#aditya dhar

[bubblegum-bakwaas]

Miss Kulfi

Uzair Baloch x clueless!fem Reader

Summary : Uzair Baloch meets a girl who has absolutely no clue who he is, no survival instincts, and way too much confidence for someone causing public scenes at Azam Sweets. Unfortunately for him, she also happens to be the first person in a very long time to treat him like he’s just some random hot guy instead of Uzair Baloch himself.

Word count : 14483k words

A/N : part 1??? guys pehli baar reader se writer banne ki koshish kari hai 🤧💔 first time writing literally anything so please reham 😭 starting ke 5k words sirf y/n ki personality, uski bakwas aur relational world building mein chale gaye because apparently mujhe editing se personal dushmani hai ✋ could i have shortened it? yes. kya maine kiya? bilkul nahi. aur phir pata nahi kaise yeh 15k (almost) words ka hogaya 😭 genuinely respect to anyone jo poora padhega because mujhe khud nahi pata plot kab shuru hua aur kab sab Azam Sweets mein public tamasha ban gaya 💔 please bear with me lovingly 🛐😬

this is my alternate blog created specifically to write dhurandhar fics because apparently the obsession got out of hand, you might know me from my main blog @astrellapyxis

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.

After two years of doing your master’s in Switzerland, you had almost forgotten what Karachi felt like in the summer. The airport doors slide open and Karachi crashes into you whole. The heat surpassing your heart and melting away the freeze that Switzerland had left behind. 

Home.

The air smells like dust, chai, humidity, jet fuel, and home. Loud voices overlap somewhere near the arrival gate, trolley wheels screech across the floor, and outside the glass windows the sky hangs heavy and orange with summer haze. Walking through you pushed your sunglasses up onto your head, scanning the crowd for a familiar face before spotting a man holding a small placard with your name written across it. 

Miss Y/N Ahmed

A smile spreads infectiously on your face lightening up all the tiredness caused due to the long travel. There your fathers assistant Qureshi chacha holds up a placard with a genuine smile when he spots you. In his hands, a pretty bouquet of pink carnations, making your smile deeper if that was even possible. You rush ahead to meet him by passing strangers and their hurried trolleys.

“As-salamu alaykum, chacha! Kaise ho aap?” you beam at him. He hands you the flowers and takes your bags from you before answering.

“Walaikum assalam. Main to thik hi hu, par tumahre bina tho aesa lagta tha ki Karachi ki sari runak tum aapne sath Switzerland pack kerkar legai,” he told you while shaking his head.

He had given all his worth to your father’s business, and your father, in turn, had given him a family he didn’t have. Qureshi chacha, to you, was more than your uncle; he was your confidant, your ‘father’ when your teacher called your parents to discuss your behaviour in school, the person who’d sneak you out of the house when your friend made impromptu plans to watch the sunrise and ‘find the purpose of life’.

He was always there, and now he was here too, and there was no more befitting person to welcome you back home than him. Your father knew that, which was probably why he sent Qureshi chacha to pick you up himself. 

As you reach the car, the Karachi heat somehow feels even worse in the parking lot. The air is thick and humid, sticking to your skin instantly despite the oversized hoodie tied around your waist and the sunglasses still perched on your head. Somewhere nearby, a car horn blares aggressively for far too long while exhausted families crowd around trolleys, arguing over luggage and directions. Husbands and wives bicker over who was more exhausted after the flight while their children trailed behind them looking suspiciously energetic, as if they’d personally drained every ounce of life from their parents during the journey. 

You stop beside the car and stare at the sky like it personally offended you.

“Ya Allah,” you groan dramatically, pressing the back of your hand to your forehead. “Yeh Karachi hai ya the inside of an air fryer?”

Qureshi chacha snorts as he places your bags in the trunk. “Bas abhi paanch minute hue hain tumhein utare.”

“And I’ve already suffered enough.”

“You lived in Switzerland for two years, not Antarctica.”

“Clearly not long enough because I’m literally melting.” You aggressively fan yourself with your passport before narrowing your eyes at him suspiciously. “AC chal raha hai na? Dekho, aaj mere saath games mat khelna, chacha. I’m jetlagged, sleep deprived, and emotionally delicate.” counting each inconvenience on the tips of your fingers.

“Emotionally delicate?” he repeats, pausing mid door opening to stare at you. “Tum? Beta, tum toh bachpan mein bhi PTM meetings mein teachers ko rulakar aati thi.”

You gasp. “That was activism. Teachers ko bhi toh pata chalna chahiye ki hum bachon par kya guzarti thi jab woh humein daanta karte the. I just reciprocated what I got. Aur waise bhi, un situations mein sabse zyada kaun entertain hota tha? Aap hi toh thay na.”

Qureshi chacha lets out an offended scoff, though the smile tugging at his face completely ruins the effect.

“Main entertain nahi hota tha,” he says, getting into the driver’s seat. “Main bas yeh dekh raha hota tha ke iss baar tumhara confidence tumhein principal ke office tak leke jata hai ya suspension tak.”

“And yet,” you point at him triumphantly, “aap har baar mujhe ice cream khilane le jaate thay afterwards.”

“Woh isliye kyunki tum ro deti thi.”

“That is called emotional processing,” you say with deep offence, pointing at yourself. “I’m literally an empath. Main dusron ki energy absorb karti hoon.” Now making weird gestures with your hands.

“Haan,” Qureshi chacha nods thoughtfully. “Phir us energy ko teen working days tak nonstop bakbak mein convert karti ho.”

You let out an offended gasp so dramatic that the aunty passing by with three screaming children actually turns to look at you. dramatically clutching your chest as Qureshi chacha shook his head in disappointment that held far too much affection to ever be real annoyance.

The rest of the drive home passes in the same chaotic rhythm it always had.  you, at twenty three years old, still arguing with him like an overdramatic teenager while he entertained it far more than he should have. You complain about Karachi’s heat, the traffic, the humidity ruining your hair within ten minutes of landing, and your fundamental human right to be treated gently because you were “a fragile, jetlagged international student.”

Qureshi chacha, naturally, tells you that Switzerland clearly gave you a degree but failed to give you patience.

By the time the car turns into the familiar street leading home, your stomach already tight with anticipation, the exhaustion from the fourteen hour flight doesn’t feel nearly as heavy anymore.

When the car finally stops in front of the mansion you called home, your chest tightens a little at the sight of it.

Long marble pillars stood tall beneath the golden evening light, the fountains at the entrance singing softly of old money, culture, and the kind of grandeur your father carried so effortlessly. The gardens were overflowing with summer blooms, their scent drifting through the warm Karachi air, while green veins of ivy climbed along the walls like lost lovers refusing to let go.

You turn to Qureshi chacha as he unloads your luggage. “Chacha, abbu kahan hai?” you ask, already knowing the answer before the question even leaves your mouth. 

“Aur kahan honge? Aapni study mein hain,” he replies, shaking his head with quiet amusement.

You bid Qureshi chacha goodbye, making him promise that he’d stay for dinner tonight before hurrying inside the house. The second you reach your father’s study, you push the door open without bothering to knock, a habit you’d had since childhood.

Your father sits behind his desk, glasses resting low on his nose as he scans through a pile of documents, his laptop open beside him, entirely consumed by work.

Then he looks up.

And the smile that lights up his face at the sight of you could probably power Karachi’s nightlife for weeks.

“Assalamu alaykum, abbu,” you grin from the doorway.

Your father had very few things in life that truly made him happy, and you and your mother sat firmly at the top of that list. Everything he built, every late night spent buried in meetings and paperwork, every sacrifice he quietly made over the years, had always been for the two of you.

He worked himself to exhaustion to give you and your mother the life you deserved, yet somehow never missed your birthdays, school events, award ceremonies, or the small moments you wanted him there for. No matter how busy he became, you never once had to question whether you came second to his work.

Your life was the way it was because of this man. A man who refused to give his family anything less than the best. Which, unfortunately for the men around you, meant your standards had been ruined beyond repair from the very beginning.

“Aagayi abbu ki jaan?” His eyes twinkle the second they land on you, warmth instantly replacing the exhaustion that had settled over his features moments ago. Without hesitation, he pushes his chair back and gets up from behind his desk, leaving the scattered documents, laptop, and endless stream of unfinished work behind as though none of it mattered anymore.

And maybe, when it came to you, it really didn’t.

The moment you reach him, he pulls you into a tight embrace like you’re still five years old. Strong arms wrapping around you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head exactly the way it had since childhood. He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead before pulling back just enough to look at you properly.

Really look at you.

Like he’s trying to quietly gather every changed feature, every small difference two years abroad had carved into you, and tuck it safely into memory.

