Laces, Lilies, and Lyari’s Biggest Simp (One-Shot)
Pairing: Uzair Baloch x Amaya Hasni (OC)
Tropes: He’s a terrifying gangster / She’s a fierce boutique worker, Meet-Ugly, Height Difference (6'2" vs 5'6"), Yearner/Simp Uzair, Sarcastic Best Friend Hamza, Lyari Gang AU.
Synopsis: When Uzair Baloch and his gang barge into a quiet Lyari boutique early in the morning to demand tax, they expect tears and trembling. Instead, they get Amaya—who is mostly just furious about the muddy boot prints they left on her freshly swept floor. After getting scolded like a bunch of misbehaving schoolchildren, Uzair's brain completely short-circuits. He's hopelessly in love. What follows is a clumsy, chaotic attempt at wooing her with the help of a very reluctant, deeply sarcastic Hamza. Uzair is ready to trade his intimidation tactics for lilies, jhumkas, and Urdu poetry, but learning tameez might just be the hardest mission he's ever faced.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. This fiction is based on Aditya Dhar's version of Uzair Baloch, potryed by the actor Danish Pandor. This is not intended to glorify any real people or events linked with them. Also, Hamza in this story is not a spy, he's a gangster working for Rehman like everyone else and Uzair's best friend.
The sun hadn’t even fully risen over Lyari, but the interior of Rehmat Matching Center & Boutique already looked like a war zone.
Uzair Baloch, standing at a towering 6’2”, adjusted his Rolex watch and kicked a plastic mannequin out of his way with his muddy boot. Behind him, Donga and Siyahi were chuckling, intentionally knocking hangers off the racks, while Hamza leaned against the doorway, chewing on a bubblegum, looking deeply bored.
"Dekhiye, Rehmat Chachu," Uzair boomed, leaning his heavy hands on the wooden counter, making the old glass jars of buttons rattle. "Pichle teen mahine ka hafta baaki hai. Rehman Bhai doesn’t like waiting. Agli baar hum sirf baat karne nahi aayenge."
Poor Chachu Rehmat was trembling, clutching a silk dupatta like a shield. "Beta, woh... market mandha chal raha hai..."
"Mandha tumhara dimaag chal raha hai!" Uzair shouted, slamming a fist on the table.
Before Uzair could deliver his ultimate terrifying threat, the glass door of the boutique banged open. The tiny bell chimed aggressively.
"Hadd ho gayi hai! Subah-subah tameez bech kar khaa gaye ho kya?!"
The entire gang froze. Hamza actually choked on his toothpick.
Amaya stepped into the shop, holding a thermos of chai and a bag of hot jalebis. Her eyes swept over the floor. The pristine, freshly swept floor was covered in wet, muddy boot prints. A hand-embroidered bridal lehenga hanger was lying on the floor. And Chachu Rehmat looked close to tears.
Amaya’s blood boiled. She didn’t know who these giant, loud men in silk kurtas and heavy gold chains were, and frankly, she didn’t care.
She marched straight up to Uzair—who was so tall she practically had to tilt her head back at a 90-degree angle—and pointed a fierce, henna-stained finger right at his chest.
"You! Yes, you, the oversized bulldozer! Subha subha aise chilla rahe ho jaise tumhare baap ka dukan ha, gandu!" Amaya yelled, her voice echoing in the small shop. "Look at your boots! Aqal naam ki cheez hai? I spent two hours cleaning this shop yesterday! And look what you did to that display!"
Uzair’s jaw literally dropped. Nobody spoke to him like this. Ever. People usually wet themselves when he entered a room. He opened his mouth to say 'Do you know who I am?' but Amaya wasn’t done.
"And speaking of tameez, how dare you scream at Chachu? He is old enough to be your grandfather! Bade ho gaye ho, daadhi mooch aa gayi hai, par baat karne ka dhang abhi tak nahi seekha? Shut up and get out immediately!"
