Daisy

23| She/Her | Art acc: @pixelated-daisy

[pixelated-daisy]

Completed Valko commission artwork 💕

[blossomedfloweroflove]

Tagging some people that will love this!

@valkosdreams @valko-026 @valkoswolf

@navigatebetweenthelines @luminary-lotus @steviefrostbyte @teenytinyinkblot

@atomicwinnerdreamland @lovelyjasmari

@kill4ill @infin1ty-garden @cheriefrosting

[luminary-lotus]

OH MY GOSH! I LOVE THIS!!! THANK YOU FOR TAGGING ME @blossomedfloweroflove 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

[blossomedfloweroflove]

Oooooo I knew you'd love this one!!!

[luminary-lotus]

Guess what the art literally showed up on my fyp on insta today

[blossomedfloweroflove]

DID IT?!?!

[pixelated-daisy]

Completed Valko commission artwork 💕

[blossomedfloweroflove]

Tagging some people that will love this!

@valkosdreams @valko-026 @valkoswolf

@navigatebetweenthelines @luminary-lotus @steviefrostbyte @teenytinyinkblot

@atomicwinnerdreamland @lovelyjasmari

@kill4ill @infin1ty-garden @cheriefrosting

[atomicwinnerdreamland]

omg i'm so honored to have been tagged to this masterpiece. thank you :3

LOVE the details. the gloves are sultry as hell, and the fact that her hands are on his neck insinuates a sense of control i love so much in dynamics. beautiful! 💕

[blossomedfloweroflove]

Oh you got the details righttttttt. COME GIB ME KITH

[pixelated-daisy]

Completed Valko commission artwork 💕

[blossomedfloweroflove]

Tagging some people that will love this!

@valkosdreams @valko-026 @valkoswolf

@navigatebetweenthelines @luminary-lotus @steviefrostbyte @teenytinyinkblot

@atomicwinnerdreamland @lovelyjasmari

@kill4ill @infin1ty-garden @cheriefrosting

[luminary-lotus]

OH MY GOSH! I LOVE THIS!!! THANK YOU FOR TAGGING ME @blossomedfloweroflove 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

[blossomedfloweroflove]

Oooooo I knew you'd love this one!!!

[jennrypan]

More Valko and surprise!! My mc (finally drew her. Caleb kicking and punching the air rn cuz I drew her with Valko first lmao)

Anyways. I adore him and I wish some CN players weren't like actually insane and knew how to enjoy games normally.

[pixelated-daisy]

Completed Valko commission artwork 💕

[blossomedfloweroflove]

Tagging some people that will love this!

@valkosdreams @valko-026 @valkoswolf

@navigatebetweenthelines @luminary-lotus @steviefrostbyte @teenytinyinkblot

@atomicwinnerdreamland @lovelyjasmari

@kill4ill @infin1ty-garden @cheriefrosting

@idkmanimjusthorny

[abolitionistlawpluscoffee]

QAIDI - Chapter Ten

Trigger Warnings: discussion of death, past trauma, violence, crimes, mental health, grief

Notes:  Some of my law stuff is inaccurate. This fanfiction is not meant to glorify the real people, and is based on the characters and actors featured in Dhurandhar 1 & 2. 

TAGLIST: @maladaptive-anxiety @savagedrama @precioussophia @khlomoneyyyy4 @diyak11 @imrankaunbsdk @wackyaussiegiraffes

PSA: This chapter is shorter than usual (I'm sorry) but I kept it this way because I am trying to stretch the plot out through the chapters. Enjoy!

__________________________________________________________________________________

ANON POV: 

You sat in the dingy shop, filled with dust and creaky old chairs, and archaic fluorescent lights overhead. Aalam Doodh Soda was the last place you wanted to be on a Friday night, that too having to return to the slums of Lyari, but you had no choice. 

After seeing Y/N with Uzair Baloch and seeing the barely concealed lust in her eyes, coupled with the arrogant male smirk that could only mean one thing, you realized that you had to move quickly. 

You had managed to get a meeting with the infamous Hamza Ali Mazari and his second-in-command Rizwan Shah. 

Hamza sat in front of you with all the regality and ruthlessness of a gangster king and Rizwan stood behind him, all menacing muscle. Hamza was wearing a black coat, an expensive watch and heavy silver rings. Much like his namesake, he embodied the physicality of a lion in all ways. His hair was long and thick, and so was his beard. Behind him, Rizwan wore a characteristic sneer and a shoulder gun holster over a simple shalwar kameez. 

“So, thank you for meeting me here.” You started off conversationally. 

Hamza smiled at you, all but baring his teeth like a lion and leaned back casually. 

“Bataye, kya kar sakte hain hum aapke liye?” (What can I do for you?) He asked, his voice a low timber. 

“Actually, main yahan par aapse ek muahida karne aaya hoon.” (Actually, I’m here to strike a deal with you.) You replied. 

His eyes gleamed for a minute and then he gestured for you to continue. 

“Aap Lyari Task Force se bachna chahte hain. Aur mujhe kuch aur information chahiye Uzair Baloch ke case ki. Warna woh asaani se phir bahir aa sakta hai.” (You want to avoid LTF. And I want more information on Uzair Baloch’s case. Otherwise, he can easily be released.) 

“Tou?” (So?)

“Tou hum ek dusre ki madad kar sakte hain.” (So we can help each other out.) 

“Aur woh kaise?” (How so?) Hamza was playing with you, trying to feel you out. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of any reaction. 

Instead, you leaned back, mirroring his body language and smiled. 

“Yeh aap mujhe bataye, Hamza sahab. Aap kiya information de sakte hain mujhe? Kyunki Uzair Baloch ki rehai mujh se zyada aap ke liye nuksaan-baar ho sakti hain.” (You tell me, Hamza sir. What information can you give me? Because Uzair Baloch being released will be much more harmful for you than for me.)

Hamza and Rizwan exchanged a look. Hamza then looked back at you, looking you up and down deliberately. 

“Chahiye kuch bhi ho, woh bahir nahi nikal sakta.” (Whatever happens, he cannot be released.) He growled. 

“Aur iske insurance ke liye, aap mujhe information deengae.” (And in exchange for that, I will need information from you.)

“Aap kiya de sakte hain mujhe?” (What can you give me?) 

“Kya nahi, kaun. Main aap ko Amir Haider de sakta hoon. LTF ka naya ASP.” (Not what, but who. I can give you Amir Haider. LTF’s new ASP.)

“Usse mujhe kya fayda?” (What benefit could I get from him?) 

“He’s the brain and muscle behind the recent raids and operations all over Lyari.” 

“What about Omar?” Rizwan asked, the first time he’d spoken at all. 

“Omar is just a figurehead. He’s incompetent and weak. After SP Aslam, Amir Haider is the only real threat against you.” You said, matter of factly. 

Both Hamza and Rizwan shared another look. 

Hamza then leaned forward and asked you in a low voice. “Yeh sab kyun kar rahe ho?” (Why are you doing all this?) 

“I already told you. I want more to pin Uzair Baloch down.” 

“Nahi.” He said, looking you up and down again, a silent deliberation of your character. 

“This is personal for you.” 

You smiled in his face. “Sure, why not?” You said, deciding to entertain the newly politically crowned King of Lyari. 

“Yeh hai mere hisse ka muahida. Aap mujhe batayien yeh aapke liye kyun personal hai, aur main aapki madad karoonga.” (Here’s my share of the deal. Tell me why this is personal for you and I’ll give you whatever you want to pin him down.) 

You clenched your jaw, running through the logistics of the deal and the potential implications of agreeing to such a decision with one of the most infamous gangsters that Karachi had ever seen. 

“Manzoor hai.” (I accept). 

You could swear you noticed both Hamza and Rizwan lean closer to hear what you said next. 

“Amir Haider ki behen, Y/N Haider iss case ki lead prosecutor hai. Un dono ko ek dusre se pyar ho gaya hai. Aur yeh main nahi hone de sakta. I will not tolerate it. I will do everything in my power to make sure that Y/N prosecutes Uzair Baloch to the fullest extent of the law. I will see to it that he is put to death by any and all means necessary. Aur iss liye, tum dono ko Amir Haider ko marwana hoga.” (Amir Haider’s sister, Y/N Haider is the lead prosecutor for this case. She and Uzair have begun to fall for each other….And for this, you two will need to kill Amir Haider.) You spat, venom boiling in your veins at the image of Y/N smiling at Uzair, at the barely concealed admiration she held for that murderer. 

Hamza stared past you, the machinations in his mind already twisting and turning at the logistics of another targeted assasination of a high ranking LTF officer. Behind him, Rizwan remained stoic, but was that a small smirk he was biting back? 

“Aur agar kisi ne hum par shaak kiya?” (And if someone suspects us?) Rizwan asked. 

“Aap tou aise bhol rahe hain jaise aapne SP Aslam ka qatal nahi karwaya.” You couldn’t help but bite back. (You’re saying this like you weren’t the ones who had SP Aslam killed).

“SP Aslam Khan ki bohot dushman the. Kisi ne bhi unka qatal karwa diya hoga.” Hamza said slyly. You smirked, seeing right through his facade. 

“Jaisa aap bolein, waise main yaqeen karloonga. Main kon sa aapke khilaaf kuch karne aaya hoon. Mera sirf ek maqsad hain, Uzair Baloch ki phansi.” You said. (As you say, I will believe it. It’s not like I’m here to do anything against you. I only have one goal, and that is to have Uzair Baloch put to death.)

“Tou phir manzoor hai.” (Then, I accept). Hamza said, grinning at you with the look of a lion who had decided who its next prey was. 

“Amir Haider is a dead man walking.” He concluded. You laughed in agreement. 

UZAIR POV: 

You stared at the purple ribbon as you flipped it lightly through your fingers. Laying on your back on the cold, dank floor of the cell, usually you would be half-freezing throughout the night, but tonight none of the cold nor the reeking smell seemed to bother you. 

You hummed slightly to yourself, flipping the ribbon and smelling it before tying it to your wrist. It smelled like her. Like her. Your wakeel sahiba. Like the rose attar she wore and how it filled the air around her everywhere she went, intoxicating all those who were fortunate enough to smell it, even after she had left.  Sometimes, you would walk through the corridors and smell the lingering smell of attar in the air, a sign that she had passed by earlier and left her mark. She smelled like a dream come true, and you were too accustomed to nightmares to even consider an alternate possibility. 

You closed your eyes, and recalled how she looked earlier today when you had seen her, drenched in the rain but nevertheless present at the football game. The light purple suit that she wore hugged her figure gently, showcasing her beautiful curves and you had to dig your brain out of the gutter from all the thoughts it had every time you looked at her. She looked breathtaking…among other things that were too indecent for you to even admit thinking. You weren’t even sure if she would show up, but spotting her in the crowd made your heart somersault. 

She was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen in your life. Wild curls, a face that shone like the moon, an attitude so fierce she was like a tigress incarnate, a sorrow that never seemed to leave her eyes no matter how hard she tried to hide it, and the tender, shy side of her that had begun to come out the more she became comfortable with you. 

There was a strong clench in your gut. You didn’t deserve her. She was the people’s princess: well-educated, kind, generous and destined for great things. In front of her beauty, you felt like a penniless pauper, the uneducated and dirty street thug that you were. Being in her presence made you feel ashamed of yourself. You didn’t even feel worthy enough to meet her eyes to speak with her, and here she was blessing you with her smiles, laughter and even her kisses. After Rehman Bhai’s death, you had been engulfed in grief and anger, too blind to see anything beyond bloodlust. You had been too blind to see yourself being manipulated until it was too late. Until you were arrested in Dubai and sent back to Pakistan. It was a miracle that you had made it back alive. 

Even then, you were still barely alive. Barely living. All you had known your entire life was violence and poverty. You had grown up in a dog eat dog world, where the rule was to take and use before someone took and used you. You were born in dirt and violence, lived in it and were most likely destined to die in it. And you had no ambitions to pursue anything otherwise. 

Until she came into your life.

Had you met under different circumstances, in a different world, you would’ve been able to properly win her over with countless flowers, gifts and your undivided time and attention. But here in the  Karachi Jail Compound, you both lived worlds apart - a harsh reality you could never ignore. Even now, as you tried to find rest on the cold, dirty floor of your cell, you could imagine her sleeping on a bed of roses, wrapped in your shawl. 

You shivered as a gust of cold wind blew through the cell bars. That shawl was the only thing that gave you some semblance of warmth at night, but you didn’t regret giving it to her the night of the shayari event. Seeing her wrapped in your shawl ignited a feeling of raw, masculine ego in your chest. A warning to any other man who had the guts to look at her the wrong way that you would rip them apart, bone by bone and take your sweet time doing it. 

You huffed, and turned to your right side. A small rat squeaked and quickly ran by your fingers and you sighed. This rat was one of your many small, furry roommates. 

Uzair Baloch par yeh waqt bhi aana tha, you thought miserably. (I had to see this day as well). 

You closed your eyes and willed yourself to sleep. Wake up call was at 4am, and then the harsh realities of your world began again. The only thing that kept you alive was the possibility of seeing her. 

You feel asleep to the phantom smell of attar and the softness of her curls in your hand, clutching her ribbon to your chest. 

—--------

YN POV: 

You awoke to the soft sound of birds chirping  and the Fajr adhan. The sun was creeping up the horizon, and bright rays of sunlight gently caressed your face. 

You had fallen asleep on the balcony adjacent to your bedroom, curled up in your patio chair clutching the letter Uzair had given you a week ago against your chest, and snug in his shawl. The flowers from Maryam’s garden below had been thriving in the weather, and the long vines had sprawled against the wall of the house, slowly making their way to your balcony. Thus, your balcony smelled like fresh flowers. 

One cute little Blue Jay came to sit on your balcony, close to your foot and chirped loudly, catching your attention as you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. You smiled and gently put your finger in front of it, hoping it would step onto you. 

Instead, it gave you a look, nipped at your finger and flew away, clearly disappointed at the lack of food. Despite yourself, you laughed and got up.

You had been doing that a lot nowadays, smiling to yourself and laughing at every small thing. At times, you felt like a child again. 

As you headed inside, you smelled the letter again before clutching it against your chest. It smelled like him. Like musk, smoke and a male arrogance untouched by the brutality of imprisonment. 

It was Monday morning. You hadn’t seen Uzair for nearly a week after the football game, and found yourself seeking excuses to even go down to the jail compound to catch a glimpse of his figure. But today, you had a valid reason to be at the compound - administrative meetings for your rehabilitation programs. 

You took diligent care to get ready this morning. After showering and praying Fajr salah, you wore your best casual shalwar kameez, a light yellow that complemented your figure, dried and styled your hair in a way that complemented your face shape, and wore light make up to cover up your blemishes and undereye bags. You also took the time to wear a different attar than your typical rose attar, something you only wore occasionally and hadn’t worn in over a year. 

When you headed downstairs for a quick breakfast before heading out, Maryam was already sitting at the table, feeding an energetic Shahmir some banana slices, while Zobia bhabhi brought in parathas. Right behind her, Amir brought in a huge jug of lassi, sat down, pulled Shahmir into his lap and began to eat. Your Baba, it appeared, was still asleep. 

“Good morning, everyone!” You chirped, sitting down next to Maryam and grabbing a paratha. 

“Good morning.” Everyone responded, slowly getting used to your positive mood. 

You were about to take a bit of your breakfast when Maryam nudged you with her elbow. 

“What?” You hissed. 

“Kya baat hai? Aaj kal tou tum bohot hi muskura rahi ho.” (What’s going on? You’re smiling a bit too much these days). She said with a suspicious look in her eyes. 

“Kuch nahi. Bas nashta kar rahi hoon.” (Nothing. I’m just having some breakfast). 

“Kuch tou hai. You have that creepy smile on your face.”

“What smile? I have no creepy smile.” 

“Yes, you do. It’s that smile we see love-sick fools wearing in these cheesy Bollywood movies.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Maryam kept staring at you suspiciously, and then looked you up and down. 

“And you’re wearing your best outfit, sali. Mujhse jhooth maath bol!” She whispered, stabbing your hand with a fork. (Don’t lie to me!)

“Ouch! Kya kar rahi ho?!”  (What are you doing?!)

“Tum jo kuch bhi chupa rahi ho, uska main pata lagwa loon ghi. Don’t worry.” (I will find out whatever you’re trying to hide). She narrowed her eyes on you. You rolled your eyes at her insinuation. 

“Nayab ka bhooth tumhare dimaag se utarna hoga.” She hissed. (I shall have to remove Nayab’s thoughts from your head.) 

“Kyun? Tum jal rahi ho?” (Why? Jealous?) You asked. You felt guilty letting everyone believe that your positive mood was because of Nayab, while you were daydreaming of another man, albeit forbidden, but you couldn’t risk the alternative. 

“Main kyun jaloon gi? Jhaleen mere dushman!” She yelled in lower case. (Why would I be jealous? May my enemies be jealous!) 

You smirked and were about to retort when Zobia called you out from across the table. 

“Tum dono kya subah subah ghis ghis kar rahi ho?” She asked from the other side of the table, pouring Amir and herself tall glasses of lassi before sitting down. (What are you two up to early in the morning?)

“Kuch nahi.” (Nothing). Both of you said in unison. 

Amir laughed. “Phir tou bilkul hi koi garbar hone wali hai.” (Then you’re definitely up to something). 

“Bhai, yehi karti hai sab shaitaaniyan. Maine tou kuch nahi kiya.” You said. (Brother, she’s the one doing all the mischief. I didn’t do anything). Zobia suppressed a laugh. 

“Bhai kaam par jaiyien, tou phir mein dekhati hoon tumhe meri shaitaniyan.” Maryam teased, glaring mockingly at you. (Let brother leave for work, then I’ll show you some real mischief).

Having understood the very real threat of sisterhood mischief, you silently ate your breakfast, while Maryam shot a mock glare at you and Zobia and Amir laughed at your antics. Shahmir babbled, nibbling on the pieces of paratha with his baby teeth. 

—--------------------

You were on your way out of the courthouse and to the jail compound for your bi-weekly meetings when you ran into Asif. 

“Oho! Happy Monday! Kahan ja rahi ho?” (Where are you going?) He asked, holding an iced coffee cup in one hand, and a stack of files in the other. His glasses were hanging off the tip of his nose and the sleeves of his shirt were tugged up. 

“Jail. Program meetings ke liye.” (To the jail for program meetings). 

“Acha. You know the press conference is later today, right?” 

“Yes. I should be back by then. Amir told me their raid over the weekend was successful.” You said, leaning forward and gently pushing Asif’s glasses up his nose. 

“Thank you.” He murmured. “Okay. Main wait karoonga tumhara.” (I’ll wait for you). 

 You nodded your head at him and began to leave, before he grabbed your arm. 

“Acha sun. There’s rumors going around.” He said in a low voice. 

You furrowed your eyebrows. 

“About?” 

“About you. And Uzair Baloch.” 

“What do you mean?” You felt your heart begin to race anxiously. 

“Apparently, someone saw you and him at the football event a week ago.” 

“Tou? Hum baat hi tou kar rahe the.” (So? We were just talking, nothing else). 

He gave you a look. “Lekin tumhe pata hai ke yeh koi aisa-waisa qaidi nahi hai. Log tarha tarha ki baatein kar rahe hain.” (But you know this isn’t some regular-shmegular prisoner. People are making up all kinds of stuff.)

“Look, I appreciate your concern Asif, but really, it’s nothing.” You said, shrugging off his hand. 

“Tum meri behen jaisi ho, aur tumhare bare main mein koi aisa buri baatein bardashat nahi kar sakta. So, please. Just, be safe.” He said, rubbing your shoulder softly. (You’re like a sister to me, and I can’t bear to hear such horrible things being said about you like this.) 

You placed your hand on his in reassurance. 

“I know. Don’t worry, aisa kuch nahi hai. Let people talk.” 

He nodded, but doubt still filled his eyes. 

“I’ll be back soon.” You said, and turned to leave. 

As you walked to the jail compound, you couldn’t help but heed Asif’s warning. He was right. And even though you hated to admit it, there was some truth to whatever rumors going around about you and Uzair.

You had to be careful. Very careful. Any inkling of Uzair’s name being associated with yours could tarnish your reputation. 

You wondered who this person was, who had seen you and Uzair that day, and had begun to spread such heinous rumors. 

—--------------------------

You had just wrapped up all of your administrative meetings and chose to walk intentionally slowly, using the long way out of the facility, hoping to catch a glimpse of Uzair. 

Waiting until all of the teachers, program advisors and administrative staff left the room, you gathered all your belongings and headed out. 

You hummed to yourself, curling a strand of your hair as you walked. The hallways were mostly empty, as everyone was either in court, in the facility programming class or on lunch break.

As you turned a corner to go past the courtyard, you saw an ongoing football match. Lo and behold, Uzair was in the center of the game. As soon as he spotted you, he called for a time out and walked over to you. He was back to wearing the standard jail uniform, and you could see your purple ribbon tied to his wrist. You smiled at him, but remembering Asif’s earlier words, gave him a professional nod and kept walking. 

He looked confused at your change of behavior and as you walked away, he started to recite a ghazal aloud solemnly. 

Bohot ajeeb hain yeh bandishen mohabbat ki (The limits of love are very weird)

Na usne qaid mein rakha, na hum faraar hue (Neither was I kept as a hostage, nor did I run away). 

You felt tears well up in your eyes at the tenderness of his voice and quickly started to blink them away. You hated ignoring him. 

You didn’t want to be so selfish as to assume that it was about you, and briefly turned to him.

“Kaise hain aap, Mr. Baloch?” (How are you?) You asked, maintaining a respectful distance from him. 

“Theek. Aap suniye?” (Good. And you?) He said, crossing his arms across his chest. Sweat gleamed across his forehead, and some droplets trickled down his neck and down his chest. You could see his chest hair peaking out of his brown kameez, and quickly averted your gaze. 

“Alhamdulilah.” You smiled tightly at him, scanning the courtyard. Other players were waiting around, while some were doing stretches and others were drinking water. 

“Tou mujhe kab milna hai mera inaam?” He asked cheekily. (When will I receive my reward?) 

“Woh, Uzair, abhi main aapko milne nahi aa sakti.” You told him honestly. (I can’t come meet you anytime soon). 

“Kyun?” (Why?)

You stepped closer to him and lowered your voice. 

“Kisi ne humien dekh liya tha, uss din.” You confessed. (Someone saw us that day). 

“Tou?” He furrowed his eyebrows, looking confused. (So?)

“Tou log tarha tarha ki baatien bana rahe hain. Humare baare mein.” You looked down at your feet, shame washing over you. (So people are spreading rumors. About us.) 

He went silent. After a moment, he looked at you again. 

“Main samajh gaya.” (I understand.) He said. 

“Yeh mere bhaas ki baat nahi hain, Uzair.” You whispered solemnly. He turned away, but looked back at you. (This is out of my control, Uzair.) 

“Agar baat sirf meri hoti, tou mujhe koi parwa nahi thi. Lekin agar baat apki aur aapke izaat ki hain, tou main uss par koi aanch nahi aane doonga.” (If it was only about me, I wouldn’t have cared. But because it is about you and your reputation, I will not let it be hurt in any way). 

With that, he turned and jogged back to the center of the field. The game immediately resumed. 

You watched him for a moment, memorizing his face and figure before leaving. 

You would lay low for awhile, but now that your heart had begun dancing to a different rhythm, nothing could stop you from being with Uzair. 

[valkosdreams]

I got commissioned to draw you Valkoooooooo! I will post it on my art account when I'm done and tag you🤭✨️🩷

Damn lil wolfie, you got really good skill, yeah howl at me, I want to see how good you make me look >:3

[pixelated-daisy]

💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

Commissioned fanart of Nanami Kento ♡

Want to get something commissioned? DM me!

[blossomedfloweroflove]

Tagging some of my favorite authors who would be delighted to see this

@makismei @chastiefoul

@reveries0fmine @mysteria157

@hidingwhere @nanamisleftcheek

@loreshonour @reallyreis @aquasprings

@mochiqa @sinkuna @t0jisbunny

[pixelated-daisy]

💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

Commissioned fanart of Nanami Kento ♡

Want to get something commissioned? DM me!

[blossomedfloweroflove]

Tagging some of my favorite authors who would be delighted to see this

@makismei @chastiefoul

@reveries0fmine @mysteria157

@hidingwhere @nanamisleftcheek

@loreshonour @reallyreis @aquasprings

@mochiqa @sinkuna @t0jisbunny

[rutvii]

୨ৎ ˚.・𝑀𝒶𝒽𝒾 ・.˚ ୨ৎ

UZAIR X Daughter!MAHI X Wife!READER

Sypnonis-Uzair is a ruthless gangster till he had to go through the difficult task of dropping his daughter off at the first day of school a/n-idk how to write fluff bear with me warnings - none slightly suggestive content at the end ig (very bad jokes),crack fic

Uzair’s life had been the same blundering evenings he spent out with his friends, uncaring of the time that reflected on his wrists doing all the shenanigans he could with his equally crass friends, life was perfect to him before his reality changed from one word from his brother 

“ Umar ho gayi hai ab teri, Ulfat aur mai ladki dhundh rahe hai tere liye” 

And the first true discernment that his world wasn't going to be same ever was when he saw you sleeping against his chest after the wedding night,felt your deep breaths graze the skin right over his heart , tracing the indentation of the heavy jewellery left on your neck so reverently as if he had known this body all his life. 

All the time he wasted outside getting drunk and on hooligans was cut short, he had fixed time to come home or face the wrath of his wife; you. And for someone who spoke with guns and violence all his life he could confirm his wife pouting at the very other side of the bed was more dangerous than any of the work Rehman had handed him. 

The second shift, that tilted the axis of life, was 2 years after the wedding. After tons of  ‘ Bache paida karo bhai bache paida karo’ that  acted as a catalyst to the already -way overly attracted to his wife -Uzair as an excuse to devour you more than needed.

 He had expected himself to love his wife (duh) the day he saw her, saw you sitting in between your parents, your lips pressed together in a shy smile, hands fiddling at the front, bored by the familiar setting he had seen one too many this was 10 proposal he was attending to after rejecting all before them ,only to be thrown off completely when you winked at him when your parents had become occupied with Rehman and Ulfat’s ‘grown ups’ talk. 

And now he was here

The hospital air was sterile as expected, washed over and over till each corner was burning white, the newborn wailing was on everyone’s lips and eyes, becoming the center of attention but the first thing Uzair did was rush to you, laying weak but awake in the hospital bed, 

“ Dekha aapne?”

 You asked, watching him take your shaky frail hands to kiss his lips with all devotion, “  Nahi..” He whispered against your clammy palm, 

“ Phele mujhe apni jaan ko dekhna tha”

 “Mujhe toh aap vaise bhi har roz dekhte hai”

 Uzair shook his head matching your feeble smile, his eyes sunken from waiting outside awake the whole night, you ruffled his head lovingly and he understood you needed him closer. He pressed his forehead against yours 

 "Tum ne boht acha kiya meri jaan, I am so proud of you. Tum sach mein boht strong ho iska aadha dard bhi mai nahi jhel pata..meri jaan ab bas aaraam karo”

 Only when your tears dried and heartbeat became steady did he ask 

“ Ladka hai ya ladki?” 

He asked blinking slow, his eyes looking strangely different without the signature soorma but more brighter than you had ever seen them even with all the weariness that they wore.

 “ Aapki kismat thodi kharab hai Uzair miyan, ladki hui hai” you joked fully aware he would be happy with both, but you knew Uzair really wanted a boy to play football with its what he told you but you knew it was because he believed he would not be able to handle the softness of raising a daughter, and that second shift was when he first took his daughter from Ulfat’s careful hold in his, he was in love. 

She was still crying when he held her, her face scrunched up face turning red with cries when Uzair whispered in disbelief he didnt know he could have loved something this much “ Ya allah” his breaking voice was familiar to her from all the times he had spoken to your bump,  stopping her cries against his chest, breathing deep with drool gathering at her lips much like his mother in sleep, one single tear drop unchecked ran down his cheek.

“Mahira”

He whispered turning back to look at you,

“ Kya?”

You asked back still half dazed

“ Mahira, meri Mahira”

You just rolled your eyes watching that stubborn look on his face, he wasn't going to change his mind, you beckoned with your fingers and he came running like he always did. Others left the room leaving you both to yourselves, You shifted making space beside you “ Light off karo tabhi voh aankhe kholegi” He nodded obeying to your command even though he didn't understand it, his eyes focused on the newborn’s face the way her nose beaked, one side of her cheek more sunken than the other and the thick set of eyebrows he looked like him, just like him.

 Once the lights were off, only the afternoon sun made its way to illuminate the room through the unveiled windows casting long shadows in a quiet room that echoed with mechanical beeps and the baby’s breathing and cries as she shifted finally opening her eyes to him, they were like yours big and blinking at him.