“Kya abbu, aap bhi na,” you complain immediately, though your voice comes out softer than intended under his gaze. “Aapko pata hai main aaj aa rahi hoon, phir bhi aap yahan apni kaam ki dukaan khol kar baith gaye.” you pout at him.

Your father laughs low and warm, the sound filling the study with an ease no amount of expensive furniture or marble ever could.

“Sorry, beta. Mujhe kuch kaam complete karna tha taki jab tum aao toh main apna sara waqt tumhein de paaun,” he says, gently holding your face between his palms like he still can’t quite believe you’re finally home.

Your annoyance melts immediately. Traitorously.

“Emotional manipulation kar rahe hain aap,” you mumble under your breath, narrowing your eyes at him suspiciously despite still letting him hold your face.

“Bilkul,” he nods shamelessly, not even pretending to deny it. “Businessman hoon akhir.”

You let out an offended scoff despite the smile pulling at your lips before stepping forward to hug him again anyway, burying your face briefly against his shoulder while he chuckles softly above you.

The study still smells exactly the same; oud, coffee, old books, and your father’s cologne. Comfortingly familiar. Home.

“Ammi ko mil kar aayi ho ya seedha abbu se milne aagayi?” he asks after a moment, pulling back to give you a playful side eye. “Tumhein toh pata hai woh kitni offended hojati hain jab tum pehle mere paas aati ho.”

You gasp dramatically, placing a hand over your chest. “Excuse me? Aap dono mujhe aise treat kyun karte ho jaise main divorced parents ke beech custody schedule manage kar rahi hoon?”

Your father actually laughs at that properly laughs, head tipping back slightly in amusement.

“Tumhari ammi ko mat bol dena maine hasa tha iss baat pe, warna meri fielding set hojayegi,” he says under his breath like he’s sharing classified information.

“Bolne ki zarurat bhi nahi hai.”

Your ammi’s voice cuts through the room as she steps into the study, looking every bit as elegant and unimpressed as ever. One perfectly arched brow raised, arms crossed lightly over her chest like she’d already heard enough nonsense from the two of you for the evening.

Absolute baddie behaviour.

But the entire act crumbles the second her eyes land on you.

“AMMI!”

You practically launch yourself toward her like an overexcited five-year-old who had been separated from her mother for far too long instead of a twenty three year old woman who’d spent the last two years abroad pretending she was independent enough not to miss this every single day. She barely gets a chance to open her arms before you crash into them, hugging her tightly while she laughs softly, instantly wrapping you up in the kind of warmth only mothers carried.

And just like that, you’re home.

Because no matter how beautiful Switzerland had been, no matter how independent you’d learned to become there, nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to this.

People loved teasing you about being your papa ki pari, but the truth was, you had always been a mummy’s girl. Even your father knew it. Honestly, he seemed weirdly proud of it half the time.

Your mummy looked exactly the way you remembered her, graceful, elegant, and carrying the kind of endless motherly warmth that made every place around her feel safer somehow. Sometimes you genuinely thanked God for your genetics because clearly aging worked very generously in your family. Honestly, if your parents were the standard, you knew you were only going to get hotter with age.

Your mother pulls back just enough to cup your face between her hands, eyes scanning you carefully like she’s checking for damage after two years away. Then, before you can even prepare yourself, she attacks your face with an endless barrage of kisses.

“Ammi-!” you burst into giggles instantly, trying and failing to escape while she continues anyway. “Bas! Bas! I just got off a fourteen hour flight, have some mercy!”

“Nahi,” she says without a hint of remorse, kissing your forehead again. “Do saal baad meri beti ghar aayi hai.” 

You let out a scandalized gasp before immediately turning toward your father for support. “Abbu, dekhein? Emotional aur physical assault dono ho raha hai mere saath.” 

Your father looks at the two of you for a moment, clearly entertained, before shamelessly siding with your mother.

“Main tumhari ammi ke khilaaf kuch nahi bolunga,” he says wisely. “Mujhe aaj raat sofa par nahi sona.”

You stare at him in betrayal. “Abbu!”

“Beta, shaadi-shuda mardon ki survival instincts hoti hain.”

Your mother rolls her eyes at the two of you before smoothing your hair back lovingly one last time. “Bas ab jao,” she says, gently pushing you toward the door. “Fresh ho jao. Maine tumhari pasand ka khana banaya hai aur agar tum der karogi na toh main aur tumhare abbu sab kha lenge.”

You wave her off dramatically. “Haan haan meri maa, jaa rahi hoon—”

Thak.

You let out an offended gasp as your mother smacks the back of your head lightly.

“Badtameez,” she mutters, trying and failing to hide her smile.

“Abbu!” you cry out in betrayal, rubbing the back of your head dramatically. “Dekhein? Violence. Actual violence.”

Your father, utterly useless in this situation, merely adjusts his glasses to hide his amusement. “Mujhe toh kuch nazar nahi aaya.”

“Wow,” you whisper, staring at both of them in disbelief. “Mere hi ghar mein mera koi support system nahi hai.”

“Fresh hokar neeche aao warna khana thanda hojayega,” your mother warns, pointing toward the door with the authority of someone who absolutely expected to be obeyed.

You immediately straighten up. “Okay, ma’am.”

Then you throw her a dramatic salute like she’s the First Lady and you’re a soldier being sent off to war.

Your father laughs quietly under his breath while your mother shakes her head at your antics. “Do saal baahar kya gayi ho, drama aur zyada hogaya hai.”

You walk down the stairs with the casual ease of a student who had just finished her final exam, blissfully relaxed for now, fully aware her fielding would absolutely be set the second results week arrived, but choosing peace while it still lasted.

The rich aroma of food wraps around the house the deeper you walk in, instantly making your stomach grumble loud enough for you to glare at it in betrayal. Fresh rotis, biryani, kebabs, something fried definitely made by your mother with dangerous amounts of love and butter, actual food.

Not the sad excuse of a sandwich you’d forced yourself to eat on the flight.

Honestly, that thing had tasted like lightly seasoned cardboard with commitment issues.

But in your defence, your social anxiety had decided asking the flight attendant for something else would somehow be more painful than starvation itself. So naturally, you sat there chewing disappointment in silence because apparently asking for another meal was where your bravery drew the line.

As your eyes land on the dining table, you nearly stop walking altogether.

The entire thing is overflowing with food. Not metaphorically. Actually overflowing. Dishes covered almost every inch of the massive table while house helpers continued bringing out more from the kitchen like this was some kind of royal feast instead of a random Tuesday lunch.

For a second, you genuinely wonder if your mother had secretly invited the entirety of Karachi over without informing you.

A strange ache settles softly in your chest as you take it all in.

It had been two years since someone had loved you this loudly.

Two years since someone remembered every little thing you liked without needing to ask. Two years since home cooked meals appeared out of care instead of convenience. And suddenly, standing there watching your mother direct everyone while making sure your favourite dishes were still hot, you feel embarrassingly emotional over food.

“Ammi…” you blink slowly, eyes widening as another tray gets placed on the table. “Aapne poori Karachi ko ghar pe bulaliya hai kya? Itna khana kiske liye hai?”

Your mother looks personally offended by the question.

“Kya matlab kiske liye? Tumhare liye.”

“Ammi,” you laugh in disbelief, “yeh lunch kam aur dawat zyada lag rahi hai.”

The table looked insane.

There was steaming nihari beside baskets filled with fresh rotis, butter naan, and taftaan. Two different types of biryani occupied the center of the table like rival kingdoms competing for dominance while an offensive number of kebab varieties surrounded them from every direction. And then came the desserts, ice cream, gulab jamuns, rabdi, and… was that a fucking cake???

Your father sits down at the table, looking equally overwhelmed by the amount of food being laid out in front of him before letting out an impressed whistle. “Waah, aaj beti ghar hai toh dawat ka intezam kiya hai,” he says dramatically, eyeing the table. “Warna hamare naseeb mein yeh sab kahan.”

Your mother immediately turns toward him with narrowed eyes. “Acha? Kal hi toh aapne nihari khaayi thi.”

“Haan, lekin woh normal nihari thi,” your father argues smoothly. “Yeh wali toh ‘meri beti do saal baad ghar aayi hai’ wali nihari hai. Ismein emotions zyada hain.”

You snort into your glass while taking your seat. “Abbu please, ‘emotionally infused nihari’ jaisi koi cheez nahi hoti.”

“Hoti hai,” he says seriously. “Tumhari ammi ka mood directly taste affect karta hai.”

Your mother rolls her eyes, though the smile tugging at her lips gives her away instantly. “Bas bas. Dono baap beti drama kam karo aur khana khao.”

