[[First off, saree is an Indian long clothe, may it be cotton, silk, linen. Its draped around the waist as a full length skirt first and then the rest goes over your shoulder to cover your torso. Really, it depends on the way you drape and layer the long clothe around you, that gives a particular shape :)) ]]
((That!!! And beyond just one way, there are multiple ways you can drape a saree around your waist, depends, really :D))
Seonghwa:
It was surreal, when he thought his love wouldn't get any more gorgeous, she always found a way to surprise him. Really, in his eyes you could wear a plain t-shirt and shorts, he would shoot you the biggest heart eyes. Now, though seeing you in front of his own mirror, setting your hair was a usual sight,but you in a saree.
Holy mother of silky linen sheets.
Absolutely regal. Blue silk hugged your waist, flowing freely to your toes. And your back was on a full on display. The flowy fabric moved everytime you did, and he couldn't help but admire it all.
"Honey, could you help me a little?" She voiced out, glancing at him through the mirror. He moved, finally snapping out of the trance.
His eyes finally fell on what was in your hands. A straightener?
"I need to iron the pleats, help me? Please?" She pouted. "The pleats need to be perfect, apsara told me so."
He kneeled, taking the first pleat in between the heating pads and started straightening it. "Like this?" "Yes! All the pleats, please."
Finally, when he's done, he stands up putting the straightener away on the table.
"You look absolutely gorgeous, my love. Why don't you wear sarees often? I'll help you with wearing them. " she giggled, hearing him and turned saying," I'm not even done, sweetheart. And honestly, sarees aren't really my thing. I just like to dress up sometimes when meeting apsara. "
He pouts, "If you can wear a saree for your best friend, why can't you wear one for me?"
"Oh honey, I surely will . Even more if you get flustered like this everytime ".
Hongjoong:
Hongjoong and you both had the same eye when it came to fashion. He would share his and you would share yours. Months into dating, he remembered you mentioning sarees in particular. You loved sarees, but told him you never had the time to really get ready to the fullest. Kurtas were a regular for you and so were shirts and trousers.
One of your close friends, sejal was having her reception party. Today was the day, you both would get ready together at yours for the first time, and you promised him you would wear a saree.
Putting on the blouse and body skirt, you start to wrap the yellow sari around your waist and put the rest into pleats, slowly. Hongjoong, who was showering till now finally comes out, straight making a bee line towards you.
Wrapping hands around your smaller form, he stops your pleating with a giggle.
"Maybe you should wear a saree often, darling" he whispered into your ears.
"Joong, behave. Let me pleat this first please". All she could do was pout when he did not move. "Baby??"
Humming, he removes his hands off your form and starts getting ready himself. As he's putting his suit on and is about to put on makeup, he sees you struggling with a safety pin on the shoulder of your blouse.
"Want some help? You only need to pin it in place right, love?" But as he shifted even closer, he finally saw the back of your blouse, breath hitching as he saw the multiple strings one after the other, and only one of them tied. Closing off and sealing his thoughts shut, he ties the rest of the strings with trembling hands.
Her breath caught, but she stayed silent as he was still focused on the strings. When he's finally done, he pauses, laying his palm flat on your upper back.
"You look so beautiful, it makes me want to kiss you senseless. Backless? Really, love?"
Ears reddening, she only squealed when she felt him pull her closer. Now, lips tracing the line of her neck hongjoong couldn't help but smirk.
"Shoulder, joong. Please-"
His lips now reached the lower part of her neck, placing a kiss there.
"Joong. Safety pin."
Huffing, he takes a pin off the table nearby and comes close, clasping the clothe and pinning it onto your blouse.
"You wearing a saree and me behaving don't go well together, love".
Yunho:
Yunho never saw you in traditional. Both of you talked about it many times. You would joke of him fainting if you did wear anything close to traditional.
Yunho thought you were kidding.
Until now.
Until he actually saw you. You were standing only a few feet away, putting on a jhumka on your left ear and your hair on the right, let loose.
Once you're done, you turn to him with hands on hips and wink at him. All till now, he was staring but now? The full picture? He couldn't say a single word. He was all tongue till now, teasing and giggling like a toddler.
You step closer, and raise an eyebrow at him.
"So? How do I loo-"
"Divine. Like nothing can cut through you and mirrors, rivers and lakes you look into owe you rent for your beauty. Absolutely breathtaking. I could go on for hours".
Your smirk drops a little, but he catches it and grins widely.
He comes closer, meeting lips with you, and sighs pretending to faint.
"Yuyu~ stop it, please. We're going nowhere with you being like this,lord".
All he did was giggle, and hug you close.
"Blue looks marvelous on you ".
Yeosang:
He knew you were pretty. Your soft hair, your small shy smile, your cute little blush all of you, it drove him insane. Whenever you wore a saree, it would be heaven on earth for him. While you wore sarees not necessarily rarely, it was still once in a while whenever you felt like it.
Before, he always saw you in simple, plain sarees with blouses that were half sleeve and you would always say" simple sarees are cute, I like them. The fancy ones are harder to wear and muster up courage for".
Now, he was waiting on the living room couch and calming down his own heart.
Sure, it wasn't anything new. It's you in a saree!! That not so rare, it's fine. It's okay. It's gonna be okay.
All the times you did, he would have the time of his life. Hugging your bare waist, laying palm on the back of blouse. It may not seem like much, but you skin seemed like would burn through his hand, make him sweat.
Now, you were getting ready in there. Wearing a fancy saree, with more accessories than usual, extra careful makeup. It almost made him sob, when you said you want to try out something new, for your confidence.
He assured you, that you would be fine. Now he's not too sure whether he's fine.
You finally step out, jhumkas dangling and a necklace resting on you. Your eyeshadow matched your saree, and you even had Grey lenses on.
Yeosand forgot how to breathe, for a while.
"Holy fuck, darling.. look at you "
Shamelessly eyeing you up and down he only smirked when you looked away.
"You look like a goddess, and I am nothing but a mere mortal. Fucking hell. You should wear sarees like this often!!"
A warm, cheesy, golden-retriever Valentine’s story about wholehearted devotion, happy overplanning, and a man who adores loudly and loves without hesitation.
Valentine’s Day, according to Uzair, was a national event.
You knew this because he had been suspiciously secretive for two weeks.
And Uzair Baloch was terrible at being secretive.
He would hide his phone when you walked in, Smile at random, Randomly ask, “Hypothetically… what’s your favorite dessert?”.
Then pretend he wasn’t asking for a reason.
You had suspected something.
You just didn’t expect… this.
At exactly 6:02 PM, your doorbell rang.
Not once.
Twice.
Then a third time because he clearly couldn’t wait.
When you opened the door, you were met with chaos.
A slightly crooked bouquet.
A gift bag that looked overstuffed.
And Uzair standing there like he had just won a championship.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” he said too loudly, then immediately softened. “Sorry. Hi. I mean—hi.”
You stared at him.
He looked so proud of himself.
“So you do care about this day?” you teased.
“Of course I care,” he said immediately. “Why wouldn’t I care? It’s literally a day about loving you. That’s my entire personality.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
He beamed like that was the goal all along.
Inside, he placed everything on the table like he was presenting evidence in court.
“Okay. So. The flowers—these are your favorite color. I checked. Twice. And the chocolates are from that place you said you liked in passing three months ago. I remembered.”
“You remembered that?” you blinked.
He scoffed lightly. “I remember everything about you.”
Not intense.
Not possessive.
Just fact.
Then he handed you a card.
It was clearly handwritten. There were scratch marks where he’d crossed out words.
You opened it.
I was going to write something poetic. Then I realized I don’t need to be poetic. I just need to be honest. I like you more than I’ve liked anyone. You make everything better. Even Mondays. Especially Mondays. Happy Valentine’s. I’m yours.
You looked up slowly.
He was watching you like a nervous puppy waiting for approval.
“Uzair…”
“Too much?” he asked quickly. “It’s too much, isn’t it? I knew it was too much. I told myself don’t overdo it but then I thought—no, do overdo it—because she deserves too much.”
Your chest tightened.
“It’s perfect,” you said softly.
His entire face lit up.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
And that was it.
He didn’t hold back.
He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the ground in a spontaneous hug.
“Careful!” you laughed.
“I can’t help it,” he grinned. “I’ve been waiting all day to do that.”
When he set you down, he didn’t step away.
His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs brushing small, absent circles.
“I know some people act cool about this stuff,” he said more quietly now. “I’m not cool. I don’t want to be cool.”
You smiled. “No?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I want to celebrate you. Loudly. I want everyone to know I’m with you.”
There was no edge to it. No insecurity.
Just pride.
“You don’t get embarrassed?” you teased.
“Of loving you?” He looked genuinely confused. “Why would I be embarrassed?”
That sincerity nearly broke you.
He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Main sabse lucky hoon,” he murmured. “You know that, right?”
His voice had softened, losing its playful exaggeration.
“I don’t need a special day to like you,” he continued. “But if there’s one, I’m going to use it.”
You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm beneath.
No guardedness.
No fear of staying.
No emotional walls.
Just warmth.
He pulled back slightly, grinning again.
“Oh, and we have reservations.”
“We do?”
“Yes. And if they mess up the dessert, I will personally fight them.”
You laughed, shaking your head.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Correct,” he agreed proudly. “But I’m your ridiculous.”
And honestly?
That might have been the most romantic thing of all.
A/N : PUHHHLEASE LET'S NOT PRETEND THIS GUY WON'T BE A TOTAL GOLDEN RETRIEVER FOR YOU.
Yk like pyaar se pehle theme song would be badaas babua aur pyaar hote hi joru ka gulaam.😭😭
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COLLATERAL HEART
Shadows of Lyari
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Trust is fragile. Loyalty is rare. Love is impossible.
⚠️ CONTENT WARNING / DISCLAIMER
This work contains themes of crime, gang violence, political conflict, and morally grey characters.
All characters depicted are adults.
This is a work of fiction, inspired by cinematic elements, not a retelling.
Reader discretion advised.
For this Request by 👾-anon.
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CHAPTER 1
Infiltration
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First contact. Shadows lean close.
Ajay Sanyal did not look like a man who believed in beginnings.
There was no ceremony to the way he opened the file. No preamble, no reminder of what was at stake. He did not ask whether she was ready, because readiness implied consent, and consent had never been part of the architecture of intelligence work.
The room was windowless, lit by recessed LEDs that never flickered. Maps glowed on the wall-Afghanistan, Pakistan, the sprawl of Karachi rendered in layers of color-coded threat assessments. Lyari was marked in red. Not flashing, not pulsing. Just red. Solid. Permanent.
Jaskirat stood to her right. Straight-backed. Still. He had been briefed separately-she knew that much from the timestamps on the folders-but this was the first time they were being seen together. Evaluated as a unit.
Ajay Sanyal tapped the file once. Not impatiently. Precisely.
“You are aware,” he said, “that this operation has no diplomatic cover.”
“Yes, sir,” Jaskirat replied. His voice was steady, professional. He used the accent he had been trained into-neutral North Indian, unremarkable.
Sanyal’s gaze slid to her.
“You,” he said, not asking, “are aware that if you are compromised, you will not be extracted.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a brief silence. Not approval. Just confirmation.
Sanyal turned the file so they could see.
TARGET REGION:
Lyari, Karachi.
PRIMARY OBJECTIVE:
Disrupt and dismantle arms supply chains feeding terror cells operating across the western corridor.
SECONDARY OBJECTIVE:
Penetrate the Baloch gang structure under Rehman Dakait.
Sanyal gestured to the photograph on the screen.
Rehman Dakait did not look like a king. He looked like a man who had learned how to survive long enough for others to mistake that for power. His eyes were calm. Watchful. Not cruel, but not kind either.
“He is known locally as Sher-e-Baloch,” Sanyal said. “The uncrowned king of Lyari. Also referred to-less favorably-as the Bastard King.”
Jaskirat’s jaw tightened slightly. She noticed. She always noticed.
“He is the illegitimate son of Babu Dakait,” Sanyal continued, “leader of the Pathan gang, currently operating in partnership with Arshad Pappu. Rival factions. Shared history. Shared bloodshed.”
The screen changed.
Another photograph appeared. Younger. Less hardened. The resemblance was undeniable.
Naieem Baloch.
Nineteen. Clean-shaven. Eyes too open for the city he lived in.
“This,” Sanyal said, “is your primary access point.”
Jaskirat’s head tilted almost imperceptibly.
She didn’t move.
“Naieem Baloch,” Sanyal went on, “eldest son. Not formally inducted. Not yet hardened. No operational command. However-” He tapped the file again. “-proximity is influence. He hears things. He sees movements. He knows which men leave, which men return.”
The word naive appeared in the psychological profile. Highlighted. Clinical.
Sanyal looked directly at her now.
“Your assignment is him.”
The sentence landed exactly where it was meant to.
“You will embed,” Sanyal said, “observe, extract, and document. You will not attempt conversion. You will not attempt moral intervention. You will not attempt rescue.”
Jaskirat shifted then. Barely.
“With respect, sir,” he said, “she’s eighteen.”
Sanyal did not look at him.
“She is an operative,” Sanyal said. “And he is an asset. Youth does not negate utility.”
Sanyal finally turned his gaze back to her.
“You understand what this entails?”
She did.
She understood that Naieem Baloch had been reduced to a function. A variable. A means.
She also understood that this had been decided long before she entered the room.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
Sanyal nodded once.
“Good,” he said. “Then we proceed.”
They crossed the border at night.
Afghanistan blurred into Pakistan not through any dramatic marker, but through the gradual thinning of certainty. Roads grew less defined. Checkpoints more arbitrary. Authority more negotiable.
Jaskirat drove. She sat in the passenger seat, headscarf pulled low, posture folded inward. They had rehearsed the sibling dynamic until it felt natural-shared glances, unspoken cues, practiced irritation.
He was Hamza Ali Mazari on paper. A man with too many aliases and no fixed home.
She was his younger sister. Name forgettable. Background unremarkable.
Invisible.
The handler handed them off to another contact just before dawn. No handshakes. No reassurances.
By the time Karachi appeared on the horizon, the city looked less like a destination and more like an inevitability.
Lyari did not announce itself.
There was no threshold moment, no sudden shift in atmosphere. The neighborhood simply pressed in around them-narrower streets, denser crowds, buildings stacked like arguments that had never been resolved.
She felt it immediately. The weight of eyes. Not curiosity. Appraisal.
Hamza noticed too. He slowed his pace just enough to seem cautious, not fearful.
They moved like people who belonged nowhere.
That was the point.
The first time she saw Naieem Baloch, he was not important.
He stood near a mechanic’s shop, laughing at something one of the men said. His posture was relaxed. His attention unfocused. He wore a simple kurta, sleeves rolled up, grease smudged on one wrist.
He did not look like the son of Lyari’s most powerful man.
She logged the observation mentally and moved on.
That night, in the rented room above a shuttered storefront, Hamza spoke quietly.
“You’re sure about the approach?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll stage it.”
“Yes.”
He exhaled through his nose.
“Lyari isn’t forgiving.”
“Neither is Delhi,” she replied.
He didn’t argue after that.
She chose the street carefully.
Not too crowded. Not deserted. A place where intervention was possible but not guaranteed.