For the first few months Uzair carried her around as if she was made of glass, protecting and keeping her at a arm distance from Faisal’s and Naiem hands at all cost, you had caught him soaking into her new born warm milk, vanilla-isc smell whenever you entered the room, and you trusted him to be precautious with her owing up to how overly protective he was, and that he had given up smoking in the house all together- only to be utterly betrayed to find him throwing her in the air one random evening when you decided to enter the room more quietly than usual , her head dangerously close to ceiling as she let out of toothless giggles equally entertained as her dad, her dad who flinged her in the air. 

“UZAIR!”

She laughed even more clasping at his hair, clapping her chubby hands together as the scolding ensued, “ Agli baar meri beti ke saath aise uut patang harkat karte hue maine dekh liya na toh mai aapko jinda nahi chorungi” That warning never worked and over time the stunts got worse and to your surprise the man you found the most credible in the house, your Rehman bhai was caught doing the same skulduggery at this point you were convinced it ran in the blood. 

                                    ∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

Mahira was waddling behind her dad telling her about her day in her incoherent voice blabbering around, “ Baba-baba” She squeaked, and needless to say his men were entranced by the chubby ball that even momentarily scared Rehman at times walking exactly like Uzair for when he was drunk, “ Baba- godi” She slapped her palm at his pant, “ Ji Mahi” He picked her up carefully but effortlessly making her seat on her forearm, she was in the bear onesie that Uzair had insisted for you to buy and keep making her wear the same thing because its adorable to watch her face peek out from between the brown fur, her lips puckered up watching him curiously  “ Aapne khaana kha liya?” She nodded quickly her chubby cheeks puffed up and flapping understanding the broken words easily at 9 months old, and Uzair smirked showing her off with an expression that screamed ‘Meri biwi ne dilaya hai’ 

“ Hello bol ke dikhao Mahira” Her eyes widened at the familiar word reaching out and shaking her hand at the men who were never gathered around her in a small circle, watching her with so much importance and impressive now mixed with admiration like they hadn't seen somebody wave to them their whole life, only increasing the puff of Uzair chest,

 “ Yeh kaun hai Mahi?” While Hamza knew all the truth most acquainted with the haveli and after spending all his time here he knew all the truth to Mahira speaking and teachings and wasn't going to let down a chance to pull Uzair’s legs, he pointed at Uzair asking the same question, 

“Baba” She blabbered out again , “ Aur Aur?”  Hamza prompted  “ Pagal” She replied back proudly pointing at her dad, it turns out Mahi is calling Uzair all of the things she had heard you call him and the most common one being pagal. “ Yeh gande uncle hai inse baat nahi karte” He scowled trying to stop her from taking to Hamza only to be distracted when she started leaving kisses on his face waiting for him to tell her he is proud of her, meanwhile his men were going more interested to what Hamza was trying to prove, 

“ Aur aur?” 

“ UZAIR”

 she tried repeating your tone now, the one you would use to call him when he has done something to tick off your nerves, which was a very common occurrence with him and his men finally understood what was happening, and laughed out loudly helping her more  “ Aur Aur?” 

“ Uzzi” Uzair ears flushed red trying to shush her daughter

“ Aur Aur?” 

“Baby kissie”

she said out brazenly making his men choke on their laughter and Hamza just passed Uzair a sly smile that said  ‘ My Zayan’s smarter’ 

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Uzair's biggest heartbreak till now was watching her daughter cry because of him, he had returned home early to play with her and pulled her into his lap the second he saw her to realise later that she was sniffling, her head facing away from him, angry. “ Kya hua Mahi?” He tickled her stomach but she didn't budge, making him worry more, “ Baat nahi karoge abbu se?” He tried biting her cheek but she didn't let him , “Kya hua? Jaanu kya hua hai isse” 

he called out for you, you huffed pulling off your dupatta and discarding it on the bed the view still enough to make his breath catch, “ Dimaag kharab kar diya hai isne subah se, phele Faisal ki copy faad di, fir kabse naye teddy ke liye roye jaa rahi maine toh chor hi diya bahut nakhre karte hai” “ Aakhir beti kiski hai”He joked watching you move across the room lovingly, the way you hissed when your flicks fell forward in your face looking more prettier when you were angry 

 “I am serious Uzi, aise hi chalta raha toh yeh kisi ki baat nahi sunegi” 

“ Aapki ammi toh kuch bhi bolte rahti hai kya chaiye meri gudiyan ko?” Her ears shot up ready to bombard her father with demands, “ Naya teddy…ice cream..aur aur” She tried remembering the words her little face scrunching up, “  Uzair aapko pata bhi hai kya kiya hai isne aaj?”  “ Kya kiya?” “ Gun uske kari isne” “ KYA?” 

“ Haan ek toh yeh faisal badmaash hai apne baba ki gun leke khel raha tha, usne isko gun nahi di thi copy faad di aur fir gun bhi le li aur shoot bhi kar diya, kabse sab itne tension mei hai aur isse abhi bhi zidd karni hai”

Uzair looked back at her face as she tried to still continue her demands playing innocent, what she didn't expect was that stern look from her dad and him putting her off her lap, 

“ Baba-” “No”

 he said firmly pulling away from her, she went once again tugging at his pants with a cute whine but to be ignored by him , 

“ NO Mahira”  

It stinged her deeply to hear no word from her dad, he has never ever used that tone on him and almost immediately she started bawling her eyes out, at first it was staring at him teary eyed then it became full on sobs. For Uzair to see tear in those eyes and in pain was like watching you cry and his heart wasn't made to withstand that he was putty when it came to his wife and daughter, he picked her up and that evening returned Mahira returned home with a hand full of cup ice creams and a teddy bear double her size tucked into his bicep. 

( imagine what Uzair was going through when she was teething earlier) 

                                   ∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘ 

  The air in the house was chaotic as usual but it had heightened more today turning into a jumble since it was Mahira's first day of school, you had pressed her uniform with precision putting her small frame into the equally small shirt and layering it with the bubbly pink over skirt, Ulfat dabbed a diabolical amount of kohl behind her eyes to ward off evil, Rehman was giving her a ted talk and she was getting tossed from one carry to another, currently in Rehman’s trained hands 

“ Koi bhi school mei pareshan karega toh apne bhaiya ko batana” She squinted her eyes at both of her supposed ‘protectors’ and decided she was her own saviour, “ Its okay bade abbu chill” she could barely pronounce the words but she said them anyways, “ Yes.. I am chill” Rehman said clearing his throat

Uzair moved differently from the atmosphere the gloominess as evident and clear as day, “ Y/N mai gaadi nikaal raha, Mahira ko leke aajaana” 

“ Meri bacchi” Rehman muttered lovingly assailing her with kisses that were soon joined by chachi as well, “ Bas bas” she jumped off running to you 

You sat in your destined passenger seat making her recall all the basics you had already told her ten times, half turned into the backseat 

“ Bottle hai na?” 

“Ammi baba ka number yaad hai na? If not revise it Mahi and aapke bag pe bhi likha hai”

“ Koi pareshan kare toh direct teacher ko batana hai and agar teacher na sune toh bhaiya ko, bhaiya ki class second floor pe hai okay?” she sighed nodding 

“ Koi ladka kuch bolega toh mujhe batana” that's all Uzair had to add to the conversation, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. 

It was march end, the summer heat was invading and breaking through the winters, the trees leaves anew you yourself were feeling teary eyes walking her to the door, kneeling by and telling all that she needed to near,

“ You are a brave girl Mahi okay, only three hours fir mama aapko lene aa jayegi”

She nodded looking comically unbothered, Uzair hadn’t intercepted one standing leaned against the door, his arm crossed over his chest, jaw shut tight with held in emotions. 

“ Baba bye”

She waved cutely and Uzair let out a ugly,nose reddening cry before breaking into absolute tears, both of your head shot up in synchrony watching him like he had grown a second hand and Mahira was unimpressed totally unimpressed,

“ Uzair bas its okay”

You whispered confused yourself at over the emotional breakdown,

“ Chalo bye toh bol do”

You dragged him to the door and he still has not stopped crying yet. 

“ Mahi..bye”

He kneeled down kissing her forehead cupping her face with his shaky hands, and Mahira was only a toddler, still three going on four she wasn't going to be untouched from the realisation of staying away from house, and her world won't be her house and the people she knew anymore and seeing the pain on her father’s face made her cave breaking into a childish cry going to clinging at her father’s shoulder. “ Mera baccha Mera baccha” 

Uzair eyes were still blurry with tears and you had to drive ,constantly assuring him that it was just three hours and barely a big deal, but to Uzair all he could see that his baby who couldn't even support her head was now walking and going to school, a girl who couldn't live without pampering how will she face the world , in Uzair’s world there was no time for him to be a kid all his childhood was spent in blood and crime and he could not bear the same for his Mahi, not at all he never wanted the harshness of the world to touch her ever.

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By the time you both reached home, his cries subsiding into soft sniffles you poked fun of his blotchy face a few times before pulling him into a hug,

“ Aap itna kabse rone lage”

he said nothing pulling you tighter, crushing your chest with his burying his face in the crook of your shoulder, inhaling your scent deeply

“ Mujhe ek aur Mahi chaiye”

“ Uzair kya bol rahe hai aap”

“ Ek ladka..nahi ladka nahi varna Faisal aur Naiem jaise ho jayega ek aur ladki chaiye” You slapped at his chest chuckling, “ Pagal” “Mai majaak nahi kar raha” You pulled back a little to the serious look of his face, “ Uzzi no” You shook your head, but Uzair hands moved faster sweeping you off the floor in one go, you yelped hands going to his biceps but he wasn't stopping till he had carried you into your room, put you in bed.

a/n- bleh i know I should have posted this in the morning but I said today so aaj hi post kardiya, hope you all like it!!

@laal-pari @gulaabjamun08 @blossomedfloweroflove @precioussophia @gehra-hua @dollyskinsblog @debsreads21@crimsontraditiongolem @anxiousbeeing @stoicepochmaw @sea-breeze-in-my-hair, @yourindianbabydoll @twinblueflamee@cloudyparadoxqueen @prettylady2006 @maroonphase @mujhekoimarsbhejdo @chai-ke-sath-parleg @carbonaramarinara @shadyalpaca13 @readerhahahaidk @sahaar @mai-apni-favorite-nahi-hoon @idonthavechatpateusernamed @granddynamonovajbvgjjj @manniexo @thepjnight @m3hr33n33 @chocolate-and-trouble @abolitionistlawpluscoffee, @neelom @rini4everdreaming @mynotesapptbh @goodnightkatherine @doesntmatteryawwrr @heavenlit-34 @hcneymark @itstiaofficial @lucidtempesthoe @persephone990 @adityami @ppinkitten @carbonaramarinara @prettylady2006 @foolishlyradiantshrine @rabbdaradio @uzairpagluuuu @rehmanhatesdosa @work-of-procrastination @blossomedfloweroflove

[pixelated-daisy]

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💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

Commissioned fanart of Nanami Kento ♡

Want to get something commissioned? DM me!

[pixelated-daisy]

💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

Commissioned fanart of Nanami Kento ♡

Want to get something commissioned? DM me!

[mainyahaankyunhoon]

Abbu Se Pooch Ke Aao!

Uzair baloch x reader *⁠.⁠✧

This one shot is my entry for the 'Dhurandhar secret santa gift exchange' event by @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange !!You are a diva for organizing this event!! Kudos to you🌷🥳

Prompt by and written for @hereforfanfictionsfr 💜 a little birthday gift from my side! Happy birthday little love! (I'm sorry if I strayed away from the prompt or if it is too short😭)

Drunk! Uzair flirts with Wife!Reader, forgetting that they are married

Special thanks to @obsessedwidskincare as always! She was the plotter and I'm the potter! Do I need to say more? This blog is a joint venture at this point And @twinblueflamee the OG for helping me through the ending 😭 you're the divaaa

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. IT IN NO WAY OR FORM ROMANTICIZES, PROPOGATES OR JUSTIFIES THE ACTS OF CHARACTERS OR ANY REAL LIFE PERSONALITY. IT IS SOLELY WRITTEN IN CONTEXT OF THE CHARACTERS OF THE MOVIE.

The evening was painting the sky in all the shades of blue, pink and purple- reflecting it through the long french windows of the house, illuminating the large decorated hall the same way the backyard was. String of yellow pastel light bulbs lined the backyard, large tables filled with fresh fruits, snacks and several types of breads and starters. You watched it from the windows of your room. Your room looked a bit different with the black out curtains that you had gotten changed from light pastel georgette floral because while you liked filtered sunlight in your room before, now you preferred blackout curtains because Uzair preferred it and you wouldn't admit but it got you a WAY better sleep than before. Just as you were reminiscing about the old times and all the changes that happened till now, you felt two hands tugging you back into their chest. Forearms were crossed under your breasts and his chest and breath was warm against the nape of her neck.

“Kya dekh rahi ho?”

“Bas sab taiyaariyan theek se hai ki nahi. Kahan the tum?”

“Junaid ke saath tha. Keh raha tha tumne aate hi usse jagda kar liya? Jab tum us ghar hoti ho toh har lamha usse yaad karti ho aur jab yahan aati ho toh dono bas jagate rehte ho.”

“Uska chehra dekh kar hi mujhe gussa aa jaata hai bas! Woh bhi kuch kam nahi hai! Aate hi ammi se kehne laga ‘ghar mein jungly janwaron ka show bhi hai?’. Aur toh aur abbu mere liye rasgulle le kar aaye the woh bhi aade se zyada khud khaa gya. Aadmi hai ya kuan?! Ghar ka aadha rashan akela khaa jata hai. Aur toh aur mere toothbrush ko toilet mein phenk diya!”

He snorts in response and you smack his arm hard to convey your displeasure.

“Bohot hasi aa rahi hai? Jao, ussi ke saath raho samje!”

You break away from his embrace and try to push him out of your room. He just turns around and uses your momentum against you and pins you to the wall.

“Uzair!”

“Hmm…sunn raha hoon.”

“Darwaza khula hai!”

“Toh? Nikaah bhi ho chuka hai.”

“Accha? Toh? Abbu aa gaye toh? Kya kahoge? Kya kar rahe thi unki ek lauti beti ke saath?”

He immediately lets go of you. A brief flash of fear passes through him. Your father- he was a magnificent personality. A businessman turned politician, for you he was just your Abbu but for others he was a ruthless leader who did not let people who wronged him. Rehman bhai had once- it became a battle of egos. Both sides got hurt- your father was confined to your home and Rehman to his, because both of their men were out for each other's blood. Uzair after noticing it taking a toll on his brother and he was honestly scared of Rehman’s safety, took it upon himself to put the ego aside and come to a compromise.

Your father knew that Rehman dakait was a cruel, shrewd son of a bitch- but also was an asset to have. Your father took upon the friendship that no matter what happens- both parties' loyalties would lie with each other. Despite the ‘friendship’ turning real, and more than a deal- to everyone's surprise Rehman and your father are more similar than you could've thought- Uzair was still terrified of your father.

When the younger Baloch brother became a regular presence at your home, the attraction was impossible to resist- and soon it turned to love- which turned into desire to be together forever and that is when on a very fine Thursday Uzair was pinned to the wall of your hall with a shot gun pressed to his cheek. Had your brother- Junaid not been there, it would've been the last day on earth for Uzair Baloch. You begged your father to let you marry your love and after two single tears down your left eye he said yes, but not without a warning to your brand new fiance. Two years down the line of blissful marriage he was still equally terrified of your father.

“Junaid sahi kehta hai! Tum har choti baat mein ‘Abbu- Abbu!’ karti ho! Ye koi tarika hai? Aurat ho toh khud ke dam se baat karo, har baat mein apne Abbu ko bulane ki koi zaroorat nahi hai. Tumhare gharwalon mein bas tumhari ammi aur bhai hi theek hain, baki sab ko dimagi bimari hai!”

“Tumne mujhe aur Abbu ko paagal bola?!”

“Bola toh! Raseed bana kar doon?”

“Rassed toh maine tumhe ek thappad karna hai! Abbu dekhein ye aadmi mujhse kya keh raha hai!”

Before your voice could travel to your father's office Uzair lunges in to kiss you shut up, and as you lean into it forgetting all the banter- he bolts away leaving you wanting.

__________________

The party was in full swing, extended family on both sides were attending, and you had a lot catching up to do. Sitting by the pool you were chatting with your mother, aunts and your cousins. Cutting off the best office gossip you were getting from your cousin, your husband who you were still cross with drops a kiss to your forehead.

He greets your mother, aunts and cousins with the charming head nod with a hand over his heart, making them all go sweet on him while you only know what a menace he is.

“Kya hai? Jaao na Hamza ke paas ya apne us chachundar saale ke paas!”

“Wahin se aa raha hoon, dono apne-apne mangetar ke saath wahan dance kar rahe hain aur mujhe chidha rahe hain. Mere paas toh biwi hai! Chalo na unko dikhate hain. Apne shauhar ki izzat rakh lo.”

“Accha? Ab main yaad aa rahi hoon? Nahi aaungi jao!”

“Beta jao na-”

Your mother cuts off your whispered argument with your husband.

“Ammi, aap iski tarafdaari na karein!” You turn towards your husband and say the only thing that came to your mind-

“Ek kaam karo mere Abba se pooch kar aao. Jao poocho aapki beti ko naachne le kar jaaun? Agar woh haan kahenge toh main chalungi.”

He gives you the nastiest stink eye, you stick your tongue out in response.

“Ab aana mere paas chillate hue ‘Uzair chipkali bhaga do please!’ tab main dekhunga. Tab tum apne Abbu se kehna.”

You reply with the most mature response and roll your eyes.

“Weveenvieenenn.”

He returns to the table where your single cousins were sitting alone, chatting. He sulked and grabbed a glass of-what you suspected- whiskey.

____________________

After almost an hour or so, your husband wandered again to your table. Now you and your cousins were playing your third round of cards against humanities. Your to be sister in law and Yalina were sitting on either side of you. Every time anyone of you placed a card, everybody would dissolve in a wave of laughter, leaning over each other. Now the game had shifted to a serious case of uno. You had all bad cards and from what you can decipher, you were going to lose very badly.

Your husband, brother and Hamza, dragged chairs to sit beside their partners. Because the table was surrounded by all of you playing, they sat with a chair on your side. Your brother was whispering something to your sister in law, definitely planning on cheating at the game. Classic. Yalina on the other hand was trying to explain to Hamza what the game was about. Your husband however was just looking at you with puppy eyes- more like congested drunk eyes- with his chin on his palm.

“Aap yahan roz aati hain?”

“Kya?”

You couldn't help but twist your face in utter confusion.

Hamza leans in from his side.

“Chadh gayi hai. Kabse bakwas kar raha tha. Kone mein khada ho kar awaara ashiq ki tarha ghoor raha tha tab se aapko. Socha yahan le aaunga toh sahi ho jayega, lekin ab lagta hai pagal ho haya hai shayad.”

“Isme hone waali kya baat hai. Pehle se hai.”

You mutter under your breath.

“poocha tumne mere abbu se? Kya kaha unhone?”

“Kya poochna tha?”

“Kya poochna tha?! Kya matlab kya poochna tha? Ek kaam karo jo jee mein aaye poocho! Aapki beti bhaga loon? Aapki ladki ghumaa loon? Date par le jaun? Kya sar dard hai. Ek toh main phir se haar jaungi!”

“Aap kitni pyaari hain.”

He sighs dreamily.

“Mere abbu bhi bade pyaare hain. Mile unse?”

You answer with a straight face as you have grown immune to his charms a bit.

“Nahi mila. Aap se milne aa sakta hoon?”

“Uzair?”

“Aap mera naam jaanti hain?!”

Uzair exclaims.

“Lagta hai bhaijaan sab bhool gaye hain! Tujhse shaadi karke bechare ki yaadaast chali gayi, aisa kya kiya tune-”

Junaid chimes in.

“Aap zara tameez aur mohobbat se baat karein inse. Aurton se baat karne ka saleeka nahi hai aapko.”

Uzair reprimanded Junaid in his slurred speech. Junaid makes a disgusted face and fake gags.

“Tum itne pyaare kabse ho gaye?”

“Aapse milke ho gaya. Aap mere saath bahr chalengi?”

“Be tu jaanta hai ye kaun hai? Dimag kahan hai tera?”

Hamza smacked his head.

“Janna hi toh chahta hoon.”

Did he drink enough to cause himself amnesia? Does he not realise who you were or what was your relationship with him? Oh, you were gonna have so much fun with it.

“Aap ek kaam kariye, aap mere Abbu se pooch lijiye, agar woh haan kahenge toh main chalungi aapke saath.”

His face brightens with a smile, his eyes go crescent and you get the biggest love boner ever. Your relationship was filled with banters, useless accusations, calling eachother names- mostly stupid- but it was out of love. All of it.

“Abbu se toh poochna chahiye. Acchi baat hoti hain. Aap kitni pyaari hain.”

Your cousins coo in unison, making a deep red blush spread through your face.

“Pyaare toh aap bhi bohot hain. Jaiye, Abbu se pooch kar aaiye!”

You pull his cheek as an outlet for the cuteness agression you were having and turned back to your loosing game.

For Uzair however it was too hard to figure out who and where your father was. Junaid ever the backstabber- claimed to not know your father and suggested Uzair should go around asking about your father. And it entailed the wildest and most hilarious search party of all time. Uzair would walk around trying not to trip and fall, asking every man in vicinity if he was your father.

After a long frantic search he finally did found your father standing near the pool under the fairy lights, talking to the caterer about the scheduled progression of the night. Uzair tapped his shoulder at which your father turned around.

“Kahiye janab aaj humein yaad kar liya? Kuch kaam tha?”

“Haan! Aap un- wahan jo khatun baithin hai, gulabi sharare mein unke Abbu hain?”

He said pointing at you, not very accurately but in general vicinity. Your father quickly realised the predicament as he exchanged a knowing smirk at you from a distance. Rehman had noticed the commotion from his place, standing with Jameel sahab.

“Sahi pehchana bete. Jashn ka maza toh aap hi ke rahe hain.”

“Aakhir mil hi gaye aap! Aapki jo beti hain na? Unhone mujhe Poochne ke liye bheja hai.”

“Accha? Kya poochna bheja hai?”

“Kya main unko apne saath bahr le jaa sakta hoon? Matlab sirf batein karne. Bas yahin Clifton jayenge aur nau baje se pehle Ghar chhod dunga. Pakka!”

Your father throws his head back in laughter. He was gonna tease Uzair for this relentlessly for the next few months for sure.

“Le jao jahan uski marzi ho. Mujhe kya masla hai. Jo hona tha ho gaya ab, nikaah ke do saal baad pochne ka kya matlab hai? Jab ghooma rahe the tab toh nahi poocha tha.”

“Nikaah ho gaya? Mera? Unse? Ya Allah! Kaise? Zaroor koi dimagi beemari rahi hogi, varna itni pyaari ladki mujhse nikaah kaise kar leti? Waise meri toh chaandi-chaandi hi hai-”

Before his drunk yapping self could finish his words, Junaid grabbed his collar and dragged him inside to put him to bed for good, while you got the worst case of cuteness aggression. Junaid manhandled Uzair up the stairs to your room and dumped him on the bed.

“Kya mera nikaah sach mein unse hi gaya? Main Arsi Mushaf ke baad behosh toh nahi ho gaya tha na? Kitni haseen hain woh, tumhe nahi lagti kya-”

Just as you entered your room, your cheeks flushed- because of your husbands blatant praise- Junaid legit gagged at the last question.

“Mujhe toh chudail, zeher, suar-”

Before Junaid can finish his rant Uzair lunges at him and cupped his mouth shut.

“Wapas le! Bol meri biwi duniya ki sabse khoobsurat ladki hai! Meri biwi ki beizzati kaise ki tune-”

Your brother pushed your drunk husband off himself. His face contoured in disgust at whatever Uzair said.

“Apna maal khud sambhal. Mera ho gaya! Mujhe nahi sun’na ye sab. Tezab daal loonga apne kaanon mein ye sunne se pehle- pari hai? Haseen hai? Chii!! Agli baar se isse sirf soda hi milega!”

Uzair finally noticed you in the room after Junaid shut the door behind himself.

“Aap yahan? Mera matlab hai, bilkul aap yahan hai kyunki aap meri biwi hain, main aapka shauhar hoon, humara nikaah ho chuka hai, haina? Haan ho gaya hai! Ahhhh- meri bhi biwi hai! Mera bhi khaandan hoga. Main yateem nahi hoon, haina? Mere ammi abbu jab chalegaye toh laga ki main hamesha akela rahunga, mere saath humara khaandan khatam ho jayega. Meri toh zindagi mein sukoon ho tum. Mujhe chhod ke mat jaana? Main nahi hoon samajdar jaisa sab bolte the jab ammi abbu chalegaye, nahi banna mujhe samajdar. Mere hisse ki khushiyaan mujhe mili hai toh ab tum kahin mat jaana-”

You sat beside him, stroking his hair. Tears fill your eyes as you take in everything that he said. He usually did not mention his parents passing or how he felt about it. You knew he had some issues because of that but it was nothing you couldn't be mindful of.

“- aur mujhe nahi pata tha ki meri kismat itni acchi hogi! Agar aapne mujhse nikaah kiya hai toh mujhse mohobbat karti hu hoongi na? Mere liye bas utna hi kaafi hai, iske alawa kisi cheez ki khwahish nahi hai. Lekin mohobbat karti to ho na?-”

You kept brushing his hair gently through your fingers.

“Bohot karti hoon. Alfaz nahi mere paas itni. Tumse koi pyaar kaise naa kare? Tum ho hi itne pyaare! Main kabhi kahin nahi jaaungi.”

“Toh mere saath chalogi samandar dekhne? Hum samandar kinare jayenge aur phir main tumhare saath baithunga wahan, baatein karenge- tumhare abbu se poochna padega?”

“Nahi. Nahi poochna padega. Tum jo chahoge hum woh karenge.”

He got lost in his thoughts for a minute before his face turned pink but his smirk was anything but bashful.

“Waise mujhe aur bhi bohot kuch karna hai, samandar hum baad mein dekh lenge pehle, Ye sharara bada pyaara hai na toh aap mera kurta nikaal ke dekh lein aapko accha lagta hai ya nahi-”

“Mera sharara pyaara hai isme tumhare kurta kyun utaaroon?”

“Haan toh apna utaar lein mujhe koi masla nahi-”

Safe to say all the heavy emotions sunk down to the core of your heart before you had the most giggly, clumsy and very naked make out session with your husband as if you were two teenagers discovering each other's bodies for the first time.

The breakfast next morning was probably the most chill meal your father ever shared in the presence of your husband as he kept teasing Uzair about his drunken simping. You and your mother were having the time of your life but Junaid was researching short term amnesia providing doctors and quack hypnotists to forget last night and the hickey he noticed on your neck. All in all you were with your family, happy, healthy and very much in love.

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[mainyahaankyunhoon]

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[twinblueflamee]

THE KWEEN OF FLUFF STRIKES AGAIN 🙆🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️✨🦚

[rabbdaradio]

Veil of Allegiance.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎ

Major iqbal × Fem! Indian! Reader [chapter XIII]

Synopsis Forced into a life built on lies, she takes on a new identity and enters a world where nothing is what it seems. And at the center of it all is him-Major labal. Calm, unreadable, and feared by everyone around him, he is nothing like she imagined... and yet, somehow worse.

Cws age gap, flashbacks, guns, violence, blood, betrayal, sexual tension, slowburn etc etc [wc: 19.2k] sorry for alot of paras in this chaper i write on wattpad and forgot tumblr has this space limit smth

Masterlist [Previous part] [Next part]

The smell of simmering milk filled the kitchen, warm and sweet, curling through the house in lazy waves. You stood by the stove, stirring the kheer slowly while keeping an eye on the rice as it softened into the thick mixture. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, turning the steel utensils gold. A small stool scraped against the floor. You didn't even need to turn around.

"Laiba." Silence. Then another scrape. "Laiba."

"Ji?" came the innocent reply. You looked over your shoulder to find her getting on the stool, chin barely reaching the counter, staring into the pot as though she were supervising an important operation.

"Kya kar rahi ho?"

She pointed dramatically. "Dekh rahi hoon."

"Thodi der so jao."

"Nahi nini nhi aayi."

"Aayi hai tumhari ankho se pata chal raha hai."

"Nhi ammi."

You rolled your eyes. Laiba grinned proudly before peering into the pot again. "Mumma, yeh kya hai?"

"Kheer."

Her eyes widened. "Papa ke liye?"

"Aapke ke liye." A pleased smile spread across her face. She loved when her father came home. For two days the house had felt quieter without him. Even though she had spent most of that time talking nonstop, somehow there had still been an emptiness.

"Papa kab aaenge?"

"Jald hi."

"Apne pehle bhi ye bola tha."

"Haan tab vo nikle the Islamabad se."