Your mother sits down beside you and immediately starts filling your plate before you can even protest properly. Nihari, biryani, kebabs, naan. your plate slowly begins looking less like a lunch serving and more like one of those aggressive YouTube mukbang videos with concerning portion sizes.

“Ammi-” you stare at the mountain of food in horror. “Itna khana ek saath kaise kha sakti hoon main?”

“Do saal se nahi khaya hai,” she dismisses your concerns instantly while adding another kebab onto your plate anyway. “Kha hi logi.”

You take your first bite and nearly melt into your seat on the spot. The flavours hit your senses all at once rich, spicy, comforting, familiar. easing the pounding headache sitting behind your eyes from the jetlag like your body itself had finally realized it was home. After two years of bland cafeteria food, overpriced “authentic” desi restaurants abroad, and sad student meals made at 2 a.m, this genuinely felt life changing.

You slowly turn toward your mother with what was probably the most pleased expression to ever grace your face, instantly making her beam with pride. “Ammi…” you say emotionally before grabbing her hand dramatically and pressing a kiss to it. “Kya khana banaya hai.”

Your mother laughs softly, smoothing your hair back affectionately while pretending not to look extremely pleased with herself. Then you suddenly raise your voice toward the kitchen.

“Sakhina khala!”

Sakhina khala, the house help who had practically helped raise you alongside your mother and had most definitely helped cook this entire feast, calls back instantly from the kitchen, “Jee beta?”

“Main toh aapko apne saath Switzerland lejana chahti thi!” you call out dramatically. “Bohot lazeez khana banaya hai!”

From beside you, your father sighs deeply while taking another bite of kebab. “Bas. Ab tumhari ammi aur Sakhina khala dono ka ego sathve aasman chala jayega.”

“Humara ego sathve aasman pe tab jata,” Sakhina khala shouts back from the kitchen without missing a beat, “jab Y/N wahan se koi gora larka le aati aur kehti, ‘khala yeh aapka damaad hai.’”

You nearly choke on your food.

“KHAAALA!” you cough out in betrayal while your mother immediately starts laughing and your father very unhelpfully begins nodding like he’s seriously considering the possibility.

“Acha toh phir koi tha kya?,” he says casually, taking another bite.

“ABBU YAAR!”

“Thik hai, thik hai, nahi chedta,” your father says finally, raising his hands in surrender while taking a sip of water, though the suspicious narrowing of his eyes tells you he’s still mentally praying to Allah that there isn’t actually a hidden gora larka somewhere in Switzerland waiting to ruin his peace. “Lekin ab batao, aagay ka plan kya hai?”

You tear a piece of naan and dip it into the nihari before answering, far too relaxed for someone casually discussing her future. “Abhi toh ek job offer hai,” you say between bites. “Yahin Karachi mein. Achhi senior position pe hai, and they seemed really impressed with my foreign degree. Bas wahi join karne ka soch rahi hoon.”

The reaction is immediate.

Your father makes an offended sound so dramatic you’d think you’d just announced plans to financially ruin the family yourself.

“Beta, koi aur company kyun?” he argues instantly, pushing his plate away slightly like it had personally betrayed him by supporting this conversation. “Hamari kyun nahi? Waise bhi yeh sab tumhara hi toh hai na? Waris ho tum. Phir dusri company kyun?”

You can’t even help the fond smile pulling at your lips. Your father says it so naturally too, not arrogantly, not possessively, just with complete certainty that everything he built would one day belong to you.

“Abbu,” you sigh patiently, wiping your hands with a napkin. “Mujhe jitni khushi hai nepo baby hone ki, utni hi mujhe apni credibility bhi banani hai. Aur main baad mein bhi hamari company join kar sakti hoon. Pehle main uske laayak banna chahti hoon.”

Your father immediately shakes his head like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Arrey beta, tumhein yeh sab karne ki zarurat nahi hai. Company mein sab tumhein jaante hain. Sabko pata hai tum kitni kabil ho.”

“Abbu, woh isliye kyunki woh mujhe aapki beti ke taur par jaante hain,” you point out gently. “Main chahti hoon log mujhe mere kaam ki wajah se bhi jaanain.”

For a moment, your father simply watches you quietly, and you know that look. Pride hidden carefully beneath concern.

Before he can argue again, your mother speaks up from beside you, immediately taking your side.

“Suniye,” she says calmly while serving you more biryani despite your earlier protests, “Y/N sahi keh rahi hai. Log usse sirf aapki beti keh kar importance denge. Woh uski mehnat ko overshadow karega. Use apne aap ko prove karne ka mauka dein.”

Your father lets out a quiet sigh, leaning back into his chair as he looks between the two of you and realizes, very unfortunately for him, that he’s been outnumbered.

Again.

By the time dessert rolls around, you’re convinced your mother’s actual plan was to feed you until movement became physically impossible. The dinner table had somehow gotten even more crowded, bowls of rabdi and gulab jamuns replacing empty serving dishes while slices of cake sat untouched because apparently your family believed desserts required backup desserts.

You sit curled sideways in your chair, lazily eating cold rabdi while your parents shared quiet conversation across from you, the comfortable kind that only came from years of loving each other. The exhaustion from travelling still sat heavy in your bones, but it felt softer now, drowned beneath familiar voices, familiar food, familiar warmth.

Your eyes drift toward your father over the rim of your spoon. “Waise, abbu,” you say curiously, “do saal mein business world ne aur kitna dara diya logon ko? Last time dekha tha tab sirf businessmen ke saath meetings hoti thi. Ab toh politicians ke saath photos bhi arahi hain aapki.”

Your father lets out an amused huff and says “Photos bas photos hoti hain, beta,” he says calmly before taking a sip of tea. “Business barhta hai toh har tarah ke logon se milna parta hai.”

“Hm.” You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Very mysterious answer. Aap secretly politics mein toh nahi arahe na? Because respectfully, mujhe campaign speeches dene ka koi shauk nahi hai.”

Your father actually laughs at that. “Tumse koi speech dilwayega bhi nahi. Tum mic le kar debate start kardogi audience ke saath.”

“That is literally leadership skills.”

“That is literally tumhari bachpan wali bakbak in formal clothes,” your mother mutters while cutting the cake.

As you finish you never ending serving of your desert, your father adds more information about his professional endeavours Your father hums softly, setting his tea cup down. “Sirf Jameel aur unke siyassi doston ke saath uthna bethna zyada ho raha hai aaj kal.”

You immediately look up. “Jameel Jamali?” you ask, mildly surprised. “Yalina ke abbu?”

“Haan,” your father nods casually. “Kaafi projects saath chal rahe hain ab.”

A grin slowly spreads across your face as you lean back into your chair, lazily spinning the spoon between your fingers while the information settles into your brain. The image of your father sitting around polished tables with politicians and businessmen in expensive suits is somehow both deeply unsurprising and incredibly funny to you.

“Mashallah,” you say with exaggerated seriousness. “Abbu bhi officially un elite uncle circles ka hissa ban gaye hain jahan log chai pe mulk ki taqdeer decide karte hain.”

Your father gives you a long, unimpressed look over the rim of his teacup while your mother sighs instantly, already regretting participating in this conversation.

“Tumhein har cheez mazaak kyun lagti hai?” she asks, though there’s no actual irritation behind it anymore. At this point, your nonsense had become background noise in the household.

“Because ammi,” you reply innocently, sitting up straighter now, “bachpan mein mujhe genuinely lagta tha yeh businessmen aur politicians kisi secret society ke members hote hain. Har shaadi mein ek corner pakar kar serious faces bana kar baith jaate thay while hum bacchon ko ‘jao side pe khelo’ keh dete thay.”

Your father lets out a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head slightly as though remembering those exact moments himself.

“Aur tum log?” he asks knowingly.

You immediately point at yourself with full confidence. “We were busy fighting over who got the extra gulab jamun. Priorities thay hamari.”

“Ab bhi wahi priorities hain tumhari,” your mother mutters while handing empty plates to the house helps, quietly instructing them to start clearing the table as the remains of lunch slowly disappeared around you.

“As they should be,” you defend shamelessly, “Consistency is important.”

Your father hides another smile behind his tea while your mother mutters a soft “Ya Allah” under her breath, though the fondness in her eyes gives her away instantly. The conversation drifts easily after that, warm and familiar, the kind only families who genuinely enjoyed each other’s company could have.

“Waise,” you say curiously now, leaning forward slightly, “Yalina kaisi hai? Switzerland mein uske kaam hi baat hoti thi. Sunna hai uski mangni hogayi? Usne mujhe message kiya tha, bohot gussa hui thi ki main nahi aa paayi.”