Behind Uzair, Siyahi and Donga reached for their waistbands, reaching for their guns, absolutely outraged. But Hamza quickly grabbed their shoulders, whispering, "Ruko, ruko. Tamasha dekho." Hamza’s eyes were wide with pure, unadulterated amusement.
Uzair didn't reach for his gun. He just stared down at Amaya. Up close, her eyes were flashing fire, her nose was slightly pink from anger, and she smelled faintly of jasmine oil and fresh jalebis.
Ya Allah, Uzair thought, his heart doing a sudden, violent backflip. Yeh larki hai ya bijli ka jhatka?
He felt a strange, goofy smile creeping onto his face.
"Are you laughing?!" Amaya gasped, utterly offended. "Chachu, yeh paagal hai kya? Look at him smiling like a village idiot after ruining the shop!" She turned back to Uzair, shooing him with her hands like he was a stray goat. "Chalo, nikal yahan se! Come back when you learn how to say 'Assalamu Alaikum' properly!"
"A-Alaikum Assalam," Uzair blurted out automatically, his voice cracking slightly.
Hamza put a hand over his mouth to muffle a loud bark of laughter. The Uzair Baloch, terror of Lyari, was stuttering.
Amaya crossed her arms. "Out! All of you! Out!"
Uzair, completely hypnotized, began taking steps backward. "Okay... okay, jaa rahe hain. Sorry... Chachu." He actually nodded at Rehmat Chachu before Hamza grabbed Uzair’s collar and dragged him out of the shop before he could embarrass himself further.
As soon as they hit the street, Hamza burst out laughing so hard he had to lean against a paan tapri.
"Oye, khokhe! 'Ji Chachu, sorry Chachu'?" Hamza mocked, wiping a tear from his eye. "What happened to the terror of Karachi? Ek choti si larki shouted at you like you stole her eraser in third grade, and you became a wet cat!"
Uzair didn't even look angry. He was staring back at the boutique door, a dreamy, love-struck look on his face.
"Hamza..." Uzair whispered softly.
Hamza’s laughter stopped instantly. He stared at his best friend. "Bhai-she just called you gandu and an oversized bulldozer. She hates your guts."
Uzair smirked, adjusting his collar confidently. "She doesn't hate me. She’s just spirited. Aur pyaar aur nafrat me unnis-bich kaii to fark he bhai. We need to find out everything about her. Right now."
Hamza rolled his eyes into the back of his skull. "Ya Allah, utha le. Mujhe nahi, is aashiq ko utha le."
Meanwhile, inside the shop, Amaya was frantically cleaning the mud.
"Amaya beti... tumne yeh kya kiya," Chachu Rehmat whimpered, finally finding his voice. "Do you know who that was? That was Uzair Baloch! Rehman Dacait’s right hand!"
Amaya froze, a broom in her hand. "Wait... woh Uzair Baloch tha? The gangster Yalina always complains about?"
Amaya’s heart did a mini-drop, not out of love, but out of sheer 'oh my god I’m going to end up in a ditch' panic.
An hour later, she was on the phone with her college best friend, Yalina. Now, now, Amaya is not a burger baccha like Yalina. She is from a very middle-class average family of hardworking people. The first time Amaya and Yalina became friends was when Yalina was about to get busted out for cheating in an important exam and Amaya-who was sitting behind her- snatched her cheats from her and hid them in her salwaar. The test went spectacularly well for both of them and hence, blossomed the start of a close friendship between them.
"Yalina! I am going to die!" Amaya hissed into the receiver, hiding behind the dress racks. "I screamed at Uzair Baloch today! I called him a gandu!"
On the other end, Yalina went completely silent for three seconds before screaming, "WHAT?! Amaya, are you insane? He’s dangerous! Wait... let me ask Hamza if he’s going to kill you."
"No, don't ask Hamza! Just tell me how to write a will!"