Mid-afternoon. Heat pressing down hard enough to make tempers short.
She adjusted her dupatta, slowed her steps, let uncertainty creep into her posture. Fragility was not weakness-it was presentation.
The first comment came from behind.
“Aray, suno.”
She did not respond.
Footsteps drew closer.
“Yahan akeli kya kar rahi ho?”
She kept walking.
A hand brushed her arm. Not hard. Testing.
Her pulse remained steady.
She stumbled deliberately. Just enough.
Laughter followed.
“Ajeeb ladki hai.”
She let her breath hitch. Let fear rise into her eyes. Let it show.
That was when Naieem intervened.
“Bas,” he said sharply. “Kya kar rahe ho?”
The men turned, annoyed.
“Tu kaun hota hai?”
Naieem stepped closer. His voice didn’t rise.
“Yeh jagah tumhari baap ki nahi hai.”
There was a beat of tension. Calculations made. Risks assessed.
Recognition flickered in one man’s eyes.
“Chhod,” he muttered to the others. “Baloch hai.”
They backed off with muttered curses.
Naieem turned to her.
“Tum theek ho?” he asked.
She nodded. Too quickly. Then corrected it.
“Ji,” she said softly. “Shukriya.”
He frowned, scanning the street.
“Yahan akele mat aaya karo,” he said. “Lyari hai.”
“Janti hu,” she replied. “Bas… raasta bhool gayi thi.”
He hesitated. Then gestured.
“Main chhod deta hoon,” he said. “Munasib rahega.”
She accepted.
Phase one succeeded.
He walked slightly ahead of her, matching his pace to hers without realizing it. He did not ask her name immediately. That came later, after the silence stretched into something companionable.
“Tum yahan nayi lagti ho,” he said.
“Haan,” she replied. “Abhi abhi.”
“Kis ke saath?”
“Bhai ke,” she said easily. “Kaam se aaye hain.”
He nodded.
“Lyari kaam ke liye achi jagah nahi hai,” he said.
She smiled faintly.
“Har jagah kaam mushkil hota hai,” she said.
He laughed at that. Soft. Unguarded.
When he left her at the corner she’d indicated earlier, he paused.
“Naam kya hai tumhara?”
She told him.
He repeated it, like he wanted to remember.
That night, she wrote his name in her log.
Naieem Baloch.
Initial contact established.
Subject responsive.
She did not mention the way his hands had trembled slightly when he’d stepped in. Or the relief in his eyes when the men backed away.
Those details were not operationally relevant.
Ajay Sanyal’s voice echoed in her mind as she closed the file.
Youth does not cancel liability.
She lay back on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling.
Outside, Lyari breathed. Lived. Endured.
Somewhere in the city, Naieem Baloch was probably replaying the moment he’d intervened. The story he’d tell himself later about doing the right thing.
Summary: The football captain of your school is meek and has no backbone. So you come to his defense and well he is not who you think he is.
Warnings: This fanfiction is based on the franchise dhurandar directed by Aditya dhar. The characters in the story are not original except y/n. This is in no way based on the actual gangsters and terrorists.
Should Faizal be 12 or 14
12, bechara chota sa baccha hai
14, bro 2 baar 8th mei fail ho chuka hai
Voting ended onMar 20
Y/n put her hands on the book trying so hard to concentrate on reading it. The teacher stuttered as he struggled to pronounce a particular word. "Gadha!" She thought.
Normally she would not have been so condescending. But today was a rather bad day. And the teacher was an English teacher and he wasn't able to pronounce an English word. And also he was an asshole who perved on girls and was too obsessed with their skirt lengths.
If the teachers are not able to teach well they should stay silent and let the students study on their own was her philosophy. And all the teachers followed it except this particular man.
"Can I come in sir?" The heads of all the students in the class lifted. The boring lesson was about to turn fun. The teacher's favourite target had come. The boy had clearly come from a match they won as evident by his dirty jersey and medal around his neck.
"Aa gaya humara ronaldo." The teacher said shutting the book and placing it on the table. The rest of the students snickered.
No further studying would be done. And she would not be able to read the poem as well because the teacher would now humiliate the boy for the rest of the period and try to get other students to humiliate him too. This had already happened before and it seriously annoyed her. It disturbed the quiet environment that she needed for reading. And couldn't he stand up for himself?
Naieem kept his head down. She did not know him that well only that he was the football captain of the school and well kept to himself mostly. He was the captain of the football team so people would expect him to be more bold and popular but he was the opposite. The students picked on him and some teachers did too. But he just stayed quiet. Maybe he was poor? And didn't think that standing up for himself was worth the trouble for his parents.
She would have been more kind to his situation had she not fought with her entire family before school. Today she just thought of him as a no backbone man.
"Beta football khelne se kuch nahi hota padha bhi karo acchi job nahi milegi toh biwi kaise milegi."
Hoots were heard across the classroom. The boy stayed quiet.
"Mai karungi usse shaadi aur job ki baat mai dhund lungi. Mai support karungi iske football career ko." She said not looking up. The classroom turned quiet.
"Uh oh" she thought when she saw the teacher turn red.
"Jao bahar aaj kal ki ladkiyan ladko se zyada badtameez ho gayi hai." He shouted. She pushed her chair back and walked out the class.
If she would have looked around she would have seen the boy lift his head and look at her.
She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She would now try to imagine her favourite characters living happily ever after instead of dying as the author intended in the last chapter of her favourite book.
"Hello." She heard a voice saying to her. She opened her eyes and it was Naieem. "Aaj canteen mei 2nd waale table pe anna."
"Mai kyu aaungi?" She asked.
"Date ke liye?"
"DATE?"
"Tumne hi toh kaha tha mujhse shaadi karogi aur mera football career support karogi ek do date pe chalte hai aur fir shaadi kar lenge."
Her eyes stayed wide open till she saw him blushing.
"Oye hero, uss samay maine sirf yeh isliye kaha tha kyuki woh teri bezaati kar raha tha aur mujhe poem padhne se disturb ho raha tha. Thik hai? Aur mujhe tu pasand wasand nahi hai."
"But aap mujhe pasand ho toh date pe chalo."
"Arey pahli baat toh aise ladke jo bezaati sunke apna sar neeche rakhe are not my type. Mujhe confident ladke pasand hai."
"Ban jaayega hum confident"
"Haa haa" she said sarcastically. "Agar mere type ka ladka uss teacher se ye sab cheez sunta toh woh uss teacher ko thappad maarta aur tu bahar khada bhi kyu hai?"
"Kyuki unhone mujhe bahar nikal diya."
"Aur tumne kuch nahi kaha. Typical."
"Mai toh sirf unse baat karta hu jinke liye mere dil mei jagah ho." He said standing up straighter.
"Toh mujhse baat kyu kar rahe ho"
"Kyuki tum meri biwi banogi."
She rolled her eyes and put her elbow on his shoulder. "Pahle mere type ke bano fir mai tumhari dost banungi aur fir dekhte hai aage kya hoga."
"Accha thik hai. Tumhe waise ladke pasand hai na jo kisi ki nahi sunte aur seedhe violence pe resort karte hai?"
Now that he framed it that way. She looked like a childish teenage girl. Well too late to go back. Gotta maintain the persona. "Haa"
Right then the bell rung and as soon as the teacher came out. Naieem kicked the teacher's legs and when the teacher fell down. He punched him continuously. The teacher cried in pain.
The boys were too scared to pull him back. He had gone feral.
She pulled him back " PAGAL HO GAYE HO KYA?"
His expression changed from anger to a smile "Dekho mai tumhare type ka ban gaya to dost banogi meri."
"Haa haa banungi teri dost abb utho unke upar se." She said while in panic. Because of her the teacher was beaten up and well she was scared that he would take revenge on other students as well because they kinda bullied him as well.
"Aaj se agar tu kabhi bhi mere football khelne pe mujhe toka toh aisi kasainuma pitayi karunga na baccho ko muh dikhane layak nahi rahega." He said and got up. "Rehman Dakait ke vaaris kabhi khali dhamki nahi dete."
"REHMAN DAKAIT KA VAARIS WTF?" she screamed inside her head.
"Toh chalo samosa khaane chalte hai" she had been so lost in her thoughts that she didn't notice the boy coming directly in front of her. "Just as friends!" He smiled while putting his bloodied hands in front of her. Normally she would have been disgusted but she was too shocked to do anything except go on auto mode and shake his hands.
"Mai pathan hu" she said.
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Summary: You deal with the aftermath of threatening a hottie who also happens to be the politically connected right-hand man of a gangster. Meanwhile, Uzair realizes that dream-you is just as dangerous for his heart as real-you and nearly causes an accident from merely making eye contact with you.
part - 1
Word count: 12k words
Warning: Not proofread, barely formatted, mildly suggestive, and sprinkled with cuss words. The plot exists somewhere in there. Good luck. 😭
A/N: The original plan was to post Part 2 in its entirety, but due to unforeseen circumstances (life decided to square up with me), I wasn't able to finish it. So this is basically the first half of Part 2, and the rest will most likely be released as Part 3, if I manage to finish it 😭 Also, I'll be honest, this chapter is absolute trash. It has very little coherence, questionable flow, and consists mostly of me adding random scenes whenever inspiration kicked in. So please don't come in expecting major plot progression because there is barely any plot to progress 😭 In fact, Uzair and Y/N don't even meet in this chapter. This entire thing exists purely for shits and giggles. Please do let me know what you thought and what I could've done better. Whether I continue writing the next part will honestly depend on how this one is received 😭 Hopefully Part 3 won't take nearly as long, though.
Disclaimer : ALL THE PEOPLE IN THIS FIC ARE FICTIONAL, THEY HAVE NO RELATION TO REAL PEOPLE, THE CHARACTER ARE INSPIRED FROM THE MOVIE DHURANDHAR MADE BY ADITYA DHAR. THESE CHARACTERS ARE BASICALLY OCS AND HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH REAL LIFE TERRORIST, WHO ARE GOD AWFUL PEOPLE AND SHOULD ROT IN HELL. ALSO HAMZA AS A SPY AND MAJOR IQBAL PLOT DOESN'T EXIST IN THIS FIC.
The second the car doors shut, the cool air from the AC hit your face like divine mercy after Karachi’s humid night heat. Outside, the streets still buzzed with life, food stalls glowing under harsh white lights, bikes squeezing recklessly between cars, and groups of people gathered outside chai dhabas like nobody in the city had jobs the next morning. The smell of traffic, and late night food still lingered faintly through the cracked windows before Yalina rolled them fully up with dramatic exhaustion.
Meanwhile, you sat there in complete silence. Mortified. Absolutely destroyed. The second the car doors shut and the cold air hit your face, the embarrassment settled in properly.
“Koi meri kasam kha kar jhoot bol do-,” you whispered weakly into your hands, hiding your face from the world.
You had experienced embarrassing moments before. Obviously. This was you who we are talking about. Your life was basically a compilation video titled “Beta please soch kar bola karo.”
There was the unforgettable incident in first year where you confidently walked into the boys washroom while scrolling through your phone, fully washed your hands, fixed your hair, and only realized something was wrong when three boys stared at you like you had just asked their ammi out on a date. The silence in that washroom had been so deafening even the hand dryer sounded judgmental. Needless to say, you had never visited that side of campus ever again. In fact, till graduation, you took a fifteen minute longer route purely out of shame and commitment to the bit.
Then there was that wedding disaster where you stepped onto the stage, accidentally landed on somebody’s STUPID fallen dupatta, and immediately took down an entire decorative flower stand with you like a collapsing government. In the middle of your downfall, survival instincts kicked in and you screamed,
“YA ALLAH CATCH ME-”
Out so loud that Allah had actually caught you.
Unfortunately by sending a seven year old child as cushioning.
The poor kid survived. Barely.
You spent the next twenty minutes apologizing to his horrified parents and explaining how you had almost accidentally squared their ‘ankhon ka tara’ into the wedding stage flooring. The child himself, looked absolutely delighted by the experience and kept reenacting your fall for nearby relatives like it was a live performance.
For three business days afterward, random aunties kept asking your mother, “Woh WWE wali beti kaisi hai aapki?”
So yes. This had officially topped both those incidents combined.
Because not only had your BIG mouth called a HOT guy HOT directly to his face like some malfunctioning Wattpad protagonist, you had also simultaneously provided Karachi awam with entertainment so grand it would probably be passed down generations as bedtime stories.
Somewhere out there, a chai dhaba conversation was already happening.
“Aur phir us larki ne usko line chor bol diya.”
“Nahi yaar phir usne hot bhi bola usko.”
“Astagfirullah.”
“Phir kulfi kis ko mili?”
By tomorrow evening the story would evolve beyond repair. By next week people would claim you climbed the counter and delivered a full political speech about public queue corruption before being escorted away by Azam Sweets management.
At this point, you would not even defend yourself.
Honestly, if somebody narrated this entire event back to you theatrically over dinner, you too would sit there invested.
You let out another noise of suffering and slid lower into the car seat.
You turned furiously toward Yalina.
“Tune mujhe roka kyun nahi?!” you demanded in horror, fingers sliding up your scalp as if physically massaging your brain would somehow delete the past thirty minutes from existence. Unfortunately for you, memory loss did not work through aggressive head rubbing.
Yalina, on the other hand, looked completely recovered now. She had worried far too much in the last thirty minutes, suffered enough public embarrassment by association, and had now entered her healing era. Which meant it was officially your turn to suffer alone.
You were out here experiencing full psychological collapse while she sat there glowing peacefully in the passenger seat like a woman finally freed from worldly burdens.
“Maine kareeb pandrah baar tujhe rokne ki koshish ki thi,” she said, staring at you like you were the problem here. The horrifying part was, she sounded genuine. Like she had actually counted every attempt. And knowing Yalina, she probably had.
You let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a dying whale before dragging both hands down your face dramatically.
“Yalina,” you whispered in genuine agony, “maine usko hot bola.”
Yalina immediately burst into laughter again.
“MAT HASS!” you snapped, pointing at her accusingly while your soul continued disintegrating. “Mera dimaag temporary shutdown pe tha.”
“Haan woh toh mujhe nazar aa raha tha.”
“No because why did my mouth say that OUT LOUD?” you continued horrified. “Normal logon ke thoughts unke dimag mein rehte hain. Mere thoughts public service announcements kyun ban jaate hain?”
Yalina wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “Mujhe bhi yahi sawal hai.”
You dropped your head back against the seat dramatically.
This was bad.
Because somewhere in Karachi currently existed one extremely attractive man who now knew you found him hot. Not only that, but he knew after you had publicly fought him over frozen dairy products like an unemployed politician during election season.
Ya Allah.
And worst of all was you could still picture his stupid face perfectly.
The really tall frame. The absurdly well groomed beard. Those intense dark eyes that looked like they belonged in one of those painfully artistic black and white photographs people wrote essays about. A face that genuinely deserved to be studied under controlled laboratory conditions.
And the size difference absolutely had not gone over your head either.
Because why was that man built like a fictional character written by women with employment and dangerous levels of imagination? Lean, tall, shoulders that stretched that black kurta so well-
Would he stretch y-
“ASTAGHFIRULLAH,” you blurted out loud suddenly, sitting upright so fast Yalina nearly launched herself into another dimension.
