almost spilling her tea.
Rustamov raised a brow, arms folded, his back against the tree trunk beside her.
"You're going to throw your tea," he said dryly.
Gul giggled, tilting her head at him.
"You didn't help me. What if I messed up?"
He didn't look at her right away—just watched the sky for a beat.
"I knew you wouldn't."
She blinked, surprised by the rare softness in his voice.
Then she leaned in, whispering with a cheeky smile:
"So you were watching?"
A pause.
He turned his face slightly toward her, one corner of his mouth lifting.
"Always."
Her heart fluttered at the word—his voice low, certain, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Then she laughed again, playful.
"Next time, I'll take down two guys. Just wait."
He looked down at her small figure, still glowing with excitement, and for once—
Rustamov laughed.
It was quiet, deep—rare like a winter sun—and it made her freeze for a second, startled.
"You're dangerous now, Gulcha," he teased, using a soft nickname only he ever did.
"Maybe I need to train harder."
She beamed, brushing a lock of hair from her eyes.
"Yes. I might flip you next."
He handed her an almond from his coat pocket.
"Try."
...….
Scene: A Spar That Turns Into Something More
They met behind the dorms near sunset, where the grass grew wild and the trees gave shelter from wandering eyes.
Gul rolled up her sleeves, her eyes shining with challenge.
"Today… I win."
Rustamov stood still, hands behind his back, eyes calm but amused.
"You say that every time."
She moved first—quick, light on her feet like a breeze. He dodged effortlessly.
She tried again, this time mimicking one of the tricks he taught her—lower center, shift the weight.
But Rustamov was fast. In one smooth motion, he sidestepped, twisted, and caught her wrist gently—just enough to unbalance her.
With a soft yelp, Gul landed on the grass, and before she could blink—
He was above her.
Not touching. Just there.
Braced on either side of her, arms strong, body still.
Their breaths met in the space between.
Her heart raced.
Gul's eyes locked with his—those sharp eyes that commanded people, that turned cold as ice in meetings… now softened… intense.
A leaf fluttered between them.
She didn't move.
His hand slowly reached up… not to pin her.
But to gently push a stray lock of her hair back behind her ear.
"You almost had me," he murmured.
Her lips parted, the air thick between them.
"Rustamov…" she breathed.
He didn't kiss her.
But his face inched closer—just close enough to feel the warmth of each other's breath, the pull magnetic, the moment suspended in a quiet bubble of safety, tension, and emotion.
She blinked up at him.
"Why do you always let me fall?"
His answer came slow, steady.
"Because I like catching you."
He slowly rose, then offered her his hand—pulling her up with ease.
She stood there, breathless, cheeks flushed, hands still in his.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Then Gul looked up and whispered,
"Next time, I'll win."
Rustamov smirked.
"I hope not."
.....
Scene: A Trick with a Heartbeat
A few days later, they spar again—same place, same time, the golden glow of the sun filtering through the leaves.
Rustamov circled her with the usual calm air of a panther, arms crossed, waiting for her move.
But today, Gul was different.
She wasn't just determined.
She was planning something.
She lunged—he caught her.
She twisted—he blocked her.
Same dance, same rhythm.
Until—
She stumbled forward "accidentally," landing closer than intended.
Her face was near his chest, heartbeat wild.
And then—quick as lightning—she rose on tiptoe and pressed a soft kiss on his cheek.
Rustamov froze.
For the first time in all their sessions—he froze.
And in that moment of surprise, Gul slid her foot behind his, hooked it with precision—and with a small grunt, shoved her shoulder into him.
He went down.
Flat on his back. Eyes wide.
She stood over him, hands on her hips, cheeks red but proud.
"You said to use distraction."
Rustamov blinked up at her, stunned. His hand rose slowly to touch the spot on his cheek where her lips had landed.
His voice, when it came, was low—almost in awe.
"That's cheating."
She grinned.
"That's victory."
He stared at her for a long, silent moment… then let out a rare, deep laugh that startled even the birds above.
"Dangerous woman," he muttered, sitting up.
She offered her hand this time.
He took it.
.....
As Gul offered her hand with a playful glint in her eyes, Rustamov grasped it—but instead of rising, he pulled her in.
With one smooth motion, she tumbled forward—and landed softly against his chest. His arm locked around her waist, grounding her. She froze, stunned, as her palms pressed against the solid muscle of his chest, her breath caught between laughter and realization.
The teasing in her face began to fade, slowly replaced by something softer… something warmer.
Rustamov didn't smirk this time.
He looked at her—really looked at her. The playful fire in his eyes dimmed into a quiet, smoldering heat.