Laiba sighed dramatically and rested her cheek against the counter. "Papa ko bolo na jaldi aa jae." Lunch had been eaten, Laiba's excitement had reached unbearable levels. Every five minutes she asked for the time. Every ten minutes she asked if Iqbal had called. Every fifteen minutes she asked whether she could wait outside the gate. Eventually you forced her into bed. She protested. You ignored her. Within three minutes she was asleep. Children were strange creatures. The house was quiet when you finally heard it. A car engine. Your hand froze over the dough you were rolling. For a second you simply listened. Then the front gate opened. You knew immediately. Iqbal. Wiping your hands on your dupatta, you stepped out of the kitchen. The evening sun painted the courtyard in soft gold. Iqbal was climbing out of the vehicle. A travel bag rested beside him while another paper bag hung from one hand. For a moment he simply looked at you and smiled. Something warm settled in his expression. The kind that had become far too familiar lately. You hated how easily it affected you. Hated how natural it felt. He walked toward you. "Toh meri begum sahiba ne mujhe bhoola hi diya."

You folded your arms. "Sirf do din ke liye gaye the."

"Do din bohat hote hain." He stopped in front of you. Without hesitation he bent slightly and pressed a kiss against your forehead. Your breath caught. It happened so quickly that you couldn't step away.

"Kaise ho?" he asked quietly.

"Theek hoon."

He hummed. "Boht pyaari lag rahi hain aap." You looked away. His free hand settled briefly against your arm. "Mujhe yaad kiya?"

The question was teasing. Dangerously casual. You could have ignored it. Instead you muttered, "Laiba ne kiya."

His grin widened immediately. "Main ne aapke bare poocha tha." You refused to answer. Which somehow seemed answer enough. "Laiba kahan hai?"

"Aapka intezar karte karte so gayi."

"Es time?" You nodded. "Abhi tak uthaya nahi?"

"Uthaya tha. Nahi uthi."

He laughed. "Main uthata hoon." A little later he emerged from the washroom after cleaning up from the journey. His hair was still damp. The sleeves of his kurta were rolled up. You were setting the table when he disappeared toward Laiba's room. Few minutes passed then suddenly—

"Papa!" Followed immediately by, "Nahi!"

You couldn't help smiling. Iqbal stood beside the bed looking down at the sleeping child. Laiba had somehow managed to occupy nearly the entire mattress. One leg hung off the edge. The blanket was twisted around her waist. Her hair looked like a bird had built a nest in it. "Mere bugge." Nothing. "Laiba." Nothing. He shook her shoulder gently. No response. The child remained dead asleep. Iqbal sighed. Then looked toward the glass of water beside the bed. A terrible idea formed. He dipped his fingers into it. Then flicked droplets across her face. Immediately Laiba frowned. Another flick. Another. Finally her nose scrunched. Her eyes blinked open. She stared up at him. Confused. Then offended.

"Papa!"

Iqbal laughed. "Utho."

"Nahi."

"Khana nhi khana?"

"Nhi sona hai." He leaned down and kissed her cheek. His beard brushed against her skin. Immediately she squawked. "Papa!"

"Kya?"

"Aapki daarhi!"

"Kya hua meri daarhi ko?"

"Mujhko chubi!"

He looked entirely unapologetic. "Sahi hua." Laiba rubbed furiously at her cheek. Then finally noticed who was sitting beside her. Her face brightened instantly.

"Papa!" This time it was affectionate. She launched herself at him. His arms wrapped around her automatically. "Mujhko aapki boht yaad aayi."

"Mujhko bhi aapki boht yaad aayi ."

She yawned into his shoulder. "Aap late aaye."

"Janta hoon."

"Aage se late mat hona."

"Jaisa aap kahein." Satisfied with this answer, she nodded solemnly. Iqbal carried her downstairs. Half asleep, hair messy, feet dangling. The moment he set her down she wandered straight into the kitchen. You were rolling rotis when suddenly tiny arms wrapped around one of your legs. You looked down. Laiba. Still sleepy. Still attached. One small hand stretched toward you expectantly. You already knew what she wanted. Without a word you pinched off a small piece of dough and placed it in her palm. Her entire face lit up. As if you'd gifted her treasure. She immediately began squishing it between her fingers. Behind her, Iqbal leaned against the doorway watching. A faint smile resting on his face. Neither of you noticed it. Laiba was already busy turning the dough into something unrecognizable. "Mumma."

"Hm?"

"Ye dekho flower."

You looked at the shapeless lump. "Wow boht pyaara boht sundar."

"Haina."

Iqbal glanced down at it. Then at her. Then back at the dough. "Beta."

"Haan?"

"Apna flower toh saad gaya."

Laiba gasped. "Nahi!"

"Haan."

"Nahi! Nahi! Nahi!!" She marched over and smacked the dough onto his stomach. The kitchen erupted into laughter.

Dinner had been finished, the dishes were stacked beside the sink, and somewhere in the house Laiba's voice echoed as she showed Bashir a drawing for what was probably the tenth time that day. You carried the last plate toward the sink while Iqbal followed behind with the glasses. For a moment neither of you spoke. It wasn't uncomfortable silence. Just familiar. The sort that settled naturally between people who had begun sharing a life together. You rinsed a plate beneath running water before glancing over your shoulder. “Laiba ka birthday bhi aa raha hai."

Iqbal looked up from drying his hands. "Haan." A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Main bhool nahi gaya."

You rolled your eyes. "Achha? Mujhe laga tha Islamabad ja kar koi nayi begum dhund lenge fir mujhe aur laiba ko bhool jaenge."

He huffed a laugh. "Begum sahiba, aapko mere plan ke bare mein kaisa pata laga."

You shook your head before placing another dish aside. "Main soch rahi thi..."

"Hm?"

"Laiba ke birthday par kuch khas karte hain."

Iqbal leaned against the counter. "Khas kaise?"

You shrugged lightly. "Party kar lete hain cake, family, friends, aur sab."

A thoughtful look crossed his face. Then he said casually, "Ya phir hum kahin chale jaate hain."

"Kahan?" You asked

"Kahin bhi." He spread his hands. "Dubai, Europe, ya Kashmir vo aapke ammi abbu se bhi mil legi."

Your eyes widened. "Iqbal—"

"Kya?" He looked entirely serious.

"Birthday hai uska." You stared at him. "Laiba ko birthday manwana hai ya mulk ki sair karwani hai?"

He grinned. "Jo aapko badhiya lage." You laughed despite yourself.

"Nahi."

"Nahi?"

"Nahi."

He folded his arms. "Aur wajah?"

You placed another plate into the sink. "Wajah...Ye hain ki birthday aapno ke sath acha lagta hai."

"Hm."

"Hum sab saath honge." You continued quietly.

"Sakina hogi. Basheer hoga. Papa honge."

At the mention of his father, Iqbal snorted. "Abbu ko party wale din kamre mein bandh rakhna parhta hai aap nahi janti vo kya bol de."

"Phir bhi, Iqbal."

"Taake sab ko tang kar sakein." That earned another laugh from you. Iqbal watched the smile spread across your face. For a second he simply looked. Then looked away.

"Aur," You glanced toward the doorway where Laiba's voice could still be heard. "Zayada yaad gaar rahega."

He nodded slowly. "Ji."

"Ji?"

"Haan ji."

You frowned suspiciously. "Bas itni asaani se maan gaye?"

"Mujhe mana nahi karna chahiye tha?"

"Socha toh vo hi tha."

"Main itna bura hoon?" You raised an eyebrow. He raised one back. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then both of you started smiling. "Theek hai," he said. "Ghar par hi karenge." Relief settled in your chest so quickly that you nearly reacted. Nearly. Instead you kept your expression calm.

"Ab batao kitne logon ko bulana hai."

You pretended to think. "Close family."

"Hm."

"Friends."

"Hm."

"Laiba ke school ke kuch bachay."

"Hm."

"Aur aapke colleagues."

That made him pause. "Mere colleagues?"

You forced yourself to sound casual. "Haan kyu nahi?"

He considered it. "Haan kyu nahi."

"Laiba ko acha lagega agar zyada log aaenge."

"Haan." His gaze lingered on you for a second. "Waise."

"Kya?"

"Aap en sab mein kuch zyada hi dil chaspi le rahi hain."

Your heart skipped. A dangerous little beat. But your smile never faltered. "Meri beti ka birthday hai."

He stared another second before nodding. "Haanji." The conversation moved on. Guest lists. Cake flavors. Decorations. Small things. Ordinary things. Yet beneath every word, your mind was already somewhere else. Not with balloons. Not with gifts. Not even with Laiba's birthday. A room. A locked room. A meeting room that only opened when guests and colleagues gathered. And for the first time since meeting Mustafa and Alam, you finally had a way to get inside. The birthday discussion becomes a regular thing over the next week. Not with Laiba. With the two of you. Laiba was not told anything. The excuse was that it was supposed to be a surprise. The truth was that every time the subject came up, you found another reason to steer the conversation toward the house itself. The guest list. The decorations. The seating arrangements. Which rooms could be used. Who would sit where. Who would stay late. Who would leave early. And every answer brought you a little closer to what Mustafa needed.A little closer to the meeting room. A little closer to betrayal. The evening in following days had settled quietly over the house. A pleasant breeze drifted through the open veranda while the last traces of sunlight painted the courtyard in gold. You sat curled up in one of the outdoor chairs with a book resting open in your lap, though you had not turned the page in several minutes. Across from you, Iqbal occupied the steps with a cup of tea in one hand. Laiba sat cross-legged on the floor between you both, crayons scattered around her like a colourful explosion. For nearly fifteen minutes she remained suspiciously quiet. That alone should have worried everyone. Suddenly she looked up from her drawing.

“Mumma?”

You glanced over. “Ji?”

“Agar Papa koi jaanwar hote na…” Iqbal immediately looked up. A bad sign. ”…toh kaunsa hote?”

You lowered your book. Iqbal lowered his tea. Laiba stared expectantly. A smile tugged at your lips. “Yeh kaisa sawaal hai?”

“Bas batao.”

Iqbal pointed towards you. “Aap jawab dein.”

“Main kyun?”

“Kyunke mujhe darr lag raha hai.”

You laughed. Laiba groaned dramatically. “Aap dono serious hi nahi hote.” She returned to her paper. A few moments passed. Then another. Then another. Every now and then she would glance toward Iqbal before continuing to draw. The more she looked at him, the more suspicious he became. Finally he leaned forward.

“Laiba.” No response. “Beta.” Still nothing. “Kya bana rahi ho?”

Immediately she covered the page with both hands. “Nahi dikhana!”

“Toh phir pooch kyun rahi thi?”

“Surprise hai.”

Iqbal sighed heavily. “Mujhe surprise ache nahi lagte.” You smiled into your book. Half an hour later she suddenly jumped to her feet.

“Ho gaya!” She proudly marched over. Iqbal accepted the paper. Looked at it. Then slowly raised an eyebrow.

You were already trying not to laugh. “Yeh kya hai?”

“Aap.”

“Main?”

“Ji.”

Iqbal stared at the large grey creature covering most of the page. “Yeh hathi hai.”

“Ji.”

“Aur yeh main hoon?”

“Ji.”

You failed completely and started laughing. Iqbal looked offended. “Mujhe hathi kyun banaya hai?”

Laiba answered without hesitation. “Kyunke aap bade ho.”

You laughed harder. “Aur?”

“Aur bade bhi bohat hain.” At that point even you had to look away.

Iqbal pressed a hand to his chest. “Meri hi beti hai na yeh?”

“Bilkul.” Laiba seemed very proud of her artistic choices. Then she pointed to another drawing. “Aur mumma.” You leaned forward. Expecting something elegant. Perhaps a cat. Perhaps a bird. Instead you found yourself staring at gazelle. Laiba had drawn you as a gazelle. Long legs, soft brown fur, and impossibly large eyes taking up nearly half the page.

You blinked. “Main hiran hoon?”

“Ji.”

“Kyun?” Laiba demonstrated the exact expression. The resemblance was unfortunate.

Iqbal nearly dropped the drawing laughing. “Bilkul sahi banaya hai.”

You immediately smacked his arm. “Chup.” Unfortunately that only made him laugh more.

Then Laiba flipped to another page. “Aur dadu bhi.” Both of you immediately leaned closer. The drawing consisted entirely of an angry turtle. A very angry turtle. With enormous eyebrows. Iqbal actually wheezed.

“Yeh kya hai?”

“Dadu.” Almost on cue, Jahangir appeared in the doorway. The three of you looked at him. He looked back.His eyes narrowed suspiciously. Then Laiba enthusiastically held up the drawing. “Dadu! Main ne aap ko kachhua banaya hai!” A heavy silence followed. Jahangir stared.At the drawing. At Laiba. At Iqbal. Then turned his wheelchair around and left without a single word. Iqbal immediately buried his face in his hands. You were laughing too hard to breathe. Meanwhile Laiba looked genuinely confused. “Unko pasand nahi aaya?”

———

The agreement had been reached only after an exhausting amount of negotiation on Laiba’s part. The moment dinner was over and the dishes had been cleared away, she had begun hovering around both of you with the persistence only a child possessed, following first you and then Iqbal from room to room, reminding each of you every few minutes that tomorrow was the weekend and therefore she would not have to wake up early for school. At first neither of you paid much attention. Then she began presenting arguments. Then counterarguments. Then emotional appeals. Then dramatic sighs. By the time the evening settled fully over the house, even Iqbal looked exhausted by her determination.

“Bas ek film,” she pleaded for what felt like the hundredth time. “Kal school bhi nahi hai.”

You exchanged an amused glance with Iqbal. “Aur kal subah uth nahi paayi toh?”

“Uth jaungi.”

“Jhoot.”

“Mumma.”

The single word contained enough outrage to make you laugh. Beside you, Iqbal merely shook his head. “Theek hai.”

Laiba froze. “Sachi?”

“Muchi.”

A beat of silence. Then she practically launched herself down the hallway before either of you could change your minds. The sound of her excited footsteps echoed through the house. “Main blanket laati hoon!” Her voice disappeared around a corner. You found yourself smiling despite yourself. Across from you, Iqbal noticed. His mouth twitched slightly. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything at all. Just something softer than usual. The drawing room had become strangely familiar over the past weeks. The large sofa faced the television mounted against the opposite wall, while warm yellow lamps cast a gentle glow across the room. Outside the windows, darkness had already settled over the garden, turning the glass into black mirrors that reflected the room back upon itself. Laiba returned carrying far more cushions and a blanket draped over her than any human being could reasonably need. Two fell before she even reached the sofa. One slipped from beneath her arm halfway there. She ignored all of them. “Film kaunsi dekhenge?” That was when the problem began. Iqbal chose. Immediately. Without consultation. Without democracy. Without mercy. The moment he announced the title, you knew exactly what kind of evening lay ahead. Laiba’s face fell. Your own expression probably mirrored hers. Iqbal, meanwhile, looked completely satisfied with himself. “Yeh wali achi hai.”

“Aap ne pehle dekhi hai?” you asked.

“Ji haan.”

“Kitni dafa?”

“Yaad nahi.” You stared at him. He stared back. Completely serious. Laiba groaned loudly enough for both of you to hear. The movie began a few minutes later. The opening scenes rolled across the screen while the three of you settled into place. Laiba stretched herself along the sofa first, claiming nearly half of it despite her small size. Within minutes her head found its way into your lap as naturally as if it belonged there. You barely noticed when your fingers moved into her hair. It had become habit. An unconscious thing. The same way you automatically checked whether she had eaten enough. The same way you remembered which side she preferred to sleep on. The same way you knew exactly where to find her whenever the house became too quiet. Your hand moved slowly through her hair while your attention remained fixed on the television. Or at least that was what you told yourself. Beside you, Iqbal settled back against the sofa. Not close. There remained enough space between you that neither shoulder touched the other. Enough distance to be proper. Enough distance to be safe. Yet his presence occupied the room regardless. Perhaps it always had. Perhaps you had only started noticing recently. The movie continued. Some dramatic scene unfolded on screen. Barely ten minutes passed before Iqbal started commenting on it.

“Aisa nahi hota.”

Laiba groaned. You closed your eyes briefly. There it was. The running commentary had begun.“Film dekhne dein.”

“Main sirf bata raha hoon.”

“Kisi ne poocha?”

“Nahi.” He sounded completely unbothered. You heard Laiba snort from your lap. The corners of your mouth twitched despite yourself. The room felt warm. Comfortably warm. Not because of the weather. Not because of the blankets folded nearby. But because of the strange domestic ease that had settled between the three of you over the past few weeks. It should have felt foreign. It should have felt temporary. Instead it felt dangerously natural. The television filled the room with shifting light. Blue. Gold. White. The reflections moved across Laiba’s sleepy-soft features and occasionally caught against the edge of Iqbal’s face. He seemed more relaxed than usual. The constant tension you had grown accustomed to seeing in his shoulders was absent tonight. There were no phone calls. No meetings. No men arriving with files tucked beneath their arms. No responsibilities demanding his attention. For one evening, he belonged entirely to this room. To his daughter stretched across the sofa. To the movie he insisted on criticizing. And, whether you liked acknowledging it or not, to you. The realization arrived suddenly. Unwelcome. You looked away from the screen. Outside the window, darkness pressed quietly against the glass. For a moment, you wished the guilt would return. The anger. The certainty. Anything was preferable to this uncomfortable confusion that had begun taking root inside your chest. Because it had become increasingly difficult to reconcile the man described in reports and intelligence files with the man sitting beside you now. The man who complained about unrealistic action scenes. The man who spent half an hour braiding his daughter’s hair. The man who insisted on making breakfast himself. The man who somehow kept making it harder and harder to remember why you were supposed to hate him. And perhaps that frightened you more than anything else. On screen, another dramatic scene exploded into existence. Immediately “Aisa toh bilkul nahi hota.” You sighed. Laiba groaned again. And for the first time that evening, all three of you laughed. The movie had long since lost whatever appeal it might once have possessed. On screen, someone was delivering an emotional speech that seemed determined to last forever. Every few minutes an orchestra swelled dramatically in the background as though the audience might otherwise forget that something important was happening. Iqbal, meanwhile, had not stopped criticizing it. “Yeh dialogue kis ne likha hai?”

You did not even look at him. “Aap hi ne film lagayi thi.”

“Mujhe kaise pata hota ke itni buri niklegi?”

“Aapne toh dekhi hui thi na?” A sleepy laugh escaped Laiba. For a while, the three of you fell silent again. The room was darker now. The only light came from the television, washing the furniture in shifting colours and shadows. Somewhere in the house a clock ticked steadily, almost drowned out by the sound of the movie. Without realizing it, Laiba had shifted further into your lap. One of her arms was draped carelessly across your waist while her face remained buried against your side. You adjusted the blanket covering her. Beside you, Iqbal shifted as well. At first you paid little attention. Then his arm settled along the back of the sofa. Not behind the cushion. Behind you. The movement was casual enough to appear meaningless. Perhaps it was. Yet you found yourself suddenly aware of the space around you. Aware of how close he was sitting. Aware of the warmth coming from his side. Aware of the fact that his sleeve brushed yours whenever either of you moved. You forced your attention back toward the television. A pointless effort. The movie continued. A few minutes later, Laiba stirred in her sleep. Her sudden movement nearly sent the blanket sliding onto the floor. Before you could reach for it, Iqbal leaned across and caught it first. His arm brushed your shoulder. Then remained there. Not for a second. Not accidentally. Just resting lightly against you while he adjusted the blanket around his daughter. When he finally settled back, his hand remained on your shoulder. Natural. Unthinking. As though it belonged there. As though he no longer felt the need to ask permission for every small touch. The realization made something tighten inside your chest. Because weeks ago he would have hesitated. Weeks ago he would have been careful. Now he simply did it. And somehow that made it worse. Or perhaps better. You were no longer certain.

“Aap film dekh rahi hain ya soch rahi hain?” His voice came quietly. Close enough that you could hear it over the movie without him raising it. You looked over. His gaze remained fixed on the television. As though the question meant nothing.

“Film dekh rahi hoon.”

“Jhoot.”

You frowned. “Aur aap?”

“Aap paas hain par main fir bhi aapke are mein soch raha hoon.” Despite yourself, you smiled. Immediately he noticed. Of course he did. He always seemed to notice. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. Victory. A small one. But victory nonetheless. The movie dragged on. Laiba slept peacefully between the two of you, completely unaware of anything beyond her dreams. And perhaps that was why neither of you moved away. Because she was there. Because it was easy.Because there was always an excuse. When Iqbal’s hand slid from your shoulder to rest briefly against the back of your arm, steadying you as you shifted position, neither of you acknowledged it. When his thumb moved once, absent-mindedly, against the fabric covering your sleeve before withdrawing again, neither of you acknowledged that either. The television continued playing. The room remained quiet. Yet the distance that had once existed between you seemed smaller than it had ever been. And that frightened you far more than his touch. Because the truly dangerous thing was not that he had become comfortable enough to reach for you. It was that you had stopped immediately pulling away. “Yeh director khud bhi samajhta hai jo bana raha hai?”

A few minutes later “aisa koi operation nahi hota.”

Then “Agar asal zindagi mein itni galtiyan karain toh pehle das minute mein mar jaayen.” Under normal circumstances, perhaps you would have argued back. Perhaps you would have told him to stop ruining the film for everyone else. Tonight, however, you barely heard half of what he was saying. Laiba had fallen asleep almost an hour ago. One of her small hands remained curled around the edge of your kameez even in sleep, as though she feared someone might move her somewhere else. The ceiling fan still turned lazily overhead. But the noise no longer seemed important. Instead, you found yourself painfully aware of everything else. The weight of Laiba against your legs. The warmth radiating from Iqbal beside you. The arm resting along the back of the sofa behind your shoulders. The fact that every few minutes he would lean slightly closer whenever he wanted to point something out on the screen. None of it should have mattered. Yet somehow it did. And that frightened you more than it should have. Because this was not supposed to happen. You were never supposed to have evenings like this. Never supposed to sit in a living room after dinner while a child slept in your lap. Never supposed to listen to a man complain about a movie as though that was the greatest problem either of you faced. Never supposed to belong anywhere long enough for moments like this to become familiar. For a very long time, your life had been divided into simple categories. Mission. Duty. Purpose. Everything else came second. Everything else was temporary. But lately things had begun slipping out of those neat little boxes. Without realizing it, you had learned which sandwich Laiba liked before school. You knew exactly where Sakina kept the medicines. You knew which cupboard held Iqbal’s files and which one held his clothes. You knew what time the house woke up. What time it slept. Which floorboard creaked near the staircase. Which light Jahangir forgot to switch off at night. Tiny things. Meaningless things. The sort of things people only noticed when they belonged somewhere. The realization settled heavily in your chest. Because no matter how much you tried to deny it, part of you had stopped feeling like a visitor in this house. And that was dangerous. Dangerous enough that you found yourself staring blankly at the television without actually seeing it. For a brief moment, another thought surfaced. What would happen when all of this ended? The question appeared so suddenly that it caught you off guard. You pushed it away immediately.You had no right to ask it. No right to even think it. This family was never yours. This life was never yours. And the sooner you remembered that, the better. Beside you, Iqbal said something about the movie’s ridiculous ending. You didn’t hear a word of it. Then when the credits finally began rolling The movie ended with a dramatic scene that earned an irritated scoff from Iqbal. “Bakwas.” The single word broke the silence. The credits began crawling slowly across the screen. Laiba remained asleep. The room had grown dim except for the television’s fading light. For a few moments, nobody moved. Then Iqbal leaned forward to grab the remote from the table. You happened to reach for it at the same time. His hand touched yours. Nothing dramatic. Nothing meaningful. Just an accidental brush of fingers. Yet neither of you pulled away immediately. Barely a second passed. Perhaps less. Then he withdrew his hand first and picked up the remote instead. The television clicked off. Darkness settled across the room. As though nothing had happened. As though it had not even been worth noticing. You hated the fact that you noticed it anyway. Because long after everyone had gone to sleep, long after Laiba had been carried upstairs and the house had fallen quiet, your mind returned to that insignificant moment again and again. And each time it did, the irritation only grew. Not because of him. Because of yourself. Because you should have stopped noticing these things a long time ago. Before they started mattering.

Iqbal rose carefully from the sofa, one arm slipping beneath Laiba’s knees while the other supported her back. She barely stirred as he lifted her, only letting out a sleepy little sigh before instinctively burying her face against his shoulder. For a moment, he glanced down at her with the kind of expression that appeared only when he looked at his daughter—something softer, quieter, stripped of the sharpness he carried everywhere else. “Sojao sojao,” he murmured. Laiba’s fingers tightened briefly around the fabric of his shirt before going limp again. You watched them disappear upstairs, his footsteps slow and measured so as not to wake her. The sight lingered in your mind even after they had vanished from view. There was something strangely intimate about witnessing moments like these—not grand gestures, not declarations, just ordinary pieces of life unfolding in front of you. The living room felt emptier without them. The television had gone dark. A blanket was still half-folded on one end of the sofa. One of Laiba’s crayons had rolled beneath the coffee table. The remains of the evening sat scattered around the room, evidence of a family night that had ended naturally, comfortably. A family night. The thought made you look away. Gathering the empty glasses, you carried them into the kitchen. The familiar surroundings greeted you with an ease that should have unsettled you more than they did. Your hands moved automatically, placing things where they belonged without needing to think about it. Eventually your gaze landed on the spice shelf. And before you could stop yourself, you were already reaching for the saucepan. Iqbal would be heading to bed soon. He always liked hot milk before bed. No sugar. Never sugar. A few strands of saffron. Cardamom. A little cinnamon. Dried rose petals.You measured everything almost absentmindedly, watching the milk begin to warm over the flame. Months ago, you would have needed to ask Sakina how he preferred it. Months ago, you probably would not have cared enough to remember. Now your hands knew the routine on their own. The realization settled heavily in your chest. Because somewhere along the way, these things had stopped feeling like duties. You knew the rhythm of this house. The people in it. The habits. The routines. The small details nobody notices unless they belong. Steam rose from the saucepan, carrying the scent of saffron and cardamom through the kitchen. For a moment, you simply stood there watching it. And once again that uncomfortable feeling surfaced. Because this house had begun to fit around you far too easily. At first everything had felt temporary. Every conversation had been calculated. Every kindness had carried a purpose. Every smile had been measured. Now, without realizing it, you had begun leaving your books on the bedside table. Keeping your shawls draped over the same chair every evening. Remembering what groceries needed replacing before Sakina mentioned them. Making hot milk for your husband without being asked. Your husband. Even now the words felt strange. Yet not nearly as strange as they once had. The milk was ready. You poured it into a mug and scattered a few rose petals, and chopped pistachios over the surface. The fragrance was warm and familiar.

Looking down at the cup, you found yourself thinking of how normal this would appear to anyone else. A wife in the kitchen. A husband upstairs putting their daughter to bed. A quiet house settling into the night. Nothing unusual. Nothing remarkable. Just a family. You waited until the milk had cooled slightly before lifting the mug and taking a cautious sip yourself. The saffron was subtle. The cardamom wasn’t overpowering. No sugar. Exactly the way he liked it. Satisfied, you carried the mug upstairs. The bedroom door stood partially open. Iqbal was already there, propped against the headboard, one leg stretched out beneath the blanket while the other remained bent. The soft glow from the bedside lamp illuminated half his face while the rest remained in shadow. His attention was fixed on the phone in his hand, thumb scrolling lazily across the screen. Without interrupting him, you placed the mug on his nightstand. The scent of saffron and rose immediately filled the space between you. He glanced at it briefly. Then at you. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Shukriya.” You only nodded before moving to your side of the bed and settling beneath the blanket. For a few moments neither of you spoke. The room was quiet except for the occasional sound of him taking a sip from the mug. You turned slightly onto your side. Watching him. Waiting. He didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps he did. Eventually, unable to tolerate being ignored any longer, you frowned.

“Apna phone rakh dein na. Mujhse baat karein.”

His eyes immediately lifted from the screen. A second later he locked the phone and placed it face-down on the nightstand. “Ji boliye, begum.” There was amusement in his voice. The kind that always made it difficult to tell whether he was genuinely listening or simply teasing you.

You rolled your eyes. “Laiba ke birthday ke baare mein socha aap ne?”

A groan escaped him instantly. He leaned his head back against the headboard. “Bas karein. Bas karein.”

“Kya matlab bas karein?”

“Itne dino se sirf birthday, birthday, birthday.”

“Woh aap ki beti ka birthday hai.”

“Aur meri biwi ka naya mission.” You couldn’t help laughing. That earned a pleased look from him. “Kuch aur baat karte hain.”

“Acha?”

“Ji.”

You pretended to think. Then tilted your head.

“Toh phir bataiye. Qaum ke liye kya bade plans hain aap ke?” The question was clearly meant as a joke.

Iqbal, however, immediately straightened. “Bohat saare.”

“Ji?”

“Sab se pehle India fateh karna hai.”

You snorted. “Achha?”

“Ji.” He raised a finger as though presenting a very serious strategy. “Phir har sheher mein apni biwi ke bade bade idol banwane hain.”