“YA ALLAH KYA HUA?!”
“Kuch nahi,” you blurted instantly, the words leaving your mouth at such dangerous speed they practically tripped over each other trying to escape.
Yalina looked at you suspiciously. Very suspiciously. The kind of suspicion reserved for people caught deleting browser history at alarming speed.
You refused to make eye contact.
Because absolutely nothing productive would come from explaining that your own brain had just attempted to assassinate your dignity in broad daylight, no nightlight???
You immediately cleared your throat and decided to change the topic before Yalina started investigating further.
“Khair,” you said with forced composure, holding up the kulfi dramatically, “jis cheez ke liye maine itna bada embarrassment loan liya hai, jiski EMI mujhe ab roz 3 a.m ke thoughts mein bharni padegi…” you glanced down at the kulfi, now half melted already, “…usse kam se kam taste toh karlein.”
Yalina stared at you for exactly two seconds before snorting loudly and taking the kulfi from your hand.
The streets of Karachi blurred past in streaks of yellow lights, chai hotels still crowded despite the hour, bikes weaving through traffic like people here had collectively accepted death as a lifestyle choice. Somewhere nearby, loud music echoed from a passing car while the smell of smoke, food, and humid night air lingered faintly even through the AC.
And somehow, despite all that noise around you, your brain still chose to replay one specific thing.
That stupid laugh.
You frowned.
No because actually what was wrong with him? Who laughs like that after being publicly harassed over kulfi? Any normal person would’ve gotten offended. Maybe argued back. Maybe called you insane.
That man?
He looked entertained the entire time.
What was wrong with him????
You took an aggressive bite of your kulfi.
And a felt silence consume your soul.
…Bas?
YEH thi woh legendary kulfi?
Because genuinely, you had stood in that line for almost an hour sweating through Karachi humidity like a microwaved samosa. Your soul had evaporated around minute twenty-seven. At one point your clothes were sticking to you so badly you felt vacuum sealed. After standing there long enough, your Na-Aadhaar card photo (Pakistani version of an Aadhaar card lmao) was starting to resemble you in real time.
AND
You had fought with a sexy gangster for this.
And FOR WHAT????
For this kulfi that tasted like somebody froze condensed milk and selected pista as a aesthetic choice.
This was ALL Muzaffar Shaikh’s fault.
That man had looked directly into the camera with the confidence of a man who had clearly never faced consequences in his life and said “Bhai jaan ek baar kha ke dekhiye… pasand na aaye toh mujhe peet dena.”
Oh you remembered.
WHEN I CATCH YOU MUZAFFAR. MUZAFFAR WHEN I CATCH YOU—
“Wo chhod,” yalina said, suddenly turning toward you again.
But you barely heard her.
Because annoyingly… another bite melted softer this time.
And suddenly it didn’t taste average anymore.
It tasted like humid after-school evenings.
Twenty rupees in your pocket.
Yalina’s laugh.
Qureshi Chacha’s pretend disappointment in you.
Orange sunsets
No responsibilities
Your expression softened against your will, a smile almost betrayed your face. Which irritated you more, because now you couldn’t even hate the kulfi properly.
“Tumhe pata bhi hai kis se lad kar ayi ho?” Yalina's voice fades back in, like she was about to reveal the final plot twist of a crime thriller.
You frowned, brain finally shifting back to the conversation.
“Kis se?”
“Uzair Baloch.”
“…Kaun?”
Yalina stared at you like she was genuinely reconsidering your entire friendship. “Please bolo tum mazaak kar rahi ho.”
“Yalina main literally do saal Switzerland mein thi,” you defended instantly. “Mujhe Karachi cinematic universe ke side characters kaise pata honge?”
“SIDE CHARACTER?” she nearly screeched. “Side character nahi hai woh aadmi.”
You blinked slowly at her while she leaned closer, lowering her voice.
“Hamza works for Rehman bhai.”
“…Yeh Hamza kaun hai?”
That immediately earned you a sharp smack on the shoulder.
“OOF-”
“MERA FIANCÉ, IDIOT,” Yalina whisper yelled. “Jisse main tujhe milwane ki koshish kar rahi thi before you grabbed me and bhaag gayi like police ne raid maar di ho!”
Oh.
That giant man standing beside Yalina. The one built like gym equipment feared him, laughing so hard during your argument like he was witnessing the season finale of his favorite drama live and free of cost.
“And he works for Rehman Dakait,” Yalina continued, pointing at you with her half eaten kulfi. “Yeh naam toh suna hi hoga na?”
Your chewing slowed immediately.
Okay.
That name you knew.
Anybody from Karachi knew.
Even people pretending not to know, knew.
The kind of name spoken carefully in public, and quietly at home. A man tangled somewhere between politics, power, business, and the kind of influence that made problems disappear before they properly became problems.
Seeing realization finally hit your face, Yalina nodded aggressively.
“Haan. Wohi.”
Then she leaned closer.
“And Uzair?” she continued. “He’s basically Rehman bhai’s adopted son at this point. Cousin hai unka, but everyone knows he practically raised him.”
You blinked slowly. “Matlab?”
“Matlab,” Yalina stressed, “that man is his right hand. EVERYTHING handle karta hai. Political dealings, factory ka kaam, security, rival gangs ka scene—sab.”
“Factory?”
Yalina looked at you flatly.
“Arms factory, meri jaan. Not candle making.”
Outside, Karachi traffic continued blaring around you while internally your soul quietly packed its bags and left the country again.
Because suddenly the evening replayed very differently in your head.
The crowd going silent.
People stepping back.
One uncle whispering Astaghfirullah like he could already sense violence in the air.
Meanwhile you had been standing there poking a politically connected gangster with rival gang issues in the chest over frozen dairy products.
Ya Allah.
You slowly lowered the melting kulfi from your mouth.
“…Yalina.”
“Haan?”
“TUNE MUJHE WAHAN MARNE KE LIYE KYUN CHOD DIYA THA!?”
Yalina gasped immediately, turning toward you so fast her earrings nearly slapped her in the face. “EXCUSE ME? Main toh pura time tujhe bachane ki koshish kar rahi thi!”
“Well you were doing it badly!”
Yalina just huffs in return.
“Par ek baat toh hai, asal mein” she snorted suddenly, another laugh escaping her despite herself, “he looked more in danger than you.”
You opened your mouth to argue.
Then closed it.
Because…Now that you thought about it properly, she wasn’t entirely wrong.
The man hadn’t looked angry once. Not even slightly irritated. If anything, he’d looked one amused smile away from asking for your full family history instead of getting offended.
Your brain continued replaying the scene in 4k quality.
The way he’d looked down at you while you pointed fingers at his chest like an angry HR representative.
His dumbfounded expression when you started ranting about sunscreen prices like you were presenting the annual economic budget.
The blush after you called him hot.
You physically felt your lifespan decrease.
Like somewhere above, God had quietly written “embarrassing but entertaining. keep alive for now.”
You slowly looked up, absolutely no life left in your eyes anymore, face completely blank.
“Driver chacha,” you said quietly, “seedha samundar mein le lo.”
From beside you, Yalina laughed so hard she nearly inhaled kulfi.
As the car slowed down outside your house, the familiar black gates slowly sliding open under the warm yellow porch lights should’ve felt comforting. Instead, you sat there in complete spiritual defeat, staring blankly ahead while Karachi’s humid night air fogged faintly against the windows. The melted remains of your kulfi still rested sadly in your hand, the wooden stick now serving as physical evidence of your public humiliation. Outside, the guards nodded respectfully as the car rolled into the driveway.
As you entered the house, your posture immediately transformed into that of a child returning home after scoring a beautiful 3/25 in mathematics and now searching for a parent in the weakest emotional state possible for signatures. Slow steps. Avoiding eye contact. Already preparing excuses nobody had even asked for yet.
Behind you, Yalina followed with the energy of someone desperately trying not to laugh at a funeral.
“Oh toh matlab zinda ho.”
Your mother’s voice drifted through the hallway just as she started making her way downstairs, one hand lightly resting against the railing. The warm yellow lights of the house softened everything around her, the faint smell of dinner lingered comfortably through the air. Normally, coming home to this instantly fixed your mood. The house always felt calm, safe and peaceful.
But tonight, you had returned home carrying the spiritual burden of publicly flirting fighting a VERY attractive gangster over kulfi.
Beside you, Yalina suddenly transformed into the picture of innocence. Which honestly should’ve been studied. Five minutes ago this woman was wheezing like a broken pressure cooker laughing at your downfall, and now suddenly she stood there all graceful and respectable like she spent her free time teaching Quran classes to children. Snake behaviour.
“Assalamualaikum aunty,” she greeted sweetly, smiling warmly as your mother immediately pulled her into a hug.
“Walekumasalam beta, finally yaad ayi humari?” your mother teased fondly before her eyes shifted toward you.
And slightly narrowed and that was enough.
Because mothers somehow always knew. You could commit international fraud, survive interrogation, erase CCTV footage, and still desi mothers would take one look at your face and go ‘Sach sach batao kya harkat ki hai?’
“Itna time kyun laga ghar aane mein?” she asked.
Your brain instantly started speed running possible excuses. Traffic? Flat tire? Kidnapping? Selling Abbu’s company to strangers? at this point even corporate fraud sounded easier to explain than “Sorry ammi, public mein ek gangster ko hot bol diya tha.”
Yalina – may Allah test her separately, casually muttered under her breath,
“Damaad dhoondne gaye thay aapke liye.”
And your soul toodles.
For one horrifying second, you physically stopped breathing while your brain imagined every possible outcome if your mother had heard that sentence.
Because explaining ‘No ammi I did not find a husband, I just publicly accused one of Karachi’s most dangerous men of abusing pretty privilege,’
would genuinely force you to leave the country again.
Thank God your mother didn’t hear her. Mostly because at that exact moment, one of the house staff accidentally dropped a steel tray somewhere in the kitchen loud enough to sound like minor construction work had started indoors. The noise immediately distracted your mother into turning around with full desi mom concern.
“Aray kya gira?” she called out instinctively.
Divine intervention.
God still had you back after all of this.
You physically felt your soul return to your body.
You whipped around toward Yalina so fast your neck nearly snapped.
“YALINA,” you whisper hissed with the rage of a woman moments away from committing small manageable crimes.
Yalina just stood there looking peaceful, like she hadn’t just tried to destroy your future, family reputation, and possibly bloodline all in one sentence. The idiot was visibly fighting another laugh, shoulders shaking suspiciously while she pretended to study the living room decor, what a useless friend, no strike that off, she was an enemy.
This woman would one day stand beside you at your funeral trying not to laugh while narrating your embarrassing moments to guests.
So naturally, in the interest of protecting both your dignity and blood pressure, you did the only thing possible.
Diversion.
“Ammi,” you spoke quickly before Yalina could open her demonic mouth again, “Abbu abhi tak nahi aaye? Bohot late hogaya hai.”
And just like that, your mother took the bait instantly.
Her entire expression shifted into the specific brand of desi wife disappointment reserved for husbands who said “bas dus minute” and then vanished for three geological eras.
“Dekho na beta,” she started immediately, “maine unhe kitni baar kaha tha ke beti do saal baad ghar ayi hai toh dinner late nahi hona chahiye.”
You nodded sympathetically while relief flooded through your body.
Success.
“Par nahi,” your mother continued, “tumhare abbu ko office se mohabbat zyada hai. Bol kar gaye thay ‘bas aadhe ghante mein araha hoon.’” She glanced toward the clock dramatically. “Aadhe ghante ko do ghante hogaye.”
Bless desi parents honestly. Mention one complaint and they immediately open a TED Talk.
“Maine toh khaana bhi delay karwaya,” your mother continued. “Sakhina khala ko teen baar bola ke garam rakho. Lekin nahi. Office se jaan hi nahi nikalti inki.”
“Haan ammi,” you agreed solemnly, like a politician during elections. “Yeh toh galat baat hai.”
You were one “jee bilkul” away from surviving the evening altogether.
But, fate hated you.
After another few minutes of roasting your father’s nonexistent understanding of time, your mother finally waved toward the stairs.
“Chalo, dono jao fresh hojao. Dinner lagwa deti hoon.” Then she looked at Yalina warmly. “Aur tum kahin nahi ja rahi. Bohot din baad ayi ho. Aaj yahin ruk jao.”
Before you could even process the disaster, Yalina immediately answered, “Okay aunty.”
Too fast, not even fake hesitation.
No, ‘Nahi aunty takleef hogi.’ or ‘Ghar walay wait kar rahe honge.’
You slowly turned toward her in absolute horror while she stood there looking all innocent.
And then you understood.
This woman did not want a sleepover..
This snake of a friend wanted uninterrupted access to bully you about Uzair Baloch for the next twelve business hours.
God help you.
By the time you came downstairs for dinner, you had decided one thing and one thing only.
Yalina no longer existed to you. Spiritually. Emotionally. Socially.
The woman had betrayed you repeatedly within the span of one evening and therefore deserved the same treatment you once gave your sixth grade maths report card. So naturally, despite her dramatic attempts to make eye contact and laugh every six seconds, you ignored her with the determination of a woman protecting state secrets.
The dining room glowed warmly beneath soft chandelier lights, the table already crowded with steaming rotis, karahi, kebabs, and salad while the staff moved around placing dishes down. Your father sat at the head of the table loosening the cuffs of his sleeves while beside him sat Qureshi chacha, his assistant and unofficial co-parent in your life at this point.
Honestly, if your father ever sold the business, Qureshi chacha would probably be transferred alongside the office furniture and company laptops. But you know your father was never going to let Qureshi chacha go, heck you were never going to let qureshi chacha go! man knows too many of your secrets to be let off that easy-
The second Yalina entered, she greeted both men politely with salams while you quietly took your usual seat beside her out of old childhood habit. No matter how much you currently wanted to throw this woman into Karachi traffic, years of routine apparently remained stronger than hatred. Across the table, your mother finally joined everyone with the exhausted elegance only desi mothers possessed after supervising dinner arrangements for the past hour.
Desperate to ensure the conversation never accidentally shifted toward your deeply humiliating Azam Sweets experience, you immediately decided to redirect attention elsewhere.
“Abbu,” you asked casually while reaching for the naan basket, “itna late kyun hogaya?”
This was later identified as your first fatal mistake.
“Bas kuch nahi,” your father sighed tiredly while finally breaking a piece of roti, “traffic bohot zyada tha aaj. Pata nahi kya masla tha.”
“Apparently koi ladaai hui thi,” Qureshi chacha added conversationally while pouring himself water.
And because Allah sometimes temporarily removed survival instincts from your body for entertainment purposes, you immediately perked up.
“Ladaai?” you repeated excitedly before thinking anything through. “Aap ne video liya kya?”
Because obviously, how could anybody casually mention free public entertainment and not expect interest? Karachi fights were basically community events at this point. Half the city survived through chai, spite, and recording random arguments vertically on phones.
“Video lene ka time hi nahi mila,” Qureshi chacha snorted. “Azam Sweets ke bahar aadhi road block ho gayi thi.”
Your blood ran cold so fast.
“Pata nahi kya hua tha wahan,” he went on casually while eating salad completely unaware he was actively shortening your lifespan. “Public itni invested thi jaise India Pakistan ka match chal raha ho.”