His thumb traced the curve of her waist through the fabric of her shirt, slow and steady.
"You kiss like it means something," he said quietly, his voice low against her temple.
Gul's breath hitched.
"Because it does," she whispered.
His other hand came up, fingers brushing her cheek, gently trailing along her jaw. The world stilled. Even the leaves above seemed to hold their breath.
"Say it," he murmured, lips near her ear. "If you mean it… say it."
Her eyes fluttered closed. Her heart thudded in her chest, wild and unguarded.
"I'm yours… Rustamov."
He leaned closer, their foreheads touching now.
No rush. No storm.
Just heat. And nearness. And truth.
And when his lips finally touched hers, it wasn't a demand—it was a claim, silent and sure.
A kiss not of hunger, but of gravity.
A seal of something that had always been written between them—in the quiet glances, the unspoken loyalty, the unbreakable thread.
—
The world faded.
The trees stood witness. The wind hushed, and even the shadows paused.
Rustamov's kiss deepened slowly—confident, controlled, yet unbearably tender. He wasn't a man of many words, but his touch… it spoke volumes.
Gul melted into him, her small hands clutching his shirt, fingers curling instinctively as if afraid he might slip away. Her breath trembled against his lips, and his hold on her tightened—not possessively, but protectively, like a fortress drawn around her.
He pulled back just a breath, resting his forehead against hers, eyes still closed.
"You are not just mine," he said, voice like velvet edged in fire, "You are me."
Gul blinked, tears threatening the corners of her eyes—but she smiled.
Her fingers found the side of his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw.
"And you… are the safety I never knew I needed."
He kissed her again—this time on the forehead. A sacred kiss. A quiet vow.
She curled closer, folding herself into his chest like a whisper. His cloak slipped off her shoulders, and he gently adjusted it around her, wrapping her like a shield.
They stayed there, tangled in warmth, the sky above beginning to turn a deep indigo, stars winking to life one by one.
Children's laughter echoed from the far tents. Somewhere, an old woman was singing softly near a fire. The scent of roasted meat drifted in the air.
But to Gul and Rustamov—there was only this.
This silence.
This certainty.
This moment that neither wanted to end.
He leaned down once more, lips brushing her ear, voice a gravel-soft murmur.
"Tomorrow, we train again."
She chuckled into his chest.
"Only if I get to win again."
He didn't laugh—but his arms around her pulled her just slightly closer.
"We'll see… little warrior."
—
The next day brought a strange unrest in Gul's chest.
It started in the university courtyard. Rustamov had arrived earlier than usual, standing near the IT building with a woman she hadn't seen before—tall, poised, speaking fluent Russian. She wore sharp heels and held herself like she belonged on magazine covers, not campus grounds.
Gul slowed, her breath catching as she watched.
The woman placed a hand casually on Rustamov's arm while laughing at something he said.
Rustamov didn't smile back—but he didn't move her hand either.
That small, insignificant detail sent a strange chill down Gul's spine.
She stood there, her books clutched to her chest, heart pacing fast and irrational. She knew how absurd it was—she was his wife. In nikah. The only one he'd ever softened for. The only one he'd kissed under the stars. But now… watching another woman touch him, stand so close…
It sparked something unfamiliar.
Jealousy.
Gul turned, walking away before she could even think. She skipped the study session. Skipped lunch. Even ignored his message: "Where are you?"
She sat alone in the library, pretending to read. But her mind spun.
He hadn't done anything wrong. She knew that.
But still… why hadn't he pulled away?
Just then—footsteps. Heavy. Familiar.
Rustamov.
He walked straight to her table and stood still, watching her.
"You ignored me," he said simply.
Gul didn't look up. She flipped a page in her book, voice tight.
"You were busy."
Silence.
Then, he moved. Sat beside her. His presence was unshakeable.
"You're angry."
"I'm not." Her voice cracked slightly.
Rustamov leaned closer. "She's no one. I didn't even let her finish her sentence before I walked away. She followed me. Not the other way around."
Gul's eyes finally met his. Wide. Accusing. Vulnerable.
"But she touched you."
His eyes darkened. Not with anger—something deeper. Sharper.
He reached out, slowly brushing his knuckles along her jaw.
"And no one touches me. Except you."
A pause. Then, like steel: "And I let it happen. Once. To see if you'd care."
Gul gasped. "You—what?"
His hand curled around hers under the table.
"I needed to know… if your heart was mine yet. Now I know."
Her lips parted, but no words came.
Rustamov leaned closer, whispering with a smirk, "Jealousy looks beautiful on you, little warrior."
—
Gul looked away quickly, hiding her face behind her book.
But her cheeks betrayed her.