“Hogi kyun nahi?” your mother immediately says. “Tum dono ek dusre se aise chipke rehte thay jaise tum dono ka hi nikah reh gaya ho bas.”

You let out an offended gasp. “Ammi!”

“Kya?” she shrugs innocently. “Har waqt ‘Yalina yeh’, ‘Yalina woh’. Kabhi kabhi mujhe lagta tha maine do betiyan paida ki hain.”

Your father nods thoughtfully. “Sach mein. Eid pe bhi tum dono matching kapre pehen kar aati thi.”

“That was fashion,” you argue immediately, scandalized by the slander. “Aur waise bhi, matching outfits friendship ka love language hota hai.”

“Love language?” your mother repeats suspiciously.

“Yes,” you say confidently. “Healthy female bonding.”

“Hmm,” your father hums, clearly unconvinced. “Healthy female bonding mein log roz teen teen ghante phone pe baat nahi karte.”

You point at him accusingly. “Abbu, aap aur ammi toh literally ek dusre ko din mein pachaas dafa call karte ho. Aap dono ko toh bolne ka haq hi nahi hai.”

Your mother bursts into laughter while your father stares at you in betrayal. “Badtameez,” he mutters under his breath, though he’s smiling anyway.

“Waise, usse mil lo,” your mother points out while adjusting the dupatta on her shoulder. “Kaafi khafa hai tumse.”

You let out a guilty wince before sinking further into your chair dramatically. “Haan, mil lungi kal ya parson,” you mumble tiredly. “Aaj toh mera bas araam karne aur sone ka mann hai. Mera body abhi bhi Switzerland timezone mein chal raha hai.”

Your father hums knowingly. “Jetlag?”

“Jetlag, food coma, emotional exhaustion…” you start counting seriously on your fingers. “Main iss waqt unavailable hoon.”

Eventually, you push yourself up from the chair with the energy of someone returning from war instead of dinner. Leaning down, you press a kiss to your mother’s cheek first, then your father’s cheek mumbling a sleep hazed ‘bye’.

“Seedha so jana,” your father adds immediately as you begin walking away from the dining table. “Phone lekar mat baith jana.”

You stop mid-step and slowly turn around with a deeply offended expression. “Abbu,” you say in disbelief, “main teis saal ki hoon.”

Your father doesn’t even look remotely affected by your outrage. Calmly picking up his teacup, he simply replies, “Haan. Lekin aadatein abhi bhi sixteen wali hain.”

You mutter a quiet “rude” under your breath before dragging yourself upstairs.

By the time you reach your bedroom door, the exhaustion sitting in your bones crashes into you properly. The room looked exactly the same as you’d left it two years ago, soft warm lights glowing against familiar walls, bookshelves still crowded with half-read novels and old university notes, framed photographs frozen in moments that suddenly felt much younger now. Even the faint scent lingering in the room felt achingly familiar; your old perfume, fresh linen, home. For a moment, you simply stand there quietly taking it all in, realizing how badly you’d missed this place without even noticing it yourself. 

You barely even bother fixing the blankets before throwing yourself face first onto the bed with a groan so dramatic it probably should’ve concerned someone. The mattress somehow felt softer than every bed you’d slept on during the last two years combined. And somewhere between thinking about your parents downstairs, Karachi’s unbearable heat, the ridiculous amount of food your mother fed you, and the comfort of finally being home again, sleep pulls you under almost instantly.

The next morning, while you were still unconscious in your air conditioned bedroom fighting for your life against jetlag, somewhere across Karachi, Uzair Baloch was already awake and actively contributing to the city’s daily chaos.

The Baloch haveli looked exactly like the kind of house that produced loud men with expensive watches and even more expensive problems. Massive wooden doors, polished marble floors, old family portraits hanging on the walls like silent judges, and enough staff members walking around to make it impossible to know who actually lived there and who simply spawned inside the house every morning.

And somehow, right in the middle of all that chaos, Uzair Baloch still looked unfairly put together.

Annoyingly unfairly.

Fresh out of the shower, dark hair still damp and pushed back carelessly, sleeves rolled up lazily to his forearms, black kurta fitting him in the kind of way that would’ve made aunties immediately whisper mashallah under their breath. Tall, sharp featured, perpetually carrying the relaxed confidence of a man who knew exactly the effect he had on people but found amusement in pretending otherwise.

Unfortunately for everyone around him, Uzair Baloch had been blessed with both looks and personality.

Which was honestly excessive.

The man walked around the haveli looking like he belonged on the cover of some luxury watch advertisement while simultaneously behaving like a seventeen year old menace with unrestricted internet access. As he adjusted the watch on his wrist and walked downstairs toward breakfast, his phone buzzed.

“Factory aa jaldi. Consignment aaj ka hai aur mujhe kisi aur ki zarurat hai jisko blame kar sakun agar sab ulta hogaya toh.”

Uzair stared at the message for a long second before snorting under his breath.

Ah yes.

Hamza, his best friend, partner in crime (literally), emotional support idiot, and unofficial work wife, was incapable of sending one normal text message. The two of them together had the survival instincts of badly supervised teenagers despite being fully grown men with responsibilities, reputations, and unfortunately, access to money. 

By the time Uzair reaches the dining hall, breakfast is already in full swing.

The massive table looked exactly like every desi family breakfast table ever, overcrowded despite being unnecessarily large, layered with parathas glistening with enough butter to shorten lifespans, chai being poured every thirty seconds, and at least four conversations happening at once at dangerously loud volumes.

Rehman sat at the head of the table with a newspaper in hand, somehow maintaining the calm expression of a man who had accepted chaos as a permanent lifestyle choice years ago. Ulfat was busy instructing the house helps while simultaneously threatening her sons into finishing their breakfast before school.

The second Uzair steps into the room, however, the younger nephew spots him.

And unfortunately for Uzair, Faisal reacts like a fan spotting his favourite celebrity at the airport.

“CHACHUUUU!”

The scream echoes through the entire dining hall as Faisal practically launches himself off his chair and runs toward Uzair at full speed, nearly slipping in his socks along the way.

Uzair barely has enough time to brace himself before the child crashes into his legs dramatically.

“Ya Allah,” Uzair mutters, steadying himself while looking down at the gremlin attached to him. “Subah subah itni mohabbat? Kya chahiye tujhe?”

Faisal immediately pulls back just enough to give Uzair the most offended stinky eye his face could manage. “Kya, chachu?” he asks dramatically. “Main kya apne favourite, sabse ache chachu se mohabbat ka izhar bhi nahi kar sakta?”

He looks up at Uzair with eyes so wide and betrayed they almost seem convincing.

Almost.

If his older brother wasn’t sitting a few feet away with the smirk of someone who already knew exactly where this conversation was headed.

Uzair narrows his eyes instantly.

“Acha.” He folds his arms slowly. “Kitne paise chahiye?”

“Chachu, aapko toh pata hai na,” Faisal says immediately, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “Main Eidi ke ilawa paise kabhi nahi maangta.”

“Abhi parson hi toh maange thay,” Uzair deadpans without missing a beat as he finally pulls out his chair. “Awargardi karne ke liye.”

Faisal gasps like he’s just been publicly accused of financial fraud while his older brother nearly folds over laughing in the background.

“Woh awargardi nahi thi!” Faisal argues passionately. “Woh social development tha.”

Uzair slowly turns toward Rehman with a look of pure disappointment. “Bhai, dekho. Yeh bachay kal ko jail bhi gaye na toh kahenge ‘character development arc chal raha tha.’”

Rehman doesn’t even look up from his breakfast. Years of experience had taught him that the second he acknowledged Uzair’s nonsense, he would automatically become part of the bakchodi himself, and quite frankly, he valued his morning peace too much for that.

So instead, the man wisely chose silence, sipping his chai calmly while looking at his darling wife with the kind of shameless heart eyes usually reserved for newly married men instead of people with two children and a fully grown menace of a younger brother.

The rest of the circus could handle itself.

“CHACHUUUU!” Faisal began again

“Kya hai!” he says finally, tearing a piece of paratha apart. “Sun raha hoon na main. Chillane ki zarurat nahi hai.”

He dips it into the achar absentmindedly before taking a bite, visibly relaxing at the salty, buttery taste of it. A second later, he picks up his chai and takes a sip despite the criminal levels of Lyari heat already melting everybody alive before ten in the morning.

But Uzair liked his chai.

Heatstroke could mind its business.

“Aap mujhe do hafton se keh rahe hain ke aap mujhe Azam Sweets wali kulfi laakar denge,” Faisal huffs dramatically, folding his arms. “Par aapse toh yeh kaam ho hi nahi raha hai.”

Uzair immediately points at him with betrayal in his eyes. “Toh kisi aur se mangwa leta! Sabko mujhse hi kaam hote hain kya?”