But Uzair had no intentions of killing her. In fact, he was currently sitting in his office, forcing a very miserable Hamza to brainstorm ways to "coincidentally" run into her.
"We can set the boutique on fire and I will rescue her," Uzair suggested seriously.
Hamza stared at him. "Are you stupid? You want to burn down the shop where she works? How is that romantic?"
"Okay, fine. What if I go there to buy a lehenga?"
"For who?! Yourself?!" Hamza groaned, throwing his hands up. "Listen, mujhe abhi Yalina ka call aya tha aur wo Amaya ki college ki dost ha. Meine usse bohot mana kar ugal waya ki Amaya walks by the Lyari juice corner every afternoon at 4:30 PM after her shift, the one owned by that Alam bhai. Sometimes she even stops for a milkshake or juice. Just go there, buy a juice, and act normal. Normal! Kaar paye gya ya phir abhi se pyaar ne andha chutiya kar diya tujhe?"
Uzair grinned, clapping Hamza on the back so hard the poor guy stumbled. "Hence proved, you are my best friend. Chal aab lodu, hum juice kharidne wale ha."
At 4:35 PM, Amaya was walking down the street, holding her handbag tightly, still paranoid that a black car was going to kidnap her.
Instead, she saw something weirder.
Uzair Baloch was sitting on a tiny plastic stool outside the juice shop. He was wearing a ridiculously designer white kurta (he thought it made him look approachable), and he was aggressively sucking on a mango juice box, staring straight at her path. Next to him, Hamza was covering his face with a newspaper, pretending he didn’t know this man.
As Amaya approached, Uzair stood up so fast he knocked his own stool over.
"Assalamu Alaikum, Amaya ji!" Uzair roared, trying to sound polite but ending up sounding like a drill sergeant.
Amaya stopped, looking at him, then at the fallen stool, then at his white kurta. The sheer absurdity of the situation washed over her, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
"Wa-Alaikum Assalam," she said cautiously. "Are you following me, Baloch Sahab?"
"Me? Following? No!" Uzair lied smoothly, while Hamza snorted loudly from behind the newspaper. "I just... love mango juice. Very much. Aap ko chahiye? I can buy the whole dukaan for you. Aur aap mujhe Sahab kyu bula rahi ha, please Uzair bulaiye."
Amaya crossed her arms, a amused smirk playing on her lips. "Mujhe dukaan nahi chahiye, Uzair. And aren't you supposed to be collecting hafta vasuli and being scary?"
Uzair took a step closer, giving her his best, most dazzling smile. "I took a half-day today. Waise... today I wiped my boots before sitting here. See? Bilkul saaf." He pointed to his shoes like a proud toddler showing off a drawing.
Amaya couldn't hold it in anymore. She let out a genuine, beautiful laugh. "Good for you. At least you are house-trained now."
Uzair’s soul practically left his body at the sound of her laugh. He was a goner. Absolute goner.
From behind the newspaper, Hamza muttered, "Wah. Shuruat toh acchi hai. Now ask her for her number before you say something dumb again."
Uzair was riding high on the sound of Amaya’s laugh. He felt like he had just conquered the entire Karachi underworld with a single smile. He puffed out his chest, completely ignoring Hamza’s frantic whispering from behind the newspaper.
He needed to say something smooth. Something that showed he was a big man, a provider, someone who could take care of her.
"House-trained? Hum toh hamesha se tameezdaar hain, Amaya ji," Uzair said, leaning against the juice stall counter with what he thought was suave confidence. "In fact, I was just thinking... yeh subah-subah kapde bechna, mitti saaf karna... yeh bhi koi kaam hai? You are wasting your time in that tiny, dusty shop with Rehmat Chachu. Chhoro yeh darzi ka kaam. It’s beneath you."
The silence that followed was absolute.
The blender at the juice stall stopped. The street noise seemed to fade.
