Bradford Nights
"Ayesha, a newly divorced doctor, returns to Bradford to escape London's memories. She doesn't expect to reconnect with Faisal, her childhood crush who's now a reformed bad boy running his father's textile business."
Bradford Nights
Coming back to Bradford felt like stepping into a time machine.
Ayesha Khan adjusted her designer sunglasses as she drove down Oak Lane, past the same shops that had been there since her childhood. The halal butchers, the mithai shops, the fabric stores with their glittering displays. Some things never changed.
Unlike me, she thought bitterly, touching the bare spot on her finger where her wedding ring used to be.
"Ayesha? Ayesha Khan?"
She turned at the voice, and her heart stopped.
Faisal Hussain stood outside his father's textile warehouse, looking nothing like the skinny troublemaker she remembered from school. The man before her was broad, bearded, and devastatingly handsome in a simple shalwar kameez that somehow looked better than any suit.
"Assalamu alaikum," he said, a smile playing at his lips. "Doctor Sahiba. Welcome home."
"So you're really back? For good?"
They were in his office above the warehouse, drinking chai from proper cups—not the paper ones she'd grown used to in London. Ayesha found herself relaxing for the first time in months.
"My taya needs help at the clinic. And I needed..." She paused. "A fresh start."
"I heard about the divorce." His voice was gentle. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He was a cheating kameena." The Urdu slipped out, and Faisal laughed—a rich, warm sound that made her stomach flip.
"There's the Ayesha I remember. The one who used to boss everyone around at Sunday school."
"I did not!"
"You absolutely did. And I loved every minute of it." His eyes met hers, suddenly serious. "I had the biggest crush on you, you know. All through school."
Ayesha's breath caught. "You never said anything."
"You were too good for me back then. The doctor's daughter and the gunda's son?" He shook his head. "Your father would have killed me."
"And now?"
The air between them crackled. Faisal stood slowly, moving around his desk until he was standing before her. "Now your father isn't here. And I'm not a gunda anymore."
"What are you then?"
He leaned down, his breath warm against her ear. "Whatever you need me to be, jaan."
It started with a kiss but became so much more.
Faisal's hands were calloused from real work—not like her ex-husband's soft, faithless fingers. They traced her curves reverently, pulling her kameez over her head with trembling restraint.
"Khubsurat," he breathed, looking at her. "So beautiful. I used to dream about this."
"Show me." Ayesha pulled him closer. "Show me what you dreamed."
He did.
His mouth was everywhere—her neck, her collarbone, the sensitive spot behind her ear that made her gasp. When he unhooked her bra, his groan was almost pained.
"I need to taste you," he said, lowering his head. "Ijazat hai?"
"Haan," she whispered. "Yes. Please."
His tongue on her nipple made her arch off the sofa. She'd never felt like this—wanted, worshipped. When his hand slid between her legs, finding her already wet, Faisal swore in Punjabi.
"Meri rani." He stroked her slowly, watching her fall apart. "My queen. That's what you are."
Ayesha came with his name on her lips, and before the aftershocks faded, he was positioning himself at her entrance.
"Are you sure?" he asked, the control in his voice fraying.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
He pushed inside her, and they both moaned. Faisal set a deep, rolling rhythm that hit every sensitive spot, his forehead pressed to hers.
"Look at me," he demanded. "I want to see you when you come again."
She couldn't have looked away if she tried.
"People will talk," Ayesha said later, wrapped in his arms on the sofa. "The divorced doctor and the reformed gunda."
"Let them." Faisal kissed her temple. "Bradford aunties have been gossiping about me for years. At least now they'll have something good to say."
"Your mother—"
"My mother has been asking when I'm going to settle down since I turned twenty-five. She'll be thrilled."
Ayesha laughed, but doubt crept in. "This is fast. We just reconnected."
Faisal turned her to face him. "Ayesha, I've waited fifteen years for you. I'm not waiting anymore. We can go slow, do this properly—I'll court you, win over your family, the whole thing. But I need you to know my intentions."
"Which are?"
"Nikah." The word hung in the air. "Eventually. When you're ready. Because I'm not letting you go again."
She kissed him, pouring everything she couldn't say into it.
Outside, Bradford's lights twinkled against the night sky, and somewhere in the distance, a qawwali played from a passing car. It felt like home.
The wedding happened eight months later, at the same mosque where they'd both attended Sunday school. The Bradford aunties talked for years about the beautiful doctor who'd married the textile king—and about how obviously, completely in love they were.