“Mere?”

“Kitni biwiyan hain meri?”

“Allah reham kare.”

“Har chowk mein.”

“Bilkul nahi.”

“Bilkul.”

You shook your head, fighting a smile. “Aur yeh sab karenge kaise?” By then his mug was empty. He set it aside. The faint clink of porcelain against wood echoed through the room. Then his gaze returned to yours. Something about his expression changed. Not dramatically. Enough to make you suddenly aware of the distance between you. Or rather, how little of it remained. He shifted closer. Close enough that you could see the amusement lingering in his eyes.

“Aap aam khaiye.”

You blinked. “Hein?”

“Ghuthliyan na gine.”

The words were spoken lightly. Yet something about the way he said them sent an unexpected chill down your spine. Perhaps it was his gaze. Perhaps it was the fact that he seemed entirely aware of the effect he was having. Before you could formulate a response, his hand found yours beneath the blanket. Warm. Steady. Effortlessly familiar. Then he tugged gently. Pulling you closer. Not enough to startle. Just enough that the space between you disappeared.

“Chhodiye mera mansooba.” His voice had lowered slightly. “Mujhe apni planning bataiye.”

“Meri?”

“Ji.”

You looked away first. “Meri koi planning nahi.”

“Jhoot.”

“Nahi.”

His thumb brushed absently across your knuckles. Such a small gesture. Yet somehow more unsettling than anything else. “Toh bataiye.” You hesitated. Because once upon a time, the answer would have been easy. You had known exactly what your future looked like. Exactly what you wanted. Exactly where you were heading. Now, for the first time in a very long time, the answer wasn’t so simple. And perhaps that was why you found yourself struggling to respond. Iqbal watched you quietly. Waiting. Patient. As though he had all the time in the world. “Future mein…” he prompted softly. “Aap kya chahti hain?” The question lingered between you. And for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, it felt far more dangerous than any question he had ever asked before. For a moment, you simply stared at him. Future. The word felt strangely foreign. As though it belonged to somebody else. Somebody who had the luxury of thinking years ahead. Somebody who knew where they would be tomorrow. Somebody who believed tomorrow was guaranteed. You weren’t that person. Your gaze dropped to your hands.

“Maine kabhi itna aage socha nahi.” The answer came quietly.

Iqbal studied you for a moment. “Kabhi nahi?”

You shook your head. “Nahi.” And it was true. At least partly. There had been a time when you had thought about the future. When you had imagined things. A home. A family. A life that belonged entirely to you. Then life had taught you how quickly futures could disappear. How one night could destroy years worth of dreams. How people could be there one moment and gone the next. So somewhere along the way, you had stopped looking too far ahead. It hurt less that way.

“Har insaan kuch na kuch toh chahta hai,” he said.

You managed a small smile. “Main bas itna sochti hoon ke jo din saamne hai, woh theek guzr jaaye.”

His expression softened slightly. “Aur us ke baad?” You wanted to answer. You really did. But the truth sat heavily inside your chest. Because when this was over, it would not end peacefully.There was no version of this story that ended well. Not for you. Not for him. Not for any of them. One day the truth would come out. One day choices would have consequences. One day everything you had built here would collapse. You knew that. You had always known that. Yet lately, against all reason, against all logic, you had begun pretending otherwise. Just for a little while. Just long enough to enjoy evenings on the sofa. Family dinners. Movie nights. Laiba’s laughter. The warmth of a hand reaching for yours without thinking. You swallowed. Then forced yourself to look at him. At the man waiting patiently for an answer. The man who had somehow become woven into the fabric of your days without your permission. “Shayad…” Your voice faltered. “Shayad main bas yeh chahti hoon ke…” You stopped. The confession felt dangerous. Even now.

“Ke?” he prompted.

A faint smile appeared on your lips. Sadder than you intended. “Ke jo log mere paas hain…” Your fingers tightened slightly around his hand. “Woh mere paas rahain.”

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then his thumb brushed across your knuckles. A simple gesture. So simple. “Yeh toh bohat aasaan si khwaahish hai.”

You laughed softly. If only he knew. Because to him, it probably was. To you, it felt impossible. Still, you found yourself looking at him. And for one brief, foolish moment, you allowed yourself to imagine it. A future. This house. His voice somewhere in the background. Laiba running through the halls. Maybe more children. More birthdays. More ordinary evenings. More years. The image lasted only a second before you pushed it away. Because dreams were dangerous. And some futures were never meant to belong to people like you. “Sona chahiye,” you said quietly. Before he could ask anything else. Before he could see too much. Before you could admit that somewhere along the way, the future you had stopped believing in had begun to take his face.

———

A month before Laiba’s birthday, before guest lists and cake discussions and secret planning sessions had taken over the house, Iqbal had done something that had caught you completely off guard. One afternoon, he had come home earlier than usual and announced that the darzi was coming. Not just any darzi. The kind whose appointments were booked weeks in advance. The kind who worked for wealthy families, politicians, and people who liked reminding everyone how expensive their clothes were. You had assumed he was there for Iqbal. Perhaps for a new kurta. Or something for one of his meetings. Instead, the man had walked into the sitting room carrying measuring tapes, notebooks, fabric catalogues, and enough professionalism to make it seem like he was conducting a military operation. And then he had looked directly at you. “Aap ke measurements lene hain.”

You had blinked. “Mere?”

Before the darzi could answer, Iqbal had. “Ji, aap ke.”

“Mere kyun?”

“Laiba ki birthday aa rahi hai.” As though that explained everything. Apparently, in his mind, it did. The matter had already been decided. The darzi had spent nearly an hour discussing fabrics while you sat there wondering how you had somehow become involved in an operation you hadn’t even known existed. In the end, after far more discussion than you thought clothing deserved, you had decided on a saree. Not because anyone insisted. Not because anyone expected it. Simply because you wanted to. And strangely enough, that realization had startled you. Because somewhere along the way, without noticing, you had started imagining yourself standing beside Laiba on her birthday. Not as a guest. Not as an outsider. But as someone who belonged in the family photographs. The thought had lingered longer than it should have. Meanwhile, Laiba had been infinitely less helpful. The moment she learned new clothes were being made, she had transformed into a tiny dictator.

“Mera suit sab se achha hona chahiye.”

“Theek hai.”

“Aur us mein chamak bhi honi chahiye glitter laga dena.”

“Nahi.”

“Kyun?”

“Kyun ke aap chalti phirti disco ball lagengi.”

“Main disco ball banna chahti hoon.” The darzi had nearly choked trying not to laugh. And somehow it had become worse when she decided that Iqbal needed matching clothes too. “Papa bhi mere jaisa pehnenge.”

“Bilkul nahi.”

“Bilkul pehnenge.”

“Main nahi pehnunga.”

“Main birthday girl hoon.”

A pause.

“Acha.”

“Toh phir pehnenge.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Then, to everyone’s surprise “Theek hai.”

Laiba had looked unbearably pleased with herself. As though she had just won a major political negotiation. From that day onward, the outfits became one more thing she asked about every few hours. She somehow snooped through Iqbal’s phone and found darzi’s number. “Mere kapde tayyar hue?”

“Nahi.”

Two hours later “Ab?”

“Nahi.”

Three hours later “Ab?” By the end of the month, even the darzi was probably tired of her. But whenever she spoke about the birthday, whenever she talked about the clothes, the decorations, the cake, or the gifts she definitely wasn’t hinting at, you found yourself listening with a smile. Because for the first time, she wasn’t counting down to a birthday. She was counting down to a celebration. And for the first time, you found yourself counting down with her.

———

Five days before Laiba’s birthday, the entire house seemed to revolve around one thing and one thing only. Laiba. Not that she knew exactly what was being planned. That was the difficult part. Both you and Iqbal had somehow managed to keep the actual celebration a secret from her, though it became increasingly difficult with every passing day because Laiba was physically incapable of going more than an hour without mentioning her birthday. She never outright asked for anything. Instead, she hinted. Constantly. Subtly, according to her. Painfully obviously, according to everyone else. That afternoon she had come home from school carrying a classmate’s notebook and had spent nearly ten minutes admiring it at the dining table. “Mama, dekhiye kitni achhi pens hain is ke paas.”

You had hummed absentmindedly while chopping vegetables. “Haan, achhi hain.”

“Aur dekhiye is ki handwriting bhi pen se hai.”

“Ji.”

“Mujhe lagta hai main bhi ab bari ho gayi hoon.”

You had looked up. “Acha?”

“Ji.” A pause. “Mujhe lagta hai main pencil se zyada pen use kar sakti hoon ab.”

You bit back a smile. “Acha?”

“Ji.” Another pause. Longer this time. Waiting. Expecting. When no immediate offer of a new pen set arrived, she had dramatically sighed and slumped into her chair. You had nearly laughed. A few hours later she had done the exact same thing with a colouring set she had spotted in a shop window. Then with a storybook. Then with a backpack. Then with glitter markers. By the end of the week, you and Iqbal had a growing mental list of everything she “definitely wasn’t asking for.” The excitement practically radiated off her. And strangely enough, every time you saw it, something warm settled inside your chest. Because this birthday felt different. Not because of the gifts. Not because of the cake. Not because of the decorations. But because for the first time in a very long time, she would celebrate it surrounded by people who loved her. A family. The thought came uninvited. And as always, you pushed it away before it could linger too long. That night all three of you were sprawled across the large bed. Laiba had somehow claimed the exact center, leaving you and Iqbal on either side of her. The television was playing quietly in the background, ignored completely. Laiba was too busy discussing what she considered a far more important topic. Her birthday cake. “Mujhe teen layer ka cake chahiye.”

You looked up from your book. Across from you, Iqbal lowered his phone. “Teen layer?”

“Haan.”

“Itna bara?”

“Bohat bara.” She stretched both arms as wide as they would go. “Itna bara.”

Iqbal snorted. “Itna bara cake toh poori gali ko khilana padega.”

“Toh khila denge.” The answer came without hesitation. You laughed. Laiba sat up straighter. Clearly encouraged by the attention. “Neeche wali layer chocolate hogi.”

“Theek hai.”

“Beech wali strawberry.”

“Theek hai.”

Then she stopped. Thinking. Very seriously. You could practically see the gears turning inside her head. “Aur teesri…” A pause. “Teesri…” Longer pause. “Aloo paratha.” The room fell silent. You stared at her. Iqbal stared at her. Laiba stared back confidently. As though she had just delivered the greatest idea in human history. You were the first to break.

“Laiba.”

“Ji?”

“Cake aloo paratha flavour ka nahi hota.”

“Kyun?”

“Kyun ke cake meetha hota hai.”

“Toh meetha aloo paratha bana lo.”

Iqbal immediately turned away. His shoulders shaking. Trying not to laugh. You pointed at him. “Aap hansiye mat.”

That only made it worse. “Main nahi hans raha.”

“Zarur.”

“Ji begum.”

Laiba crossed her arms. “Mujhe aloo paratha flavour chahiye.”

“Nahi milega.”

“Kyun?”

“Kyun ke duniya mein aisa cake nahi hota.” She looked deeply offended. As though the baking industry had personally betrayed her. Finally you sighed.

“Acha, teesri layer vanilla?”

She considered it. “Hmmm.” Still unconvinced.

“Ya phir chocolate?” you suggested.

That immediately brightened her mood. “Do chocolate!”

“Do chocolate?”

“Ji.”

“Aur ek strawberry?”

“Ji!”

You nodded. “Theek hai.” Satisfied, she flopped dramatically backwards onto the mattress.

Iqbal shook his head. “Woh cake khatam kaun karega?”

“Main.”

“Nahi kar sakti.”

“Kar sakti hoon.”

“Nahi.”

“Kar sakti hoon.”

“Bilkul nahi.”

She pointed at herself. “Ek layer meri.” Then pointed at him. “Ek layer Papa ki.” Then pointed at you. “Aur ek layer mumma ki.” The logic was flawless in her mind. You couldn’t help laughing. Even Iqbal gave up arguing. For a while after that she continued talking. About balloons. About presents. About decorations. About the exact number of candles she deserved. About why birthdays should probably happen every month. And while she rambled happily between the two of you, neither of you interrupted. Because the excitement in her voice was infectious. Because seeing her this happy made the house feel brighter somehow. And because every now and then, when she wasn’t looking, you would catch Iqbal watching her with a small smile on his face. The kind of smile that appeared only around her. The kind that softened all the harder edges of him. And despite yourself, despite everything you knew and everything you were supposed to remember, you found yourself smiling too.

———

The conversation came unexpectedly. It was four days before Laiba’s birthday, and invitations had already been sent out. The house had fallen into that strange state that came before any large family gathering. Every room seemed to contain something related to the celebration. Decoration samples sat on tables. Lists had been left lying around. Laiba spent half her day talking about birthdays and the other half trying to figure out what everyone was hiding from her. That evening, after dinner, you found yourself sitting with Iqbal in the sitting room while Laiba was asking Sakina random questions. Iqbal was going through a guest list one last time. Names. Numbers. Relatives. Colleagues. Family friends. Every few moments he would cross something out before writing something else. Then he suddenly looked up. “Ek baat poochun?”

You glanced over. “Ji?”

“Aap ke walidain nahi aa rahe?”

For a second your heart stumbled. You recovered quickly enough that he didn’t seem to notice. “Nahi.”

He frowned slightly. “Kyun?”

You lowered your gaze to the cup in your hands. “Safar bohat lamba hai.”

“Lekin Laiba ki birthday hai.”

“Mujhe pata hai.”

“Phir?”

You forced a small smile. “Kashmir se yahan aana itna aasaan nahi hai.” That part, at least, wasn’t entirely a lie. “Aur waise bhi…” You paused. “Ammi ki tabiyat bhi pehle jaisi nahi rahi.”

Iqbal’s expression softened. “Kya hua unhein?”

“Joron ka masla hai.” You shrugged lightly. “Lamba safar karti hain toh bohat thak jaati hain.”

For a moment he seemed to consider it. Then he nodded. “Haan, yeh baat toh hai.” Relief loosened something inside your chest. Too soon. Because a second later he spoke again. “Ajeeb baat hai.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around your cup. “Kya?”

“Maine kabhi un se baat nahi ki.” You looked at him. He was still studying the guest list. Completely unaware of how dangerous the conversation felt.

“Aap baat kar sakte hain kabhi.”

“Kab?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Because there wasn’t really an answer to that. There never would be. “Kabhi…” you repeated vaguely. “Jab mauqa mile.”

He hummed. Not entirely convinced. “Maine aap ko bhi kabhi zyada baat karte nahi suna un se.” There it was. The question you had been hoping he wouldn’t ask. You felt your stomach tighten. Across the room, Laiba was still talking excitedly to Sakina. The ordinary domestic scene somehow made the lie feel worse.

“Hum…” You searched for the right answer. “Hum zyada baat nahi karte.”

Iqbal finally looked up. “Matlab?”

You stared at your tea. “Bas nahi karte.” A small laugh escaped you. Not because anything was funny. Because it bought you another second. “Main aur mere ammi-abbu kabhi bohat qareeb nahi rahe.” The words felt strange in your mouth. Because the people you were describing didn’t even exist. Yet somehow you had become skilled at inventing memories for them. Inventing a life. Inventing a childhood. Inventing entire relationships.

“Narazgi thi?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Nahi.” Then after a moment “Bas…” You searched for something believable. “Soch alag thi.” Iqbal leaned back slightly. Still listening. “Abbu mujhe bohat pyar karte hain.” You hated how easily the lie came. “Lekin…” You smiled faintly. “Hum dono ziddi thay.” That, at least, was true.

“Aur Ammi?”

“Woh bhi.” You laughed softly “Hamari zyada banti nahi thi.”

“Ladte rehte thay?”

“Meri aur meri ammi ki boht ladai hoti thi.” You looked away. “Lekin bhi pyar bohat tha.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Iqbal nodded slowly. As though he understood. “Har ghar mein hota hai.”

You swallowed. Because he thought he was comforting you. And somehow that made it worse. “Hum baat kam karte thay,” you continued quietly. “Jab main padhne bahar gayi thi tab bhi.” You shrugged. “Kabhi kabhi haftay nikal jaate thay.”

“Aur phir?”

“Phir ek call aa jaati thi.” A small smile touched your lips. “Jaise kuch hua hi na ho.”

Iqbal chuckled. “Toh matlab zidd aap ko un se mili hai.”

You rolled your eyes. “Ji nahi.”

“Bilkul mili hai.”

“Nahi.”

“Ji haan.” And thankfully, mercifully, the conversation moved on. Yet long after it ended, the unease remained. Because every lie seemed harmless while you were telling it. Only later did it begin to grow. Layer upon layer. Until sometimes you couldn’t remember where the truth ended and the story began. And lately, that frightened you more than it should have.

———

Two days before Laiba’s birthday, the house had become a whirlwind of preparations. Lists were everywhere. Decorations were arriving. Sakina had already started planning the food as though an entire army was expected instead of a few dozen guests. Laiba, meanwhile, was becoming increasingly suspicious that everyone was hiding something from her. Fortunately, school kept her occupied for a few hours every day. Iqbal, on the other hand, had buried himself in work. Since he planned on keeping his schedule clear around the birthday itself, he was spending longer hours at the office, finishing whatever could be finished beforehand. Which left you with the perfect excuse. Return gifts. No one questioned it. Not when you came downstairs with a list in hand and announced that you were going to buy favors for the children attending the party. Not even Sakina.

“Zyada der mat lagaiyega.”

“Ji.” And just like that, you were free. The market was busy despite the afternoon heat. Vendors called out from every direction. Children ran between stalls. The scent of spices mixed with exhaust fumes and freshly fried snacks. You walked through it all calmly. As though this was exactly why you had come. Which, in a way, it was. Just not entirely. The small folded note sat sandwiched between two twenty-rupee notes inside your purse. Guest names. Expected attendees. A few coded details. At first glance it looked exactly like every other roadside juice corner. That was the point. Alam himself stood behind the counter. Nothing that would attract attention. Nothing obvious. Just enough. You eventually reached a juice stall tucked between two larger shops. Alam juice corner. Thinning hair. Ordinary clothes. The sort of face people forgot seconds after seeing. The sort of man nobody looked at twice. You stepped forward. “Ek doodh soda.” He nodded. Nothing more. No recognition. No greeting. No indication that either of you knew the other. A few minutes later you were seated at a small plastic table, slowly drinking while watching the crowd move past. When the glass was finally empty, you stood and approached the counter. The folded notes changed hands. Briefly. Naturally. Alam barely glanced down. Yet instead of placing the money inside the cash drawer, he slipped it into the breast pocket of his shirt. Then continued serving another customer. As though nothing had happened. You turned and walked away. Mission accomplished. Or so you thought. You had barely taken a few steps when you collided with someone. Hard enough to make you stumble.

“Aray!” The familiar voice made your stomach drop. You looked up. Adeeb.

A handful of jamun occupied one hand. Another was already halfway to his mouth. For a second he simply stared. Then his face lit up. “Assalamualaikum, bhabhi jaan!”

“Waalaikumassalam.”

“Aap theek hain?”

“Ji.”

“Kahin lagi toh nahi?”

“Nahi.”

“Pakka?”

“Ji.”

Satisfied, he popped another jamun into his mouth. Then casually spat the seed toward a nearby drain. You blinked. He immediately offered you the remaining fruit. “Jamun khaengi?”

“Nahi.”

“Bohat meethay hain.”

“Nahi bas aap khaiye.”

“Aap bohat kuch miss kar rahi hain.” Somehow every conversation with Adeeb felt slightly exhausting. The man possessed endless energy. “Aap yahan?” he asked.

“Thodi shopping.”

“Birthday wali?”

“Ji.”

“Acha.” His expression brightened immediately. “Invitation mil gaya mujhe.”

“Achhi baat hai.”

“Gudiya ka birthday haina.”

You smiled, “Haanji aap zarur aana.”

“Woh school mein hai?”

“Ji.”

You were preparing to leave when his voice stopped you again. “Bhabhi jaan?”

You turned. “Ji?”

“Ab ghar ja rahi hain?”

“Ji.”

“Akeli?”

A tiny knot formed in your stomach. “Main chali jaungi.”

“Main chhor deta hoon.”

“Zarurat nahi.”

“Aray kyun?”

“Main chali jaungi.”

“Main waise bhi us taraf ja raha hoon.” You hesitated. He noticed immediately. “Itna bhi bura nahi hoon.”

“Maine yeh kab kaha?”

“Chehre pe likha hua hai.” You rolled your eyes. Unfortunately, he refused to surrender. Five minutes later, despite several polite refusals, you found yourself sitting inside his car. The driver sat in front. Adeeb occupied the back seat beside you. Thankfully not close enough to be inappropriate. Yet close enough that you could smell his cologne. Something warm. Something expensive. Rose layered beneath incense. The scent lingered heavily inside the closed vehicle. For a while he chatted about completely random topics. Traffic. The weather. A shopkeeper who had apparently tried to overcharge him. Then suddenly he turned toward you. “Aapse shikayat hai.”

You blinked. “Mujhse?”

“Ji.”

“Kis baat ki?”

He looked genuinely offended. “Iqbal miyaan ne invitation mail kar diya.”

“Toh?”

“Toh?” He placed a hand dramatically over his chest.“Dusron ko call aayi.”

“Acha?”

“Ji.”

“Aur?”

“Aur mujhe laga tha kam az kam bhabhi jaan khud phone karengi.”

You laughed softly. “Aap itni si baat pe naraz hain?”

“Bohat.”

“Acha?”

“Bilkul.” Then he pointed accusingly. “Main expect nahi karta tha aapse.” The expression was so absurdly serious that for a moment it was difficult not to laugh. And as the car continued through Karachi’s crowded streets, you found yourself responding automatically. All while another part of your mind quietly catalogued everything around you. Every turn. Every landmark. And most importantly— Exactly where Adeeb intended to take you. The drive had already gone on longer than you had expected. At first, you had assumed Adeeb was taking a different route because of traffic. Then you had assumed he knew a shortcut. Then you had simply sat there quietly, watching the city pass beyond the tinted window. Only when the car reached a large intersection did you realize something was wrong. The road leading toward your house was straight ahead. Adeeb’s driver turned left. Immediately. Without hesitation. Your eyes shifted toward him. He was busy eating another jamun. You stared. Then finally spoke.

“Ghar rasta seedha tha.”

Adeeb popped another jamun into his mouth. “Tha.”

You frowned. “Phir?”

He chewed thoughtfully. “Main aap ko ghar nahin le ja raha.” For a second your stomach tightened. Your fingers instinctively curled around the handles of the shopping bags resting in your lap. Adeeb noticed. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Aray bhabhi jaan, itna pareshan mat hoiye.” He pointed ahead lazily. “Iqbal ke paas ja raha hoon. Socha aap ko bhi wahin chhor doon.” For a moment, caution warred with curiosity. You knew Iqbal would not be pleased. But another thought surfaced immediately. His workplace. An opportunity. A place you had only heard about. A place connected to everything. Everything you were trying to uncover. So instead of protesting, you simply nodded

“Achha.” Adeeb looked amused. Almost as though he had expected more resistance. The rest of the drive passed with surprisingly little conversation. You spent most of it watching the city outside. Memorizing roads. Turns. Buildings. Landmarks. Anything that might be useful later. Eventually the car slowed before a heavily guarded gate. Two armed guards stood outside. One stepped forward immediately. The moment he recognized the vehicle, he signaled for the barrier to rise. Adeeb leaned out of the window cheerfully.

“Salammmm!”

The guard barely nodded. Not even a smile. You almost felt sorry for him. Almost. The car rolled forward. Past the gate. Past another checkpoint. And finally into a large compound. Your gaze lifted The building surprised you. You had expected something intimidating. Something modern. Something that looked important. Instead, it looked almost ordinary. The structure was old. The paint had faded in places. Thin cracks ran along portions of the walls. Green vines climbed over one side of the building. A carefully maintained garden stretched across the front. Flowers bloomed beneath trimmed hedges. From a distance, it looked less like a government facility and more like an old family estate. A strange contradiction. The sort of place where children might play cricket in the courtyard. Not the sort of place where men discussed national security. Or wars. Or covert operations. Your pulse quickened. Because now you were here. Actually here. And if Iqbal saw you— You pushed the thought away. The driver stopped. You stepped out. Still clutching your shopping bags. Adeeb glanced at them. Then immediately reached for the handles.

“Dijiye.”

You pulled back instinctively. “Main utha sakti hoon.”

“Mujhe maloom hai.” Before you could protest further, he took them anyway. As though the matter had already been decided. You followed behind him. Trying not to appear nervous. Trying not to look suspicious. Trying not to stare too much. But your eyes were moving constantly. Every hallway. Every entrance. Every security camera. Every door. Every face. You were cataloguing everything. Inside, the atmosphere changed. People moved purposefully through the corridors. Some carried files. Others spoke quietly among themselves. A few wore uniforms. Others were dressed like ordinary office workers. Nobody paid attention to you at first. Until Adeeb opened his mouth. Which, unfortunately, happened almost immediately.

“Raasta dijiye bhai, Major sahab ki begum aa rahi hain.” Several heads turned. Your stomach dropped. Wonderful. Exactly what you needed. Attention. A middle-aged employee passing by immediately stopped. His expression softened “Assalamualaikum.”

“Waalaikumassalam.”

Another woman nearby smiled politely. “Aap ko paani chahiye?”

You shook your head. “Ji nahin, shukriya.”

“Chai?”

“Nahin, theek hai.” The moment people learned who you were, their behavior shifted. Respectful. Almost eager to help. You hated how useful that information was. And how much easier it made observing them. Adeeb continued forward. Completely oblivious to your tension. Or perhaps fully aware of it. With him, it was difficult to tell. Eventually you reached another corridor. Quieter. More secluded. The kind where important offices tended to be. Your heartbeat quickened. The feeling reminded you unexpectedly of your first day at the academy. Walking toward the dean’s office. Knowing one mistake could end everything. Knowing every step mattered. The same pressure settled over your shoulders now. At the end of the corridor stood a large wooden door. Beside it stretched a wide glass panel. The blinds were drawn shut. You couldn’t see inside. Adeeb walked straight toward it. Without knocking. Without hesitation. Without basic survival instincts. The door swung open. Inside sat Iqbal. Comfortable in his chair. A file open before him. Several men occupied the seats opposite him. The conversation stopped the moment the door opened. Iqbal looked up. Saw Adeeb. And sighed. Immediately. “Thori der bahar baitho. Main aata hoon.”

Adeeb opened his mouth. Probably to argue. Probably to annoy him further. But instead he stepped sideways. And revealed you. Everything changed. Instantly. Iqbal’s eyes landed on yours. For a moment he simply stared. As though trying to process what exactly he was seeing. You. Standing there. Inside his workplace. Beside Adeeb. Holding absolutely no logical reason to be there. The men seated before him looked between the two of you curiously. Iqbal blinked once. Then leaned back. “Darsal…” He glanced toward the officers. “Janab.” The meeting was apparently no longer the priority. “Main abhi aaya.” He rose from his chair. Buttoned his coat. And walked toward the door. Every step calm, controlled, and measured. Which somehow made you more nervous. When he finally stopped in front of you, his gaze shifted briefly to Adeeb. Then back to you. One eyebrow rose. Very slowly. “Aap yahan kya kar rahi hain?” The question itself wasn’t alarming. The tone was. Because it carried a second, unspoken question beneath it. ‘And why, exactly, are you here with Adeeb?’ You opened your mouth. Then closed it again. Because honestly, how were you supposed to explain this? You couldn’t exactly tell him that you had accepted the ride because you wanted to see where he worked. And judging by the look on his face, that answer would not improve your situation.

“Main… woh…” You glanced between him and the corridor. “Darsal…”

Before you could finish, Adeeb jumped in. As usual. “Aray, kuch nahin hua.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Bazar mein mil gayi thi. Main waise bhi tumhare paas hi aa raha tha. Socha bhabhi jaan ko bhi saath le aata hoon.”

Iqbal slowly turned his head toward him. The look he gave him was completely expressionless. Which somehow felt more threatening than anger. “Kyun?”

Adeeb blinked. “Kya matlab kyun?”

“Mera matlab kyun.” The silence stretched.

Adeeb immediately looked elsewhere. You almost felt bad for him. Iqbal turned back toward you. His expression softened slightly. “Aap theek hain?”

“Ji.”

“Koi masla toh nahin hua?”

“Nahin.”

His gaze lingered another moment. “Bazaar mein kya kar rahi thi?”

“Laiba ke birthday ke liye kuch cheezein leni thi. Return gifts waghaira.”

He nodded. The answer seemed acceptable. “Achha.”

Then he glanced toward the office behind him. The meeting. The people waiting inside. The responsibilities he had temporarily abandoned. A faint sigh escaped him.

“Main driver ko bol deta hoon. Woh aap ko ghar chhor dega.”

“Theek hai.” You nodded immediately.