Beside you, Yalina immediately choked violently on her naan.
Good.
Choke more, you wished bitterly while keeping your own face carefully neutral through years of academic presentation trauma.
“Haan,” your father nodded thoughtfully, “Uzair Baloch ko bhi dekha tha wahan. Lagta hai kuch serious hi hua hoga.”
You became so still it genuinely felt like your atoms had temporarily converted into another form of matter altogether. Beside you, Yalina physically bent forward pretending to cough while clearly trying not to explode laughing directly into the food.
And then, because apparently God enjoyed character development through suffering, your mother added the final nail into your coffin completely innocently.
“Aray,” she said suddenly while looking between the two of you, “tum dono bhi toh Azam Sweets gaye thay na?”
Your heart stopped.
“Tum logon ne kuch dekha?”
Now how exactly were you supposed to explain Nahi ammi, kuch dekha toh nahi… lekin aapki beti khud pura season finale perform karke ayi hai.
To save yourself from immediate collapse, public exposure, and possibly cardiac arrest at the dinner table, you forced out the most unnatural sentence of your life with the acting skills of a woman seconds away from prison.
“Nahi,” you said quickly, reaching for your water glass with suspicious calmness, “humein toh kuch nahi dekha.”
A terrible lie.
Because not only had you seen the fight, the fight had practically revolved around you like some deeply embarrassing solar system. Somewhere in Karachi probably existed at least seven different phone recordings of you aggressively pointing fingers at Uzair Baloch.
Across the table, your father nodded approvingly, completely unaware he was currently dining with the main event herself.
“Good,” he said seriously while tearing another piece of naan. “Acha hai. Yeh cheezein dangerous hoti hain. Gang violence lag raha tha mujhe.”
Yalina instantly folded into herself pretending to cough again while her shoulders shook violently. Your mother handed her a glass of water, but your useless friend was one second away from sliding under the table laughing.
“Haan,” your father continued casually, unknowingly tightening the noose around your remaining peace of mind, “waise bhi Rehman bhai tak baat pohanch gayi hogi.”
Your stomach dropped.
Oh no.
OH NO.
“Aur waise bhi,” he added with a teasing smile while glancing toward Yalina, “Yalina ka rishta jo horaha hai Hamza se.”
Across the table, your mother smiled warmly while Yalina instantly went pink before ducking her head down, suddenly looking extremely interested in her plate.
“kuch ho toh bata dena,” your father continued easily. “Rehman bhai kaafi decent aadmi hain. Apne logon ka khayal rakhna jaante hain.”
And there it was.
The exact moment your soul detached from your body and floated somewhere near the dining room chandelier to watch the scene peacefully from above.
Because how exactly were you supposed to tell your loving father that merely hours ago, his precious daughter had stood in the middle of Azam Sweets publicly bullying the politically connected right hand man of the same people currently offering your family support?
You sat there silently chewing your food while internally preparing at least four different fake identities for yourself. You know what, Disappearing from Karachi now felt like the safest option available. Maybe life in Iceland would not be so bad after all. Cold weather. Peaceful people. Zero chances of accidentally fighting with politically connected gangsters over kulfi. You could restart your life as a humble sheep farmer named Sana (sorry if your name is Sana, lmao), living alone in a tiny cottage with your prize-winning sheep, Woolendra Pratap Singh, heir to the prestigious Grazing Dynasty and part-time consumer of cardboard, living peacefully away from public humiliation and your own mouth.
The dining table remained warm and lively around you completely unaware of the psychological warfare happening in your head. Normally these family dinners felt comforting. Tonight, however, you sat there feeling like a criminal accidentally invited to dinner with investigators.
Your father casually kept talking about Rehman bhai’s connections and support, completely unaware that his daughter had already become tonight’s community event in their social circle. Somewhere out there, Karachi awam was probably still emotionally recovering from the scene at Azam Sweets while you sat here quietly eating karahi beside your unsuspecting parents. Is this how superheroes probably felt hiding secret identities from family? Except instead of saving lives, you had nearly started gang politics over kulfi.
By the time you and Yalina finally escaped upstairs, both of you looked less like women returning from dinner and more like exhausted survivors of Karachi society and your own terrible decisions.
You disappeared into the washroom to change into your oversized sleep shirt and pajama shorts, returning ten minutes later looking significantly less like a respectable master’s graduate and more like somebody who barked at delivery drivers for fun.
Yalina had already invaded your closet, stolen your oversized university hoodie, and claimed your bed horizontally like a colonizer discovering land.
Within minutes the room dissolved into complete girls sleepover chaos. Skincare products covered the vanity, Om Shanti Om played softly in the background, and both of you moisturized aggressively like hydration itself could erase public humiliation.
Then, Yalina opened her mouth.
“You know,” she started carefully, “I still think Uzair b-”
“Finish that sentence,” you interrupted immediately, “and I’ll tell your ammi what happened in tenth grade.”
Yalina gasped loudly that her sheet mask shifted.
“Tumne promise kiya tha ke tum kisi ko nahi bataogi!” she accused immediately, sitting upright in betrayal. “Yeh CHEATING hai!! Tumne khud kaha tha ya toh yeh tumhari qabar tak jayegi ya meri!”
“Haan aur ab meri qabar bohot close lag rahi hai because of YOU.” you retorted.
Ah yes.
Now that you remembered what happened in tenth grade, this was actually one of the rare historical events where you were not the one embarrassing yourself.
For once, God had looked down at you and thought “Nahi. Aaj content Yalina degi.”
The great tenth grade scandal was successfully buried before it could permanently destroy Yalina’s bloodline. No one except you, Yalina, and Qureshi chacha ever knew the full truth about what had actually happened, and all three of you agreed to carry it to the grave immediately afterward. Mostly because exposing it publicly would probably still kill Yalina on the spot from secondhand embarrassment.
Unfortunately for her, however, you also believed friendships were built on love, trust, and weaponizing each other’s worst moments during arguments.
So as the night continued, Yalina remained on her absolute best behavior and, impressively, had not mentioned the six foot two tall, annoyingly handsome gangster’s name a single time the entire night. Which felt less like personal growth and more like survival instinct after the tenth grade blackmail reminder.
Not that she hadn’t tried changing the topic toward Hamza instead.
At one point she’d started blushing and rambling softly about how they met, how weirdly polite he was, and the random little things he remembered about her before you immediately shut the conversation down because absolutely not.
You refused to hear detailed Hamza lore before meeting the man yourself.
How else were you supposed to silently observe his body language, eye contact, vibes, and overall husband material potential in real time? Yalina had called you insane after you very seriously informed her that you needed to “study him in his natural habitat first.”
At one point, however, your priorities had shifted entirely after remembering Hamza’s offensively good hair because no actually how was his hair looking moisturized in Karachi humidity while yours fought for survival daily? You had then grabbed Yalina dramatically and begged her to ask for his haircare routine in her mahr which nearly caused her to fall off the bed laughing.
Instead, the two of you spent the next hour discussing completely useless topics that contributed absolutely nothing productive to society whatsoever.
Important philosophical questions like
“Machli kabhi paani ke beech mein beth ke sochti hogi, ‘yaar kuch peene ka dil kar raha hai’?”
“Machhar humein dekh ke waise excited hote honge jaise hum shawarma dekh ke hote hain?”
Truly groundbreaking conversations. Nobel Prize worthy.
Eventually exhaustion won and both of you drifted off to sleep. However, your subconscious apparently believed humiliation alone was not enough suffering for one evening because your dreams spent the entire night replaying intense dark eyes and that stupidly attractive smile beneath bright kulfi shop lights like some low budget Bollywood slow motion montage.
Sunlight danced through the curtains teasingly, like a mother trying to wake a child who refused to leave bed. Uzair remained deeply asleep, completely unaware that the Haveli had already started preparing for the day like it was preparing for war. Staff moved through the halls with practiced routine, footsteps echoing softly against marble floors while distant kitchen noises and hurried conversations slowly brought the house back to life.
Uzair had never slept this peacefully before,and the reason was probably the dream he found himself trapped inside right now.
In the dream, he stood outside Azam Sweets again beneath the harsh white lights of the shop. Except this time there was nobody else around. No crowd waiting for ‘chai’ that was definitely about to be spilled. No Hamza cackling like an idiot with one foot already in his qabar. No Yalina planning your janaza in the background. No Siyahi side eyeing him like he had called his boss Abbu.
Just you.
You looked exactly the same, angry, frustrated, and god damn beautiful.
“Aap phir yahan agaye?” you asked sharply, eyes already loaded like they could physically shoot him if god allowed it.
And just like in real life, Uzair suddenly forgot how to function like a normal human being.
There were a hundred things he wanted to say. Like ‘maaf karein, agli baar apne hi khwabon mein aane se pehle aap ki permission le lunga.’
or ‘aap ka naam kya hai? Qabar pe likhwana tha… taake mere jaane ke baad bhi mera naam sirf aapke naam ke saath liya jaye.’
Or even better ‘aap ab mere khwabon ke ilawa kahaan milengi?’
But instead, nothing came out. Absolutely nothing. Just Uzair staring at you while his subconscious betrayed him in real time. He could already feel dream-Hamza laughing like a dying donkey somewhere out there. Kameene dost khwabon mein bhi picha nahi chortay. He thought.
He looked down at you with such a genuine dumbfounded expression that honest it could probably get him acquitted in court one day. As you continued speaking, still visibly irritated, but Uzair couldn’t pay attention to a single thing coming out of your mouth when your pretty lips were distracting him instead.
Probably taste sweeter than that kulfi.
—WHO SAID THAT? WHO SAID THAT??
You finally stopped mid-rant, clearly fed up with his behavior, and jabbed a finger against his chest accusingly just like you had in real life.
“Aap sun bhi rahe hain main kya bol rahi hoon?” you demanded.
Uzair immediately shook his head in at least five different directions, which realistically could only mean one thing.
He was stupid.
And just like that, your finger flattened against his chest, your entire hand resting there now right above his loud traitorous heartbeat. Before you suddenly gripped the front of his kurta and yanked him forward.
Heaven.
Was this jannat?
Allah mian… were you close or what?
Your lips met his with enough force to silence every unfinished argument between you. Hot, impatient, and addictive. The grip on his kurta tightened as he pulled you closer instinctively, like letting go would physically kill him.
And God… you tasted sweet.
Sweeter than the kulfi. Sweeter than every terrible decision his life had ever offered him.
His hand found purchase at your waist, pulling you even closer like he was trying to force this dream into reality before god decided to wake him up out of pure personal hatred. Your hand slid to the nape of his neck, tugging lightly at the base of his hair there, igniting fires in places that were still peacefully asleep in real life.
Oh god.
One more second of this and Uzair was ready to start thanking whoever invented kulfi lines in the first place.
And in true fashion that was you, dream-you did exactly what real-you would do. Something he never expected.
You bit him.
Right on his lower lip. Not enough to hurt, but enough to send his blood rushing south instantly. And as if that alone wasn’t enough, you tugged lightly on his bottom lip as you pulled away, slow and teasing.
Uzair let out the most embarrassing, pleasure-drenched gasp of his entire existence.
And then—
CRASH
Uzair sprung out of his dream so violently he nearly launched himself off the bed, chest rising sharply as his eyes flew open straight into the horrifying sight of Naieem and Faisal standing there.
Naieem had one hand over Faisal’s eyes like he was protecting him from accidentally witnessing haram activities first thing in the morning.
“Main kaha tha knock karke jaate hain,” Faisal complained blindly from behind the hand covering his face.
“Abe chori karne aaye hain, knock karke kyun aayenge?” Naieem muttered in disappointment. “Lagta hai Abbu ko batana padega tere basics kharab ho rahe hain. Abbu ka surname Dakait hai, thori toh izzat rakh unke profession ki.”
“Bhai haath hata pehle, mujhe bhi dekhna hai konsa dream tha jis mein banda asthma patient ki tarah saanse leke utha hai,” Faisal argued shamelessly.
Naieem just laughed while shaking his head.
Naieem had thought today was going to be a good day. Uzair, the same man who woke up before fajr even during literal gunfire situations and family emergencies, had somehow slept in for the first time in human history. Which obviously meant Allah himself had personally delivered an opportunity.
A beautiful opportunity.
Specifically, stealing something from Uzair’s expensive watch collection before he woke up.
Unfortunately, Allah had also apparently decided that haram activities deserved mind-altering, soul-changing, bleach-drinking repercussions in return.
And Faisal, being the bright, loving, deeply caring younger brother that he was, obviously wanted to witness his brother’s downfall with his own eyes. So he tagged along. He firmly believed there was nothing more bonding for siblings than collectively participating in a bad decision together. Which was exactly why he currently stood there situationally blinded by Naieem’s hand like a hostage victim.
Uzair wanted to be buried. Six feet under—
No. Way too close to society.
Three hundred and sixty feet under minimum. Somewhere deep enough for future archaeologists to discover his fossil and go, ‘Damn… yeh banda sharam se mara tha.’
The sheer humiliation of not only getting caught, but getting caught by his younger lackeys specifically, made him want to climb Mount Everest for “mental peace” like those gym bro podcasts recommended and then immediately throw himself off the edge before Naieem could open his mouth again.
“Kya chahiye tum dono ko?!” Uzair snapped, finally noticing the expensive watch box that had fallen onto the floor alongside his izzat.
Naieem ignored the question completely. “Maine toh jab unnees saal ka tha tab bhi aisi harkatein nahi ki.”
“Maine bhi,” the 14 year old Faisal also added despite still being blinded by his brother and still contributing confidently.
“Tum abhi bhi unnees ke ho,” Uzair deadpanned instantly.
“Wohi toh,” Naieem replied proudly. “Mere "halkat jawani" phase mein bhi maine aise kaam nahi kiye. Tauba tauba.”
Naieem nodded seriously while trying not to laugh. “Sasta wala mat lena. Aankhein kharab hojayengi.”
“Chup kar,” Uzair muttered darkly, already regretting every life decision that had led him to this family.
“Nahi sach mein,” Faisal continued, still blindfolded against his will. “Aap yeh harkatein shaam ko phir se karna. Tab main bleach daal lunga, homework bhi nahi karna padega, aur Ammi Abbu ko bhi finally kisi aur ko kosne ka mauqa mil jayega.”
Then after a thoughtful pause, he added in the tone of a corporate manager ending a Zoom meeting, “Toh… let’s continue this meeting at 4 p.m.?”
Before confidently looking down at his wrist to check the time.
Still blinded.
And not even wearing a watch.
Uzair had officially had enough.
His hand blindly searched for the nearest object within reach before immediately launching it across the room at the two gremlins currently ruining both his perfect sleep and the greatest dream of his entire existence.
Unfortunately for Faisal, Naieem’s survival instincts activated instantly.
The second he saw Uzair move, he grabbed Faisal by the shoulders and dragged him directly in front of himself like a human shield, one hand still firmly clamped over the poor boy’s eyes while the other held him hostage against his chest.
“AHH—” Faisal screeched the moment something smacked painfully into his shoulder. “BHAI CHHORO MUJHE, MUJHE LAG RAHI HAI!”
A pillow came flying first, narrowly missing Naieem’s face before crashing against the wall.
Then a shoe.