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her lips—despite her best efforts. She bit it back, keeping her voice in a soft sulky tone.
"Still… it wasn't nice."
Rustamov leaned his elbows on the table, studying her with quiet amusement.
"Your smile is showing."
"It's not." She flipped a page with extra effort, still pretending to be upset.
"It is," he said, leaning in more, "Right here—" his finger reached out to tap just below her cheek, "—this little dimple gives you away."
Gul slapped his hand lightly, still not looking at him. "Stop it."
He chuckled—an actual laugh, rare and quiet, only for her.
She peeked from behind the book, eyes narrowed. "So you were testing me?"
"Yes."
"And if I didn't care?"
His jaw tensed slightly. His smile dimmed.
"Then I'd know where we stand." He said it without bitterness—just a quiet truth.
Gul lowered the book slowly, her expression softening.
"And now?"
He didn't say anything.
Instead, he reached out and gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, his touch lingering just slightly.
"Now I know you care."
A pause. Then, with that sharp glint in his eye again—
"And now you'll never escape me."
Gul tried to roll her eyes, but her smile broke through completely this time.
"I'm still upset, you know."
"Of course you are." He reached into his coat and pulled out something small—her favorite chocolate from the international store. He slid it across the table.
"Forgiveness?"
She snatched it, eyes twinkling.
"Maybe."
—
The air that evening was soft—drenched in the golden hue of a sinking sun, filtered through tall trees as Gul walked beside Rustamov along the quiet path just outside the university grounds.
It wasn't planned. Nothing with him ever really was.
He'd simply showed up after classes, handed her a scarf—her favorite pale blue, gently folded—and said:
"Wear this. We're going somewhere."
She hadn't asked where.
Now, wrapped in that soft scarf, her hand brushing against his as they walked slowly, Gul felt a strange peace bloom in her chest. The path was lined with early spring blooms, a few children's laughter echoing from somewhere in the distance. He walked like he always did—confident, silent, one hand in his coat pocket, the other occasionally reaching out to adjust her scarf if the breeze played with it too much.
"You never say much on these walks," she said, nudging him slightly with her shoulder.
"Because you say enough for both of us." He replied dryly, but the warmth in his voice gave him away.
She laughed quietly, eyes on the sky.
"It's nice though. Being quiet with you. Doesn't feel… awkward."
Rustamov glanced at her.
"Because we understand silence."
They walked a few more steps before she turned to him, hesitant.
"Do you do this often? Walks like these?"
He shook his head.
"No. Never."
That answer made her heart skip.
As they reached a small clearing, he stopped and pulled something from his coat again—a tiny glass jar. Inside, a single small candle. He lit it and set it on the bench they approached.
"What's this?" she asked, touched.
"A moment." He looked at her. "To remember."
Gul sat down slowly, the candle flickering gently between them.
A breeze passed. She pulled the scarf tighter and leaned her head slightly against his shoulder.
"So many girls dream of flowers and fairy lights." She murmured.
"And here I am, happy with a jar and a quiet man in the cold."
Rustamov turned his head just enough to let his cheek brush her hair.
"Because you were never like the rest."
A pause.
"That's why I chose you."
Gul closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the words sink in.
And in the gentle silence, surrounded by wind and the whisper of trees, they sat—
no grand declarations,
no crowds,
just a candle,
a scarf,
and two hearts finally beating in rhythm.
.....
The wind howled over the snow-covered ridges of the Caucasus mountains as Rustamov stood before his council, cloaked in black, the sharp angles of his face stone-cold in the firelight.
Three men knelt before him—blood between them, accusations flung like knives.
One had stolen from the tribe's winter stores.
Another had covered for him.
The third had been wrongly blamed.
Rustamov's eyes swept over them once. Just once.
No emotion. No hesitation.
"Truth," he said, voice deep, measured. "Is not a luxury. It is survival."
The accused spoke, voices shaky, trying to appeal to reason, to sympathy.
Rustamov lifted a hand. Silence fell like thunder.
He walked forward slowly, boots crunching over frost. Then he stood directly in front of the one who stole—the younger cousin of a respected elder.
"You jeopardized the food of children." His tone was level, cruelly calm.
"You thought blood ties would protect you. They won't."
He turned to his guards.
"Banishment for the season. Let him earn his place back. No shelter, no share."
The man paled. The elder rose, lips parting in protest.
Rustamov's cold stare pinned him in place.
"You raised a man with no honour. Accept your failure or leave with him."
No one spoke.
Then Rustamov turned to the one who lied to cover.
"Ten lashes. Public. Lies rot the core of a tribe."
And finally, the wrongly accused.