Then, without warning and absolutely no reason whatsoever, he turns toward Naieem.

“Yeh tera apna bhai hi baitha hai na,” Uzair says casually while throwing the nineteen year old directly under the bus. “Sautele toh nahi lagta ke teri kulfi mein zeher mila dega. Isse mangwa leta.”

Naieem, who had been peacefully eating breakfast and minding his business moments ago, slowly looks up with the deeply offended expression of someone who had just become collateral damage for absolutely no reason.

“Excuse me?” he says in disbelief.

Uzair takes another calm sip of chai. “Waise bhi janab toh zyada tar free hi rehte hain. Ya phir apni game mein busy.”

Naieem immediately gasps. “Main free nahi rehta!”

“Haan?” Uzair raises a brow lazily. “Kal raat teen baje ‘revive karo mujhe’ chilla kaun raha tha room mein?”

Naieem immediately goes quiet, lowering his head back toward his breakfast while silently praying Ulfat hadn’t heard Uzair’s comment. The last time she’d caught him gaming at three in the morning before college, she’d nearly confiscated his entire setup while delivering a forty minute lecture on “digital barbaadi.”

Unfortunately for him, Uzair noticed the panic instantly.

And like every responsible older brother figure, decided to enjoy it. And before he could add anything else to add to Naieem's panic. Faisal cuts in again.  

“Aap toh mere pyaare chachu ho na,” Faisal says again, shamelessly changing targets once he realizes emotional blackmail was working. “Please leker aana aaj.”

Uzair lets out a dramatic sigh like the child had just handed him unbearable emotional responsibility instead of asking for kulfi. “Theek hai, le aaunga, mere baap.”

“Nahi,” Faisal says immediately, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Aap promise karo.”

Before Uzair can defend himself, Ulfat cuts in from the other side of the table.

“Arrey Faisal,” Ulfat finally cuts in while placing more chai onto the table, immediately defending Uzair without hesitation. “Usne keh diya na ke woh le aayega, toh le aayega.”

There was a softness in her voice whenever she spoke to Uzair that never went unnoticed.

Losing his parents young had quietly changed the entire dynamic of the family years ago. Somewhere along the way, Ulfat had stopped seeing him as just her brother in law and started loving him like another son entirely. Protective of him in the way only mothers could be, always feeding him first, defending him instinctively, worrying over him even now despite the fact that he was a fully grown man who towered over everyone in the house.

And maybe that was why Uzair treated her with a kind of respect nobody else ever received from him.

“Thik hai, ammi,” Faisal says dramatically after a moment before pointing accusingly at Uzair. “Par agar aaj meri kulfi nahi aayi na, toh aap mere notes likh dena.”

Silence.

Then absolute chaos erupts across the table.

“BADMAASH!” Ulfat gasps in complete betrayal while Rehman finally lowers his newspaper, openly laughing now at the scene unfolding in front of him. Naieem nearly chokes on his chai, staring at Faisal in absolute awe as he realizes his little brother had somehow managed to turn both winning and losing into a profitable situation.

Meanwhile, Uzair?

Uzair looks at Faisal with the kind of pride seasoned gangsters probably reserved for promising protégés.

“Bhai,” he says emotionally, genuine pride taking over at the sheer audacity the little menace had just displayed. “Blackmail toh tune full professional level pe seekha hai.”

Meanwhile, on the complete opposite side of Karachi, you were still deeply unconscious at twelve in the afternoon, wrapped inside your blankets like someone paying taxes to avoid responsibilities.

The harsh Karachi sunlight pushed through the curtains in soft golden lines while the AC hummed quietly in the background, fighting for its life against the afternoon heat outside. Somewhere downstairs, distant voices echoed through the house, utensils clinked faintly from the kitchen, and absolutely none of it reached your sleeping brain.

Because unfortunately for the world, you were busy having the most offensively detailed dream imaginable.

Some fictional man your brain had constructed using years of unrealistic standards, good hair, emotional intelligence, and dangerous eye contact had you cornered dramatically against some random wall while tension played in the background like a Bollywood slow motion scene. He leaned closer, painfully closer and right before the almost-kiss finally happened-

A sudden weight crashes onto you like a natural disaster.

“Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!”

Your soul nearly leaves your body.

You jolt awake in absolute horror just to find Yalina aggressively shaking you like she’s trying to wake a coma patient before an earthquake hits Karachi.

“YA ALLAH!” you screech, clutching your blanket to your chest while your heartbeat attempts to file legal charges against her. “TU AURAT HAI YA FEMA emergency alarm?!”

“Abe dopahar ke baarah baje tak kaun sota hai?” Yalina starts immediately, still sitting on top of you like an uninvited sleep paralysis demon.

You blink at her in complete offence, hair a mess, brain still halfway inside the dream she had brutally interrupted. Still dazed from sleep, you squint up at her before lazily pointing a finger toward yourself from under the blanket.

“Yeh banda.”

Yalina folds her arms over her chest, glaring down at you like an angry wife who’d caught her husband cheating instead of a best friend whose engagement you missed.

“Utho,” she orders dramatically. “Aur meri forgiveness ke liye mehnat shuru karo kyunki main abhi bhi tumse bohot khafa hoon.”

You immediately groan and pull the blanket over your face. “Yalina, please. Mujhe kam se kam pehle zinda toh feel karne do.”

“Nahi,” she says mercilessly, yanking the blanket right back off you. “Do saal baad wapas aayi ho aur meri mangni miss kar di. Tumhari safaiyan sunne se pehle main tumhein mentally torture karungi.”

You finally stop fighting her long enough to properly look at her.

And for a moment, your teasing dies quietly in your throat.

Yalina hadn’t changed much. She was still the same loud, dramatic, aggressively loving person she’d always been. Still beautiful in the effortless way she somehow managed without trying too hard. But now?

Now she looked… happier.

Softer around the edges somehow. Glowing in that annoyingly beautiful way people in love often did without even realizing it themselves. There was warmth sitting in her eyes that hadn’t been there before, a quiet contentment woven into her smile that made something ache softly in your chest.

Her fiancé loved her well.

You could tell.

And strangely enough, instead of sadness, all it does is make you smile up at her with pure adoration.

“Lagta hai madam ko payar mein jaan dene wala mil gaya hai,” you tease finally, still looking up at her with sleepy amusement dancing in your eyes.

Yalina immediately gasps in offence and throws a pillow directly at your face.

“CHUP!”

You burst into laughter, barely managing to block the attack while she fixes her dupatta dramatically and glares at you like she’s moments away from ending the friendship herself.

“Nahi genuinely,” you continue suspiciously, eyes narrowing slowly as you look her up and down. “Tum bohot glow kar rahi ho. Like… concerning amount. Yalina…” you pause dramatically before whispering, “mujhe kuch batana hai kya?”

It takes her exactly two seconds to understand what you’re implying.

“YA ALLAH!” she screeches before immediately smacking you with the pillow again. “PAGAL AURAT! Mangni hui hai meri, maternity ward mein admission nahi hua!” huffing and blushing until her cheeks turn red.

“Chalo, ab maafi maango,” Yalina says finally, folding her arms again like an emotionally wounded queen waiting for justice.

And honestly?

You did feel bad.

If it weren’t for your final semester exams, you would’ve never missed something this important to her. But apparently universities had a personal vendetta against students because somehow exam schedulers always managed to pick the most inconvenient times possible; nikahs, Eid, family functions, emotional crises, as if the people making exam timetables personally woke up every morning and chose violence. 

You swear those people probably sat around conference tables brainstorming misery professionally.

With a small sigh, you finally sit up properly and take both of Yalina’s hands into yours, the dramatics fading from your face for once as you look up at her sincerely.

“Mujhe maaf kardo,” you say softly. “Main toh apni khud ki mangni chhod kar aajao tumhare liye. Par exams thay… aur tum toh jaanti ho na main unhein kitna seriously leti hoon.”

Yalina’s expression softens almost immediately despite her trying very hard to stay annoyed.

“I know,” she mumbles reluctantly.

“Main genuinely bohot upset thi,” you continue dramatically now that she’s weakening. “Maine toh apne laptop ke saamne beth kar emotional support biryani khaayi thi uss din.”

Yalina stares at you for a long second.

“…Emotional support biryani?”

“Haan,” you nod seriously. “Painful situations mein carbs zaroori hote hain.”

“Theek hai, maaf kiya,” Yalina says finally with fake reluctance, squeezing your hands dramatically. “Par meri shaadi mein nahi rahi toh main… main…” she trails off, glaring at you while clearly trying to think of the most evil punishment possible.

You blink at her lazily. “Tu kya? Dosti tod degi?”