From behind the newspaper, Hamza’s eyes went wide. He slowly lowered the paper, staring at Uzair with an expression that said, 'You have just signed your own death warrant.'
Amaya’s smile vanished so fast it gave Uzair whiplash. Her eyes, which had been bright and amused a second ago, turned into two chips of freezing, dangerous ice.
"Excuse me?" Amaya said, her voice dropping to a dangerously quiet pitch.
Uzair, totally oblivious to the sudden drop in atmospheric pressure, plowed right ahead. "I’m just saying! Kahan aap us dukaan mein silai-kadhai kar rahi hain. If you want money, you just have to say the word. Hum hain na! Waise bhi aap toh medical college me parte he na? Doctor baane wali ha-why do a cheap job like—"
"Cheap job?" Amaya took a sharp step forward, and Uzair automatically took a step back, his instincts warning him of imminent danger. "Let me tell you something, Uzair Sahab. That 'cheap job' pays for my family’s house. That 'dusty shop' belongs to a man who treats me like his own daughter. We earn an honest living. We don't go around extorting poor shopkeepers and calling it a career!"
"N-No, I didn't mean—" Uzair stammered, the confidence draining from his face like water down a sink.
"You think because you wear heavy silver jewellery and drive big cars by scaring people, you are better than us?" Amaya hissed, her finger snapping right back to his chest, poking him aggressively. "You are just a loud, arrogant bully who doesn't respect hard work. Keep your mango juice, you dumb fuck. And keep your mouth shut!"
She turned on her heel and stormed down the street, her dupatta fluttering angrily behind her.
Uzair stood frozen, his arm still extended as if he could physically catch her words and put them back in his mouth. His heart rate shot up to approximately three hundred beats per minute. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead.
"Ya Allah," Uzair gasped, clutching his chest. "Hamza... Hamza, saas nahi aa rahi. Mera dum ghut raha hai."
Hamza slowly stood up from his plastic stool, shaking his head in pure, unadulterated pity. "Behenchod-tera dum ghutna hi chahiye. Lodu tujhe ek kaam diya tha. Ki normal baat kaar. Paar nahi-shehezaade ko to ulta sidha baat bolni hi ha. Aur aab ye natak baand kar sale- I have seen you get shot in the arm and not even blink. Now you look like you’re about to faint because a five-foot girl gave you a lecture on ethics."
"Tu mazaak mat kar!" Uzair turned on him, his eyes wild with genuine panic. He grabbed Hamza by the shoulders, shaking him. "Maine kya bol diya, Hamza? I was trying to sound like a king! Like a big man! Why did she get so angry? Wapas jaa kar dukan tod doon kya? No, wait, that will make it worse. Main kya karoon?!"
"First of all, stop shaking me, bijli ki khambha kahika," Hamza grunted, swatting Uzair's hands away. "Second of all, you basically told a self-made, hardworking girl that her life's work is trash and offered her charity. Tu dimaag se paagal hai? Even Donga has better game than you, and that guy woos girls by showing them his bald head and knife collection."
Uzair slid down the side of the pillar against the juice shop, burying his face in his large hands. He actually looked like he wanted to cry. "Mera toh dil saaf tha na... I just wanted her to not work so hard. Hamza, save me. If she doesn't forgive me, meh Lyari ke naadi me dub ke maar jaungi."
"Don't do that, the river is disgusting and you'll just get typhoid," Hamza sighed, pulling out his phone. "Stand up. Put your dignity back on. We need to plan an apology. A proper one. No money, no boasting, no 'big man' attitude."
Uzair looked up, his eyes wide and desperate. "What do I do?"
Hamza smirked, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well... you insulted her work. So, you are going to have to appreciate her work. Get in the car, gaadhe. We are going to buy a lot of fabric."
Amaya slammed her handbag onto Yalina’s bed, pacing the room like a caged tigress.