Rustamov extended a hand—pulling the man to his feet with quiet strength.
"Your name is restored."
Then to the council:
"And those who doubted him owe him a meal and their silence for a week."
The men around him nodded, some in awe, some in silent fear.
This was how Rustamov ruled: not with raised voice or dramatic flair—
but with undeniable presence.
His word was iron. His justice, swift.
And when he left the council tent that night, Gul—wrapped in a fur cloak—stood waiting outside, a soft contrast to his harsh world. He didn't say a word, but when she fell into step beside him, he let out the faintest breath…
The only softness he allowed himself.
...…
It was late evening in the valley, dusk casting a violet hue across the snow-peaked lands of Rustamov's tribe.
A sick child was brought before the council tent—burning with fever, unconscious, the mother sobbing into the edge of her shawl. The tribe's healer was away, and panic had begun to spread among the women.
Gul, standing beside Rustamov, felt her heart squeeze—but her feet didn't move.
The whispers began.
"She is a doctor, no?"
"She's his wife. Why isn't she doing anything?"
Rustamov remained silent, arms folded, watching her. Not pressuring. Not prompting.
It was her decision.
And Gul… stepped forward.
She knelt beside the child, checked the pulse, touched the forehead, opened her own satchel. Her voice was soft but steady as she began giving orders to the women around.
"Cool cloth, boiled water—now."
"Fan him gently. No smoke around him."
"Bring me the herbal pouch I left with the midwife."
Her hands trembled slightly at first—but when she looked up, she caught Rustamov's gaze.
Unmoving. Silent.
But the pride in his eyes steadied her. She breathed out, and from that moment, she didn't flinch.
She worked through the night.
The child's fever broke by dawn.
And as the sun rose, warm light touched Gul's face, tired but glowing. The child slept peacefully beside his mother.
The women of the tribe began to murmur her name with quiet reverence.
"She is not just his wife," one said, "She is one of us now."
And as Gul walked back to her tent, exhausted, she found Rustamov already there—waiting.
He didn't speak. He just looked at her, then reached out and brushed a stray hair from her cheek.
His hand lingered for a moment longer than usual.
Then he said, simply, "You stood like a lioness."
And for Rustamov… that was poetry.
....
Rustamov stood still, as always—like a mountain no storm could move.
But as Gul's soft voice trembled with honesty, her head lowered, he saw what few could: the brave heart beneath her quiet exterior. The vulnerability behind her strength.
She stepped closer, uncertainty shadowing her eyes.
"I was scared…" she whispered, barely audible.
"They don't know I study biology… not medicine…"
Her fingers gripped the edges of her cloak.
Rustamov's arms opened without a word, and Gul slowly stepped into them, like a leaf drawn to shelter in the wind. He wrapped her in his embrace—protective, warm, firm.
"They didn't need to know," he said softly, leaning his cheek against her hair.
"What they saw… was a healer. What I saw… was my wife not flinching."
Gul closed her eyes against his chest, breathing in the wild scent of leather and pine. Her heart beat fast, but not from fear now—from the safety she felt in him.
In that moment, she wasn't just the girl from Peshawar who married the cold leader of a Russian tribe.
She was his woman.
Respected. Strong. And loved silently… in the way only Rustamov could love.
...…
A soft golden dusk wrapped the valley as spring crept in, gentle and slow. Snow melted into streams, and the hills breathed again.
Rustamov and Gul walked side by side, not speaking—words had long stopped being needed. His large, calloused hand gently held hers, the same hand that had ruled with iron... now warm in hers.
The tribe watched them from a respectful distance. Children ran past with laughter, women offered shy smiles to Gul. The elders nodded at her now, not just because of him—but because of her.
Their fire burned every evening just outside their tent. She'd sit with a blanket around her shoulders, tea in her hands, and he'd join her, placing roasted almonds and Peshawari mithai by her side without a word.
Sometimes, she'd tell him small things—what flower she found, what herb cured the child's cough, how she saw a star shaped like a heart. And Rustamov would listen, eyes locked on her as though she was the only truth in his world.
And one evening, as the fire crackled, she leaned her head on his shoulder and whispered:
"I used to be afraid of you."
He smiled, rare and genuine.
"Good. It worked."
She laughed, swatting his arm. Then, quieter:
"But now... I can't imagine safety without you."
His hand slid to the back of her head, gently pulling her closer.
"And I can't imagine my world without your laughter in it."
Their journey was not perfect—but it was theirs.
The cold Russian leader and the warm-hearted girl from Peshawar.
And in that quiet valley where languages blended, hearts healed, and fires never died out—
They built a life of strength, warmth, and love.
The end.