“Usse bhi bura.”

“Teri reading habits aur tu kya kya padhti hai sabko batadungi.”

Silence.

Pure, genuine horror crosses your face so fast Yalina nearly bursts into laughter on the spot.

“Arrey meri maa, bas!” you immediately grab her arm dramatically. “Main sabse pehle aaungi teri nikah mein. Molvi sahab se bhi pehle.”

“Chalo ab uth jao. Humne bahar bhi jana hai.”

You immediately groan and flop back against the mattress dramatically. “Yalina, meri ruh abhi bhi so rahi hai.”

“Waise kahaan jana hai?” you ask suspiciously while finally dragging yourself out of bed properly. Your hair looked insane, your brain was still lagging behind reality, and Yalina somehow still looked annoyingly put together this early in the day.

You shuffle toward the bathroom while she follows behind you like an aggressive life coach, already opening random drawers in your room out of habit. Grabbing your toothbrush, you lazily squeeze toothpaste onto it before shoving it into your mouth with absolutely zero grace.

“Wahi purani wali kulfi,” Yalina says from behind you. “Tujhe yaad nahi kya?”

You pause mid brushing and slowly look at her through the mirror.

And suddenly, a wave of nostalgia hits you so hard it almost physically hurts.

“Azam Sweets?” you ask around the toothbrush instantly.

Yalina grins. “Obviously.”

“Phir hamare wale park chalenge,” Yalina continues excitedly while sitting cross-legged on your bed like she owned the place. “Araam se kulfi khayenge, gossip karenge, phir mall jayenge aur phir—”

“Ruko ruko ruko,” you interrupt immediately, pointing your toothbrush at her suspiciously through the mirror. “Pehle apne fiancé ke baare mein toh bata.”

Yalina narrows her eyes, already fully aware nonsense was about to leave your mouth.

“Kaisa dikhta hai?” you continue seriously while brushing your teeth. “Hot hai? Emotionally intelligent toh hai na?” Your expression hardens immediately after. “Mujhe usse peetna veetna toh nahi padega?”

Yalina opens her mouth to answer-

But unfortunately, you aren’t done.

“And…” you pause dramatically, wiggling your eyebrows through the mirror with the most suspicious grin imaginable, “tum logon ne kuch kiya?”

Silence.

Yalina stares at you in complete disbelief as a blush slowly creeps across her face so fast it practically answers the question for you.

Your jaw drops.

“YA ALLAH.” You point at her dramatically with your toothbrush. “TUM LOGON NE KUCH KIYA HAI.”

Then she grabs the nearest pillow and launches it directly at your head with full force.

“BEHAYA AURAT!”

You duck instantly, nearly choking on toothpaste foam from laughing too hard.

“MAIN BAS POCH RAHI THI!”

“Tumhein sharam nahi aati?!”

“Nahi.”

Apparently your popularity in the family group chats discussing “ab iski shaadi kab hogi?” wasn’t the only thing that had increased over the last two years.

Azam Sweets’ kulfi had apparently achieved celebrity status too.

Some food blogger had ranked it “Karachi’s Best Kulfi” online and now half the city behaved like eating it was a spiritual experience capable of fixing childhood trauma. Which unfortunately explained why you and Yalina currently stood in a queue long enough to qualify as government office suffering.

The sun blazed overhead mercilessly while the crowd around the shop buzzed with noise and impatience. Children screamed for extra toppings, aunties argued over whose turn it actually was, delivery riders stood around looking one inconvenience away from collapse, and somewhere behind you, a man was passionately defending falooda superiority like he was in a political debate.

Karachi.

You wipe sweat from your forehead dramatically while glaring at the line ahead. “Yalina,” you say in disbelief, “log yahan kulfi khane aaye hain ya Hajj karne?”

Yalina snorts beside you while checking her phone. “Tum hi toh keh rahi thi tumhein wahi purani wali kulfi khani hai.”

“Haan par mujhe yeh nahi pata tha ke poori Karachi ko bhi aaj hi cravings aajayengi.”

You were genuinely starting to believe the sun had some kind of personal vendetta against you specifically. The heat wrapped around your body suffocatingly, making your head feel slightly dizzy while sweat gathered annoyingly at the back of your neck despite the sunglasses perched on your face and the iced drink in your hand doing absolutely nothing to save you.

But the sheer embarrassment of anybody assuming “foreign ki hawa kha kar larki kamzor hogayi hai” was enough to force you into standing straighter out of pure ego alone.

You would collapse dramatically before giving Karachi aunties material for gossip.

Beside you, Yalina looked entirely too comfortable for someone also standing under the same murderous sun.

“Tumhein garmi nahi lag rahi?” you ask accusingly.

“Nahi.”

You stare at her in disbelief. “Tum insaan ho bhi?”

Before she can answer, somebody from the back of the line loudly complains about queue cutting and suddenly six different people start arguing at once like this was a live debate show instead of a kulfi shop.

One uncle aggressively insists he was standing there first despite nobody remembering seeing him before, while another aunty keeps loudly repeating, “Bhai line mein tameez naam ki bhi cheez hoti hai.”

A child nearby drops his kulfi and begins crying with the pain of a Victorian widow mourning her husband at war.

Honestly?

The atmosphere was beautiful.

Sweaty, loud, mildly aggressive, and one argument away from turning into a public disturbance, but beautiful nonetheless. Somehow, despite the chaos, despite the heat trying to evaporate your existence, despite the dangerously long line for frozen milk, this still felt more alive than half the places you’d lived around in Switzerland.

Karachi had a strange way of exhausting you and embracing you at the exact same time.

A second later your phone buzzes with a message from your mother.

‘Ghar kab aaogi?’

You immediately type back:

‘Dua karein zinda bach jaun pehle.’

And then after forty five whole minutes of agonizing heat, melting patience, and your tolerance growing thinner than the waists of people online who get “body tea” comments, you and Yalina finally make it to the very front of the line.

Victory.

Actual victory.

You straighten instantly, feeling the kind of relief survivors in war movies probably felt after reaching safety. The cold air from inside the shop brushes against your face, heavenly after standing under Karachi’s violent sun for nearly an hour.

And then you see them.

Only two kulfis left on the counter.

Perfect.

Your eyes practically light up.

“Yalina,” you whisper emotionally, gripping her arm. “Hum jeet gaye.”

You were seconds away from the sweet satisfaction of success, already mentally tasting the first bite—

When suddenly somebody steps in front of you and cuts the line entirely.

The people behind you erupt immediately.

“BHAI LINE HAI!”

“Aye bhai saab peeche jao!”

“Sab wait kar rahe hain!”

But the protests die down almost as quickly as they started the second the man turns slightly.

An odd shift moves through the crowd instantly.

The outrage softens into awkward silence, a few people suddenly pretending they weren’t yelling two seconds ago while others quietly step back like they’d rather not involve themselves anymore.

But apparently nobody had informed you.

And honestly?

How dare this man.

This extremely, offensively beautiful man.

Cut the line.

Your eyes narrow immediately as you look him up and down in pure offence, only for your traitorous brain to momentarily short circuit against your will.

Because wow.

The man stood there in a black kurta that fit him disgustingly well, sleeves rolled lazily to his forearms, dark hair slightly messy like he’d pushed his fingers through it one too many times. Tall enough to tower over most people around him, broad shoulders stretching against the fabric effortlessly, an expensive watch catching beneath the shop lights every time he moved his hand.

And his face?

Actually irritating.

Sharp jawline, straight nose, dark eyes carrying the kind of lazy confidence that only existed in men fully aware of their own attractiveness. The type of man who probably walked into rooms and accidentally ruined somebody’s five-year relationship without even trying.

The kind of handsomeness that made women ignore red flags and men suddenly sit straighter.

Which unfortunately explained why the crowd had collectively forgotten basic civic rights the second he appeared.

Not you though.

No.

Completely unaware of the storm brewing directly behind him, the man casually reaches into the pocket of his black kurta, pulling out his wallet with the relaxed ease of somebody who had clearly never struggled a day in his life.

Meanwhile, your struggle had been biblical.

“Last do kulfi pack kardena,” he says easily, glancing toward the counter.

Your brain goes completely blank for a second.

Because no.

Absolutely not.

Those kulfis were yours.

Spiritually. Emotionally. Morally. At this point probably constitutionally too.

You had stood under Karachi’s violent afternoon sun for forty-five whole minutes sweating through your clothes while toddlers screamed around you, aunties fought over queue positions, and the heat slowly cooked your remaining patience alive. Your legs hurt, your makeup had probably started fighting for survival, and you were ninety percent sure your soul had briefly separated from your body fifteen minutes ago.