Then what looked dangerously close to one of Uzair’s expensive watches spinning through the air.
Naieem’s soul visibly left his body.
“AREY CHACHU?!” he yelled in genuine heartbreak. “Rolex kyun phek rahe ho mere upar?!” Suddenly far more concerned about the safety of the watch than the fourteen year old child currently absorbing physical damage on his behalf.
Uzair looked one inconvenience away from personally appearing on the evening news. Hair messy, his shirt half-open, chest still rising heavily from being violently ripped out of sleep, eyes carrying the exhausted rage of a man whose peace had just been assassinated before breakfast.
“MAROON GA TUM DONO KO!” he barked from the bed.
Meanwhile Faisal was still being dragged backwards blindly across the marble floor, arms flailing helplessly through the air like a kidnapped civilian in a badly directed action movie. The second they crossed the doorway, Faisal’s offended voice echoed through the hallway loud enough for half the Haveli to probably hear,
“CHACHU SHAAM CHAAR BAJE MEETING YAAD SE!”
And then the bedroom door slammed shut just before another pillow flew past Naieem’s head hard enough to qualify as attempted murder.
Uzair let out a long exhausted sigh.
Could Allah finally have some reham on him for once? Was that too much to ask?
He flopped back against the bed, staring up at the ceiling while his traitorous brain immediately dragged him right back into the dream despite the third-degree humiliation he had just survived moments ago.
Specifically, the bite.
Allah.
His jaw tightened slightly as he bit down on his own lip unconsciously, heat rushing through him all over again just from remembering the feeling of your teeth catching against his mouth.
This was absolutely ridiculous.
One girl argues with him over kulfi line etiquette and suddenly this man was fighting for his life at eight in the morning.
Then, reality checked back in.
Uzair glanced toward the clock and immediately groaned. It was late. Which meant Rehman would absolutely start cutting into his very important daily schedule of “bhai kuch stupid karein?” activities with Hamza.
He got up, peeling the bedsheet off himself while mentally complaining about how hard life was. So stressful. So exhausting. So-
Then he looked down at his lap.
…Apparently life wasn’t the only thing HARD this morning.
Uzair closed his eyes briefly in disappointment.
Because apparently his body had not moved on from the dream whatsoever. At least one part was still stuck in it.
Sigh.
As Uzair walked downstairs after spending a very necessary forty-five minutes under a freezing cold shower handling… ahem ahem business, his mood was already hanging by a thread.
Which made it even more irritating that the man still looked illegally attractive.
The grey pathani fit him disgustingly well, sleeves rolled up just enough to show strong forearms and the watch sitting on his wrist like it paid taxes there. Beard freshly trimmed. Hair pushed back carelessly like he hadn’t just fought demons in that shower five minutes ago.
And then the aviator glasses.
The glasses were mostly there so he wouldn’t accidentally make eye contact with someone and let them discover the deeply humiliating truth that this six foot two emotionally unavailable gangster had already lost his heart in under twenty-four hours.
The combination of broad shoulders, messy hair, a sharp jawline, and those stupid glasses made him look less like a real person and more like a dangerously specific dua that had been accepted. if he made direct eye contact with someone right then, there was a solid chance she’d mentally plan the nikah, pick baby names, and fight imaginary saas allegations before even learning his full name.
Sexy? was just a synonym.
Uzair reached the chaos they collectively referred to as a dining table to find Rehman drinking his chai while Naeem and Faisal sat on either side of him. Sadly, Ulfat wasn’t around today to balance out the collective pagalpan of the men in this house, meaning the atmosphere was already unsafe.
Rehman looked up the second Uzair entered, saying nothing at first except glancing at his watch.
Late.
Uzair, trying very hard to not make anything obvious, loaded his plate with the speed of a certified bhukkad and immediately started eating like food alone could save him.
After a while Rehman casually asked, “Aaj late hoga uthne mein, Uzair?”
It was a simple question, and had no malice whatsoever. Completely harmless.
Unfortunately, Naieem instantly started choking on his toast while the blush creeping onto Uzair’s cheeks exposed enough information for Rehman to realize he had made a terrible mistake.
Oh no.
Was Rehman losing his edge?
Usually he could sniff out stupidity, unnecessary kalesh, and emotional disasters before even knowing who was involved. But now the signs were right there and he still missed them.
This is what happens when a man spends too much time away from his beautiful, loving wife who apparently possessed most of the brain cells in this household.
Rehman immediately raised a hand, “Mat batao. Mujhe nahi jaana.”
Which only caused Naieem to start dying harder because the toast was now physically lodged somewhere inside his esophagus.
Rehman quickly turned toward his younger son instead.
“Haan Faisal, tum batao.” making conversation with his younger son on the other side, asking about how his friends are.
Faisal immediately starts going on about his friends and how they played cricket with a football yesterday. He made a face at that. But, anything was better than involving himself in whatever was happening on the left side of the table, Rehman thought to himself. Especially because Naieem still looked one cough away from meeting his ancestors while Uzair suddenly started eating his breakfast like the paratha knew too much information.
After a while, Uzair finally asked where Ulfat bhabhi was because her absence at breakfast felt unnatural.
Usually, Ulfat sat beside Rehman while the man silently pretended he wasn’t completely obsessed with his wife.
Which fooled absolutely nobody.
Because whenever Ulfat entered a room, Rehman stopped looking like Karachi’s most feared man and started looking like someone who definitely had emotional Urdu poetry saved somewhere in his phone notes app.
The same man who looked like he scheduled people’s final warnings between chai breaks. So imagine everyone’s surprise when his terrifying older brother actually looked offended instead.
No.
The man was pouting.
“Tumhari bhabhi ko aaj kuch kaam hai,” Rehman muttered with visible disappointment while looking like a retired drama serial husband abandoned by society. “Yalina aur Shabnam ji ke saath shaadi ki shopping pe ja rahi hain.”
Clearly not happy that this had ruined his peaceful morning routine of gazing at his wife before dealing with what he liked to call the ‘unemployed behaviour of his employees.’
Rehman and Ulfat had already planned on being heavily involved in the wedding from the start, but after one particular conversation with Hamza, they’d quietly taken over the role of the groom’s side completely.
Remembering that one evening, Hamza had casually mentioned that he’d officially gone and asked Jameel sahab for Yalina’s hand in marriage himself.
Which had genuinely impressed Rehman.
Mostly because HOW exactly had this man managed to convince Jameel Jamali?
Rehman had stared at him for a solid ten seconds, clearly impressed.
Hamza, reminded him far too much of himself at that particular moment.
Back then, before the money, before the power, before people lowered their voices when he entered rooms, Rehman had been nothing more than a man stubbornly in love with a girl whose family wanted significantly better for her.
And Ulfat had deserved better too.
She came from a wealthy, respected family with status, connections, security. while Rehman at the time had little beyond loyalty, dangerous ambition, and the kind of determination that made older people deeply uncomfortable.
Their wedding had been small.
Painfully small.
Most of Ulfat’s family had refused to properly support the marriage, forcing the two of them to figure everything out themselves. The only person there who truly mattered to both of them had been a very young Uzair standing awkwardly beside his brother like an angry little bodyguard prepared to fight society itself.
Even years later, after Rehman gained both money and influence and Ulfat’s family slowly rebuilt cordial ties with them, he never truly forgave what they’d done to her.
Ulfat might have forgiven.
Rehman never would.
Sometimes even now, he still brought it up quietly, how he wished he could’ve given her the kind of wedding she deserved back then.
And every single time, Ulfat answered the same way.
That marrying him exactly the way she did was the only way she would ever choose him again and again.
So when Hamza had jokingly mentioned that he probably wouldn’t even have proper family standing on the groom’s side for photos because he was an orphan anyway-
Both Rehman and Ulfat had looked rightfully offended.
“Hum kya mar gaye hain?” Ulfat snapped immediately before Hamza could even finish laughing.
Even Rehman had looked annoyed after that.
Because employee ya outsider wali line Hamza had crossed months ago.
Not after saving Naieem.
Not after bringing their son back to them.
Not after becoming the kind of person who quietly stitched himself into people’s lives so naturally that one day everyone simply realized he had become family.
Faisal and Naieem didn’t call him Hamza bhai out of formality. They called him that because somewhere along the way, he had simply become one.
And to Uzair, Hamza occupied a category of his own. Somewhere between brother, best friend, and lifelong headache. The two of them spent most of their time arguing, but if Uzair ever genuinely needed help, Hamza was usually already on his way before he even had to ask.
By the end of that conversation, Hamza had the biggest smile Rehman had ever seen on the man’s face while Ulfat aggressively informed him that she’d personally handle the wedding preparations herself and he better act like he loved every single one of her choices.
And Hamza wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Which was exactly why the second Ulfat finally walked into the dining area, Rehman looked at her like a man seeing sunlight after war.
She was dressed to leave already, wearing a soft pastel green suit that made the gold bangles on her wrist gleam warmly beneath the dining lights. Her hair was loosely braided over one shoulder and she wore those specific earrings Rehman privately categorized as her “I’m going out” earrings.
And immediately-
The man turned poetic.
“Aye haye, begum sahiba,” Rehman murmured dreamily while watching her walk around the table, “lagta hai Lyari mein bahaar iss saal jaldi agayi hai.”
Ulfat only huffed softly at that, rolling her eyes in the practiced way of a woman who’d spent years surviving her husband’s shameless flirting before reaching for the water jug.
“Apse kaha tha na chhutti le lijiye, saath chalte hain,” she scolded while pouring herself water. “Par aapko toh kaam se fursat hi nahi milti. Aur yeh aapke nawabzade…” she added, glaring toward the boys now, “inki khwahishein toh khatam hi nahi hoti. Ab main aap logon ki shopping baad mein hi karungi. Saath chalenge parso. Chhutti le lijiye.”
“Arey,” Rehman sighed with drama, one elbow resting on the table while he held up his face like a tragic lover abandoned by fate itself, “aap humein pyaar se kafan bhi pehna dein toh woh bhi pehen lein.”
That instantaneous caused Ulfat to blush despite herself, quickly looking away while Uzair outright burst out laughing into his chai.
“Ammi,” Faisal suddenly spoke up with sincerity, “main bhi chhutti le leta hoon aapki help karne ke liye.”
The entire table looked at him. Because everybody there knew this had absolutely nothing to do with “helping.”
The boy simply wanted freedom from school and saw shopping as Allah-given opportunity. Naieem just slowly shook his head seeing his younger brother in action.
“koi zarurat nahi hai, mujhe tumhare size pata hai, main dekh lungi.” Ulfat replied, seeing through her son.
Naieem loved his parents.
Truly and sometimes, watching them together like this made something ache softly inside his chest because if he was lucky enough to find someone special someday, he hoped his relationship would look something like theirs—
“Sirf Faisal ka?” Rehman cut in casually while adding suggestively with absolutely shameless confidence.“Mera size bhi toh kaafi achi tarah yaad hai aapko.”
“REHMAN!”
Ulfat immediately hit him on the shoulder while Uzair just shook his head at his older brother’s shameless antics around his bhabhi.
Naieem would rather puke out his breakfast and re-eat it than stay at this table another minute.
“Eww,” he muttered before looking at Faisal. “Chal shehzade, ya khud paidal chala ja school.” As he stood up and walked toward the door.
And Faisal, seeing the perfect opportunity to leave his half-finished breakfast, immediately sprang out of his chair.
“Abhi aaya, bag lekar aata hoon bhai!”
“FAISAL—” Ulfat called out from behind.
The breakfast table finally began to settle after the boys disappeared. Rehman pushed his chair back with a sigh and rose to his feet, while Uzair finished the last of his tea before following suit. Around them, the house staff quietly moved in to begin clearing away the dishes. Ulfat had barely reached the hallway when she paused mid step.
“Aray, mera bag room mein reh gaya.”
The pastel green of her suit disappeared upstairs a second later while the rest of the house settled back into its usual noisy morning rhythm, distant utensils clinking from the kitchen, someone outside dragging a hose across the driveway.
Uzair and Rehman had started making their way when Rehman suddenly stopped beside the doorway, adjusting the cuff of his watch before speaking.
“Aaj apni bhabhi ko Jameel sahab ke ghar chhor dena.”
Uzair would never say no to an order from his older brother, but still—
“Hamza ko bol dein na,” he said casually, already smirking slightly. “Uski bhi eid ho jayegi.”
The implication was obvious.
Yalina.
Rehman immediately scoffed.
“Usse bhejunga toh woh nikah kara ke hi wapas aayega,” he muttered while adjusting his watch. “Isliye tu hi ja.”
Uzair laughed at this, knowing exactly how whipped his best friend was.
Halfway down the corridor, Ulfat suddenly called out for Rehman from upstairs, saying she needed something from their room.
Which instantly made Rehman change direction without question. The man could never say no to his wife.
Uzair walked out alone making his way to his jeep.
Near another car, Donga and Siyahi were already standing together doing and discussing God knew what with the most unserious expressions imaginable. One was leaning against the hood while the other waved his hands around like he was explaining international politics instead of whatever useless nonsense they were actually talking about. Looking exactly like unemployed side characters in a crime thriller.
“I’m taking bhabhi to Jameel sahab’s house,” Uzair told them while unlocking his car. “Meri absence mein kaam dekh lena.”
The two nodded immediately.
Uzair silently thanked God right then because at least this meant he wouldn’t have to see Hamza yet. His brain genuinely could not tolerate another round of dramatic “ohhh” and “ahhhhs” about the Miss Kulfi incident this early in the morning. By evening he’d probably invent some fake emergency just to distract Hamza’s ADHD-induced attention span elsewhere.
Maybe set Donga’s bike on fire a little, nothing too serious. Just a little fire hazard for distraction purposes.
The morning air outside was still cool despite the sunlight beginning to spread across the massive driveway. Somewhere near the gates, guards stood lazily sipping chai while an old radio played distorted Bollywood songs in the background. Birds chirped from the trees lining the boundary walls, and the gardener nearby sprayed water over the hedges with absolutely zero enthusiasm for life.
For one beautiful, fleeting moment—
There was peace.
Peace-
“JUMMAA CHUMMAA DE DE—”
Uzair decided the universe had personal beef with him specifically. Because barely ten seconds later, peaceful silence across the driveway was violently destroyed by loud off-key singing approaching from somewhere behind him.
“JUMMAA CHUMMAA DE DE CHUMMAA—”
Donga looked up before promptly folding in half laughing. “Ayee wah, Subha subha public concert.” he added
Meanwhile Siyahi had already closed his eyes like a tired man accepting fate.
Because unlike Donga, Siyahi knew exactly what was about to unfold.
He had been there during The Incident™.
Just like the other half of Karachi apparently.
Uzair froze. Absolutely FUCKING not.
And then there was Hamza.
Walking down the front steps with the confidence of a retired Bollywood hero returning for one final performance, sunglasses hanging from the collar of his kurta while dramatically pointing at Uzair mid-song like he was dedicating the performance to him. He was.
“Jumme ke din kiyaaa— Jumme kaa waadaaa—”
Every step carried the confidence of a man who genuinely believed background music followed him in real life.
Hamza pointed dramatically at Uzair like he was exposing him in front of a live studio audience.
“Jumme ko tod diyaa— Jumme kaa waadaaa—”
And then the idiot somehow got louder.