"He is the most arrogant, brainless, oversized piece of garbage in the whole of Karachi!" Amaya yelled.
Yalina, who was sitting cross-legged eating grapes, blinked in surprise. "Wait, who? Uzair Baloch? I thought you were terrified he was going to kill you."
"I wish he would try! It would give me an excuse to hit him with a heavy iron!" Amaya fumed, her cheeks burning. "He insulted Chachu’s shop! He told me to quit my 'cheap job' and offered me money like I'm some charity case or worse, some prostitute! Just because he's a big gangster, he thinks he owns the dignity of everyone in Lyari!"
Yalina winced. "Yeah... Uzair isn't exactly known for his conversational tact. Hamza kehta ha ki his vocabulary consists of 50% shouting, 40% swearing, and 10% ordering biryani."
"Well, he can take his 10% biryani and shove it!" Amaya snapped, sitting down with a huff. "I never want to see his stupid, kurta-wearing face again!"
Amaya arrived at Rehmat Matching Center & Boutique, still grumpy, determined to focus entirely on her work. But as she approached the door, she stopped dead in her tracks.
Standing outside the shop was Uzair Baloch.
He wasn't wearing his usual flashy kurta or silver rings. He was wearing a very plain, simple grey shalwar kameez. He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes, holding a giant, awkwardly wrapped cardboard box in his arms. Beside him, Hamza was leaning against a lamppost, holding two large thermoses of tea and looking like an exhausted babysitter.
Amaya narrowed her eyes, halting a few feet away. "What are you doing here? If you've come to insult Chachu again—"
"No!" Uzair interrupted, his voice surprisingly soft. He took a cautious step forward, looking down at his feet. "Look... boots saaf hain. I didn't step in mud."
Amaya kept her arms crossed, unimpressed. "So?"
Uzair swallowed hard. He looked at Hamza, who gave him a sharp nod that said, 'Speak now or I leave you here.'
Uzair cleared his throat, holding out the heavy box toward her. His hands were actually trembling slightly.
"I am sorry," Uzair said, looking directly into her eyes, his tough-guy persona completely gone. "Main badtameez hoon, mujhe baat karne ka dhang nahi hai. I didn't mean to insult your work. Your work is beautiful. Chachu’s shop is... is a respectable place. I was just... my brain stopped working because I wanted to say something nice and it came out wrong. Galti ho gayi. Maaf kar do."
Amaya’s defenses cracked just a tiny bit. The sheer vulnerability on this massive man’s face was startling. He looked like a puppy waiting to be scolded.
"Box me kya hai?" she asked, her voice softening just a fraction.
Uzair’s face lit up with a nervous, eager smile. "Kholke dekh lijiye."
Amaya cautiously took the box, setting it on a nearby bench, and opened the lid. Inside were twenty rolls of the most exquisite, expensive, raw silk and banarasi fabric she had ever seen, in every vibrant color imaginable. On top of the fabric lay a brand-new, top-of-the-line heavy-duty tailoring iron and a packet of premium sewing needles.
"Hamza told me you guys were short on premium stock because of the market," Uzair whispered scratchily. "I didn't use extortion money for this. I swear on my brother, I used my own personal savings. Dukaan ke liye hai."
Amaya looked from the beautiful fabric to Uzair, who was holding his breath, literally waiting for her judgment like a man on death row.
Behind him, Hamza held up a thermos. "And I brought fresh Elaichi chai for you and Chachu. Please forgive him, Amaya ji. He didn't sleep all night. He kept pacing my room asking if he was a bad person."
Amaya bit her lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile that was fighting to break free. She looked at Uzair’s anxious face.
"Alright," Amaya said slowly, closing the box. "I accept the apology. But under one condition."
Uzair’s eyes widened with hope. "Anything! Name it!"
"You are going to carry this box inside," Amaya pointed a commanding finger, "and you are going to apologize to Chachu Rehmat. Properly. With a 'Salaam' and a 'Ji'."