You had earned those kulfis.

And now this absurdly attractive man in a black kurta, standing there looking like somebody’s wattpad fantasy and your personal enemy simultaneously, had the audacity to take the last two without even blinking.

The worst part?

He looked good doing it.

Calm. Unbothered. Pretty.

Like the universe itself personally catered to him.

Which somehow made you angrier.

Meanwhile, entirely unaware that he was seconds away from becoming somebody’s mortal enemy over frozen dairy products, Uzair Baloch had been having a genuinely good day for once.

Which honestly should’ve been suspicious enough on its own.

The consignment at the factory had arrived on time without anybody almost dying from incompetence, Hamza had somehow managed to behave like a functional adult for at least forty consecutive minutes, and the workers had finished loading everything without the usual chaos that normally followed Hamza and Uzair around like unpaid interns.

A miracle, basically.

Afterward, the two of them had spent an unnecessary amount of time doing absolutely stupid things instead of going home like responsible adults. Hamza had nearly gotten into an argument with a random biker over parking, Uzair had forcefully confiscated Hamza’s bike keys for the safety of the general public, and somewhere in between all that nonsense, they’d ended up laughing so hard outside a chai dhaba that Uzair’s stomach physically hurt.

Life, surprisingly, had felt light today.

Easy.

Now he stood inside Azam Sweets beside Siyahi, lazily making small talk with the old shop owner while waiting for the kulfis to be packed. The cool air inside the shop felt heavenly after the Lyari heat outside, and for the first time all week, Uzair wasn’t thinking about work, responsibilities, pending meetings, or the fifty people constantly needing something from him.

Bliss.

Actual bliss.

Unfortunately, bliss only lasted until a five foot something force of fury suddenly appeared behind him radiating enough anger to power Karachi for three business days.

Uzair suddenly feels someone repeatedly jabbing at his shoulder from behind.

No.

Not tapping.

That would’ve been polite.

This felt more like somebody was trying to start a fight through interpretive shoulder violence.

His brows furrow instantly.

Because firstly — who the hell was touching him like that?

And secondly, absolutely nobody treated Uzair Baloch this aggressively unless they were either family, Hamza, or actively trying to die.

The irritation settles onto his face immediately as he turns around slowly, already prepared to verbally humble whoever had decided shoulder assault was an acceptable form of communication.

“Kaun hai behen—”

The words cut off midway.

Because there’s nobody there.

For one deeply confusing second, Uzair genuinely thinks he’s hallucinating from the heat.

Then his eyes lower slightly.

…Oh.

There you were.

Tiny compared to him. Furious enough to make up for it. Standing there glaring up at him like you personally planned on fighting God over two kulfis. Your sunglasses sat pushed up into your hair, cheeks slightly flushed from the heat, annoyance radiating off you so strongly it almost impresses him.

And despite the visible murder in your eyes?

Pretty.

Very pretty.

Uzair blinks once.

“Dekhiye,” you start, pointing an accusing finger directly at his chest before Yalina can physically restrain you, “aap aise line kaat kar aage nahi aasakte.”

Behind you, Yalina instantly freezes.

Not normal freeze.

The kind of freeze people had right before watching a train wreck happen in slow motion.

Because unlike you, Yalina actually knew who stood in front of you.

Uzair, meanwhile, hadn’t looked away from you even once since turning around. Not at the crowd. Not at the cashier. Just you, standing there radiating heat, outrage, and sunscreen fumes.

Yeh kya aapke baap ki dukaan hai?” you continue heatedly, the Karachi heat, forty-five minutes of suffering, and kulfi deprivation clearly overriding your survival instincts entirely.

And honestly?

Ironically enough…

Lowkey, yes.

Not literally, obviously. But the shop owners paid Uzair and his brother enough respect, and enough money through “security arrangements” and local support, that half the market practically did treat it like his territory anyway.

Which explained why the people standing around you suddenly looked like background extras in a crime documentary trying very hard not to get interviewed later.

One uncle behind you quietly mutters “Astaghfirullah” under his breath.

Another man physically steps backwards.

A teenager nearby suddenly becomes deeply interested in his phone.

And beside you, Yalina looks moments away from collapsing onto the floor.

Because honestly?

Nobody spoke to Uzair Baloch like this.

Nobody.

Not openly. Not fearlessly. Definitely not while pointing fingers at his chest in public like he was some random irritating man instead of someone people usually went out of their way not to offend.

And yet here you were.

Absolutely fearless.

Or absolutely unaware.

Uzair still hadn’t decided which one yet.

“Aapko pata bhi hai main kabse dhoop mein khadi hoon kulfi ke liye?” you continue passionately while he simply watches you, dark eyes growing steadily more amused. “DO baar. DO BAAR sunscreen reapply kiya hai maine.”

His jaw slightly opens not knowing what to do with that information.

You point dramatically toward the sky like a lawyer presenting evidence before the Supreme Court. “Aapko pata hai sunscreen kitna mehnga aata hai? Ya Allah, kuch din baad log zameen aur sona chhod kar sunscreen mein invest karenge.”

And that’s the moment Uzair realizes two things simultaneously.

Firstly, you were insane.

Secondly, he wanted to hear more.

Because in his entire existence, nobody had ever spoken to him like this before. No hesitation. No awkward politeness. No carefully measured tone people usually used around him after recognizing who he was.

Just pure, unfiltered outrage over kulfi.

And God help him, he was lowkey awestruck.

Not because you were yelling.

But because you were doing it so naturally. Like his name, reputation, presence, none of it mattered to you at all. You looked up at him with nothing except irritation and determination, standing your ground despite the crowd around you practically preparing your janaza in advance.

It was absurdly attractive.

Actually no.

You were absurdly attractive.

Standing there all angry and dramatic beneath the harsh Karachi heat, sunglasses pushed into your hair, lips moving passionately while you ranted about sunscreen prices and human rights violations over kulfi like this was a political movement instead of frozen dessert.

Uzair genuinely couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked him dead in the eyes without even a flicker of hesitation.

And the craziest part?

He didn’t think you were trying to impress him either.

If anything, you looked one inconvenience away from physically fighting him.

Meanwhile, completely unaware that his best friend was internally losing psychological stability over a random angry girl, Hamza strolls toward the shop entrance with the relaxed confidence of a man who treated public places like inherited property.

One thing about Hamza Ali Mazari?

The man could smell roadside drama from kilometres away.

And spotting a crowd gathered near the counter immediately activates the nosy aunty living deep inside his soul.

“Aha,” he mutters excitedly to himself while walking closer. “Free entertainment.”

Because truly, what was better than public rowdy behaviour that didn’t involve him for once?

But even before his eyes properly land on the scene, his soul does.

Eyes instantly zeroing in on the love of his life.

His hone wali begum sahiba.

His fiancée.

“Jamali sahiba,” he says dramatically the second he spots Yalina. “Aap yahan?”

And then his eyes land on you.

Specifically the finger still aggressively pointed at Uzair’s chest while you continue your passionate kulfi rights speech.

The grin on Hamza’s face widens instantly.

“Acha,” he says slowly, already entertained beyond reason. “Yahan toh scene chal raha hai.”

But the second his eyes flick toward Uzair properly, Hamza pauses.

Because-

Oh.

OH.

The look settling onto Uzair’s face transforms Hamza spiritually.

His expression immediately shifts into pure evil delight as realization slams into him at full speed.

“Ohhhhh,” Hamza drags out quietly, eyes bouncing between the two of you before he physically grabs Yalina by the shoulders and slowly pulls her backwards beside him like they were audience members getting front-row seats at a live performance. “Ab samjha.”

“Hamza!” Yalina whisper-hisses in absolute horror while trying to step forward again. “Isse roko!”

“Bilkul nahi,” he says instantly, shamelessly holding her back while taking a sip from his cold drink. “Aaj pehli baar kisi ne Uzair ko line mein lagne wala aam admi ki tarha treat kiya hai. Mujhe dekhne do.”

Then he leans closer toward Yalina dramatically, not even bothering to lower his voice properly.

“Bhabhi material lag rahi hain.”

Yalina’s eyes widen so fast they almost leave her face.

meanwhile, completely unaware that two people behind you were already mentally planning weddings, you were still busy verbally assaulting Uzair Baloch over frozen dessert rights.

Pretty men truly were a societal problem.

Because why was this man standing there looking like that while actively committing crimes against public queue ethics?

Your voice continues passionately as you keep lightly jabbing your finger against Uzair’s chest for emphasis, completely unaware that his traitorous heart had started beating strangely in sync with every poke.

“Aap ache ghar se lagte hain,” you continue heatedly. “Sharif bhi honge shayad.” Your eyes narrow suspiciously while looking him up and down again. “Dekhne mein bhi hot lagte hain—”

Uzair physically blinks.