“LE AA GAYAAA RE PHIR JUMMAA—”
Pausing only to bounce on the spot, he threw both arms outward before pointing emphatically at the ground.
Now, under ordinary circumstances, Uzair would've merely rolled his eyes. He might have even entertained the spectacle and joined in.
But today was far from ordinary, wasn't it?
Consequently, Uzair flushed scarlet.
If one looked closely enough, they might have sworn wisps of steam were rising from his skin. His complexion had somehow transformed into the exact shade of #CC677C, the sort of perfectly rosy blush colour so aesthetically pleasing that people would probably queue up to purchase it if it came in a makeup palette.
Because sadly, the second Hamza started aggressively yelling chummaa, Uzair’s brain betrayed him entirely and replayed the dream from earlier with HD pro max quality clarity.
Your hand gripping the front of his kurta.
That sharp tug pulling him forward.
Warm lips crashing against his.
The sweetness.
God, the sweetness.
And then—
The bite.
Oh God.
Did dream-hamza tell real-hamza about it???
Uzair physically looked away from Hamza abruptly, suddenly very invested in staring at literally anything else. The car. The trees. The pavement. Tax laws. Anything.
Much to his dismay, Hamza noticed it at once. Of course he did.
The man detected suspicious behaviour with the same uncanny precision aunties reserved for family gatherings.
One awkward silence and suddenly they were mentally writing full episode recaps.
The singing stopped mid-line so abruptly that the sudden silence almost echoed across the driveway.
Hamza lowered his imaginary microphone and narrowed his eyes at Uzair. The scrutiny that followed was nothing short of forensic, the sort usually reserved for detectives, interrogators, and exceptionally nosy relatives.
“…oye.”
Hamza took a step closer.
“Rooh Afza ki bottle ki tarah kyun khara hai tu? Main ne abhi tak kuch poocha bhi nahi.”
“Rooh Afza?” Uzair echoed at once, affronted by the comparison.
“Aaj kuch khaas hai kya? Bara chamak raha hai tu.” Hamaz continued, grabbing Uzair’s face in one hand and turning it this way and that, the way mothers inspected their children after combing their hair before sending them off to school.
“Chup kar.” Uzair's voice came out muffled.
But Hamza’s curiosity had now evolved into full-time unemployment.
He leaned closer and asked, “Blush lagaya hai kya?”
“Pagal hai?”
“Mujhe bhi bata na konsa hai,” Hamza said immediately. “Yalina keh rahi thi usay woh ‘mushkil se milne wali khoobsurati’ wala blush chahiye.”
That made Uzair pause.
Not because the sentence made sense.
It absolutely didn’t.
But because unfortunately his own stupidity always activated around Hamza’s stupidity.
Faisal stood behind them in full school uniform, one bag strap hanging off his shoulder while holding a juice box like a tired corporate employee on his morning commute instead of a literal child.
“Woh Rare Beauty hota hai chachu,” he explained casually. “Selena Gomez ka brand.”
Uzair slowly narrowed his eyes.
“Ek minute…” he said carefully. “Tujhe kaise pata Rare Beauty kya hai?”
Faisal looked at him like the question itself insulted his intelligence.
“Because unlike certain individuals in this household,” he replied with remarkable composure, directing a pointed glance at Uzair, “I have game. I prefer to keep myself informed for when the occasion eventually arises.”
The statement sent Hamza into a fit of laughter so severe that he doubled over on the spot.
Uzair looked offended.
“Teri umar mein main football khelta tha.”
“Haan ise liye abhi bhi single ho,” Faisal shot back.
Hamza pressed a hand to his chest, a gravelly laugh escaping him as appreciation and amusement.
Uzair stared at Faisal in stricken disbelief, his expression steeped in betrayal.
“Yeh TikTok ne bachon ko barbaad kardiya hai.”
“Jealousy is a disease, chachu,” Faisal remarked, taking another sip. “Allah sab ko female gaze samajhne ki taufiq de.”
“Tu abhi tak school nahi gaya?” Uzair called out.
Faisal had already started walking toward Siyahi and Donga.
“Chaliye Siyahi bhai,” Faisal continued pleasantly. “Aaj ka homework proposition discuss karte hain.”
Siyahi slowly turned toward Uzair and Hamza with the expression of a man betrayed by his own nation.
Before the conversation could get any more ridiculous, Rehman and Ulfat finally walked out of the house together, fingers loosely intertwined. The second they appeared, every man present straightened up almost automatically.
Even Hamza.
Which was a proof enough that Rehman’s aura needed to be studied.
Rehman walked Ulfat toward Uzair’s jeep.
Stopping beside the jeep, Rehman took Ulfat’s hand and pressed a brief kiss against it naturally before looking toward Uzair.
“Uzair, dekh kar jana. Seedha Jameel sahab ke ghar.”
“Ji bhai,” Uzair nodded.
“Chal, Hamza,” Rehman motioned toward him afterward.
Hamza's expression carried the same wounded indignation as a child deprived of his favourite toy.
Uzair watched him walk away beside Rehman looking like a kicked puppy.
The poor man hadn’t even gotten the chance to see Yalina.
Or properly continue bullying Uzair.
What torture.
Finally free from public harassment for at least thirty minutes, Uzair exhaled quietly before opening the passenger-side door for Ulfat.
“Thank you,” she smiled softly while getting inside.
Uzair closed the door gently before walking around toward the driver’s side, sliding into the seat moments later. The engine started smoothly while the gates ahead slowly opened for them.
The drive itself turned surprisingly peaceful.
Morning sunlight spilled across the roads now while Karachi gradually woke around them, small chai stalls crowded with people, bikes weaving recklessly through traffic, fruit vendors loudly calling customers, and the smell of fresh parathas drifting from roadside hotels every few minutes.
Through the journey, Ulfat kept him company easily, talking about everything from wedding preparations to how work at the factory had been going lately, along with random family gossip here and there. The conversation flowed naturally, calm and comfortable against the backdrop of Karachi’s noisy morning traffic.
At one point, Ulfat casually suggested that he and Hamza should probably get their sherwanis stitched together since it would look better during the wedding events. Uzair had immediately looked mildly offended at the implication that his fashion choices required supervision, especially from Hamza of all people, who according to him dressed like he was constantly one dramatic background score away from becoming a Bollywood villain. The entire topic only seemed to amuse Ulfat further, soft laughter escaping her every time Uzair muttered another complaint under his breath about “matching vibes” and coordinated outfits like they were part of some shaadi Pinterest board.
Eventually, Uzair made Ulfat promise that if she found something she thought would look good on him, she’d let him know, and somehow the rest of the drive stayed warm, calm, and easy.
The morning had started far too peacefully for your liking.
Sunlight spilled softly through the curtains while the smell of chai and toasted bread drifted through the house, mixed with the faint sounds of utensils clinking in the kitchen downstairs.
But none of that mattered because your mother had committed the ultimate act of betrayal.
She woke you up at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m.
According to her, “zindagi ke aadhe maslay jaldi uthne aur uss manhoos phone ko phenkne se solve hojate hain.”
You personally believed this sounded fake.
So now you sat miserably at the dining table beside Yalina, face almost drowning in milk instead of actually eating cereal. While your father packed up nearby, preparing to leave for work. Morning sunlight stretched across the dining room table while the TV in the background played loud news that your father usually watched before leaving for work, but nobody was actually paying attention it.
Meanwhile your parents remained deeply entertained by the fact that you were absentmindedly drawing patterns in your cereal bowl with your spoon.
“Bilkul nahi badli fifth grade se,” your mother cooed fondly.
Yalina caught the opening at once, sensing your mother's mamta in the air the way sharks sensed blood in water.
“Auntyyy,” she started sweetly, suddenly putting on the most fake masoom bachi expression imaginable. “Aaj aap free hain?”
If you didn’t know her, even you would’ve believed she respected authority and voluntarily woke up before noon.
“Haan beta, kya hua?” your mother asked warmly.
“Kuch nahi,” Yalina said innocently. “Bas aaj main aur ammi shaadi ki shopping pe jarahay hain… please aap bhi chaliye na?”
Your mother immediately hesitated.
“Aray beta aisay kaise? Acha nahi lagta. Tumhari ammi ne bulaya bhi nahi aur tumhare susral walay bhi honge shayad…”
“Aunty kuch nahi hoga,” Yalina interrupted. “Bas Ulfat bhabhi aarahi hain. Aur ammi ko toh main text bhi kar chuki hoon.”
Then she paused, sighed heavily and said “Aur aap toh jaanti hain na ammi ki pasand.”
You snorted into your cereal because unfortunately—
You did know.
Very well actually.
Specifically because of the Sixth Grade Fancy Dress Competition Incident.
The theme had been fictional characters.
Your mother—Allah unko khush rakhe; had treated your costume preparation like a full-scale film production. She had searched fabric markets for days, matched jewellery perfectly, curled your hair despite nearly burning her own fingers off, and somehow transformed you into an actual Princess Jasmine.
You looked beautiful, elegant, almost unreal, especially for a random school function where half the children were usually dressed in cardboard costumes held together with safety pins and parental desperation. The teachers kept calling you “beta mashallah” every five minutes and smiling at you with genuine affection whenever you passed by.
You won first place.
Meanwhile Yalina had arrived dressed as—
Jadoo.
From Koi Mil Gaya.
Not inspired by Jadoo.
Not “cute alien version.”
No.
Full commitment method acting Jadoo.
Her face had been painted blue from forehead to neck. Massive bug eyes were drawn around her actual eyes so she looked permanently shocked by inflation. And then—
The bald cap.
OH GOD.
THE BALD CAP.
The second she entered school, one nursery child started crying immediately. Even the math teacher flinched near the staircase after seeing her unexpectedly. At one point the Urdu teacher accidentally started reading Ayat-ul-Kursi under her breath after spotting Yalina standing silently near the water cooler looking super unnatural.
And what was worse was that Yalina stayed in character the ENTIRE day.
She spoke in broken alien noises and blinked aggressively at people.
At recess she just stood near the basketball court staring at students like she had crash-landed there accidentally. The principal had side-eyed her the entire competition with the exhausted expression of a man reconsidering his career choices.
And yet somehow—
She still won second place.
You were genuinely ready to fight the principal on her behalf because HOW could they disrespect your icon like this? Your best friend had singlehandedly traumatised the entire school population before lunch break and they gave her SECOND?
Through Yalina herself didn’t even care.
You told her repeatedly she deserved first place.
Repeatedly.
Her costume had absolutely eaten everyone else's.
So here she was again years later, sitting at your dining table with cereal in one hand and generational trauma in the other, complaining about her mother’s fashion choices like a victim giving a news interview after surviving a natural disaster. “Aunty, please,” Yalina groaned softly. “Aapki choice bohot achi hoti hai. Ammi ki choice thori….different hai.”
Your father, who had been adjusting his watch, looked far too pleased hearing that indirect compliment considering your father had technically been her choice too.
The man actually muttered a satisfied little “thank you”, winking at your mother, while she only shook her head.
Then, after kissing your forehead affectionately and patting Yalina’s head on the way out, he finally left for work looking weirdly proud of himself.
Your mother finally sighed in defeat, though the expression on her face already said she knew she’d been emotionally manipulated into this entire plan from the beginning.
“Theek hai,” she said at last, pointing a warning finger toward Yalina across the dining table. “Par mujhe ek baar tumhari ammi se baat karne do.”
With that, she pushed her chair back and stood up, already reaching for her phone while walking toward the kitchen. The soft sound of her slippers faded down the hallway while the morning show continued playing faintly in the background.
The second she disappeared from sight. Yalina turned toward you.
“Toh madam,” Yalina said, kicking your foot lightly beneath the table, "tum bhi ready hojao. Chalte hain."
You wanted to refuse, but you had already missed her actual engagement, so saying no now felt slightly criminal. Besides, your plans for today weren’t exactly life-changing anyway. They mostly consisted of eating, rolling around dramatically on your bed every time your brain remembered yesterday, reading for distraction, then remembering it again and getting embarrassed all over again before recovering through more food. Perhaps also creating several entirely fictional scenarios in your head and dissociating for a few hours.
At some point you also planned on calling your father for no reason, eating again, and ending the night with one final wave of humiliation before sleeping.
A very solid and productive day in your opinion.
Still, after another long sigh, you decided fine. Whatever. You’d go with her.
If not for shopping, then at least to witness Yalina getting traumatised by her mother’s fashion choices in real time.
Eventually you got dressed, though not before Yalina casually raided your closet again. Somehow, after twenty minutes of stealing your accessories and rejecting half your suggestions, she still managed to look annoyingly pretty.
Soft summer colours caught beautifully beneath the sunlight as you stepped outside, light fabrics shifting gently in the warm Karachi breeze. Your mother looked effortlessly elegant, as though grace had simply decided to make a permanent home in her. Yalina, meanwhile, possessed that curious luminosity that seemed to settle upon engaged girls without warning, leaving them bright-eyed and radiant for no discernible reason. And even you felt beautiful—composed, polished, every detail falling into place with unusual ease.
The day felt almost too perfect.
But surely that meant nothing.
Everything that could possibly have gone wrong had already unfolded yesterday.
Today, for once, had to be kind.
...Right? RIGHT????
Now seated in the car with your mother beside you in the backseat and Yalina in the passenger seat already talking before the car had even fully left the street, the drive slowly disappeared into Karachi’s crowded afternoon traffic.
Yalina and your mother talked easily the entire way, moving from stories about her mother to Hamza, then somehow into discussions about married life and adjusting after weddings. Their laughter filled the car warmly every few minutes.
You, however, couldn’t relate to any of it.
Instead, you found yourself watching Karachi through the window—the crowded roads, tiny roadside flower stalls, old buildings squeezed between newer ones, laundry fluttering from balconies, and strangers moving through the city beneath the blazing summer sun like scenes passing quietly from a film. you were now close to yalinas house, you thought.
Uzair had just dropped Ulfat off at Jameel sahab’s mansion and waited until she disappeared safely inside before finally pulling the jeep away from the driveway. The huge gates shut behind him slowly as he turned back onto the road, sunlight flashing across the windshield while Karachi traffic dragged lazily around him beneath the afternoon heat.
The drive back had been normal.
He’d barely gone half a kilometer when another car passed beside him-
And suddenly his brain stopped functioning properly.
Everything slowed down so sharply it genuinely felt fake. Like one of those dramatic romance scenes from old movies where the hero sees the heroine once and immediately forgets how oxygen works.
His head turned automatically toward the passing car.
And there you were.
Sitting in the backseat.
For one horrible second you looked exactly the way you had in his dream earlier that morning. Same expression. Same wide eyes. Same slightly parted lips like you’d recognised him at the exact same moment he recognised you.
Sunlight filtered through the passing windows, scattering fleeting bands of gold across your face.
And for one perilous moment, Uzair found himself transfixed by the ease with which the light seemed to favour you, lingering upon your features as though it, too, had forgotten the rest of the world existed.
Then your eyes met his.
And that was the end of it.
Whatever fragile remnants of composure Uzair had been clinging to promptly disintegrated.