Perhaps a little too quickly. Because being here was making you nervous. Every second felt dangerous. Every corridor felt like a place you shouldn’t be. Iqbal seemed to notice. He studied your face for a moment. Then stepped closer. One hand settled lightly against your shoulder. Not possessive. Not forceful. Just reassuring.

“Ghabra kyun rahi hain?”

You looked away. “Main ghabra nahin rahi.”

“Jhoot.” The word was quiet. Matter-of-fact. His hand squeezed your shoulder gently. “Aap ghabra rahi hain.”

You sighed. “Main bas yahan aane ki umeed nahin kar rahi thi.”

“Aur Adeeb ke saath aane ki?” There was the slightest hint of amusement in his voice now.

You frowned. “Unhon ne kaha tha ke woh ghar ja rahe hain.”

“Aur phir?”

“Phir nahin gaye.”

Iqbal closed his eyes briefly. As though this explained absolutely everything. Which, in fairness, it probably did.

“Haan. Yeh uski aadat hai.”

You couldn’t help smiling slightly. Just a little. The tension eased. A little. He motioned toward a nearby seating area outside the offices. A few chairs stood beside a small table.

“Yahan baith jaiye.”

You nodded. But before you could sit, he looked around and gestured toward a passing staff member. A young woman immediately approached.

“Ji sir?”

“Madam ke liye chai le aaiye.”

You immediately shook your head. “Nahin, nahin.”

The woman paused. Looking between the two of you. Iqbal looked down at you.

“Kyun?”

“Mujhe chai nahin chahiye.”

“Paani?”

“Nahin.”

“Coffee?”

“Nahin.”

His eyebrow lifted. “Toh phir?”

You folded your arms. “Kuch nahin.”

The woman was now trying very hard not to smile. Iqbal noticed too. “Theek hai.” Then, looking at the employee, he added, “Phir bhi kuch le aaiye.”

“Ji.”

The poor woman hurried away before you could object again. You looked up at him.

“Aap meri baat kyun nahin sunte?”

“Sunta hoon.”

“Nahin sunte.”

“Aap bhooki lag rahi hain.”

“Main bhooki nahin hoon.”

“Aap bhooki hain.”

“Main nahin hoon.”

“Theek hai.” He nodded. Completely unconvinced. A moment later, footsteps echoed through the corridor.

You turned.

Adeeb emerged from the office area, hands in his pockets. Looking entirely too pleased with himself. Then he suddenly stopped. His eyes widened dramatically.

“Aray!”

You frowned. “Kya?”

He pointed. “Bhabhi jaan.”

You looked down. Still confused. “Kya?”

“Aap ke bags.”

Your heart dropped. The shopping bags. You had completely forgotten them. Adeeb sighed dramatically.

“Main soch raha tha ke aaj kal log itni shopping kaise kar lete hain.”

He held them up.

“Phir yaad aaya ke yeh sab aap ka samaan hai.”

Iqbal looked at the bags. “Aap yeh sab khud utha rahi thi?”

Before you could answer, Adeeb immediately said, “Ji haan.”

“Aur bohot bhaari the.”

“Adeeb.”

“Ji?”

“Chup.”

For once, Adeeb actually obeyed.

The glass of water arrived a few minutes later. You accepted it mostly because refusing again would only earn you another look from Iqbal.

The water was enough to steady the nervousness that had been sitting in your chest ever since you had stepped through those gates.

Iqbal remained nearby while you drank, occasionally answering a question from someone passing through the corridor, but his attention never seemed entirely elsewhere. Every few moments his gaze would return to you as though making sure you were still sitting exactly where he had left you.

When you finally set the empty glass down, he glanced at his watch.

The meeting was waiting. The work was waiting. But so were you.

“Chaliye.”

You blinked. “Ji?”

“Main aap ko gaari tak chhor deta hoon.”

“Zaroorat nahin hai.”

“Hai.”

The answer came so simply that there was no point arguing. A few minutes later you found yourself walking beside him through the building’s corridors. People moved aside almost instinctively when they saw him approaching. Some greeted him. Some nodded respectfully. Others looked curiously toward you. You tried not to notice. Tried not to think about how out of place you felt here. The afternoon sun was bright when you stepped outside. The garden looked peaceful. Almost deceptively so. The driver was already waiting beside the vehicle. Iqbal opened the car door for you before you could reach for it yourself. A small gesture. One that still felt strange every time he did it.

You turned slightly. “Aap wapas meeting mein jaiye.”

“Jaoonga.”

“Main ghar pohanch jaungi.”

“Mujhe pata hai.”

Yet he made no move to leave.

For a moment he simply stood there looking at you.

Calm, and observant. As though trying to memorize something. Or perhaps trying to figure something out. Then his eyes shifted beyond you. Toward the entrance. Instinctively, you followed his gaze.

Adeeb.

Of course. Standing near the doorway. Watching. Very obviously watching. The moment he realized both of you had noticed him, he immediately looked away. Then looked back. Then pretended he had not been looking at all. Which somehow made it more obvious.

You almost sighed. Iqbal certainly did. A faint shake of his head. A look that seemed to say there is no saving this man.

Then his attention returned to you. For the briefest second something softened in his expression. The sort of softness he rarely allowed others to see. Before you could say anything, his hand lifted lightly to your jaw. Not enough to startle. Not enough to trap. Just enough to make you look at him. Your breath caught. And before you could process the gesture, he leaned forward and pressed a brief kiss against your lips.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing lingering.

Just a quiet moment.

Gone almost as quickly as it had happened. When he pulled back, you stared at him. Completely caught off guard.

Meanwhile, from the entrance, there came the unmistakable sound of someone choking. You didn’t need to look to know who it was. Adeeb had apparently witnessed everything. Iqbal looked entirely unbothered by this fact. If anything, he seemed mildly pleased.

“Ghar pohanch kar phone kar dijiyega.”

Your face felt warm. You nodded. Unable to find words. Satisfied with that response, he finally stepped back from the car. Closing the door behind you. As the vehicle began moving, you glanced out the window.

The car disappeared beyond the gates.

For a few moments, Iqbal remained where he was, hands resting loosely in his pockets as he watched it go. The afternoon sun had begun to soften, casting long shadows across the compound, and the guards at the entrance had already returned to their duties. Only when the vehicle was completely out of sight did he finally turn around. And immediately regret it. Because Adeeb was still standing there. Exactly where he had been. Watching. Staring, actually. With the expression of a man who had just been handed the greatest piece of gossip of the year.

Iqbal stopped. Looked at him. Then looked away. Then looked back again. Adeeb grinned. Wide. Unapologetic. The kind of grin that usually preceded a headache.

Iqbal sighed. “Khatam ho gaya tamasha?”

Adeeb placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Aray nahin, main toh bas dekh raha tha.”

Iqbal started walking toward the building. Adeeb immediately fell into step beside him. “Kya?”

“Mohabbat.”

Iqbal turned his head slowly. Very slowly. The look he gave him would have sent most people running in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, Adeeb was not most people. If anything, he seemed encouraged. The grin widened. They continued walking through the courtyard. Employees greeted them as they passed. Iqbal acknowledged them with brief nods.

Adeeb continued being a nuisance. “Waise bhabhi jaan bohot shareef hain.”

“Mujhe pata hai.”

“Aur bohot khoobsurat bhi.”

“Mujhe yeh bhi pata hai.”

Adeeb laughed. A loud, delighted laugh. “Acha hai. Kam az kam aap ko nazar toh aa gaya.”

Iqbal said nothing. The silence stretched for several steps. Long enough that Adeeb assumed he had gotten away with it. A mistake. Because eventually Iqbal spoke. Quietly.

“Adeeb.”

“Ji?”

“Agli dafa meri biwi ko bazaar se utha kar mere daftar mat le aana.”

Adeeb immediately put on his most innocent expression. Which only made him look guiltier.

“Main toh madad kar raha tha.”

“Mat kiya karo.”

“Aap ko mujh par bharosa nahin?”

Without missing a beat, Iqbal replied, “Bilkul nahin.”

Adeeb nearly choked laughing. The sound echoed through the corridor as they entered the building. A few employees looked up from their desks. One of them immediately looked back down when Iqbal’s gaze drifted in his direction.

Meanwhile Adeeb was still laughing. “Yaar, itna bhi bura nahin hoon main.”

Iqbal continued walking. “Ho.”

“Kasam se nahin hoon.”

“Kasam kha kar jhoot bol rahe ho.”

Adeeb looked genuinely offended. For approximately three seconds. Then he started laughing again. By now they had reached the corridor leading toward the meeting rooms. Iqbal adjusted the file in his hand and continued forward.

Adeeb, however, wasn’t finished. Naturally. “Aap waqai jalan mehsoos kar rahe hain!”

Several nearby employees suddenly became very interested in their paperwork. One man almost walked into a wall trying not to look. Iqbal didn’t even turn around. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t stop. He simply kept walking and said in the calmest voice imaginable,

“Mere office ke bahar intezar karo varna Afghanistan transfer karwa dunga.”

The effect was immediate. Adeeb shut his mouth. Straightened his posture. And followed. Because there were many things in life he wasn’t afraid of. Transfers were not one of them. From somewhere behind them, a muffled snort escaped one of the staff members. Iqbal ignored it. Adeeb pretended not to hear it. And the two disappeared down the corridor, one trying to return to work, the other already planning exactly how he would annoy him again tomorrow.

———

The evening before Laiba’s birthday felt impossible to survive for one very simple reason. Laiba herself. From the moment she woke up that morning, she had become a whirlwind of excitement that swept through the entire house. She talked during breakfast. She talked while getting ready. She talked while putting on her shoes. She talked while climbing into the car. And when she returned from school, somehow she talked even more. Every conversation eventually found its way back to one topic.

Her birthday.

By evening, even Sakina had started laughing every time the girl appeared in a doorway. Because everyone already knew what was coming.

“Kal mera birthday hai.”

As though anybody could possibly forget. Around seven o’clock, Iqbal returned home from work carrying a small box. Naturally, Laiba spotted it immediately.

“Yeh kya hai?”

Iqbal smoothly moved it behind his back. “Kuch nahin.”

“Papa.”

“Kuch bhi nahin.”

“Papaaa.”

He sighed dramatically. Then held up the box. “Dawai hai.”

Laiba went back to whatever she was doing. You laughed.

Iqbal walked over to you and started talking so Laiba wouldnt be able to hear, “healthy cake hai.”

“Healthy?”

“Ji haan.” He began removing his shoes. “Khajoor se meetha kiya gaya hai.”

“Aur is mein walnuts bhi hain.”

“Walnuts?”

“Aur dry fruits.”

If Laiba could hear this conversation she would be personally offended.

“Chocolate nahin?”

“Nahi yeh sehatmand hai.”

By dinner time, Laiba had somehow become even more excited. She bounced in her chair. She swung her feet. She kept asking questions.

How many guests would come?

Would there be balloons?

Would there be gifts?

Would there be cake?

Would there be more cake?

Could there possibly be even more cake?

At one point she placed both elbows on the table and announced,

“Mumma, kal school nahin jaungi.”

You exchanged a glance with Iqbal. Neither of you reacted. “Jaogi.”

Laiba looked betrayed. “Mera birthday hai.”

“Phir bhi jaogi.”

“Lekin birthday hai.”

“School bhi hai.”

She immediately turned toward Iqbal. Seeking support. A terrible mistake. Because Iqbal was determined not to reveal the surprise. So he simply nodded. “Ammi theek keh rahi hain.”

The look Laiba gave both of you suggested she would remember this injustice for years. By bedtime she was still talking. Still planning. Still imagining. Lying beneath her blanket, she informed both of you that she wanted a giant cake, at least a hundred gifts, and possibly a pony.

The pony was new.

You eventually managed to negotiate her expectations down to realistic levels.

Barely.

And after nearly an hour of conversation, complaints, excitement, and yawning, she finally drifted asleep. Peace settled over the house. At last. You were exhausted by the time you climbed into bed yourself.

The lights were off.

The room was quiet.

And sleep found you quickly. Which was why you were extremely confused when a hand gently shook your shoulder sometime later.

You groaned. Pulled the blanket higher. And opened one eye. Iqbal stood beside the bed. Fully awake. Looking suspiciously pleased with himself.

“Uthiye.”

You stared. “Kyun?”

“Chaliye.”

You glanced toward the clock. Then immediately sat up. “Iqbal!” It was midnight. Exactly midnight. “Aap pagal hain?”

He looked entirely unrepentant. “Birthday hai.”

You rubbed your face. “Kal chidh-chedi hogi.”

“Kal birthday bhi toh hai.”

“Sone dein usay.”

“Bilkul nahin.”

There was no point arguing. You already knew that expression. So with a sigh, you climbed out of bed. Half asleep. Still trying to understand why your husband had suddenly become a child himself. You grabbed the nearest dupatta and draped it loosely over your shoulders before following him out. Only then did you notice the plate in his hands.

The cake.

A single candle flickered softly on top. The hallway was dark. The rest of the house asleep. Even so, Iqbal walked with exaggerated caution, as though carrying a priceless treasure. When you finally reached Laiba’s room, he pushed the door open carefully. The little girl remained completely unconscious. One arm above her head. Blanket twisted around her legs. Mouth slightly open. A true master of sleep. You sat beside her first. Brushed her hair back. Then kissed her cheek gently.

“Laiba…”

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

“Laiba…”

A small grumble. Then silence. You tried again.

“Utho.”

She turned her face into the pillow. Determined to continue sleeping forever. You glanced at Iqbal. He was already struggling not to laugh. Then an idea struck. You leaned down. Lowered your voice. And whispered,

“Birthday cake.”

The reaction was immediate. Two eyes flew open. Laiba sat upright so quickly that both of you nearly jumped. For several seconds she simply blinked.

Confused.

Disoriented.

Then she saw the candle. Saw the cake. And gasped.

“Mera birthday?”

The excitement in her voice could have powered the entire city. You smiled. “Ji.”

She looked around. Then toward the dark window. Then back at you.

“Abhi?”

“Abhi.”

“Lekin raat hai.”

Iqbal pulled a chair closer. “Barah baj gaye.”

Laiba frowned. Thinking. Trying to process this revolutionary information. “Matlab…”

“Matlab naya din.” Her eyes widened.

“Toh birthday shuru?”

“Birthday shuru.” That was apparently all the explanation she needed. Immediately she straightened. Fixed her blanket. And looked very serious. Ready for official birthday business. The candlelight danced across her sleepy face as she closed her eyes and made a wish. Neither you nor Iqbal asked what it was. Then she blew the candle out. The room erupted into quiet applause. Mostly from Iqbal. Who looked far too proud of himself. The first bite went to Laiba.

Naturally.

She examined the cake suspiciously. Took a bite.

Chewed.

Then paused. “Yeh chocolate nahin hai.”

Iqbal looked smug. “Healthy cake hai.”

She took another bite. Then another. Eventually she admitted, “Theek hai.”

A tremendous victory. Until she discovered the dates. Immediately she began picking them out. One by one. Carefully setting them aside.

“Yeh nahin pasand.”

“Khajoor sehatmand hain.”

“Mujhe akhrot pasand hain.”

She happily ate those instead. The brown colour of the cake had fooled her at first, and she seemed mildly disappointed that it wasn’t chocolate after all. But between the walnuts, the excitement, and the fact that it was officially her birthday, she forgave the cake for its shortcomings. Eventually her head began drooping again. Her words became slower. Her eyelids heavier. And you knew it was time.

“Bas.”

She immediately protested. Weakly. Sleepily.

“Nahin…”

“Kal poora din hai.”

“Birthday hai…”

“Aur isi liye sona bhi hai.” Within minutes she was tucked back beneath her blanket. Still smiling. Still clutching the tiny paper birthday hat Iqbal had somehow produced from nowhere. And before either of you reached the door, she was asleep again. As though the midnight celebration had never happened at all.

———

The house woke before the sun did. Long before guests would begin arriving, before the decorators hung the final ribbons, before the cooks claimed the kitchen as their territory, there was already movement in every corner of the house.

You were the first one awake. Laiba’s birthday had finally arrived. The realization alone was enough to push away whatever sleep remained. For a few moments you simply lay there listening to the quiet house, remembering the excitement on Laiba’s face the previous night when she had discovered that midnight technically counted as her birthday. A smile found its way onto your face before you could stop it. Beside you, Iqbal was still asleep.

For once. You slipped out of bed carefully. Today would be busy. Very busy.

By the time breakfast preparations had begun, Sakina was already directing workers, the kitchen was slowly filling with ingredients, and several calls had been exchanged regarding decorations and deliveries. The only person still sleeping peacefully through all of it was the birthday girl. Exactly as planned. You had specifically forbidden Iqbal from waking her early. Because the moment Laiba woke up, she would begin asking about clothes. And decorations. And cake. And gifts. And every other possible detail. The outfits from the tailor had not even arrived yet. There was no point beginning the chaos sooner than necessary. Which was why, after helping with the initial preparations, you practically pushed Iqbal out the door.

“Aap ja kar darzi se kapde le aaiye.”

He laughed. “Darzi kabhi apna waada nahin badalte.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Ji nahin. Woh bas waqt badalte hain.”

That earned a grin. Because everyone knew it was true. It did not matter whether the tailor worked from a tiny shop hidden inside crowded market lanes or owned an elegant boutique with framed certificates hanging on every wall.

Tailors possessed a universal talent. They always finished clothes exactly when they wanted. Never a day early. Never an hour early. And somehow always when your patience had already run out. By the time Iqbal left to collect the outfits, you decided to finally get ready yourself. The house was busy enough that nobody would notice your absence for a little while. The warm water felt wonderful after the long morning. You took your time.

And when you finally emerged from the bathroom, your hair was still damp from the wash. A simple cream cotton suit had replaced your nightclothes. Nothing elaborate. Nothing special. Just comfortable enough for the busy day ahead. The scent of bakhoor lingered softly in the room. You noticed it immediately.

Iqbal’s doing. Of course. The fragrance drifted through the air, settling into the curtains, the bedding, and even the garment covers hanging nearby For a brief moment the room felt strangely peaceful compared to the bustle outside. You stepped toward the balcony, opening the doors to let in fresh air. Morning sunlight spilled inside immediately. Your damp towel was shaken out and draped neatly where it could dry. Only then did you notice Iqbal. He had returned without you hearing him. The garment were on hangers now absorbing smell of bakhoor. The birthday outfits. All three of them. For a moment neither of you said anything. His gaze lingered on you before quickly moving away again. As though he had been about to say something and changed his mind. You smiled.

“Kapde mil gaye?”

“Mil gaye.” His answer was immediate. Almost too immediate.

You narrowed your eyes slightly “Sab theek hai?”

“Ji.”

That made you suspicious. Because he suddenly seemed very interested in arranging hangers that were already arranged perfectly.

You turned toward the mirror.

Moisturizer.

Hair serum.

The familiar routine.

Meanwhile Iqbal stood by the wardrobe, his fingers resting against the metal of the clothing hangers. He purposefully kept his focus fixed on the neat row of clothes, staring at them with concentration as if they were the most important thing in the room. He was trying to give you space, yet he was deeply aware of you being there.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed the way your damp hair caught the light. The sight of you—relaxed and peaceful after your bath—struck him deeply. You looked truly mesmerized in the soft light of the room.

Iqbal felt a sudden wave of affection and admiration as he looked at his wife. There was a quiet beauty in the moment that made it difficult for him to simply look away. He felt a strong pull toward you, a sense of closeness and connection that he found hard to ignore.

Realizing he was staring, Iqbal quickly shifted his attention back to the hangers, trying to regain his composure and focus on the task at hand, though his mind remained fixed on your presence.

The room felt strangely peaceful compared to the rest of the house. Outside, people were moving constantly. Voices drifted through open windows. Someone was arranging decorations in the garden. Somewhere downstairs, utensils clinked together as preparations for the evening continued. The entire house seemed to be preparing for Laiba’s birthday. Yet for a few moments, none of that reached this room. The balcony doors remained open. Morning sunlight spilled across the floor. The scent of bakhoor lingered softly in the air, woven into the fabric of curtains and bedsheets. You sat before the dressing table, absentmindedly combing your damp hair while Iqbal remained nearby, sorting through the garment covers he had just brought from the tailor. For a while neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It hadn’t been for a long time now. You had stopped noticing when exactly that change happened. When being alone with him had stopped feeling like something that needed to be endured. When his presence had stopped making you tense. When his voice had become something familiar instead of something to prepare yourself for. The realization unsettled you every time it surfaced. Because comfort was dangerous. Comfort made people careless. And yet, despite knowing that, you found yourself seeking it. Seeking him. You watched him through the mirror. He seemed unusually distracted. A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

“Kya baat hai?”

Iqbal glanced up. Then smiled. A quiet smile.The kind that always made him look younger than he actually was. “Ek cheez hai.”

You turned slightly. “Kya cheez?”

He shook his head. “Pehle idhar aaiye.”

Immediately suspicious, you narrowed your eyes “Iqbal…”

“Aaiye toh sahi.”

Despite yourself, you laughed softly. Then stood and walked closer. The moment you reached him, he gently took your wrist and guided you toward the chair near the window. The same chair where sunlight pooled across the floor.

“Baithiye.”

“Ab bataiye bhi.”

“Sabr.”

You rolled your eyes. He looked entirely pleased with himself. For a second he simply stood there looking at you. And there was something unexpectedly warm in his gaze. Something that made you look away first. Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small velvet box. Your eyebrows rose.

Immediately.

“Yeh kya hai?”

“Aap ke liye.”

The answer came so naturally that it caught you off guard. You looked at the box, “Mere liye?”

“Ji.”

You stared at him. Genuinely confused. “Magar kyun?”

His expression softened. Almost imperceptibly. “Har tohfa kisi wajah se nahin diya jata.”

The room fell quiet. Your fingers slowly opened the box. Inside rested a pair of delicate silver anklets. Tiny bells hung from them. Not loud enough to make noise with every step. Just enough to chime softly. Beautiful. Elegant. Timeless. For a moment you simply stared. Then looked back up at him. “Bohat khoobsurat hain.”

Iqbal smiled. The kind of smile that never quite reached anyone else. “Aap se zyada nahin.” Heat immediately rushed to your face. You looked away. And hated that he noticed. Because he always noticed. Every single time. Before you could think of a response, he lowered himself onto one knee. The movement startled you.

“Iqbal…”

He looked up. Holding out a hand. “Paon.” Your heart skipped unexpectedly. Not because of the anklets. Not because of the gesture. But because of the way he said it. So casually. So naturally. As though there was nowhere else in the world he was supposed to be. As though this was exactly where he wanted to be. With you. You hesitated. Only for a second. Then carefully extended your foot. His hand closed around your ankle with remarkable gentleness. As though he feared hurting you. The silver clasp clicked softly into place. Neither of you spoke. The world outside continued moving. Voices. Footsteps. Preparations. Life. But inside the room everything felt strangely still. He adjusted the anklet carefully. Making sure it sat comfortably. Making sure it wouldn’t catch against the fabric. Focused entirely on what he was doing. The concentration on his face made something inside your chest ache unexpectedly. Because nobody had ever looked after you like this. Not really. Not without expecting something in return. Yet here he was. Treating something as simple as an anklet like it mattered. Like you mattered. Once satisfied, he glanced up. His gaze meeting yours. For a brief second neither of you moved. Then he lowered his head and pressed a light kiss against your ankle. The gesture was so unexpected that your breath caught. Not because it was inappropriate. Not because it was bold. Because it felt sincere. Painfully sincere. Before you could recover, he reached for the other anklet. The second one followed. The same careful hands. The same patience. The same tenderness. And when he finished, he remained there for a moment. Still kneeling. Looking up at you. Sunlight spilled through the open balcony doors. The scent of bakhoor lingered in the air. Outside, somewhere downstairs, somebody called out instructions regarding decorations. Yet the sound felt distant. Muted. As though it belonged to another world. For reasons you couldn’t explain, your chest suddenly felt tight. Dangerously tight. Because all at once you became aware of something. Not him. Not the anklets. Yourself. The fact that months ago this would have terrified you. Months ago you would have pulled away. Would have found an excuse. Would have reminded yourself why you were here. What your purpose was. Who you were. But now… Now you were looking at your husband kneeling before you. And instead of fear, all you felt was warmth.A warmth that had begun quietly. So quietly that you hadn’t noticed it growing. Until it had become impossible to ignore. Iqbal tilted his head slightly. Concern appearing in his expression. “Kya hua?”

You couldn’t answer. Because the truth frightened you. The truth was that for one terrifying moment, you had forgotten everything except this room. Except him. Instead, you simply shook your head. “Kuch nahin.”

His eyes narrowed. Clearly unconvinced. But before he could ask again, you leaned forward. The movement surprised even you. For a second you almost stopped. Almost pulled back. Almost remembered all the reasons why you shouldn’t. Then you didn’t. Your hand came up instinctively. Resting lightly against his shoulder. And before courage could abandon you, you pressed a brief kiss to his lips. Soft. Tentative. Barely lasting a second. Yet it felt as though the entire room had stopped breathing. When you pulled away, silence followed. Neither of you spoke. Iqbal simply stared. Completely still. As though his mind had failed to catch up with what had just happened. And somehow that made everything worse. Because he hadn’t expected it. Not from you. Not first. Heat flooded your face immediately. You looked away. Embarrassed. Suddenly very interested in the floor. In the balcony. In literally anything except him. Then quietly— “Aise mat dekhiye.” For the first time since you had met him, Iqbal looked genuinely speechless. Which only made you more embarrassed. A slow smile finally appeared on his face. Not teasing. Not victorious. Something softer. Something infinitely more dangerous. Because it looked suspiciously like happiness. And for reasons you didn’t want to examine too closely, seeing that expression made your own heart hurt.

———

Laiba woke up unusually fast. Normally it took several attempts, two threats, one promise of breakfast, and at least five minutes of bargaining before she would even consider opening her eyes. Today, however, the moment she remembered what day it was, she sat upright. “Mera joda kahan hai?” You barely had time to wish her a happy birthday before she was already looking around the room. The garment cover resting over your arm immediately caught her attention. Her eyes widened. “Mera hai?”

You laughed. “Ji haan, magar pehle nahaaiye.”

The smile disappeared instantly. “Nahin.”

“Ji?”

“Birthday hai mera.” As though that explained everything.

“Toh?”

“Birthday walay din nahaana zaroori nahin hota.”

You stared at her. She stared right back. Utterly convinced by her own logic. For the next ten minutes the two of you negotiated what was perhaps the most unnecessary battle in human history. Eventually, after repeated reminders that guests would be arriving and that nobody wanted to spend their birthday smelling like sleep, she finally surrendered. Grudgingly. Very grudgingly. The entire time she complained. “Paani thanda hai.”

“Aap bohat sakht hain.”

By the time she emerged from the bathroom she looked thoroughly offended by life itself. But the moment the outfit came out, all complaints vanished. Just like that The dusty rose suit suited her perfectly. The embroidery glimmered softly in antique gold. Tiny details decorated the sleeves. The dupatta sat slightly crooked because she couldn’t stop moving long enough for you to fix it. She turned around twice. Then three times. Then immediately ran downstairs to show Sakina. Leaving you alone with a smile lingering on your face.Back in your room, the preparations were far from finished. Your own outfit waited carefully arranged on the bed. The sari was exactly what you had hoped for. Dusty rose. Soft and elegant. Neither too bright nor too dull. The antique-gold border caught the morning sunlight beautifully. The blouse was modest, cocoa colour with a graceful boat neckline and intricate gold embroidery climbing along the collar and sleeves. Elegant. Timeless. Exactly what you had imagined. You changed slowly, taking care with every pleat. The fabric slipped through your fingers like water. Outside, sounds from the house continued growing louder. Guests would begin arriving soon. Decorators moved through the garden. The cooks had fully taken over the kitchen. The entire house felt alive. And yet, somehow, this room remained calm. Iqbal still hadn’t gotten ready. Which was hardly surprising. So after checking on Laiba twice and the decorations three times, you finally marched back into the room. “Aap abhi tak tayyar nahin huay?”

He looked up from where he was sorting through something. Entirely unbothered. “Waqt hai.”

“Bilkul nahin hai.” You pointed toward the bathroom. “Jaiye.” He opened his mouth. You pointed again. More firmly. “Abhi.”That finally earned a laugh. Shaking his head, he grabbed a towel and disappeared inside. Almost half an hour later, you were standing before the mirror trying to perfect the final pleats of your sari. The folds still refused to cooperate. In the mirror, you watch your own hands working meticulously, adjusting the borders until everything sits perfectly. From the corner of your eye, the bathroom door clicks open. Iqbal steps out. Vapor follows him into the room, bringing the warm, clean scent of sandalwood and soap. A single white towel is hitched loosely around his waist, riding low on his hips. Water droplets still cling to his collarbones, tracking slow paths down his chest. He doesn't look up immediately, his eyes scanning the bed where his clothes for the day are neatly laid out. You catch his reflection in the glass, but before you can speak, he grips the knot of the towel, pulls it free, and tosses the damp cloth carelessly onto the mattress.