"Ji! Absolutely! Abhi karta hoon!" Uzair beamed, practically snatching the heavy box back into his arms as if it weighed nothing at all. He marched toward the shop door like a soldier on a glorious mission.
As he passed her, he paused, giving her a shy, sideways glance. "Waise... aap gusse mein aur bhi haseen lagti hain."
Before Amaya could process the compliment or yell at him again, Uzair darted into the shop, shouting, "Assalamu Alaikum, Rehmat Chachu! Kaise hain aap?"
Amaya stood outside, a hand covering her mouth as she finally let out a loud laugh.
Hamza walked up beside her, handing her a cup of chai from the thermos. "See? I told you. House-trained. It just takes a lot of manual labor."
Over the next two weeks, the Lyari underworld witnessed a shift in the space-time continuum. Uzair Baloch, who used to spend his afternoons planning turf strategies and being involved in gang wars, was now spotted outside the boutique every single day.
He didn’t come with his usual terrifying entourage anymore. It was always just him and Hamza, acting as the world’s most exhausted but loyal sidekick.
"If I have to stand outside this bookstall for one more minute, Uzair, I will shoot myself in the leg just to go to the hospital," Hamza groaned, leaning against a rickshaw.
Uzair ignored him, his eyes scanning the dusty shelves of an old, roadside bookstore. "Shut up, Hamza. Yalina said Amaya loves old Urdu poetry books. Yeh wali acchi hai? Look at the cover, it has nice flowers."
"That is a textbook on accounting, you illiterate gorilla," Hamza sighed, snatching it from his hands and replacing it with a beautifully bound copy of Parveen Shakir's poetry. "Take this. Aur yaad rakhna, galti se bhi usse par kar maat shunane jana. Your voice sounds like a broken exhaust pipe."
Equipped with the book, a bunch of fresh, fragrant white lilies (because he found out she hated roses for being "too cliché"), and a pair of delicate silver jhumkas he spent three hours picking out at the bazaar, Uzair marched toward the boutique.
Amaya was inside, folding a stack of linen when the bell chimed. She didn't even have to look up to know who it was; the distinct sound of heavy, polished boots always gave him away.
"Assalamu Alaikum, Amaya," Uzair said, stepping inside. He looked incredibly neat, his beard trimmed perfectly, holding the lilies behind his back like a nervous teenager.
"Wa Alaikum Assalam, Uzair," Amaya replied, a soft smile tugging at her lips. She had stopped calling him a bulldozer a week ago. "What brings you here today? I hope you aren't here to scare my customers."
"Never," Uzair said earnestly, placing the lilies on the counter. "For you. And... I found this." He awkwardly handed over the poetry book. "And this." He placed a tiny velvet pouch next to it.
Amaya opened the pouch, and her eyes lit up. The silver jhumkas caught the shop's light. They were exactly her style—simple, elegant, not flashy.
"Uzair..." she murmured, with a small giggle. The sound of it made his heart do a frantic tap-dance. "These are beautiful. But you don't have to keep buying me things."
"I want to," Uzair said, his voice dropping to a surprisingly gentle pitch, his usual booming tone completely absent. "Every time I see something beautiful in Karachi, I just... think of you. Dil nahi maanta bina tumhein diye."
Amaya looked up from the jhumkas, her cheeks flushing a warm, deep pink. Looking into his big, honest eyes, she realized the terrifying gangster everyone feared was completely, utterly powerless in front of her. And somewhere between his clumsy apologies, his neat boots, and his genuine respect for her world, she had fallen hopelessly in love with him too.
"Thik ha," she whispered, stepping a little closer to him. "But only if you let me stitch your next kurta. No more of those horrific dark kurtas that you always wear. Wholesale me kharidha tha kya itne saare kaalke kurta?"
Uzair’s face split into a dazzling, euphoric grin. "Even if you stitch me a sack, I’ll wear it to the next gang meeting."