The effect was immediate, almost embarrassingly so. One look was all it took for every coherent thought in his head to abandon its post. His mind should have remained fixed on the present—on the absurd coincidence of seeing you again, on the traffic surrounding him, on the fact that he was currently operating a moving vehicle. Instead, it betrayed him with spectacular efficiency. Because the moment his gaze locked with yours, his thoughts ceased to belong to him.
They returned to that moment.
Your hand fisted in the front of his kurta.
The startling closeness.
The warmth of your breath.
The kiss.
The bite.
Uzair hit the brakes so suddenly the jeep jerked violently, earning several angry horns behind him that he completely ignored. His heart had climbed directly into his throat while panic flashed across his face for reasons even he didn’t fully understand.
He turned quickly in his seat, searching for the car again through the moving traffic ahead.
But you—
You were gone.
The backseat that had held you only seconds earlier now appeared empty. Your mother sat calmly on the far side, entirely unaware that someone in a passing car had just experienced the emotional equivalent of a head-on collision.
Uzair frowned immediately, eyes narrowing as he leaned out of his jeep's window, to look back properly.
He knew he saw you.
Your face.
Your eyes.
That expression.
So where the hell had you disappeared to?
His eyes scanned the road almost desperately now, searching between cars, mirrors, windows, anything. But there was nothing. No glimpse of you. No movement. No trace that you’d even been there seconds ago.
For one alarming moment, Uzair wondered whether he was finally beginning to lose his mind.
You, meanwhile, had responded with all the composure and emotional fortitude of a startled goat.
The instant the car passed Uzair's jeep, you practically collapsed into yourself before dropping sideways into your mother's lap, yanking her dupatta over your face as though concealment might somehow undo the previous ten seconds.
“YA ALLAH, KYA HUA?!” your mother exclaimed at once, nearly fumbling her phone in the process.
From the front seat, Yalina twisted around immediately, confusion knitting her brows.
“Kuch nahi, Ammi,” you replied from beneath the dupatta, your voice emerging embarrassingly muffled. “Bohat dhoop hai. Mujhe aapne mamta ke aanchal mein chupa lo.”
Your mother dissolved into laughter.
“Beta, aise karogi toh mera mamta ka aanchal phat jayega.”
That made Yalina lose it too, laughing loudly from the passenger seat while you stayed hidden beneath the dupatta, face burning from your own behaviour now.
You had no defence.
Because what kind of mentally stable person reacted to eye contact by diving into their mother’s lap like they were escaping sniper fire?
The rest of the drive you spent exactly there too, half hidden beneath your mother’s dupatta with your face buried in her lap while Yalina occasionally looked back at you only to start laughing all over again. Your mother, however, seemed rather taken with the arrangement.
Every few minutes, her hand would drift to your hair, smoothing back a stray strand or patting your head with absent affection. There was a faint smile lingering on her face the entire time, the sort reserved for children who had momentarily forgotten they were adults.
As far as she was concerned, her daughter had voluntarily sought refuge in her lap.
Dilara Khan moved to Lyari a year ago after her father lost a lot of money in yet another failed investment. The entire flight to Lyari had been filled with her mother reprimanding her father for not listening to her and losing all the money. Lyari was her father's hometown and while she had been born there, she was raised in Lahore where the air was always warm unlike Lyari, which in contrast welcomed her with a biting chill and sharp gazes.
Her first week at Lyari Model School hadn't been the best. She was greeted with stares and whispers as she walked past, not that she had been very open either with the sudden change. Dilara remembers the moment she met Naeem Baloch for the first time like it was yesterday. She had been walking in the hallway with her ipod in one hand and her water bottle in the other, when someone crashed into her sending her tumbling back before a hand wrapped around her waist to steady her before retreating just as fast. The sudden impact caused half her bottle to empty onto her uniform and drench Dilara completely. She paused in shock as she looked up to see the boy responsible for the mess and before he could utter a single word, Dilara interrupted him. "Dimaag nahi hai kya? Aankhe bas sajaut ke liye rakhi hai?" After yelling at him until the bell rang signalling the end of the break, she just huffed and pushed past him leaving Naeem standing there with his mouth open, cheeks red and heart thuding so loudly he couldn't hear anything else.
( Don't you have a brain? Are those eyes just for decoration? )
After a few months of Naeem following Dilara around school and staring at her across the classroom with a lovestruck look, the two of them finally got together. Her friends teased her relentlessly to this day that the first thing she did since arriving in Lyari was get a boyfriend, but she didn't expect to end up dating the son of the most dangerous man in Lyari. The same man her parents told her to stay away from due to her being a Pathan, and she had to admit, when she found out about Naeem's father she was afraid of telling Naeem that she was a Pathan, but her fear seemed quite nonsensical when he muttered about knowing and not caring about any of that before diving back to cover her neck with his marks.
Dilara was currently waiting for Naeem at their usual meeting point, an old field that was usually empty after 2pm and no one who knew them be there. Naeem arrived on his bike, which she loves, before approaching her and ploping himself down on the earth beside her and taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Maafi late hone ke liye, abbu ne kuch kaam de diya tha aur fir Faizal ko bhi uske dost ke ghar chodna pada." Dilara had met Faizal before, he was the only member of Naeem's family that she had interacted with, he was a mischievous and sweet boy who enjoyed mercilessly teasing his brother on the fact that he finally found someone who could tolerate him. What really affected Dilara's heart and almost made her melt into a puddle was when Faizal pulled her aside and asked her if she truly loved his brother because he always wanted an older sister. Whenever they would see each at school he would yell "aapi!" and run into her arms.
( I'm sorry for being late, dad gave some work and then I had to drop Faizal at his friends house. )
( elder sister! )
Dilara smiles and shakes her head before erapping her arms around Naeem's waist and laying her head on his chest, "Koi masla nahi, mai bhi 5 minute pehele aayi thi. Mai bol rahi hu naeem agar maine abbu ke mooh se ek aur baar "investment" suna na, toh saach me ghar se bhaag jaungi." Naeem huffs a small laugh at her words before kissing her head, "Agar tum bhaagna chahti ho toh mere ghar ajana, waise bhi nikkah ke baad wahi pe rahogi." Dilara raises her head from his chest to look at him with a raised eyebrow "Tumse nikkah kaun karna chahta?" Naeem looks at her before tickling her sides making her double over and let out giggles, "Naeem! Ruko!"
( It's not an issue, besides i came here 5 minutes ago. I swear to god Naeem if my father mentions "investments" one more time i will run away from home. )
( If you do wanna run away then come stay at my house, besides you're gonna stay there after our wedding either way. )
( Who wants to get married to you? )
( Naeem! Stop! )
They both spend the rest of the evening wrapped in each other's arms, stealing kisses and talking about everything and nothing at the same time. Everything was going well, they got onto his bike and he dropped her down the street from her house as to not get recognised and Dilara had her dupatta wrapped around her head for extra safety. After getting off she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him as his arms settled gently on her hips. As they separated with matching smiles on their faces, with promises to meet each other tomorrow at school, they failed to notice a group of men watching from the shadows. Dilara waved one last time before going inside her house and Naeem walked with his bike before sitting on it again, but before he could start his bike he was jumped by those men who did not hold back, curses and shouts leaving them as they kicked and attacked Naeem who didn't have the chance to fight back. After a while they ran off leaving him bloody and injured in an alley before he picked himself up and limped back home, where his mother Ulfat greeted him with a shout at his appearance and yelling for Rehman as he blacked out.
Dilara was very concerned. It wasn't like Naeem to not come to school and even more unlike him to not inform her of his absence. She felt like she was going to loose her mind, her brain conjuring up insane and terrifying scenarios regarding Naeem. Dilara finally mustered up her courage and shut the voice in her head long enough to seek out Faizal.
"Faizal, Naeem kaha hai? Aaj aya hi nahi aur mujhe bataya bhi nahi, bohot chinta ho rahi hai.." She said after pulling him aside in the hallway. Faizal looked at her with wide eyes and she finally got a good look at him, eyes bloodshot and surrounded with dark circles. Dilara cupped his face and bent down to get a better look, "Kya hua? Tum theek ho? Aankhe itni laal kyu hai?"
( Faizal, Where's Naeem?He didn't show up to school today and didn't even tell me, I'm really worried...)
( What's wrong? Are you okay? Why are your eyes so red?)
She didn't care about missing school or getting into trouble, all she could think about was reaching Naeem. The moment Faizal finished Dilara didn't even feel her legs moving, all she knew was that she was running out of school and catching the nearest rickshaw to the Baloch Haveli, all her fears and worries about meeting his parents or being a Pathan all forgotten.
The moment she reached she ran to the gates and started banging frantically, she was pretty sure she looked like a mad woman to others but she couldn't care less. She saw a tall, muscular man approaching the gate and recognised him as Hamza from the photos and descriptions Naeem gave her. "Kaun Hai aap? Yaha kya kaam hai?" After explaining to him that she had to see Naeem, he finally let her in and lead her to the main room where he explained the situation to Rehman and Ulfat who were both looking at the girl suspiciously. "Naeem ko kaise janti ho?" Dilara was already panicking and didn't see a point in lying. "Naeem ki girlfriend hu...Faizal ne bataya kya hua, merko usse please milne do!"
( Who are you? What work do you have here? )
( How do you know Naeem? )
( I'm Naeem's girlfriend...Faizal told me what happened, please let me meet him!)
They both looked quite shocked at her confession before Ulfat nodded and lead Dilara into Naeem's bedroom where he was laying on his bed covered in bandages. She couldn't help the sob that tore out of her as she rushed towards his side and knelt to hold his hand as she cried into his hand. She didn't even hear Rehman enter the room until he cleared his throat. She turned to see everyone in the room, Rehman, Ulfat, Hamza and Uzair. "Naam kya hai?"
She sniffed before answering, "Dilara...Dilara Khan"
"Naeem ke saath Kab se ho tum?" Ulfat inquiries gently, seeing the state the young girl was in was quite heartbreaking.
"...Hum ek saal se ek saath hai.."
( What's your name? )
( How long have you been with Naeem? )
( We've been together for a year... )
They all looked pretty shocked to hear that, but it was when Dilara asked if she could keep visiting Naeem that really got their attention. After a few moments of silence, they agreed and Dilara let out a sigh of relief. The following days were filled with Dilara going to school before taking a rickshaw and going directly to the Haveli and spending hours with him before going back home. Rehman had offered for one of his men to drop her but she had to refuse since she still didn't have the confidence to tell him the truth about her being Pathan. When Dilara came from school to visit only to see Naeem awake and sitting on the bed she dropped her bag on the floor before running to him and tackling hugging him. He laughed as he hugged her back tightly. "Ammi ne bataya ki tum har din mujhse milne ayi.... shukriya meri jaan." Naeem said softly before kissing her forehead, not noticing Ulfat and Rehman standing in the doorway watching the way their son showed affection exactly like his father did. "Ye kaise hua? Mujhe ghar chodne ke baad kya hua?" At her question Rehman came forward as well to finally understand who had the audacity to attack his son. Naeem explained everything to them, from dropping Dilara back home on his bike, to being attacked by Babu Dakait's men. At the name Rehman's jaw clenched before he put his hand on Naeem's head and walked out of the room with new purpose to get rid of the man who hurt his family.
( Mother told me you came to visit me everyday...thank you my love. )
( How did this happen? What happened after you dropped me home? )
A few days later you were at home with your family when you heard the news talking about the murder that happened in broad daylight in the middle of the market. You could barely hear your parents remarks and comments about how ruthless and barbaric the man was, all you could think about was that Naeem was finally avenged and no one would dare to hurt him ever again. It took everything in you to keep the smile off your face in front of your parents.
Her routine changed since then. After school she would go with Naeem and Faizal back to the Haveli, have lunch with the family and spend the afternoon in Naeem's arms. There were even times where Ulfat and Rehman referred to her as their daughter (she totally wasn't eavesdropping!), Ulfat had also given her some of her old clothes and jewelry. Dilara truly felt at home and safe at the Haveli. She had once built up the courage to ask Rehman at lunch if he was okay with her being a Pathan, to which he replied with, "Pehli mulakat se janta tha tum kaunse quam se ho, lekin mujhe usse koi lena dena nahi, tum abh iss ghar ki beti ho."
Dilara had to stuff her face to keep the tears at bay.
(I've known since the first meeting which community you belonged to, but that didn't matter since either way youre the daughter of this house.)
She knew she had to reveal her relationship to her parents soon but that could wait another day, cause right now? She was right where she belonged. Dilara had to admit, she's really grateful she screamed at this particular boy on the first day of school.
Warnings: Explicit!Smut, Missionary (Because it feels very romantic to me), MDI 18+ (waise toh koi manega nahi, par decorum ke liye bol diya), 3.3k words
Pairings: Naeem Baloch x Sanam (My OC, guys)
Pure Fluff, PWOP, Fem-Dom, fuckable-soft!dom husband, domestic smut, morning sex, horny af couple, merese jo imagine huya maine likha, meri ovulation phase wali fantasy hi samajh lo
Sanam was organizing her study table, putting the books in the right order, grouping her college textbooks in the right upper shelf and her novels on the left lower shelf of her mini book shelf.
She was at her Father's house for a week, this was the first time she was away from Naeem after their marriage two months ago. She had missed being with her husband and came back to the Baloch Haveli yesterday evening.
The shining sun's soft-warm rays invaded the bedroom through the east window, it was six in the morning. The birds were chirping while sitting on the electric wires, not a feather of fear in those little creatures.
“Good morning”, Sanam felt a soft kiss being placed on her right cheek, it was her Husband, Naeem Baloch. His arms wrapped around her lower waist, her curves simultaneously being swallowed by his frame, his forehead pressed against the arch of her.
“Good morning”, Sanam mumbled as flush appeared on her cheeks, she exhaled deeply, her palms grabbing the table for balance as she felt her legs suddenly weaken by his soft touch.
“Hmm..”, Naeem pressed a soft kiss behind her ears, nuzzling his nose there. Sanam felt a rush of tickles on her back, resulting in her to tilt her head, “Ah..”, she sealed her lips to cage in the whispers of her arousal.
Naeem unwrapped his arms from her, instead grabbing her waist in his hands, pecking the silken skin of her back, sliding down gradually and then moving upwards again… and again.
His hands glide upwards on her torso, slowly moulding his hands to her frame. He brushed his face on the little exposed section of her back, the knot of her salwar kameez roughly blazing his skin, leaving a red irritated patch but in that soft moment, it mattered neither to Naeem or Sanam.
Sanam felt his palms weighing her soft mounds, she gasped as her eyes moistened, a strange feeling tying knots in her stomach and her shoulders feeling lighter, “Naeem, tch, kya kar rahe ho?”
She acted coy while her husband was cupping her breasts, anchoring them rhythmically according to him and compressing them once in a moment.
“Mmm.. Mmmm..”, Sanam whimpered as she placed her hand on one of his, her other hand reaching out to his chin resting on her shoulder, pressing his face back into the crook of her neck.
Naeem inhaled the sweet scent of her shampoo coming from her curls, he nipped the skin under her right earlobe causing Sanam to keen. Subsequently, he practiced kneading her bosoms. His legs caging hers between his.
“Bed par chalo”, he groaned in her ear, rubbing his bulge against her hips. Sanam could feel his hardening shaft and her clit throbbed in response.
“Abhi nahi karte… subah ke 6 baaje hai hai abhi”
“Toh kya huya?”