"Iqbal!" you gasp, turning around instantly to scold him. "Aapko kitni baar bola hai gila towel—" The words die in your throat. He is standing right there. Entirely, completely naked. Your eyes lock onto his body, then instantly drop before your brain can even register what you are looking at. Your breath hitches. A fierce, sudden heat floods up your neck, coloring your cheeks a violent crimson. You whip back around toward the mirror so fast your head spins, your hands flying up to cover your burning face. Your heart hammers against your ribs, and your lips move, but only a breathless, incoherent stutter comes out. “Main—aap—Aapne kapde kyu nahi daale—"

Behind you, there is a sudden, sharp intake of air. Iqbal freezes, his hand still extended in mid-air where he had been reaching for his trousers. He hadn't expected you to turn around. He thought you were completely focused on your saree, giving him the usual few seconds to pull on his clothes. "Oh," Iqbal blurts out. The silence that follows is thick and heavy, charged with a sudden, overwhelming embarrassment. "Mujhe laga nahi aap piche mudengi!" he says quickly, his voice a pitch higher than usual. You hear the frantic, rustling fabric of his trousers as he scrambles to pull them on.

"Aapne gila tolia bed par pheka!" you squeak to the wall, your eyes tightly shut, your hands still pressed to your face. "Mudti nahi toh kya karti!"

“Ghalti se phek diya maine.”

“Jhooth.”

“Allah gawah hai ghalti se.” He was already smiling. Which meant he wasn’t remotely sorry.

“Uthaiye isay.” With exaggerated obedience, he picked it up. The entire time looking far too amused. Then he finally looked properly at you. And stopped. The teasing smile faded. Not completely. Just enough. For a moment his gaze lingered. Taking in the sari. The gold embroidery. The carefully arranged pleats. The bangles. The effort. All of it. Something warm appeared in his expression. The kind that always made you look away first. “Kya?” you asked quietly.

A small smile returned. This one softer. “Kuch nahin.” You immediately knew he was lying. And somehow that made your cheeks warm more than any compliment could have.

———

The birthday gathering had grown louder as the afternoon stretched on. Children ran across the lawn in little clusters, their laughter mixing with the music playing softly through the speakers. Colorful balloons swayed in the breeze. Somewhere near the dessert table, Laiba was enthusiastically showing her friends every corner of the house as though she personally owned the entire property. She probably believed she did. You stood beside the refreshments table for a moment, smiling as another guest wished Laiba a happy birthday. The dusty rose and cocoa-brown decorations looked even prettier than you had imagined. Across the lawn, Iqbal was surrounded by guests. One of them had just arrived. A short man- Mir Sajid pulled Iqbal into a brief embrace. “Assalamualaikum meri jaan, kaisa hain?”

Iqbal laughed. “Alhamdulillah sab theek hai. Tu bata?”

“Zinda hoon. Bas kaam ne jaan nikaal rakhi hai.”

Both men laughed. You watched them from a distance before another guest approached you. Adeeb. Of course. He appeared with a glass in one hand and his usual infuriating smile. “Bhabhi jaan.”

You nodded politely. “Assalamualaikum.”

“Waalaikumassalam.”

His eyes drifted around the gathering. “Bohat achi tayyari ki hai.”

“Laiba khush hai. Bas wohi kaafi hai.”

“Haan…” His gaze moved briefly toward the crowd. “Bas afsos hua ke aap ke walidain nahin aa sake.”

The familiar tension tightened inside you chest. Before you could answer, Iqbal appeared beside them. Almost casually. Almost. “Safar mushkil tha.” His tone was calm. “Unki sehat bhi utni achi nahin.”

Adeeb nodded. “Haan, Y/N ne bataya tha.” Iqbal’s expression remained pleasant. But You knew him well enough now. There was a reason he had appeared the second Adeep started asking questions. Adeeb eventually drifted away toward another group. Only for Rashid Kareem to take his place. The older man watched Adeeb disappear into the crowd before lowering his voice. “Mujhe woh ladka pasand nahin.”

Iqbal sighed. “Rashid sahib…”

“Nahin. Main sanjeedgi se keh raha hoon.”

His eyes shifted toward you. “Bohat zyada baatein karta hai.”

“Us ki fitrat hai.”

“Aur nazrein bhi bohat chalti hain.” Iqbal’s jaw tightened. Only slightly. Enough for you to notice. Rashid snorted. “Khair. Tumhari biwi hai. Tum jaano.”

Laiba somehow managed to get icing on her own nose, two friends, and one very expensive tablecloth.

Photographs were taken.

Gifts piled up.

Guests laughed.

A perfectly normal afternoon. Exactly what you had been waiting for. Because as the celebrations continued, something else slowly began happening. One by one, certain guests started disappearing from the lawn.

Political figures.

Military officers.

Senior colleagues.

People who had arrived separately. People who were now quietly excusing themselves. Moving toward the interior of the house. Toward the corridor. Toward the meeting room.

You felt her pulse quicken.

This was it.

Without drawing attention to herself, you waited another fifteen minutes. Long enough. Then you leaned toward Sakina.

“Main abhi aayi.”

“Kahan?”

“Bas zara dekh loon kitchen mein sab theek hai ya nahin.”

Sakina waved you away. You slipped inside. The sounds of the party gradually faded behind you.

Music.

Children.

Conversation.

All becoming distant. The corridor felt strangely quiet after the noise outside. The meeting room door stood slightly open.

Just slightly.

Exactly as Alam and Mustafa had predicted. Your heart began beating harder. Slowly you approached.

Listening.

Nothing.

No voices.

The meeting had not started yet. Carefully you pushed the door open.

The room was empty. Large. Formal. A long polished wooden table occupied the center. Leather chairs surrounded it. A projector hung from the ceiling. Several framed maps decorated the walls. A side cabinet contained files and folders arranged with military precision. The air smelled faintly of paper, wood polish, and old coffee. For a second you simply stood there.

Taking everything in.

Memorizing.

Every detail.

Every corner.

Then you quickly moved. Your fingers slipped beneath the folds of your sari. Retrieving the tiny recorder. Then the miniature camera. Your mind raced.

Not the table. Too obvious.

Not the projector. Too visible.

Not the cabinet. People opened those regularly.

Your gaze landed on a decorative clock mounted high on the wall. Perfect.

High enough.

Overlooking most of the room. Rarely touched. You dragged a chair quietly beneath it. Climbed up. Your hands trembling despite her efforts to stay calm. The camera disappeared behind the wooden frame.

Almost invisible.

You climbed down.

Next. The recorder.

That took longer.

You finally crouched beside the large conference table. Running your fingers underneath its edge. There. A recessed support beam. Hidden from sight. You attached it carefully. Then stood.

Breathing hard.

Done.

It was done. For the first time in weeks, hope flickered inside your chest. You turned toward the door— And froze.

The door was no longer empty. Someone stood there. Watching you.

Rashid Kareem.

For one horrible second neither moved. Neither spoke. The room seemed to shrink around you. Rashid’s eyes dropped briefly toward the chair you had moved. Then toward your hands. Then back to your face.

His expression unreadable.

You felt every drop of blood drain from your body. And Rashid quietly closed the door behind him.

Rashid did not raise his voice.

That was what made it worse.

If he had shouted, if he had looked angry, if he had accused you outright, perhaps you would have known how to react. Instead, he simply stood there.

Calm.

Watching you.

The door clicked shut behind him. The sound seemed deafening.

You forced herself not to look toward the table.

Not toward the recorder.

Not toward the camera.

Rashid noticed anyway. People like him always noticed. For a long moment neither spoke. Then Rashid sighed. Almost tiredly.

“Iqbal bohat acha aadmi hai.”

The words caught you off guard. Rashid slowly walked further into the room. Not threatening. Not hurried. Just a man taking a slow walk through a room he knew well.

“Bohat zyada acha.”

His gaze drifted toward one of the chairs.

“Chota tha tab se jaanta hoon usay.”

You remained silent. Rashid pulled out a chair but did not sit. His hand rested against its back.

“Tumhein pata hai uski zindagi ki sab se bari baat kya thi?”

You said nothing. He continued anyway.

“Us ke walid aur dadi ne us ki walida ko kabhi poori tarah qabool nahin kiya.”

His voice remained soft. Matter-of-fact.

“Zulm nahin kehta main usay. Magar jo cheez insaan ko har roz mehsoos karwayi jaye ke woh ghar ka hissa nahin hai… woh bhi kisi saza se kam nahin hoti.”

Rashid looked down briefly. “Bachon ko sab nazar aata hai.”

“Har baat.”

“Har nazar.”

“Har lafz.”

His eyes returned to yours. “Iqbal ko bhi aata tha.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

“Us ne bachpan mein apni maa ko nazarandaz hotay dekha.”

“Us ne dekha ke kisi ko yeh ehsaas dilaya jaye ke woh ahmiyat nahin rakhta.”

“Aur shayad isi liye us ne qasam kha li ke woh kabhi kisi aur ko yeh ehsaas nahin hone dega.”

Rashid smiled faintly. “Laiba ko dekha hai na tum ne?”

“Aise hi ghar nahin le aya tha usay.”

“Har saal kitne jawan martay hain.”

“Kitni auratein dusri shadiyan kar leti hain.”

“Kitne bachay rishtedaron ke gharon mein bant jatay hain.”

“Magar us ne nahin hone diya.”

“Us ne us bachi ko uthaya aur kaha ke yeh meri zimmedari hai.” The room felt colder.

You did not trust yourself to speak. Rashid continued. “Isi liye us ne tum par shaq nahin kiya.”

That made you finally look up. Rashid was already watching you. “Us ki fitrat hi nahin hai.”

“Aapne ghar walo par shaq karna.”

A long silence followed. Then Rashid’s expression hardened slightly. Not angry. Certain.

“Magar mujhe hua tha.”

The words landed like stones. You felt your stomach drop.

“Jab tumhari tasveer pehli martaba us ke desk par aayi thi.” Rashid looked toward the far wall as though remembering. “Sab log khush thay.”

“Khoobsurat larki.”

“Acha ghar-bar hai.”

“Munasib rishta.”

“Sab ko sab theek laga.”

His gaze returned to yours. “Mujhe nahin.” The room suddenly felt too small.

“Tasveer mein kuch tha.”

“Tumhari aankhon mein.”

“Main us waqt samjha nahin.”

“Bas itna laga ke tum kisi aur cheez ko dekh rahi ho.”

“Jaise tumhara dimagh kahin aur ho.”

“Jaise tum sirf tasveer ke liye muskura rahi ho.” You forced yourself to remain still. Rashid took another step forward. “Phir tum se mila.”

“Party mein.”

“Tumhe dekha maine, market mein, us ladki ko school se aana-lejana, Iqbal ko kaam ke beech call karke puchna agar vo theek hai.”

“Sab karti thi jo ek biwi karti hai.” He paused. “Lekin phir bhi…”

“Woh cheez gayi nahin.”

You could hear your own heartbeat. “Aankhen jhoot bolna bohat mushkil samajhti hain.”

“Zaban jhoot bol leti hai.”

“Chehra bhi.”

“Aankhen mushkil se.”

Rashid’s voice dropped lower. “Aur aaj…”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the conference table. Toward the hidden recorder you prayed he had not found.

“Aaj mujhe yaqeen ho gaya.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Crushing.

For several seconds neither moved. Then Rashid looked at you with something unexpected. Not hatred. Not triumph. Disappointment.

“Mera masla yeh nahin ke tum ne jhoot bola.”

“Is kaam mein sab jhoot boltay hain.”

“Mera masla yeh hai ke tum ne us aadmi ko chuna.”

“Us aadmi ko.”

His voice became almost weary.

“Jo tum par yaqeen karta hai.”

“Jo tumhari taraf dekhta hai jaise tum uski duniya ho.”

The words hit harder than any accusation. “Aur phir bhi tum yahan khari ho.”

The moment Rashid finished speaking, the room fell silent. Not the comfortable kind of silence. The kind that sat between two people like a loaded weapon.

Your could hear your own heartbeat.

Every second stretched.

Every breath felt heavier.

Rashid stood near the conference table, watching you with the certainty of a man who believed he had finally solved a puzzle.

There was no point denying it anymore. You could see it in his eyes. He knew. Maybe not everything. But enough.

Enough to destroy the mission.

Enough to destroy Mustafa.

Enough to destroy everyone.

Rashid took another step. Then another. Slowly circling you. Like a hunter who had already cornered his prey.

“Iqbal ko abhi bhi tum par shaq nahin hoga.”

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

“Magar agar tum hi nhi rahogi toh shaq karne ki zarurat bhi nahi.”

You remained where you were. Balanced. Ready. If it came to that.

“Darzi ke paas bhi dekha tha tumhein.”

He continued circling. His eyes narrowed. “Aaj samajh aaya kyun.”

The room seemed smaller now. The air heavier. Rashid suddenly stopped moving.

“Tum log tilchatton ki tarah ho.” [tilchatton as in cockroach okie?]

The words came out sharp.

Venomous.

“Ek ko maro…”

“Das nikal aate hain.”

“Jitna saaf karo utni gandagi wapas aa jati hai.”

“Apna mulk sambhalne mein tumhari gand mein pasene aa-“ Before you could complete— His hand shot forward. Grabbing the back of your head.

Hard.

The world spun.

Your forehead slammed against the edge of the conference table. Pain exploded through your skull. For a second all you saw was white. A ringing sound filled your ears.

She stumbled.

Nearly falling.

Rashid didn’t release you.

“Tum logon ko lagta hai tum bohat hoshiyaar ho.”

He shoved you forward again. The edge of the table dug into your ribs.

You grabbed his wrist.

Trying to pull it away.

Trying to breathe.

Trying to think.

If he walked out that door— Mustafa was dead. The mission was dead. Everything was dead.

So when Rashid dragged your forward again—

You kicked.

Hard.

His shin. Rashid hissed. His grip loosened. Just enough.

You twisted free. Staggering backwards. One hand pressed against the table. Blood trickled somewhere near your hairline.

Rashid recovered immediately. Years of military training. Years of combat. Years of experience. He lunged.

You moved aside. His shoulder crashed into the table. The entire thing shook violently. A glass paperweight fell and shattered. You drove your elbow into his back.

Hard.

Rashid grunted. But didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down. The next few seconds became chaos.

A grabbed wrist.

A shove.

A chair crashing sideways.

A strike narrowly avoided.

The room turning into a battlefield. Your sari was becoming a problem. The pleats loosened. A pin snagged. Fabric pulled. One sleeve tore near the shoulder. Hair slipped free completely.

The elegant birthday outfit darzi had spent weeks preparing now looked ruined.

Rashid caught your arm.

Threw you sideways.

You hit a chair. The chair overturned beneath you. Pain shot through your shoulder. Before you could stand— He was already there.

One hand wrapped around your throat. Driving you down onto the carpet. The air left your lungs. You struggled violently.

Clawing at his wrist.

Trying to force space between them.

Rashid’s face hovered above yours.

Furious now.

No longer calm. No longer disappointed. Only angry.

“Saali ghasti.”

His grip tightened.

Your vision blurred.

The edges darkened.

The sounds of the party outside felt impossibly far away.

Music.

Laughter.

Children.

All of it distant. You could barely breathe. Barely move. Rashid leaned closer.

“Ab bata…”

Then—

A gunshot. The sound ripped through the room. Everything froze.

Rashid’s expression changed.

Confusion.

Shock.

His grip loosened. Something warm splattered across your cheek.

Across your neck.

Across your torn sleeve.

For a second neither understood what had happened.

Then Rashid slowly looked down. At the spreading stain across his chest. His lips parted. No sound came out. He swayed. And collapsed. The weight vanished from above you.

You sucked in a desperate breath. Coughing. Trying to understand. Trying to think. Trying to breathe. The doorway stood open.

Iqbal stood there.

Pistol still raised.

His chest rising and falling heavily. His eyes were fixed on Rashid’s body. Then on you.

The torn sleeve.

The loosened sari.

The bruises already forming around your throat.

The blood.

The position in which he had found them. For one horrible second—

You saw exactly what conclusion he reached. The pistol lowered. Iqbal crossed the room in three long strides. Dropping to his knees beside you.

“Y/N.”

His voice sounded strangled.

“Y/N.”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. He reached for you immediately. Pulling you upright. One arm around your shoulders. The other cradling the back of your head.

“Bas…”

His voice shook. Just slightly.

“Bas.”

“Main aa gaya hoon.” You felt his hand against your hair. Steady. Protective. Furious.

“Kuch nahin hoga.”

“Main aa gaya hoon.”

The words repeated again. And again. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as you. For several seconds neither moved. Then Iqbal stood. Helping you up carefully. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might break.

He didn’t look at Rashid again. Instead he guided you toward the door. One arm around your shoulders the entire time.

As though afraid you might collapse.

Or disappear.

Outside the room the sounds of the party continued.

Children laughing.

Guests talking.

Music playing.

Completely unaware that a man had just died. Iqbal stopped a passing staff member. His voice low. Dangerously calm. The man immediately paled. Then hurried away.

A few minutes later Sakina appeared. One look at you and her face lost all color. Another look at Iqbal. And she understood enough not to ask questions.

Iqbal spoke quietly. Too quietly for You to hear. Sakina nodded.

Once.

Only once.

Then she stepped forward. Taking your trembling hands into her own.

“Aaiyr.”

You looked back. Toward the closed meeting room door. Toward the secret hidden inside.

Toward Rashid.

But Iqbal had already locked the door. The key disappeared into his pocket. His face unreadable. Sakina guided you upstairs. Into the bedroom.

Into safety.

Into silence.

By the time the bath was ready, You was sitting exactly where Sakina had left you. On the edge of the bed.

Motionless.

Your hands stained.

Your thoughts scattered.

The room smelled faintly of bakhoor.

Of rose.

Of home.

Sakina approached slowly. No lectures. No questions. No demands. Just quiet understanding. She sat beside you. Placed a hand gently over your knee. And squeezed.

“Garam paani tayyar hai.” Her voice was soft. Motherly. “Chaliye.”

For the first time since the gunshot— You realized you were shaking. And downstairs, unbelievably, impossibly— Laiba’s birthday party continued.

Woah mu hands hurt alot very sad these days wifi stopped workinh some wire problem and that stupid wifi guy dowsnt come:( aap sabh enjoy karien

Tags: @anxiousbeeing @warnermeadowsgirl @patrakilekha @avasif @pleasetagmejaaneman @tanneile2 @hyacinthussss @goodnightkatherine @cloudyparadoxqueen @bobcuts-blog @seasonofthenerd @wanderingquillarchive @directionergirlie @leftmakerpaperpie @hum-suffer @yembarzal @rishwatkhor @wtf-severus23 @ocyeanicc @soleneee @psychoticallycelestial @pinkfreakpie @aishshshshs @theonly1-4u @m4hi @unicornblade166 @sxdskies07 @viapapaayaya @jayayayayayayayayayayayayayayay @persistentgremlinrefuge @humsafarhumhihai @wannabefucko @celestecelina @lavenderwinkle @ninnimouse @rzide @diaaaaaaaaaaane-blog @alpineforeverr @chocolate-and-trouble @mango-dolly @harsheyyysss @losthopesincigarsmokes @minnielovesme @sublimeladystrawberry @kitty-minnieee @cakiebleh @buchananaOO @teenagenerdrascalsports-blog

[abolitionistlawpluscoffee]

QAIDI - Chapter Nine

Trigger Warnings: discussion of death, past trauma, violence, crimes, mental health, grief

Notes:  Some of my law stuff is inaccurate. This fanfiction is not meant to glorify the real people, and is based on the characters and actors featured in Dhurandhar 1 & 2. 

Previous chapters are available on my page. 

Please comment if you want to be added to the taglist! 

Enjoy and share your thoughts in the comments!! 

TAGLIST: @twinblueflamee @maladaptive-anxiety @savagedrama @precioussophia @khlomoneyyyy4 @diyak11 @imrankaunbsdk @wackyaussiegiraffes

__________________________________________________________________________________

That entire weekend felt like a fantasy dream that you never wanted to wake up from. You felt like a princess from an animated children’s movie who was waiting for her Prince Charming to arrive on a white horse. Only, your Prince Charming was a street thug set to inherit a bloody throne of violence.

Prince of Crime sounds more accurate, you thought. I bet his favorite song is Gangster’s Paradise. 

Regardless, you were in an uncharacteristically good mood, and everyone had noticed.

You were sitting on a lawn chair, sharing some snacks with a very fussy Shahmir, who hadn’t taken his nap yet, when Amir came to sit next to you. 

He pulled Shahmir into his lap and began to coax him to sleep with fatherly expertise. You hummed to yourself, curling a strand of your hair while replaying the same moment in your head, over and over again. 

The softness of his lips. The strength in his arms. The coarse feel of his beard. 

“Oho! Kya hua? Aaj kaal bohot khush lag rahi ho, Y/N?” Amir teased you. (What happened? You seem to be in a good mood nowadays). 

“Kuch nahi, bhai.” You lied. (It’s nothing). 

“Kuch tou hai. Nayab ne kuch kamaal kiya hoga, jo tum abhi tak ussi ke khayalon mein ghoom ho.” He smiled, fluffing your hair. (There has to be something. Nayab must have done something right on that date for you to be lost in his thoughts). 

You bit your lip, a wave of shame washing over you. How could you tell your brother - the literal embodiment of honor and justice, that you were beginning to fall for a criminal? And not just any criminal, but one that he had dedicated his career to bringing to justice. His archnemesis. The man who was the very antithesis to everything Amir is and represented. Or worse yet, how could you hide it from him? You never hid anything from Amir. Not only was he your beloved older brother and occasional partner in crime, but a man you respected deeply. A man who was respected in your family and the broader community for his loyalty, bravery, and dedication to protecting his people and fighting for justice. Aside from choosing a career as a police officer, he was just like your father in every respect. The man was the symbolic incarnation of Peter Pevensie. The only thing he hadn’t inherited was your Baba’s superior Ludo skills. 

“Bhai! Aap bhi nah! Aisi kuch baat nahi hai.” You squeaked, cheeks pink. (Brother! Stop teasing me. It’s nothing like that.)

“Acha, acha. Koi baat nahi hai.” (Okay, okay. Alright). He laughed softly. “Waise, tumhe pata hai na, ke tum mujhe koi bhi baat khul khar bata sakti ho?” (You know you can share anything with me honestly, right?)

“Ji bhai. Koi baat nahi hai. Woh baas Asif ki baat ka soch kar haasi rahi thi.” You lied, swallowing down the guilt of lying to him. (Yes, it’s nothing. I just thought of something funny Asif said). 

He stared at you for a long minute, Shahmir fast asleep against his shoulder and then smiled warmly at you. 

He got up, holding Shahmir in one arm and brushed his hand on your head protectively. “Khush raho, baccha.” (Stay happy, kid). He murmured, pressing a kiss onto your head before leaving to put Shahmir in bed. “Waise, Nayab ko pata hai ke agar usne koi ulti-siddhe harkat ki, tou mein ghar mein bandook rakta hoon. Khabardar rakhe!” He joked. (Besides, Nayab knows that if he does anything wrong or mischievous, I keep guns at home precisely for that reason. Tell him to beware!) 

You laughed softly, and returned to your dreamy thoughts. 

—-----------------------------------

“Acha sun. LTF agle hafte raid maar rahi hai Lyari mein. Tu jayegi?” Asif asked, taking a bite of his paratha roll. (Listen, LTF is having some raids in Lyari next week. Are you going?) 

“Nahi. Tum jao ghe?” (No. Are you?)

“I might. Did Amir tell you anything about the mole and if they’ve discovered who it is?”

“Nope. Him and Omar are keeping everything under utmost secrecy.” 

“That’s smart. Aur maine suna hai ki SP Nayab ka unit bhi ja raha hai LTF ke saath. LTF - Karachi Elite Squad ka jointly coordinated raid operation. It will definitely hit the news.” (I’ve heard that SP Nayab’s unit will be going with LTF. LTF and Karachi’s Elite Squad with a joint coordinated raid operation).

“Oh, that it will. Karachi’s finest on the news.” You murmured, biting into your own paratha roll that you had brought for breakfast. 

“Emphasis on fine. Karachi’s finest officers. It’s a shame that Amir’s married. And Nayab is trying to woo you. Two of the finest police officers in Karachi, taken before I could have a chance.” Hafsa grumbled from beside you, flipping through her notes. 

You shared a look at Asif, who wiggled his eyebrows at you. You snorted, then quickly bit into your roll to hide your amusement. 

“What?” She snapped, narrowing her eyes at the two of you. 

“Nothing. Maine kuch kaha hai?” (Did I say anything?) You avoided her eagle-sharp gaze. 

“Mujhe tum dono ka pata hai. Dono ghis ghis karte ho meri peeche, jaise mujhe pata nahi chalta.” (I know the two of you. Both of you are constantly geeking behind me like I won’t find out). 

“Dekh sali, tu Husayn sahab ke bete ko pata le.” (Look girl, why don’t you go after Husayn sahab’s son?)

“Hain? Woh kaun hai? Kya karta hai? Kitni umar ka hai?” (Huh? Who is he? What does he do? How old is he?) She sat up straight, paying immediate attention.

“Nahi, Y/N! Yeh kya bhol rahi ho! Woh tou pehle se hi shaadi shuda hai.” (No, what are you saying? He’s married already). Asif said from beside you. 

Both of you went into a fit of stifled laughter, while Hafsa leaned back and crossed her arms. Her eyes narrowed at both of you, and she did a fake sneer. 

“Haan haan. Haaso haaso. Khoob hasso! Jab meri Imran Khan jaise ke saath shaadi ho ghi na, tou phir tum dono dekhte reh jaoge aur mein haason gi!” (Go on and laugh. Laugh all you want. When I’m up and married to someone like Imran Khan, then you both will be staring and I’ll be the one laughing). 

“Ya Allah. Kab dekhenge hum yeh din? Ankhein taras gaye hain hamari uss din ke intezaar mein.” Asif said, raising his hands to the heavens in a mock display. You keeled over in laughter. (Oh Allah! When will we see this day? I’ve grown tired of waiting for it). 

“Chal, haat! Jhootha utar kar tumhare pitai karongi mein!” (Hush, you fool! I will beat you with my shoe!) Hafsa took off her heel and shook it in her hand playfully. 

“Issi assault kehte hain!” (That’s called assault!) He said, quickly grabbing the rest of his paratha in one hand, files in the other and making a run for it. 

—----------------

A couple hours later, you were set to meet with Uzair again. This time, you had arranged an official meeting with him, and had booked a room in the administrative wing. You had also invited Hafsa, who had to cancel last minute due to another pressing commitment. 

While you were nervous to see him again after the events of your last meeting and had purposefully invited Hafsa to keep things professional this time around, a part of you was relieved when Hafsa cancelled. A bit excited even, though you would never admit it to yourself. But behind your excitement, there was a nagging sense of shame at who you were feeling all this for. All this excitement. All this happiness. All this… lust? You quickly shoved it away. 

There was a pep in your step as you walked to the administrative wing of KCJ, your files in your hand. His last exchanges of information had proven accurate, and you couldn’t wait to see what else you could gauge from him. Or perhaps you were just excited to see the man you had been dreaming about all weekend. 

As soon as you got into the meeting room, Uzair and his guards were already there. Before you could say anything, his guards walked out, giving you privacy. 

“We’ll be right outside if you need anything, ma’am.” One of them said, placing his hand on his chest in a gesture of respect. 

“Thank you.” You said, before readjusting your robe nervously and looking at Uzair, who was already staring at you with a small, knowing smile on his face. 

You cleared your throat, gave him a professional smile and sat down. 

“Waise, gunda tou main hoon, lekin bohot baari chori tou aapne ki hain.” He remarked, leaning back and continuing to stare at you. (I’m the street thug here, but you’ve managed to pull off a huge theft). 

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion. 

“Huh? Kya matlab? Aap mujhe chor bhula rahe hain?” (What do you mean? Are you calling me a thief?) 

“Aapne mujhse chummi chorai hai.” (You stole a kiss from me). He said matter of factly, licking the edge of his mouth. Without meaning to, you followed the slow glide of his tongue before catching yourself. 

“What? Nahi, I-I, woh mera matlab - woh.” You stuttered, blushing profusely at his words. 

He laughed. 

You huffed, then took a seat in front of him. 

“Thank you. Mujhse aaj milne ka. Aapke facility programming kaise ja rahi hai?” (How is your facility programming going?) You asked the wall behind him, still too shy to meet his gaze. 

He leaned his head to the side, catching your gaze before you looked away, and then face-palmed yourself. He laughed again. 

“Ab aap mujhse nazrein chura rahi hain.” (Now you won’t even meet my eyes). 

You felt like a child with your foolish antics. 

You closed your eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again, meeting his gaze with a smile. 