Fast forward a month later. The neighborhood was buzzing because Rehman Dacait’s household was throwing a massive Sunday feast to celebrate a successful business merger—and more importantly, to officially welcome Amaya into their circle.
The courtyard of the grand Baloch mansion was decorated with fairy lights. The air was thick with the rich, heavenly aroma of mutton biryani, platters of kebabs, and hot sheermal.
Everyone was there. Rehman Dacait himself sat on the main sofa, looking intimidating but relaxed, smoking a cigar while his wife and sons chatted animatedly around the table.
Yalina and Hamza were in the corner, arguing intensely over who got the last piece of seekh kebab.
"I found it first, Yalina! Respect the hustle!" Hamza hissed, defending the plate with his fork.
"I am your future wife, Hamza! Give me the kebab or the wedding is off!" Yalina threatened, crossing her arms.
"Ya Allah, look at this extortion," Hamza muttered, immediately handing the plate over with a dramatic sigh.
Near the entrance, Amaya walked in, looking stunning in a simple, elegant white shalwar kameez. Beside her was Chachu Rehmat, looking incredibly proud and no longer terrified, wearing a brand-new, perfectly ironed maroon kurta.
The moment Amaya stepped into the courtyard, Uzair—who was standing with Donga and Siyahi—completely stopped talking. He stood frozen, his eyes glued to her. He was wearing a matching white kurta, beautifully embroidered around the collar by Amaya’s own hands.
"Look at him," Donga chuckled, nudging Siyahi. "Our boss looks like he’s just seen an angel. Bhai ka dimaag phir se freeze ho gaya hai."
Uzair ignored his men and walked straight up to Amaya and Chachu Rehmat. He bowed his head respectfully to the old man. "Assalamu Alaikum, Chachu. Aaiye, aap ke liye special table lagayi hai."
"Wa Alaikum Assalam, Uzair beta. Jeete raho," Chachu Rehmat beamed, patting Uzair’s massive shoulder.
Uzair then turned to Amaya, his eyes softening completely. She was wearing the silver jhumkas he had bought her, dangling elegantly against her neck.
"Bohat khoobsurat laag rahi ho, meri jaan." Uzair whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
"You don't look too bad yourself, Uzair miyan," Amaya smiled, her eyes crinkling. "The embroidery suits you. Mere haatho ka jadu jo hai."
Rehman Dacait noticed them from across the courtyard and boomed out a loud, hearty laugh. "Uzair! Yahan aao! Bring Amaya and Rehmat Chachu here!"
The entire family welcomed them with open arms. Ulfat Bhabhi immediately pulled Amaya into a warm hug, complimenting her boutique work, all the while muttering under her breath about Uzair finally finding a girl for himself. Meanwhile, Rehman himself shook Chachu Rehmat’s hand, assuring him that the boutique would always be under the personal protection of the Baloch family—no hafta required, ever.
As the night went on, everyone sat together, laughing, eating, and pulling Uzair’s leg about how a 5-foot girl had completely captured the heart of Rehman Dacait's brother and Lyari's fiercest man.
Amaya and Uzair sat next to each other on the low traditional seating, their hands secretly brushing against each other under the cover of the table. They weren't rushing into marriage, not yet—Amaya had the boutique to expand and her medical degree to complete and Uzair had to build his empire and had a lot more poetry books to decipher—but looking around at the laughter, the lights, and the giant man looking at her as if she hung the moon, Amaya knew they had found their own perfect happy ending.
From across the table, Hamza raised his glass of cold drink toward Uzair, mouthing, 'You did good, bulldozer.'
Uzair just smiled, holding Amaya’s hand tightly under the table, completely at peace.
Sooooo-my first time writing a Uzair Baloch fanfic (lovelovelovelove my pookie gangstar) 😭😭
Please do like, comment and reblog if you like it my loves🤍🤍
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