“Ah… woh tumhari aami abhi buleyengi nashta banane ke liye, ab chodh do”
“Aarey nahi aayengi abhi, chalo shuru karte hai”
“Woh bulayengi toh main beech mein se kaise jaungi? Woh kya samjhengi?”, Sanam turned to face her husband, whose face was dripping with urgency.
“Kya kya samjhengi? Do mahine pehle hamara nikaah huya hai aur hum dono ab romance kar rahe hain”
“Accha, aur puchne pe kya tum yeh bataoge? Ki hum dono 3 ghante kamre mein kyun band the breakfast time par?”, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Tum chaho toh”
“Naeem!”
“Baby, tum kya yaar? Hamesha mood bana ke tum chodh deti ho”, disappointment evident in his curt voice. He took his hands off from her breasts and stepped back.
“Ammi ko bolna mein baad mein nashta karunga”, Naeem said as he got in his bed and pulled the blanket over himself.
“Naraz ho kya?”, Sanam asked, her voice a bit softer than before.
“Nahi, ab kuch huya nahi toh soh hi jau”
“Aarey, shaam ko karengena, jaan?”
“Hm, hm, thik hai”
Two hours later
Naeem turned on his side as he opened his olive green eyes, suppressing a yawn, he stretched his arms, ready to get off the bed.
That's when the door swiftly opened, entered his beautiful wife, a mischievous smile on her face.
“Isse kya hogaya?”, he questioned in his mind as he sat up on the bed.
“Naeeem!”, Sanam called his name in a sing-a-song way, “Guess what?”, she said excitedly as she too got on the bed and sat beside.
“What, babe?”
The mischievous smile plastered on her face, waiting for her husband to answer.
“Sanam, kya huya bataogi? Mujhe subah subah yeh guessing games nahi khelne hai, Yaar”
Sanam laid back on the bedpost as she placed one of her legs on his, “Tumhari Ammi aur Chachi gaye hai Aayat chowk, unki usual khareedari karne, tumhare Abbu aur Chachu kisi kamse Hamza bhai ke saath Rawalpindi gaye hain, shaam tak aajayenge”
“Toh main kya karun?”, Naeem was getting off the bed, when Sanam grabbed his arm, “Unn dono ko aane mein kam az kam 3-4 ghante lagenge”
“Hmm?”
“Aaona jaan, aise naraz nahi hote”
“Tch, main naraz nahi hoon, baas mood nahi hai ab”
“Toh main mood bana deti hoon na!”
Naeem turned to face her, leaning closer to her, “Kaise?”, a teasing smile on his lips.
Sanam giggled as she grabbed his collar and pulled his face closer to hers, “Aise”, she had whispered to him.
She placed her lips on his, pressing them together, her hands let go off her collar and moved to his neck as she cupped his jaw in her hands. She sucked on his lips.
Naeem kissed her back with the same passion, if not more and gripped her arm, pulling her closer to intensify the heated moment.
He felt her tongue asking for an invite in his mouth, parting lips apart he let her enter. Their forehead crushed against each other as they wrestled with their tongues.
The kiss deepened quickly as he slowed down his pace to explore the sweet taste of her mouth. Sanam felt her tongue rolling against his as they pressed their noses together.
Sanam broke the kiss with a whimper as they rested their forehead against each other to catch up some breath.
Her hands reached to the two buttons of his kurta and she unbuttoned them with an aggressive urgency.
“Utaro na isse!”, she ordered as she pulled up his kurta and took it off from him, throwing it on the floor.
She pecked kisses on his chest, pinning him against the bedpost. Naeem held her from her waist and pulled her over himself, kicking off the blanket at first.
Naeem groaned as his earlobe was beaten, causing him to squeeze her waist roughly, “Don't do that”
He untied the knot from her back, “Tum bhi utaro yeh”. Sanam took off her salwar and pajama and threw it back.
Naeem's gaze fell upon her budding nipples puckering through her bra. All the heat of her body gathers in her cleavage, making the buds more prominent, even from behind the piece of cloth.
“Ab dekh kya rahe ho? Kuch karo na..”, Sanam's face was red from the heated and passionate moment they are sharing right now, she placed her hands on his chest, sliding them up and down from his shoulders.
He reached to unbutton the bra, sliding off her shoulders, uncovering her bare mounds.
Heat rushed to Naeem's cheeks, as he faced her chest, closing the distance he placed a kiss between the bridge of her breasts, his nose pressing. Sanam gripped her shoulders as she felt sensations running through her chest.
She grinded against his clothed bulge, using his shoulders for intensity. Meanwhile, Naeem started suckling her mounds, holding them in a gentle grip as he used his tongue to lick her nipples and drawing them harder.
Sanam was moaning loudly, “Ah… Naeem.. Ah.. Mmmm”, as he teased her peak harder, nipping on her buds, slowly her eyes moistened quickly.
He devoured her chest with an intense passion as she grinded her front on his bulge, sitting on him. He gripped her hips gently, squeezing them softly as he did the work with his tongue and mouth.
Sanam arched her back, giving more access to Naeem as she stared at the ceiling, grasping the whole moment.
Naeem broke the contact as he panted before brushing his face on her chest, kissing and nipping her collarbones.
He pushed her on the mattress, topping her this time. They locked their eyes together, her brown eyes seemed even more enchanting in this moment. He moved back to her, kissing behind her ears, mouthing her shoulders.
His nose brushed softly around her arms as he placed his lips on them. Sanam's chest felt heavy to her; she guided his face back to hers, locking lips in a kiss again.
Breaking the kiss, he, now, was kissing down her body, nipping at her bosoms, placing soft love bites on her stomach and under her breasts. She whimpered as he reached her stomach, placing his mouth on her belly button, before stopping.
Naeem chuckled as Sanam pushed his head down to her thighs, she parted her legs for him. He placed her legs on his shoulders.
She held her breath as a kiss was placed on her crotch. He teased her front with mouthed kisses without actually doing anything.
Sanam was getting restless because of her husband's teasing, “Naeem, kya kar rahe ho, do the actual thing!!”
“Sanam, patience, tab hi toh maza aayega, Baby”, he replied as he crushed her thighs. Sanam whimpered as his lips traced her thighs, under her knees and then her inner thighs soft skin.
She felt her eyes roll back as the tension thickened, she gripped the bedsheet trying not to explode. She wanted to crush his head between her thighs.
Now, finally he slid off her underwear, Sanam's excitement grew ten times more. Her folds were already soaking wet, waiting for him.
He slipped his finger in her entrance as his wife let out a gasp. He felt her walls swallowing the finger as whole, as he pushed it further inside. He curved his finger slightly to find an internal spot, Sanam meanwhile, had her legs parting further apart in pleasure.
She wanted him to insert another, “Ah, Naeem..”, her one leg was thrown over his shoulder and one lazily placed on the mattress, “ek aur..”
“Ek aur kya?”, Naeem teased his wife as he glided his finger more roughly, “Thik se bolo, Baby”
Sanam bit her lower lip in joy as his finger had the right spot, she felt a knot forming in her belly.
“Ek aur.. ek aur finger dalo na… please”, she managed to utter between those heavy breaths.
“Accha?”, he asked before sliding in another thick finger, stretching her warm walls, her clit was pulsing with arousal at this point.
He played his fingers in her wetness well, gliding back and forth, stroking it round before pushing it further back.
“Aaahh! Naeem!”, she screamed his name, a tear rolled down from the corner of her eye.
“Zor se, zor se bolo”, Naeem ordered, caressing her slickness as he explored her core. He flipped his finger to stroke her throbbing clit, hitting the best spot.
“Naeeeeemmmmm!!”
Her eyes almost fell out of their sockets as his tongue invaded her crotch. Mouth widening in “O”, as she gripped on his hair.
He explored her insides with his tongue, trying to find the right spot. He had improved a bit after all, Sanam had thought at that moment. She moved his head, accommodating his mouth to her needs.
His nose rubbed on her core's entrance, inhaling her sweet scent. Her buds hardened with pleasure as he gripped her hips, devouring her wetness, gliding down on her warm folds.
Tears rolled down her face, lips parting slightly in this heavenly experience. But waiting for the intercourse made her impatient. She wanted him all inside her. The passing seconds feeling like a psychological torture to her.
Her core pulsed with arousal as he explored her vagina fully, going deeper and back.
“Dalo na andar!”, Sanam ordered impatiently.
“Wait”, Naeem reached out to the bedside cupboard, searching for the condom.
“Condom nahi aaj”
“Are you sure?”, Naeem asked, surprised at her suggestion.
“Haan, aaj aise hi karke dekhte hai”
“But, you know… agar protection ke bina karenge toh—”
“Naeem, ek baar mein kuch nahi hota, nikaah se pehle bhi kiya tha humne!”
“Haan, par—”
“Ab par-war mat karo, jaldi dalo naaa andar!!”
Naeem put his weight on his knees to balance, unzipping his jeans and kicking it off and sliding off his boxers.
Sanam had just caught her breath when she gasped again as Naeem had entered her already warm and soaking wet center. Her walls throbbing around his shaft, Naeem let out a heavy sigh.
He shifted his weight forward, rested his palms on either side of her head. His waist moved rhythmically, enriching Sanam's pleasure. She embraced his torso with one arm and another was wrapped around his neck, simultaneously pulling him closer.
His eyes were locked on hers, his lips slightly apart as he watched her expressions. Her soft skin was gleaming under him, shining beads forming on her face and down to her collar bone.
Sanam turned her face aside, finding his eye contact too strong to hold at this moment. Her chin was grabbed soon and turned to face him back.
“Meri taraf dekho”, he panted, closing his eyes for a second, then gazing at her back, “Accha lag raha hai?”
“Hmm”, she hummed back as she snaked her both forearms around his shoulders, “ Thoda—”, she choked out before continuing, “Thoda aur rough karo'”. She lifted her hips, absorbing his fullness, stretching around the intrusion of his tip.
He abandoned his restraint, quickening his strokes. The heat between them became too intense to handle, driving into her with a reckless urgency that left them both clinging to each other.
His slow grind shifted into a frantic, breathless tempo, as he accelerated his pace completely.
She cried out his name, gaping, the loud sound of pleasure broke the silence of the room. No longer caring about who heard her, she gave the full voice to the heat building inside her.
The knot in her belly exploded at last as she climaxed, with him still inside her. Her slick moisture coating every inch of his shaft. The stroking motion becomes more easy to explore.
His hips locked, his movements turning frantic and involuntary as he pressed deep inside her, his breath completely hitching in his throat. He hit the point of no return, a low, guttural groan tearing from his chest as his body braced for the release.
Sanam felt him hardening inside her as he came, shooting his moisture all in her at once. He rested his forehead at hers, his elbows on either side of her head as he let himself release the tension.
She felt his fluid streaming down her front, the thought made a deep flush blooming across her cheeks and neck, reddening her ears.
Naeem panted heavily as he spoke in broken phrases, pausing to draw air, “Ah.. Mere upa aao..”, he murmured incoherently to Sanam.
She hummed in question, sheathing his girth more deeply, as she wrapped her legs around his lower waist, savouring the intense warmth of his manhood, her eyes rolling back.
Sanam's mouth parted slightly, a hollow ache blooming deep in her throat, desperate to be filled. With her lips wide open to catch the morning air, she felt restless hungering inside her mouth, craving the heavy presence of his length.
“Pehle—”, she keened as Naeem buried himself to the hilt, slowing down his pace. Her eyes rolled back, her legs giving out as took every inch of him.
She wanted to swallow all his children.
Naeem turned on his back, he scooped her up in his arms, his back hitting the now messy bedsheet. Sanam was on top of him now, her eyes were shut, panting hard.
Her hair was a tangled mess, which made her look hotter to Naeem. He pushed the wet strands of hair sticking to the gleam on her face, his fingers brushing longer on her breasts.
“Naeem..”
“Hm?’, he breathed heavily, lazily rolling his hips against hers, ensuring every moment hit her core. His voice deepened into a hoarse murmur, he threw his head back, gradually slowing his breath. Hair sticking to his forehead, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip.
His hands rested on her waist, he opened his eyes as he asked, “Kya huya?”
Sanam lifted her weight away from him, which surprised Naeem as she laid beside him. Both of them were breathless.
He groaned as he moved closer to her, wrapping himself around her. Their legs were tangled as they nuzzled closer to each other, locking lips again in a kiss.
As they got engulfed in each other, Sanam drawed back, “Naeem, mujhe—”, her mouth got sealed by his lips again. She placed her hand on his shoulder, slipping free from his gentle grip, “Mujhe bolne doge tum? Saans nahi aari hai”, she had complained.
"Bolo na, yaar”, Naeem's mouth felt sore, his jaw aching slightly and his back.
“Ek dusri position try karte hai!”, she smiled eagerly, her eyes gleaming with excitement.
Naeem felt his back aching slightly but the excitement on her face made him comply, “Kaunsi wali?”, he had asked as he moved his arm to her waist, resting it on her.
“Tumhe kuch nahi karna, tum baas lete raho”
“Hm?”
“Haan?”
Naeem hadn't thought Sanam would go down on him, swallowing him completely. He whimpered as her lips pressed against his girth, her hands stroking his balls firmly.
He felt exploding when Sanam used her tongue on his tip, he held her head for support. A tingling sensation rushing through his lower half, hips feeling sore.
She sucked down his shaft, saliva forming in her mouth, her hands working on his dick subsequently. She felt her hair being gripped from the back, forcing her to look up at him.
“Meri taraf dekhti raho”, Naeem managed to murmur between pants, his eyes closed, “Oh, Fuck!”
Sanam smiled at him with her eyes as she went back and forth with her head, sending shivers down her husband's spine. She was caged between his legs.
At one point he exploded, white, hot cum filling her mouth. Naeem was about to pull out but she kept her soft lips enveloped around his manhood, swallowing the last drop.
After a while, she finally let him slip it out. Her throat felt sore and mouth was empty. She climbed on the top of him, resting her head on his chest as he snaked his arms around her. Their legs entwined each other. His one hand reached out to her hip, resting it there.
He was breathing heavily, the breaths falling on her forehead. She lifted her gaze up to look at his face. He looked so beautiful to her, sure, he always does but something more special in these intimate moments.
Naeem's eyes fell upon the clock, it was Past eleven, “Sanam.. Chalo naha lete hain”, he suggested, his voice was hoarse and husky.
“Hmm”, she nuzzled her face in the crook of her neck, delaying the moment.
“Ek baaje Jameel Sahab se milne jana hai, ab uthne do mujhe”
“Thodi der baad”
“Ammi aur Chachi aajayengi”
“Hmm… thik hai”
Naeem slid on his boxers. They both got off the bed and walked towards the bathroom, their clothes still laying on the floor. Naeem entered first, turning on the shower. Sanam shut the door behind her and pinned him against the bathroom wall.
“Baas ek baar”, Sanam'a eyes shined with mischievousness from earlier, she bit her lower lip, making Naeem take a deep sigh, stating at her.
“He didn’t betray me. At least… that’s not what my heart believes.
He did what he did for something bigger than both of us. And somehow, despite all the lies, he still loved me. Maybe not completely. Maybe not honestly. But it was real. And that truth alone is enough for me.