“Aapne mere sawaal ka jawab nahi diya.” You said. (You didn’t answer my question). 

“Achi ja rahi hai.” (It’s going well). He smiled cheekily at you. 

“Koi takleef toh nahi mili na, uss jail yard ke fight se?” (You aren’t getting any trouble from the jail yard fight, are you?) 

“Nahi. Woh Mir Ajmal sahab ne sab handle kar liye hai.” (No. Mir Ajmal handled all of that). 

“Good. Phir kaam ki baat karien?” (Should we talk business?) 

“Bilkul.” (Of course). 

“Aapne jo bhi information mujhe pichli do baar di hai, woh hamara bohot kaam ayi hai. Aur kya de sakhte hain aap humein?” (The information you gave me the last two times has been incredibly helpful for us. What else can you give us?) 

His eyes sharpened. 

“Is ke badle mein aap mujhe kya de sakti hain, Y/N madam?” (What can you give me in return for this?) 

“Aap kya chahte hain? Aapko facility programming bhi mil gaye hai, security restrictions bhi kaam hain, wagera wagera.” (What do you want? You’ve got access to facility programming, less security restrictions, etc etc). 

“Mere case charges ko kaam karien.” (Lessen my charges). He said, eyes sharp and smirk even more lethal.

You smirked back in his face. “Ah. Yeh mila na bhedon ke libas mein bhediya.” (Ah. Now I see the wolf in sheep’s clothing). 

“Fayda sirf aapka tou nahi na ho sakta, Y/N madam. Isko meri shart samajh lein.” (You can’t reap all the benefits. Consider this a condition of mine). 

“Theek hai. Yeh tou phir mujhe aapne ustad se faysala karke aapko batana parega.” (Very well then. This is something I will have to discuss with my boss before letting you know). 

“Aur agar yeh shart na puri hui, toh?” He challenged you, leaning forward and locking his hands on the table. 

“Tou phir aapko kuch aur sochna parega. Ya phir hamara muahida khatam.” You shrugged. (Then, you’ll have to think of something else. Or maybe our deal will be finished then). 

“Aur agar mein koi aur shart rakh loon?” He asked. (And what if I have another condition?) 

“Konsi?” (Which one?) 

“Haar information ke badle, aapse ek chummi.” (For every piece of information I give you, I get a kiss in return). 

Your mouth dropped open. Then, it closed. Then it fell open again. 

He snorted at your reaction. 

“Kya hua? Darr lag gaya? Uss din tou aap darr nahi rahien thi.” (What happened? Did you get scared? You definitely weren’t scared that day). 

“Kitne besharam hain aap, Uzair miyaan.” You said in a mock tone of shock, placing your hand on your chest for exaggeration. “Itni besharmi se aap kiss maange rahi hain mujhse?” (You’re asking for a kiss so shamelessly). 

“Aap kisi aise gunda koi mili hai jo besharam nahi?” He said. (Have you ever met a thug who isn’t shameless?)

“Aap jaisa tou bilkul nahi. Aur nahi, main aapko koi aur kiss nahi doongi.” You chastised him. (Never one like you. And no, I will not be giving you any more kisses.) 

He slumped, like a puppy being denied a treat. 

“Agar aapko kiss karongi, tou apni marzi se karongi. Kisi muahida ke doran nahi.” (If I kiss you, it will be because I want to. Not because of some deal). You told him sassily. 

“Aur koi information hai aapke paas ya phir mein gaon?” (Do you have any other information, or should I leave?” You got up and began to collect the files in front of you. 

“Main aapko Baloch gang ki weapons suppliers ki information de sakta hoon.” (I can give you the information about our weapons suppliers). 

“Acha? Neiki aur pooch pooch?” (Really? Please do so.) You said, sitting right back down and pulling out your legal pad. 

Twenty minutes later, he had supplied you with a plethora of information that you would turn over to Nayab and LTF for further investigation. 

“Theek hai. Yeh sab information mein Amir ko doongi. Phir aage dekhte hain kya hota hai.” You said, flipping your legal pad closed and started packing up your things. (Ok, I’ll give all this information to Amir. Then, we’ll see where to go from there). 

“Amir? Woh jo uss din mila tha?” (Amir? The one I met that day?) 

“Nahi. Woh Asif tha.” (No, that was Asif). You chuckled. 

“Toh phir Amir kaun hai?” (Then who’s Amir?) 

“Mera baara bhai. Amir Haider. LTF main kaam kartein hain.” (My older brother Amir Haider. He works in LTF). 

“Oho, acha. Aapka toh pura khaandan hi qanoon mein kaam karta hai.” (Oh, your entire family works for the law). 

“Haan. Generational blue bloods hain hum. Khabardar, bach ke rehna!” 

(We are generational blue bloods. Be careful, don’t mess with us!) You said playfully, arching your finger like a pirate and narrowing your eyes at him. 

He held up his hands in a display of surrender. 

“Tauba! Mein tou bilkul bhi koi ulti-seedhi harkat nahi karoonga.” (God forbid! I would never mess with you!) 

You laughed. 

“Waise, agle hafte hamara football match hai.” (Next week is our football match.)

You frowned. “Konsa football match?” (What football match?) 

“Wohi, jo facility ka football match hai. Qaidiyon aur staff ki darmiyaan. Aap aayengi?” (The facility match between the staff and inmates. Will you be coming?)

“Oh! Haan, maine suna hai uske baar mein. Asif bata raha tha. Woh bhi aap ki tarha football ka shaukeen hain.” (Oh right. The annual football match. Asif was telling me about it the other day. He’s a huge football fan like you). 

“Aap aayengi?” He asked again, a hint of desperation in his voice. (Will you come?)

“Kyun? Main kyun gaon?” You teased him, stepping closer to his side. (Why? Why should I come?) 

“Main khelon ga. Iss liye.” (I will be playing. That’s why.) 

“Aap khel rahe hain, isse mera kya lena-dena?” You continued to creep closer. He sat up straighter, a twinge of blush in his cheeks. (Why does my attendance matter just because you are playing?)

“Main chahta hoon ke aap aayien.” (I want you to come). He grabbed your right hand, interlacing his fingers in it and gently pulled you closer to him. 

“Acha? Lekin mujhe tou football nahi samajh aati aur nahi khelni aati hain. Mera wahan aana tou fazool hi hoga.” (Really? But I don’t understand nor play football. My attendance there will be useless.) 

“Aap mujhe dekhne aayiengi, yeh mere liye tou fazool nahi hai.” He pleaded to you. (You can come and watch me. That’s not useless). You stepped in between his legs, and he placed his hands softly around your waist. 

“Aur agar maine staff team ke liye cheer kiya, tou?” (And if I end up cheering for the staff team, what then?) You whispered softly, leaning down until your nose was almost touching his. 

“Koi baat nahi. Main baad mein aapse ek chummi loonga inaam ke liye, tou hisaab barabar.” He murmured. (Don’t worry. I can earn a kiss from you as a reward afterwards and everything will be sorted). 

You laughed, leaning in and pressing your forehead against his. 

“Kitne hoshiyar samajhte hain aapne aap ko! Lekin, chummi tou main abhi bhi doongi aapko.” You said cheekily, before pressing your lips against his once again. (You think you’re so clever! But, I’ll just kiss you right now too.) 

He immediately began to kiss you back. This time, there was no rush, no anger or any current of underlying chaos in the kiss. He kissed you gently and slowly, like you both had all the time in the world. All your nerve endings slowly lit on fire, and your thoughts narrowed down to the feel of his lips against yours, and his hands on your body. One of his hands remained on your waist, while the other one snaked up to tangle itself in your hair. 

For what was only two minutes - but felt like eternity - both of you kissed like carefree teenagers. After two minutes, you pulled away and began to pull yourself away from his embrace, too shy to meet his eyes once again. 

As you turned away, you felt him grab your wrist. You froze. Like Aishwarya from Devdas, you felt like saying the iconic isssh! when Shahrukh grabs her by the arm. 

“Meri taraf dekhengi nahi?” (Won’t you look at me?) He whispered softly. You shook your head no, closing your eyes. 

“Aapne mere sawal ka jawab nahi diya. Aap aayengi na, football match par?” (You didn’t answer my question. Will you come to the football match?) He asked again.

You tugged your arm away, and he let go. Before you could step away, a surge of boldness overtook you, and you quickly spun around, grabbed his face and placed a big smooch on his lips before stepping to your side of the table, out of his arm’s reach. 

“Abhi tou jawab de diya hai maine! Bilkul aaongi!” You said breathlessly, an uncharacteristic grin on your face that was slowly being a habit. He mirrored your grin, just as breathless. (That should be a response to your question. I will definitely come!) You two stared at each other like giddy teenagers for a moment, before you snapped out of it. 

You grabbed your things and began to walk out of the room. 

“Agle hafte milte hain, Uzair miyaan. Achi tarha se khelna, warna inaam nahi milega aapko!” You winked at him, before opening the door and heading out. (I’ll see you next week, Uzair. Make sure to play well, or else you won’t get your reward!)

It wasn’t until you were out of the entire jail compound and halfway to the courthouse that you realized something. The wind blew through your hair, ruffling it as it flew into your eyes. You took care to tie your hair back every morning, and this morning you had tied it with a ribbon. Uzair had entangled his hand in your hair earlier, and taken the ribbon out. 

You bit back another cheek-splitting grin. I steal his kisses and he steals my ribbons. 

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Bas ab iss information ko verify karna aapka kaam hai, bhai.” You said. (Verifying this information is your job now, brother). 

You were at the LTF Headquarters with Asif and Hafsa, in a confidential meeting with Amir and Omar Haider, the newly appointed SP of LTF after Chaudhry Aslam Khan’s assassination. Amir had also, expectedly, been promoted to ASP. 

“This information sounds solid and confirms our preexisting leads. Do you trust this source?” Amir asked you. 

You hesitated, not knowing how to respond. Before anyone could notice however, Asif spoke up. 

“We’ve received information from this source twice before, and it has proven accurate. I think we can trust it.” He said from beside you. 

“Theek hai. Iss hafte raid maarne wale hain hum Lyari Town. Hamza Ali Mazari ki compounds mein abhi raid marna khatarnaak hai, lekin unko aas-paas ke jo locations ki information hamko mili hai, wahan par hum investigation shuru karne wale hain.” Omar told you three. (We are planning to raid Lyari Town this week. Raiding Hamza Ali Mazari’s compound is dangerous as of right now, but we’ve received additional information into other locations which we will be investigating.) 

“Jab humne yeh information ko validate kiya, tou phir hum udhar bhi raid marwaye ghe.” (Once we’ve validated the accuracy of this information, we can see where to raid next.) Amir said, his arms crossed as he stared at the crime board on the wall. 

“Hum ja sakte hain raids paar aapke saath?” Asif asked. (Can we come on the raids with you?) 

“Sure. In an observational capacity, of course.” Amir said, looking at the three of you. 

“Aapko kisi search warrant mein madad ki zaroorat tou nahi hai?” Hafsa asked from beside you, tapping her manicured nails on the legal pad in front of her. (Do you need any help acquiring search warrants?)

“Filhal ke liye, nahi. Lekin agar zaroorat hui, tou aapke office ko itila kardoonga.” Omar said. (As of now, no. But if we need to in the future, we will let your office know.) 

“Aur please evidence ko dehan se label karna. Aapko pata hai ke evidence ke bina, hamara kaam thoda sa mushkil hoga.” Asif said. (And please take diligent care of the evidence. You know that without evidence, our job gets harder.)

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, kiddo.” Omar narrowed his eyes at Asif and growled softly. 

“Nahi nahi, Omar bhai. Yeh mere kehne ka matlab nahi tha. Sorry! Main sirf yehi keh ra-” (No, no, Omar. That’s not what I meant. Sorry! I only meant to s-) 

“Don’t worry, we understand. Omar is just a bit grumpy today since we lost a valuable lead.” Amir said, jokingly tapping Omar on the shoulder and throwing him a look. Omar just stared at him. 

“Chalein, hum phir chalte hain.” Hafsa said, standing up and gathering her things quickly. (Okay. We will take your leave). 

“Shaam ko milte hain, baccha.” Amir said to you. (See you tonight, kid). 

You waved and headed out after Hafsa, Asif hot on your heels. 

Once you were in the parking lot, headed towards Hafsa’s car, you looked at Hafsa and both of you immediately started cackling. 

“Haan haan, haaso!” Asif said mockingly, as both of you laughed at his expense. 

“Bhondu, tu toh kabhi nahi sudharega.” Hafsa said in between gulps of air, as she leaned against her car and laughed hard. You were laughing just as hard as her, clutching at your side as it began to hurt. (You’ll never learn your lesson, you fool.) 

“Iski shakal dekhi tumne, jab Omar ni dhanta isse?” You said. Asif stood there wearing an irritated expression with his arms crossed, watching both of you cackle like witches from Halloween movies. (Did you see his face when Omar scolded him?) 

“Haan! Aise jaise iski tou jaan nikal ne wali thi!” Hafsa said, guffawing. (Yes, it looked like he was about to die.) 

“Yeh tou lucky hai ke Amir bhai wahan the, warna isse tou zaroor aaj pitai parne wali thi.” You quipped, sobering up from your fit of laughter. (He’s lucky Amir was there. Otherwise, he was definitely gonna get beat). 

“Yes. Very lucky.” Asif sneered. “Ab chalein?! Mujhe bhook lag rahi hai!” (Now, can we go? I’m hungry!) 

“Haan haan, chalo!” Hafsa said, unlocking her car for you and Asif to get in. 

—------------------------------------------------------------------

It seemed like you had blinked and the week flew by. It was Saturday, the day of the annual football match. You felt giddy, the childish excitement flowing through you as you reached the Karachi Central Jail compound. 

Asif met you outside, wearing a blue football uniform which had been distributed by the administrative organizer, with the word “STAFF” written in bold, white colors on the back. 

“Maine suna hai ke hamara footballer bhi aaj khel raha hai.” He remarked, as you both walked in. (I heard our footballer is playing today as well). 

“Yes, he is.”

“If his previously demonstrated skills are anything to go by, I’d say we’re gonna have a tough match.” 

You chuckled. 

As you walked in, the entire courtyard was set up like a professional football field. There were two goal posts on either side, with demarcations on the field and seating on both sides. Event goers were rolling in with family members, friends and even other staff. 

Asif sat down and began to change his shoes into cleats. Although he had an impressive, athletic build, with lean muscle and considerable height, you almost winced as you imagined him playing against Uzair, who was much taller and had a bulkier, broader build. 

“Acha, maine tou ja kar bheth rahi hoon. Good luck, Asif! Acha khelna! Hum staff ki izaat ka sawal hain.” You playfully punched his shoulder before climbing up the bleachers. (Alright, I’m gonna go find a seat. Play well! Our staff’s reputation relies on your game!)

There was a stand nearby that was offering snacks and refreshments, and you headed to it. More and more people were trickling in and you spotted Hafsa, who had brought her mother. You grabbed two bowls of popcorn and three drinks, and headed over to them. After meeting them and giving Hafsa and her mom a popcorn bowl and their drinks, you sat down. The clouds rumbled overhead and it looked like it was going to rain. 

On the field, Asif was chatting with his team, among some players that you recognized like Bilal from the Organized Crime Unit, Qasim and Afzal who worked with you in GND and even Daniyal. All of them were wearing blue football uniforms, with high socks and different colored cleats. A couple of them began doing various stretches and warm up exercises. 

Then, from the left side of the bleachers, two guards walked onto the courtyard/converted field, and behind them was the inmate team. Like the staff team, they were all wearing matching football uniforms, except their uniforms were black and gold. Your eyes raced to find the familiar build of Lyari’s most handsome footballer. Like the poetry event, he took his sweet time to come out and was one of the last players to enter the field.

As soon as your eyes landed on him, your heart began to do cartwheels. He stepped on to the field, looking around at his team with the gaze of a team captain. Unlike the staff team who were wearing their own cleats, the inmate team were wearing regular jogging shoes. They were at a disadvantage already, but Uzair’s demeanor looked confident, an attestation to his infamous playing experience. 

You began to check him out shamelessly. The black uniform with gold lettering fit his body like second skin, with shorts that ended above his knees and showcased his powerful legs. His biceps bulged in the short-sleeved jersey, and as he began to stretch, his upper body muscles rippled powerfully. The man’s body was a work of art, a sculpture crafted by God himself. 

Good Lord, I’m no better than a man, you thought as you continued to ogle at him, grinning like a maniacal fool. 

As he did his stretches, you saw him look through the bleachers, his eyes slowly scanning different faces. As his eyes made their way to you, you quickly looked at Hafsa, who was deep in conversation with her mom, before raising your arm to wave at him. When his eyes finally found you and saw you waving like a fan, he grinned and waved back. 

Then, as you were looking, you saw him pull out something from his pocket and wrap it around his forehead, tying it at the back of his neck and using it to push his hair back from his face as a makeshift sports band. 

You narrowed your eyebrows, leaning closer to look and gasped. It was your ribbon! He was wearing your ribbon as his sports band. You gushed and bit back another grin. 

Just then, the referee stepped onto the field, greeted everyone and welcomed them to the annual game and blew the whistle, indicating the start of the game. 

The next 90 minutes were a whirlwind. Admittedly, you didn’t understand the game at all. You didn’t have an athletic bone in your body and had never been into sports. Until now.

The only thing that kept your attention on the game was Uzair himself. Unlike the night of the poetry event, when you saw his soft, gentlemanly side, today you saw a completely different side to him. 

He played football like how you had heard he ruled over Lyari and the Baloch gang - with an ironfist. His every move was fierce and ruthless. His entire team was well coordinated and the other players complemented Uzair’s dominance with their own skills. Asif’s team, to their credit, kept up. While Uzair’s play was aggressive and at times showoffy, Asif’s team played with speed and clever strategy. Like you had seen him do in the courtroom countless times, Asif’s playing style wasn’t flamboyant, but sly and quiet. Just when any of Uzair’s teammates thought they had the upper hand, Asif’s team - Bilal, Afzal, Qasim or Daniyal would step in with a slick maneuver and steal the ball away. 

Through it all, you could see Uzair’s frustration grow, which leaked into his performance. He became even more ruthless, leaving no room for mistakes and going head to head, toe to toe with Asif, who smirked in his face. Above your head, the clouds thundered and rain began to pour. 

With fifteen minutes left on the clock, you saw Uzair growl at his teammates, who either clapped back at him or were too afraid to say anything to his face and everyone began to play harder than before, even as the rain made the field slippery. You quickly rushed to stand beneath the side of the bleachers, which provided a bit of reprieve from the cold rain, but kept your eyes glued to Uzair’s figure. The rain had soaked his hair, and you saw him re-tie the ribbon - your ribbon - across his forehead after it had slipped off, and get back in the game. Like a powerful jaguar with agile reflexes and animalistic aggression, he threw himself into the last stretch of the game. 

In addition to his hair, the rain had soaked through his jersey which clung to his skin, and you could see his muscular chest and taut abdominals through the wet outline as he played. You had to purse your lips together to keep from grinning too hard at how he was playing and how it would feel if all that attention and aggression was focused solely on you. 

Have some hayah, you chastised yourself. 

Finally the game ended and the referee blew the whistle, announcing that the inmate team had won. There was scattered applause, but you cheered as loud as you could as you saw Uzair’s team roar out in victory. Some of his teammates rounded up and lifted Uzair onto their shoulders, pumping him up and down as they all started doing the bhangra and different celebratory dances. 

As they finally let Uzair back down, you saw Asif go up to Uzair and hold out his hand. Uzair looked at it suspiciously, before shaking it. 

“Good game, man. Good game.” You heard Asif say with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder before walking away. 

You walked out from under the makeshift cover and stood at the sidelines, waiting patiently until Uzair noticed you. Unsurprisingly, he noticed you immediately and jogged over. Instead of slowing down, it had started to rain even harder and people were running for amnesty into the building. 

“Congratulations! Bohot accha kehla aapne!!” You cheered at him. He grinned. While you were standing on the level of the courtyard and he was on the field, which was a foot below, he still towered over you with ease. 

“Acha? Tou phir mera inaam?” He asked cheekily. (Really? Then, where is my reward?)

You narrowed your eyes on him. “Yahan nahi!” You hissed dramatically before grinning back at him. “Lekin, bohot acha laga aaj aapko khelte hue dekh kar.” (Not here! But, it was great to watch you play today). 

“Thank you. Aapko apna fan samjhoon?” He asked. (Should I consider you my fan?) 

“Number one fan! Lekin mere paas aapki specialized naam wali jersey nahi hai.” You pouted. (But I don’t have your specialized jersey. The one that would have your name on it.)

“Afsoos. Aap mere naam mein kitni pyaari lagti.” (What a pity. You would look gorgeous wearing my name). 

You blushed, trying to ignore the double entendre. 

“Aap andhar chalein jayien, please. Yahan baarish nahi rukne wali. Bukhaar shayad ho jaye ga aapko. Aur aaj koi shawl waal bhi nahi hain jo main aapko doon.” He remarked, eyes running up and down your figure, where your light purple shalwar kameez had clung to your own figure, your long hair was drenched and stuck to your back. (Please go inside. The rain won’t stop soon, and you might get sick. I don’t have any shawl to give you today). 

You felt like a wet rat soaked in the cold rain, but the way Uzair was staring at you made your body warm up, all the way to your toes. 

“Acha. Chalein, phir milte hain.” You winked shamelessly at him before turning away. (Okay. See you). 

“Wait!” He said, startling you. You turned around, eyebrows raised to your hairline. 

“What?” 

“Main toh bhool hi gaya tha. Yeh aapke liye hain. Todha gheela hogaya hai.” He held out a piece of folded paper between his two fingers, covering it with his hand. (I almost forgot. This is for you. It’s a bit wet now.)

“Yeh kya hai?” (What is this?) You asked, reaching out and taking it from his hand. In the process, your hand brushed against his, and you felt a jolt of electricity go through your body at the touch. 

“Ghar ja kar padhna, please. Meri shawl mein garam ho kar.” He winked at you. (Read it when you are home, please. When you’re warm and comfortable in my shawl.) 

“Acha.” (Okay). You smiled at him, giving him another once over and then left. 

As you walked back to the building, you felt his gaze on your back. When you stepped into the building and were almost out of sight, you turned one last time. He was still standing there in the pouring rain, watching you. When you made eye contact with him, he raised his hand up and waved softly at you. 

You looked around and saw that the field was almost deserted as was the building you had just walked into. 

You looked back at him, raised your hand to your lips and blew him a kiss. He grinned and made a dramatic show of grabbing the invisible kiss from thin air and pressed it to his lips, before stabbing his heart in slow motion. You grinned, before turning and walking out. 

Little did you know, someone had indeed seen the two of you. 

[abolitionistlawpluscoffee]

QAIDI - Chapter Nine

Trigger Warnings: discussion of death, past trauma, violence, crimes, mental health, grief

Notes:  Some of my law stuff is inaccurate. This fanfiction is not meant to glorify the real people, and is based on the characters and actors featured in Dhurandhar 1 & 2. 

Previous chapters are available on my page. 

Please comment if you want to be added to the taglist! 

Enjoy and share your thoughts in the comments!! 

TAGLIST: @twinblueflamee @maladaptive-anxiety @savagedrama @precioussophia @khlomoneyyyy4 @diyak11 @imrankaunbsdk @wackyaussiegiraffes

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That entire weekend felt like a fantasy dream that you never wanted to wake up from. You felt like a princess from an animated children’s movie who was waiting for her Prince Charming to arrive on a white horse. Only, your Prince Charming was a street thug set to inherit a bloody throne of violence.

Prince of Crime sounds more accurate, you thought. I bet his favorite song is Gangster’s Paradise. 

Regardless, you were in an uncharacteristically good mood, and everyone had noticed.

You were sitting on a lawn chair, sharing some snacks with a very fussy Shahmir, who hadn’t taken his nap yet, when Amir came to sit next to you. 

He pulled Shahmir into his lap and began to coax him to sleep with fatherly expertise. You hummed to yourself, curling a strand of your hair while replaying the same moment in your head, over and over again. 

The softness of his lips. The strength in his arms. The coarse feel of his beard. 

“Oho! Kya hua? Aaj kaal bohot khush lag rahi ho, Y/N?” Amir teased you. (What happened? You seem to be in a good mood nowadays). 

“Kuch nahi, bhai.” You lied. (It’s nothing). 

“Kuch tou hai. Nayab ne kuch kamaal kiya hoga, jo tum abhi tak ussi ke khayalon mein ghoom ho.” He smiled, fluffing your hair. (There has to be something. Nayab must have done something right on that date for you to be lost in his thoughts). 

You bit your lip, a wave of shame washing over you. How could you tell your brother - the literal embodiment of honor and justice, that you were beginning to fall for a criminal? And not just any criminal, but one that he had dedicated his career to bringing to justice. His archnemesis. The man who was the very antithesis to everything Amir is and represented. Or worse yet, how could you hide it from him? You never hid anything from Amir. Not only was he your beloved older brother and occasional partner in crime, but a man you respected deeply. A man who was respected in your family and the broader community for his loyalty, bravery, and dedication to protecting his people and fighting for justice. Aside from choosing a career as a police officer, he was just like your father in every respect. The man was the symbolic incarnation of Peter Pevensie. The only thing he hadn’t inherited was your Baba’s superior Ludo skills. 

“Bhai! Aap bhi nah! Aisi kuch baat nahi hai.” You squeaked, cheeks pink. (Brother! Stop teasing me. It’s nothing like that.)

“Acha, acha. Koi baat nahi hai.” (Okay, okay. Alright). He laughed softly. “Waise, tumhe pata hai na, ke tum mujhe koi bhi baat khul khar bata sakti ho?” (You know you can share anything with me honestly, right?)

“Ji bhai. Koi baat nahi hai. Woh baas Asif ki baat ka soch kar haasi rahi thi.” You lied, swallowing down the guilt of lying to him. (Yes, it’s nothing. I just thought of something funny Asif said). 

He stared at you for a long minute, Shahmir fast asleep against his shoulder and then smiled warmly at you. 

He got up, holding Shahmir in one arm and brushed his hand on your head protectively. “Khush raho, baccha.” (Stay happy, kid). He murmured, pressing a kiss onto your head before leaving to put Shahmir in bed. “Waise, Nayab ko pata hai ke agar usne koi ulti-siddhe harkat ki, tou mein ghar mein bandook rakta hoon. Khabardar rakhe!” He joked. (Besides, Nayab knows that if he does anything wrong or mischievous, I keep guns at home precisely for that reason. Tell him to beware!) 

You laughed softly, and returned to your dreamy thoughts. 

—-----------------------------------

“Acha sun. LTF agle hafte raid maar rahi hai Lyari mein. Tu jayegi?” Asif asked, taking a bite of his paratha roll. (Listen, LTF is having some raids in Lyari next week. Are you going?) 

“Nahi. Tum jao ghe?” (No. Are you?)

“I might. Did Amir tell you anything about the mole and if they’ve discovered who it is?”

“Nope. Him and Omar are keeping everything under utmost secrecy.” 

“That’s smart. Aur maine suna hai ki SP Nayab ka unit bhi ja raha hai LTF ke saath. LTF - Karachi Elite Squad ka jointly coordinated raid operation. It will definitely hit the news.” (I’ve heard that SP Nayab’s unit will be going with LTF. LTF and Karachi’s Elite Squad with a joint coordinated raid operation).

“Oh, that it will. Karachi’s finest on the news.” You murmured, biting into your own paratha roll that you had brought for breakfast. 

“Emphasis on fine. Karachi’s finest officers. It’s a shame that Amir’s married. And Nayab is trying to woo you. Two of the finest police officers in Karachi, taken before I could have a chance.” Hafsa grumbled from beside you, flipping through her notes. 

You shared a look at Asif, who wiggled his eyebrows at you. You snorted, then quickly bit into your roll to hide your amusement. 

“What?” She snapped, narrowing her eyes at the two of you. 

“Nothing. Maine kuch kaha hai?” (Did I say anything?) You avoided her eagle-sharp gaze. 

“Mujhe tum dono ka pata hai. Dono ghis ghis karte ho meri peeche, jaise mujhe pata nahi chalta.” (I know the two of you. Both of you are constantly geeking behind me like I won’t find out). 

“Dekh sali, tu Husayn sahab ke bete ko pata le.” (Look girl, why don’t you go after Husayn sahab’s son?)

“Hain? Woh kaun hai? Kya karta hai? Kitni umar ka hai?” (Huh? Who is he? What does he do? How old is he?) She sat up straight, paying immediate attention.

“Nahi, Y/N! Yeh kya bhol rahi ho! Woh tou pehle se hi shaadi shuda hai.” (No, what are you saying? He’s married already). Asif said from beside you. 

Both of you went into a fit of stifled laughter, while Hafsa leaned back and crossed her arms. Her eyes narrowed at both of you, and she did a fake sneer. 

