The Security Guard

The first note was on her desk when she arrived at 6am:

"You work too hard. Drink some water. —W"

Sana smiled despite herself. The night security guard—Waqas, according to his badge—had been leaving these notes for a week.

She started staying later, hoping to catch him.

"You're still here," she said, finding him on rounds at midnight.

"It's my job." He smiled. "You're still here too."

"Also my job." She hesitated. "The notes—thank you."

"You looked like you needed someone to notice." His eyes held hers. "I notice."

The midnight conversations became routine.

She'd take breaks; he'd find her. They'd talk about everything—her impossible cases, his poetry (he wrote, quietly), their shared experience of being Pakistani in spaces that didn't always want them.

"You're extraordinary," she said one night.

"I'm a security guard."

"You're a poet. A philosopher. A good man." She stepped closer. "The job doesn't define you."

"No?" His voice was rough. "What defines me?"

"How you see people." She touched his face. "How you see me."

They made love in her corner office—after hours, after defenses, after pretense.

"This is insane," Sana whispered.

"This is honest." Waqas held her close. "First honest thing I've felt in years."

He was gentle and intense, thorough and devoted.

"Meri jaan," he breathed, moving inside her. "I've wanted you since the first late night."

"Why didn't you say?"

"You're a lawyer. I'm a guard. It seemed impossible."

"Nothing's impossible." She pulled him closer. "Not anymore."

"My firm won't understand," Sana said afterward.

"Do they need to?"

"Eventually. When this is real."

"It's already real." He kissed her forehead. "Let me make it official. Properly."

The wedding was quiet—colleagues confused, family delighted.

He published his poetry eventually. She funded the first print run.

Best security she ever had.