“Haan haan. Haaso haaso. Khoob hasso! Jab meri Imran Khan jaise ke saath shaadi ho ghi na, tou phir tum dono dekhte reh jaoge aur mein haason gi!” (Go on and laugh. Laugh all you want. When I’m up and married to someone like Imran Khan, then you both will be staring and I’ll be the one laughing). 

“Ya Allah. Kab dekhenge hum yeh din? Ankhein taras gaye hain hamari uss din ke intezaar mein.” Asif said, raising his hands to the heavens in a mock display. You keeled over in laughter. (Oh Allah! When will we see this day? I’ve grown tired of waiting for it). 

“Chal, haat! Jhootha utar kar tumhare pitai karongi mein!” (Hush, you fool! I will beat you with my shoe!) Hafsa took off her heel and shook it in her hand playfully. 

“Issi assault kehte hain!” (That’s called assault!) He said, quickly grabbing the rest of his paratha in one hand, files in the other and making a run for it. 

—----------------

A couple hours later, you were set to meet with Uzair again. This time, you had arranged an official meeting with him, and had booked a room in the administrative wing. You had also invited Hafsa, who had to cancel last minute due to another pressing commitment. 

While you were nervous to see him again after the events of your last meeting and had purposefully invited Hafsa to keep things professional this time around, a part of you was relieved when Hafsa cancelled. A bit excited even, though you would never admit it to yourself. But behind your excitement, there was a nagging sense of shame at who you were feeling all this for. All this excitement. All this happiness. All this… lust? You quickly shoved it away. 

There was a pep in your step as you walked to the administrative wing of KCJ, your files in your hand. His last exchanges of information had proven accurate, and you couldn’t wait to see what else you could gauge from him. Or perhaps you were just excited to see the man you had been dreaming about all weekend. 

As soon as you got into the meeting room, Uzair and his guards were already there. Before you could say anything, his guards walked out, giving you privacy. 

“We’ll be right outside if you need anything, ma’am.” One of them said, placing his hand on his chest in a gesture of respect. 

“Thank you.” You said, before readjusting your robe nervously and looking at Uzair, who was already staring at you with a small, knowing smile on his face. 

You cleared your throat, gave him a professional smile and sat down. 

“Waise, gunda tou main hoon, lekin bohot baari chori tou aapne ki hain.” He remarked, leaning back and continuing to stare at you. (I’m the street thug here, but you’ve managed to pull off a huge theft). 

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion. 

“Huh? Kya matlab? Aap mujhe chor bhula rahe hain?” (What do you mean? Are you calling me a thief?) 

“Aapne mujhse chummi chorai hai.” (You stole a kiss from me). He said matter of factly, licking the edge of his mouth. Without meaning to, you followed the slow glide of his tongue before catching yourself. 

“What? Nahi, I-I, woh mera matlab - woh.” You stuttered, blushing profusely at his words. 

He laughed. 

You huffed, then took a seat in front of him. 

“Thank you. Mujhse aaj milne ka. Aapke facility programming kaise ja rahi hai?” (How is your facility programming going?) You asked the wall behind him, still too shy to meet his gaze. 

He leaned his head to the side, catching your gaze before you looked away, and then face-palmed yourself. He laughed again. 

“Ab aap mujhse nazrein chura rahi hain.” (Now you won’t even meet my eyes). 

You felt like a child with your foolish antics. 

You closed your eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again, meeting his gaze with a smile. 

“Aapne mere sawaal ka jawab nahi diya.” You said. (You didn’t answer my question). 

“Achi ja rahi hai.” (It’s going well). He smiled cheekily at you. 

“Koi takleef toh nahi mili na, uss jail yard ke fight se?” (You aren’t getting any trouble from the jail yard fight, are you?) 

“Nahi. Woh Mir Ajmal sahab ne sab handle kar liye hai.” (No. Mir Ajmal handled all of that). 

“Good. Phir kaam ki baat karien?” (Should we talk business?) 

“Bilkul.” (Of course). 

“Aapne jo bhi information mujhe pichli do baar di hai, woh hamara bohot kaam ayi hai. Aur kya de sakhte hain aap humein?” (The information you gave me the last two times has been incredibly helpful for us. What else can you give us?) 

His eyes sharpened. 

“Is ke badle mein aap mujhe kya de sakti hain, Y/N madam?” (What can you give me in return for this?) 

“Aap kya chahte hain? Aapko facility programming bhi mil gaye hai, security restrictions bhi kaam hain, wagera wagera.” (What do you want? You’ve got access to facility programming, less security restrictions, etc etc). 

“Mere case charges ko kaam karien.” (Lessen my charges). He said, eyes sharp and smirk even more lethal.

You smirked back in his face. “Ah. Yeh mila na bhedon ke libas mein bhediya.” (Ah. Now I see the wolf in sheep’s clothing). 

“Fayda sirf aapka tou nahi na ho sakta, Y/N madam. Isko meri shart samajh lein.” (You can’t reap all the benefits. Consider this a condition of mine). 

“Theek hai. Yeh tou phir mujhe aapne ustad se faysala karke aapko batana parega.” (Very well then. This is something I will have to discuss with my boss before letting you know). 

“Aur agar yeh shart na puri hui, toh?” He challenged you, leaning forward and locking his hands on the table. 

“Tou phir aapko kuch aur sochna parega. Ya phir hamara muahida khatam.” You shrugged. (Then, you’ll have to think of something else. Or maybe our deal will be finished then). 

“Aur agar mein koi aur shart rakh loon?” He asked. (And what if I have another condition?) 

“Konsi?” (Which one?) 

“Haar information ke badle, aapse ek chummi.” (For every piece of information I give you, I get a kiss in return). 

Your mouth dropped open. Then, it closed. Then it fell open again. 

He snorted at your reaction. 

“Kya hua? Darr lag gaya? Uss din tou aap darr nahi rahien thi.” (What happened? Did you get scared? You definitely weren’t scared that day). 

“Kitne besharam hain aap, Uzair miyaan.” You said in a mock tone of shock, placing your hand on your chest for exaggeration. “Itni besharmi se aap kiss maange rahi hain mujhse?” (You’re asking for a kiss so shamelessly). 

“Aap kisi aise gunda koi mili hai jo besharam nahi?” He said. (Have you ever met a thug who isn’t shameless?)

“Aap jaisa tou bilkul nahi. Aur nahi, main aapko koi aur kiss nahi doongi.” You chastised him. (Never one like you. And no, I will not be giving you any more kisses.) 

He slumped, like a puppy being denied a treat. 

“Agar aapko kiss karongi, tou apni marzi se karongi. Kisi muahida ke doran nahi.” (If I kiss you, it will be because I want to. Not because of some deal). You told him sassily. 

“Aur koi information hai aapke paas ya phir mein gaon?” (Do you have any other information, or should I leave?” You got up and began to collect the files in front of you. 

“Main aapko Baloch gang ki weapons suppliers ki information de sakta hoon.” (I can give you the information about our weapons suppliers). 

“Acha? Neiki aur pooch pooch?” (Really? Please do so.) You said, sitting right back down and pulling out your legal pad. 

Twenty minutes later, he had supplied you with a plethora of information that you would turn over to Nayab and LTF for further investigation. 

“Theek hai. Yeh sab information mein Amir ko doongi. Phir aage dekhte hain kya hota hai.” You said, flipping your legal pad closed and started packing up your things. (Ok, I’ll give all this information to Amir. Then, we’ll see where to go from there). 

“Amir? Woh jo uss din mila tha?” (Amir? The one I met that day?) 

“Nahi. Woh Asif tha.” (No, that was Asif). You chuckled. 

“Toh phir Amir kaun hai?” (Then who’s Amir?) 

“Mera baara bhai. Amir Haider. LTF main kaam kartein hain.” (My older brother Amir Haider. He works in LTF). 

“Oho, acha. Aapka toh pura khaandan hi qanoon mein kaam karta hai.” (Oh, your entire family works for the law). 

“Haan. Generational blue bloods hain hum. Khabardar, bach ke rehna!” 

(We are generational blue bloods. Be careful, don’t mess with us!) You said playfully, arching your finger like a pirate and narrowing your eyes at him. 

He held up his hands in a display of surrender. 

“Tauba! Mein tou bilkul bhi koi ulti-seedhi harkat nahi karoonga.” (God forbid! I would never mess with you!) 

You laughed. 

“Waise, agle hafte hamara football match hai.” (Next week is our football match.)

You frowned. “Konsa football match?” (What football match?) 

“Wohi, jo facility ka football match hai. Qaidiyon aur staff ki darmiyaan. Aap aayengi?” (The facility match between the staff and inmates. Will you be coming?)

“Oh! Haan, maine suna hai uske baar mein. Asif bata raha tha. Woh bhi aap ki tarha football ka shaukeen hain.” (Oh right. The annual football match. Asif was telling me about it the other day. He’s a huge football fan like you). 

“Aap aayengi?” He asked again, a hint of desperation in his voice. (Will you come?)

“Kyun? Main kyun gaon?” You teased him, stepping closer to his side. (Why? Why should I come?) 

“Main khelon ga. Iss liye.” (I will be playing. That’s why.) 

“Aap khel rahe hain, isse mera kya lena-dena?” You continued to creep closer. He sat up straighter, a twinge of blush in his cheeks. (Why does my attendance matter just because you are playing?)

“Main chahta hoon ke aap aayien.” (I want you to come). He grabbed your right hand, interlacing his fingers in it and gently pulled you closer to him. 

“Acha? Lekin mujhe tou football nahi samajh aati aur nahi khelni aati hain. Mera wahan aana tou fazool hi hoga.” (Really? But I don’t understand nor play football. My attendance there will be useless.) 

“Aap mujhe dekhne aayiengi, yeh mere liye tou fazool nahi hai.” He pleaded to you. (You can come and watch me. That’s not useless). You stepped in between his legs, and he placed his hands softly around your waist. 

“Aur agar maine staff team ke liye cheer kiya, tou?” (And if I end up cheering for the staff team, what then?) You whispered softly, leaning down until your nose was almost touching his. 

“Koi baat nahi. Main baad mein aapse ek chummi loonga inaam ke liye, tou hisaab barabar.” He murmured. (Don’t worry. I can earn a kiss from you as a reward afterwards and everything will be sorted). 

You laughed, leaning in and pressing your forehead against his. 

“Kitne hoshiyar samajhte hain aapne aap ko! Lekin, chummi tou main abhi bhi doongi aapko.” You said cheekily, before pressing your lips against his once again. (You think you’re so clever! But, I’ll just kiss you right now too.) 

He immediately began to kiss you back. This time, there was no rush, no anger or any current of underlying chaos in the kiss. He kissed you gently and slowly, like you both had all the time in the world. All your nerve endings slowly lit on fire, and your thoughts narrowed down to the feel of his lips against yours, and his hands on your body. One of his hands remained on your waist, while the other one snaked up to tangle itself in your hair. 

For what was only two minutes - but felt like eternity - both of you kissed like carefree teenagers. After two minutes, you pulled away and began to pull yourself away from his embrace, too shy to meet his eyes once again. 

As you turned away, you felt him grab your wrist. You froze. Like Aishwarya from Devdas, you felt like saying the iconic isssh! when Shahrukh grabs her by the arm. 

“Meri taraf dekhengi nahi?” (Won’t you look at me?) He whispered softly. You shook your head no, closing your eyes. 

“Aapne mere sawal ka jawab nahi diya. Aap aayengi na, football match par?” (You didn’t answer my question. Will you come to the football match?) He asked again.

You tugged your arm away, and he let go. Before you could step away, a surge of boldness overtook you, and you quickly spun around, grabbed his face and placed a big smooch on his lips before stepping to your side of the table, out of his arm’s reach. 

“Abhi tou jawab de diya hai maine! Bilkul aaongi!” You said breathlessly, an uncharacteristic grin on your face that was slowly being a habit. He mirrored your grin, just as breathless. (That should be a response to your question. I will definitely come!) You two stared at each other like giddy teenagers for a moment, before you snapped out of it. 

You grabbed your things and began to walk out of the room. 

“Agle hafte milte hain, Uzair miyaan. Achi tarha se khelna, warna inaam nahi milega aapko!” You winked at him, before opening the door and heading out. (I’ll see you next week, Uzair. Make sure to play well, or else you won’t get your reward!)

It wasn’t until you were out of the entire jail compound and halfway to the courthouse that you realized something. The wind blew through your hair, ruffling it as it flew into your eyes. You took care to tie your hair back every morning, and this morning you had tied it with a ribbon. Uzair had entangled his hand in your hair earlier, and taken the ribbon out. 

You bit back another cheek-splitting grin. I steal his kisses and he steals my ribbons. 

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Bas ab iss information ko verify karna aapka kaam hai, bhai.” You said. (Verifying this information is your job now, brother). 

You were at the LTF Headquarters with Asif and Hafsa, in a confidential meeting with Amir and Omar Haider, the newly appointed SP of LTF after Chaudhry Aslam Khan’s assassination. Amir had also, expectedly, been promoted to ASP. 

“This information sounds solid and confirms our preexisting leads. Do you trust this source?” Amir asked you. 

You hesitated, not knowing how to respond. Before anyone could notice however, Asif spoke up. 

“We’ve received information from this source twice before, and it has proven accurate. I think we can trust it.” He said from beside you. 

“Theek hai. Iss hafte raid maarne wale hain hum Lyari Town. Hamza Ali Mazari ki compounds mein abhi raid marna khatarnaak hai, lekin unko aas-paas ke jo locations ki information hamko mili hai, wahan par hum investigation shuru karne wale hain.” Omar told you three. (We are planning to raid Lyari Town this week. Raiding Hamza Ali Mazari’s compound is dangerous as of right now, but we’ve received additional information into other locations which we will be investigating.) 

“Jab humne yeh information ko validate kiya, tou phir hum udhar bhi raid marwaye ghe.” (Once we’ve validated the accuracy of this information, we can see where to raid next.) Amir said, his arms crossed as he stared at the crime board on the wall. 

“Hum ja sakte hain raids paar aapke saath?” Asif asked. (Can we come on the raids with you?) 

“Sure. In an observational capacity, of course.” Amir said, looking at the three of you. 

“Aapko kisi search warrant mein madad ki zaroorat tou nahi hai?” Hafsa asked from beside you, tapping her manicured nails on the legal pad in front of her. (Do you need any help acquiring search warrants?)

“Filhal ke liye, nahi. Lekin agar zaroorat hui, tou aapke office ko itila kardoonga.” Omar said. (As of now, no. But if we need to in the future, we will let your office know.) 

“Aur please evidence ko dehan se label karna. Aapko pata hai ke evidence ke bina, hamara kaam thoda sa mushkil hoga.” Asif said. (And please take diligent care of the evidence. You know that without evidence, our job gets harder.)

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, kiddo.” Omar narrowed his eyes at Asif and growled softly. 

“Nahi nahi, Omar bhai. Yeh mere kehne ka matlab nahi tha. Sorry! Main sirf yehi keh ra-” (No, no, Omar. That’s not what I meant. Sorry! I only meant to s-) 

“Don’t worry, we understand. Omar is just a bit grumpy today since we lost a valuable lead.” Amir said, jokingly tapping Omar on the shoulder and throwing him a look. Omar just stared at him. 

“Chalein, hum phir chalte hain.” Hafsa said, standing up and gathering her things quickly. (Okay. We will take your leave). 

“Shaam ko milte hain, baccha.” Amir said to you. (See you tonight, kid). 

You waved and headed out after Hafsa, Asif hot on your heels. 

Once you were in the parking lot, headed towards Hafsa’s car, you looked at Hafsa and both of you immediately started cackling. 

“Haan haan, haaso!” Asif said mockingly, as both of you laughed at his expense. 

“Bhondu, tu toh kabhi nahi sudharega.” Hafsa said in between gulps of air, as she leaned against her car and laughed hard. You were laughing just as hard as her, clutching at your side as it began to hurt. (You’ll never learn your lesson, you fool.) 

“Iski shakal dekhi tumne, jab Omar ni dhanta isse?” You said. Asif stood there wearing an irritated expression with his arms crossed, watching both of you cackle like witches from Halloween movies. (Did you see his face when Omar scolded him?) 

“Haan! Aise jaise iski tou jaan nikal ne wali thi!” Hafsa said, guffawing. (Yes, it looked like he was about to die.) 

“Yeh tou lucky hai ke Amir bhai wahan the, warna isse tou zaroor aaj pitai parne wali thi.” You quipped, sobering up from your fit of laughter. (He’s lucky Amir was there. Otherwise, he was definitely gonna get beat). 

“Yes. Very lucky.” Asif sneered. “Ab chalein?! Mujhe bhook lag rahi hai!” (Now, can we go? I’m hungry!) 

“Haan haan, chalo!” Hafsa said, unlocking her car for you and Asif to get in. 

—------------------------------------------------------------------

It seemed like you had blinked and the week flew by. It was Saturday, the day of the annual football match. You felt giddy, the childish excitement flowing through you as you reached the Karachi Central Jail compound. 

Asif met you outside, wearing a blue football uniform which had been distributed by the administrative organizer, with the word “STAFF” written in bold, white colors on the back. 

“Maine suna hai ke hamara footballer bhi aaj khel raha hai.” He remarked, as you both walked in. (I heard our footballer is playing today as well). 

“Yes, he is.”

“If his previously demonstrated skills are anything to go by, I’d say we’re gonna have a tough match.” 

You chuckled. 

As you walked in, the entire courtyard was set up like a professional football field. There were two goal posts on either side, with demarcations on the field and seating on both sides. Event goers were rolling in with family members, friends and even other staff. 

Asif sat down and began to change his shoes into cleats. Although he had an impressive, athletic build, with lean muscle and considerable height, you almost winced as you imagined him playing against Uzair, who was much taller and had a bulkier, broader build. 

“Acha, maine tou ja kar bheth rahi hoon. Good luck, Asif! Acha khelna! Hum staff ki izaat ka sawal hain.” You playfully punched his shoulder before climbing up the bleachers. (Alright, I’m gonna go find a seat. Play well! Our staff’s reputation relies on your game!)

There was a stand nearby that was offering snacks and refreshments, and you headed to it. More and more people were trickling in and you spotted Hafsa, who had brought her mother. You grabbed two bowls of popcorn and three drinks, and headed over to them. After meeting them and giving Hafsa and her mom a popcorn bowl and their drinks, you sat down. The clouds rumbled overhead and it looked like it was going to rain. 

On the field, Asif was chatting with his team, among some players that you recognized like Bilal from the Organized Crime Unit, Qasim and Afzal who worked with you in GND and even Daniyal. All of them were wearing blue football uniforms, with high socks and different colored cleats. A couple of them began doing various stretches and warm up exercises. 

Then, from the left side of the bleachers, two guards walked onto the courtyard/converted field, and behind them was the inmate team. Like the staff team, they were all wearing matching football uniforms, except their uniforms were black and gold. Your eyes raced to find the familiar build of Lyari’s most handsome footballer. Like the poetry event, he took his sweet time to come out and was one of the last players to enter the field.

As soon as your eyes landed on him, your heart began to do cartwheels. He stepped on to the field, looking around at his team with the gaze of a team captain. Unlike the staff team who were wearing their own cleats, the inmate team were wearing regular jogging shoes. They were at a disadvantage already, but Uzair’s demeanor looked confident, an attestation to his infamous playing experience. 

You began to check him out shamelessly. The black uniform with gold lettering fit his body like second skin, with shorts that ended above his knees and showcased his powerful legs. His biceps bulged in the short-sleeved jersey, and as he began to stretch, his upper body muscles rippled powerfully. The man’s body was a work of art, a sculpture crafted by God himself. 

Good Lord, I’m no better than a man, you thought as you continued to ogle at him, grinning like a maniacal fool. 

As he did his stretches, you saw him look through the bleachers, his eyes slowly scanning different faces. As his eyes made their way to you, you quickly looked at Hafsa, who was deep in conversation with her mom, before raising your arm to wave at him. When his eyes finally found you and saw you waving like a fan, he grinned and waved back. 

Then, as you were looking, you saw him pull out something from his pocket and wrap it around his forehead, tying it at the back of his neck and using it to push his hair back from his face as a makeshift sports band. 

You narrowed your eyebrows, leaning closer to look and gasped. It was your ribbon! He was wearing your ribbon as his sports band. You gushed and bit back another grin. 

Just then, the referee stepped onto the field, greeted everyone and welcomed them to the annual game and blew the whistle, indicating the start of the game. 

The next 90 minutes were a whirlwind. Admittedly, you didn’t understand the game at all. You didn’t have an athletic bone in your body and had never been into sports. Until now.

The only thing that kept your attention on the game was Uzair himself. Unlike the night of the poetry event, when you saw his soft, gentlemanly side, today you saw a completely different side to him. 

He played football like how you had heard he ruled over Lyari and the Baloch gang - with an ironfist. His every move was fierce and ruthless. His entire team was well coordinated and the other players complemented Uzair’s dominance with their own skills. Asif’s team, to their credit, kept up. While Uzair’s play was aggressive and at times showoffy, Asif’s team played with speed and clever strategy. Like you had seen him do in the courtroom countless times, Asif’s playing style wasn’t flamboyant, but sly and quiet. Just when any of Uzair’s teammates thought they had the upper hand, Asif’s team - Bilal, Afzal, Qasim or Daniyal would step in with a slick maneuver and steal the ball away. 

Through it all, you could see Uzair’s frustration grow, which leaked into his performance. He became even more ruthless, leaving no room for mistakes and going head to head, toe to toe with Asif, who smirked in his face. Above your head, the clouds thundered and rain began to pour. 

With fifteen minutes left on the clock, you saw Uzair growl at his teammates, who either clapped back at him or were too afraid to say anything to his face and everyone began to play harder than before, even as the rain made the field slippery. You quickly rushed to stand beneath the side of the bleachers, which provided a bit of reprieve from the cold rain, but kept your eyes glued to Uzair’s figure. The rain had soaked his hair, and you saw him re-tie the ribbon - your ribbon - across his forehead after it had slipped off, and get back in the game. Like a powerful jaguar with agile reflexes and animalistic aggression, he threw himself into the last stretch of the game. 

In addition to his hair, the rain had soaked through his jersey which clung to his skin, and you could see his muscular chest and taut abdominals through the wet outline as he played. You had to purse your lips together to keep from grinning too hard at how he was playing and how it would feel if all that attention and aggression was focused solely on you. 

Have some hayah, you chastised yourself. 

Finally the game ended and the referee blew the whistle, announcing that the inmate team had won. There was scattered applause, but you cheered as loud as you could as you saw Uzair’s team roar out in victory. Some of his teammates rounded up and lifted Uzair onto their shoulders, pumping him up and down as they all started doing the bhangra and different celebratory dances. 

As they finally let Uzair back down, you saw Asif go up to Uzair and hold out his hand. Uzair looked at it suspiciously, before shaking it. 

“Good game, man. Good game.” You heard Asif say with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder before walking away. 

You walked out from under the makeshift cover and stood at the sidelines, waiting patiently until Uzair noticed you. Unsurprisingly, he noticed you immediately and jogged over. Instead of slowing down, it had started to rain even harder and people were running for amnesty into the building. 

“Congratulations! Bohot accha kehla aapne!!” You cheered at him. He grinned. While you were standing on the level of the courtyard and he was on the field, which was a foot below, he still towered over you with ease. 

“Acha? Tou phir mera inaam?” He asked cheekily. (Really? Then, where is my reward?)

You narrowed your eyes on him. “Yahan nahi!” You hissed dramatically before grinning back at him. “Lekin, bohot acha laga aaj aapko khelte hue dekh kar.” (Not here! But, it was great to watch you play today). 

“Thank you. Aapko apna fan samjhoon?” He asked. (Should I consider you my fan?) 

“Number one fan! Lekin mere paas aapki specialized naam wali jersey nahi hai.” You pouted. (But I don’t have your specialized jersey. The one that would have your name on it.)

“Afsoos. Aap mere naam mein kitni pyaari lagti.” (What a pity. You would look gorgeous wearing my name). 

You blushed, trying to ignore the double entendre. 

“Aap andhar chalein jayien, please. Yahan baarish nahi rukne wali. Bukhaar shayad ho jaye ga aapko. Aur aaj koi shawl waal bhi nahi hain jo main aapko doon.” He remarked, eyes running up and down your figure, where your light purple shalwar kameez had clung to your own figure, your long hair was drenched and stuck to your back. (Please go inside. The rain won’t stop soon, and you might get sick. I don’t have any shawl to give you today). 

You felt like a wet rat soaked in the cold rain, but the way Uzair was staring at you made your body warm up, all the way to your toes. 

“Acha. Chalein, phir milte hain.” You winked shamelessly at him before turning away. (Okay. See you). 

“Wait!” He said, startling you. You turned around, eyebrows raised to your hairline. 

“What?” 

“Main toh bhool hi gaya tha. Yeh aapke liye hain. Todha gheela hogaya hai.” He held out a piece of folded paper between his two fingers, covering it with his hand. (I almost forgot. This is for you. It’s a bit wet now.)

“Yeh kya hai?” (What is this?) You asked, reaching out and taking it from his hand. In the process, your hand brushed against his, and you felt a jolt of electricity go through your body at the touch. 

“Ghar ja kar padhna, please. Meri shawl mein garam ho kar.” He winked at you. (Read it when you are home, please. When you’re warm and comfortable in my shawl.) 

“Acha.” (Okay). You smiled at him, giving him another once over and then left. 

As you walked back to the building, you felt his gaze on your back. When you stepped into the building and were almost out of sight, you turned one last time. He was still standing there in the pouring rain, watching you. When you made eye contact with him, he raised his hand up and waved softly at you. 

You looked around and saw that the field was almost deserted as was the building you had just walked into. 

You looked back at him, raised your hand to your lips and blew him a kiss. He grinned and made a dramatic show of grabbing the invisible kiss from thin air and pressed it to his lips, before stabbing his heart in slow motion. You grinned, before turning and walking out. 

Little did you know, someone had indeed seen the two of you. 

[totallynotashieldagent]

so idk about making it a whole proper fic but i'll do drabbles and little one shots about this specific storyline- Valko and his mate. So- you can ask for specific events with these two as well if you want! <33 love you!

The First Meeting

This was going horribly. You were talking, Valko was nodding, pretending to listen but he was not catching a single word.

You were here. In his office. But so were a handful of other people in this stupid room because this was a meeting and they had an agenda to fix the authentication layer of the new health care app.

He hated how there were so many scents overlapping your smell. He was pretty sure his employees noticed his very grumpy face. But much to his relief, they assumed that he was angry about this mishap. Not the fact that they were all crowded around his mate and talking to her and being in her vicinity- All the things that even he had barely gotten the privilege of!

"Alright." He spoke suddenly, and the room quieted down. "I think we've covered plenty of ground for now. Why don't we follow up the rest on Slack?" He asked. "Someone will add you to the company channel." He said so sweetly to you.

"Uh- Sir- Slack is only for employees-" Someone asked with confusion.

It took everything Valko had in him to not snarl at his employee and throw him out for even implying that you weren't to get access to everything and anything-

Don't these idiots realize they're speaking about my future wife? He glared at them, his back tingling as his tail wanted to be let loose.

"Consider this special circumstances." Since she'll own half of this company soon enough. He said through gritted teeth.

Everyone nodded and started to shuffle out when he asked for you to stay back.

Once the room was empty, and the last person left, leaving just you and him, he took a deep breath. Finally, just your scent. He sighed, then looked at you with a smile.

"I had a proposition for you." He was doing his best to be smooth. "How would you feel about me buying your company? You could be head of cyber security here?" Oh- And I'd get to see you everyday. Work with you all the time.

You stared at him with raised brows. "Excuse me?"

Uh oh- That's not the reaction I wanted. He almost pouted.

"I- Uh-" You gathered your thoughts to articulate yourself as kindly as you possibly could. "I think we've misunderstood one another." You looked at him.

His wolf cowered inside him. No- No- No- Mate is angry. Why is mate angry? Fix it!! Fix! Fix!

"I came to you as a favour to help you secure your app better. I'm not interested in selling or being absorbed into another company." You said firmly and Valko's wolf whined pathetically in his head.

"I'm- I'm sorry- I-" He stammered, a lump already forming in his throat.

You stared at him in confusion. Was this man about to cry because you said no to selling?

"I just- I wanted to-" He tried but what was he supposed to say? That he wanted to make sure you'd never want for anything. He cleared his throat and forced himself to calm down. "I apologize for assuming. Can I make it up to you?" He asked. "Perhaps, a dinner?" Yes- Yes. That was good. Very smooth.

You exhaled a soft laugh, zipping up your bag. "I don't think that would be appropriate. Considering we're working together at the moment."

Valko wanted to sob. "Maybe after we're done with this?"

"Maybe?" You said shyly.

Success!! His wolf jumped around. Valko smiled at you. "Maybe is good. I like maybe."

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LADS Drabble Masterlist