Hamza nearly chokes on the mysteriously appeared drink in his hand while Yalina smacks a hand over her face, already exhausted by your antics.

“—PAR,” you continue loudly before anybody can recover, “aapka yeh pretty privilege yahan nahi chalega!”

Uzair Baloch had never been more confused in his life.

Were you flirting with him?

Or insulting him?

Because somehow you were doing both simultaneously with terrifying skill.

Uzair knew he was good looking. Hell, he would’ve had to be completely blind not to notice it by now.

Women had always gravitated toward him one way or another. Sometimes subtly, sometimes with an intensity that genuinely concerned him. Lingering stares at events, whispered conversations he pretended not to hear, random rishtas appearing out of nowhere through aunties who suddenly remembered they had unmarried daughters. He was used to admiration. Used to attention. But admiration usually came wrapped in hesitation.

In shyness.

In carefully chosen words and lowered gazes.

No one. absolutely no one.

Had ever looked him dead in the eyes the first time meeting him and casually gone “haan hot toh ho.” 

And somehow, that was exactly why the compliment hit harder than it should have.

Because you hadn’t sounded flustered saying it.

You’d sounded irritated.

Like his attractiveness itself was personally inconveniencing you.

The warmth slowly rising onto Uzair’s cheeks catches him completely off guard, spreading beneath his skin steadily enough to rival the brutal Karachi sunset outside. For a second he genuinely forgets how to respond, standing there in the middle of the crowded shop while you look up at him.

You don’t even seem aware of the effect you’re having on him.

Meanwhile beside him, Hamza watches this entire situation unfold with the confusion of a man witnessing a lion suddenly develop social anxiety.

Because what the actual hell was this?

This was not the Uzair Baloch he knew.

The Uzair he knew made other people nervous. The man had stared down politicians, dealt with dangerous men without blinking, handled business crises calmly while everyone else panicked — and now suddenly some five-foot-something angry girl was standing in front of him ranting about sunscreen prices while Uzair looked one sentence away from giggling and twirling his hair.

Hamza genuinely considers recording this moment for blackmail purposes.

“Dekhiye mohtarma-” Uzair finally starts, trying very hard to regain control of the situation and his facial expressions simultaneously.

“AAP dekhiye mohtarBAAP,” you immediately cut him off without missing a beat.

There’s a full two seconds of silence.

Hamza physically folds in half laughing while Yalina closes her eyes briefly like she’s praying for everybody involved.

From behind Uzair, Siyahi watches the entire interaction unfold with the expression of a man slowly losing faith in reality itself. 

Siyahi had seen violence before. Real violence. The kind that stained streets and left men silent afterward. He’d watched people fear Uzair Baloch without even needing a reason, had seen grown men straighten the second Uzair entered a room. Almost nothing unsettled him anymore.

But this?

This was deeply disturbing.

Because somehow, within the span of five minutes, a random angry girl in sunglasses had reduced his terrifying boss into something dangerously close to a giant overgrown puppy.

At this point Siyahi was genuinely beginning to suspect you worked for some secret intelligence agency specifically trained to psychologically dismantle men.

Around you, the atmosphere inside the shop had shifted completely. The earlier noise of the crowd had quieted into strange tense silence, everyone pretending not to stare while very obviously staring. Even the cashier looked mildly invested now, eyes flicking cautiously between you and Uzair like he was watching a live drama unfold for free.

And meanwhile, Uzair simply stood there looking at you.

Still amused.

Still oddly fascinated.

Still blushing faintly.

It made absolutely no sense to anyone witnessing it.

Uzair finally clears his throat softly, dragging a hand lazily over his jaw as though trying to regain control of himself before speaking.

“Theek hai,” he says at last, voice calm and easy despite the laughter still threatening beneath it. “Meri ghalti.”

The reaction around the shop is immediate.

A collective gasp practically ripples through the crowd.

One uncle physically mutters “SubhanAllah” under his breath like he’d just witnessed divine intervention.

Because no one, and they truly meant no one.  had ever heard Uzair apologize this quickly in public.

You blink once at him, momentarily thrown off by the surrender.

Uzair notices it instantly.

And for some reason, that tiny flicker of surprise on your face feels like winning.

“Aap le lijiye kulfi,” he says, stepping slightly aside while gesturing toward the counter with lazy ease.

The movement finally snaps you back into yourself.

Trying very hard not to look affected by the victory, you straighten your posture before walking past him toward the counter. But even then, your eyes never fully leave his, and neither do his leave yours.

Which unfortunately only makes the tension worse.

Because now that you’re standing closer, you notice things you really didn’t need to notice.

Like the faint scent of his cologne beneath the Karachi heat. Something warm and clean and expensive that absolutely did not belong inside a crowded kulfi shop. Or the way the sleeves of his black kurta sat against his forearms, veins shifting slightly whenever he moved his hands- God you needed help.

You quickly snatch the kulfis from the cashier before your brain betrays you into becoming one of those women who lost cognitive function around attractive men.

Turning around, you fully expect him to have looked away by now.

He hasn’t.

Not even slightly.

Uzair still stands exactly where he was, dark eyes fixed entirely on you with. Like this whole interaction had become the highlight of his day.

Rude.

Your brows narrow immediately. “Aapko aur koi kaam nahi hai? Ya bas line kaat kar aur larkiyon ko tang karna hi profession hai?”

For a brief second, Uzair genuinely blanks.

Which was insane.

Because Uzair Baloch did not blank around women.

The man flirted like it was second nature. Smooth words, easy confidence, practiced charm usually conversations bent naturally in his direction without him even trying. But right now, standing under the harsh white lights of a crowded kulfi shop while you glared up at him holding two kulfis like weapons of mass destruction, his brain had apparently decided to resign from active duty.

Because you were pretty.

Dangerously pretty.

Not in the delicate soft spoken way he was used to either.

No.

You looked alive. Loud. Dramatic. Expressive enough that every emotion flashed openly across your face without hesitation, and Uzair found himself weirdly addicted to watching it happen in real time.

Uzair folds his arms loosely over his chest, visibly entertained now. “Aapko dekh kar toh lag raha hai yeh full time job ban sakti hai.”

And there he was.

Finally back.

You gasp in offence so dramatic even the pigeon pauses mid pecking. 

“Excuse me?” you place a hand over your chest in betrayal. “Main yahan oppressed citizen hoon aur aap flirting pe utar aaye?”  

“Main flirt nahi kar raha,” he says calmly “Shuruwat toh aap hi ne ki hai. Aap ne mujhe hot bola tha,” he points out smoothly, like it was a perfectly reasonable courtroom argument.

Your face betrays you before your mind does. Heat floods your cheeks so fast it feels illegal.

Oh God.

The hot comment.

For one horrifying second, your soul actually leaves your body and stands near the biscuit rack in embarrassment.

Uzair notices instantly.

Of course he does.

His eyebrows lift ever so slightly, that annoyingly smug smile threatening to appear again. “Acha,” he says slowly, like he just unlocked premium gossip. “Yaad aa gaya?”

You immediately start shaking your head. “Yeh aap kya bol rahe hain? Garmi mein aapke dimag ko waswase ho rahe hain.” blatantly and shameless lying through your teeth.

Uzair blinks once. “Mere dimag ko?”

“Haan. Severe level ke.” You nod with fake concern. “Hydration ki kami lag rahi hai.”

The cashier snorts.

TRAITOR.

You whip toward the poor man dramatically. “Aap hans kyun rahe ho? Main yahan harassment ka shikaar ho rahi hoon.”

“Madam aap hi ne pehle-”

“Main aapko witness box mein nahi bulaungi,” you cut him off instantly.

Uzair actually laughs then. Properly this time. Head tilting slightly back, shoulders shaking just enough that you stare for half a second too long before catching yourself.

Oh.

Okay.

That was… unfortunately attractive. WHY WAS THIS MAN SO FUCKING PERFECT-

A sudden buzz vibrates in your hand, breaking whatever bizarre market courtroom drama this had turned into. You glance down at your phone and immediately snort at the message glowing on your screen.

Ammi: zinda ho??

Remembering the text you sent her before the chaos unfolded.

Trying to hide your smile, you instinctively look back up, only to pause slightly when you catch Uzair staring at your phone with the faintest hint of annoyance. Not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but just enough that it almost looks like the notification offended him personally for interrupting the conversation.

The expression disappears so quickly you nearly convince yourself it never happened.

Right. Obviously you imagined it.

Garmi ne genuinely mera dimaag paka diya hai.

Because there was absolutely no way some random stranger, a very unfortunately attractive stranger, but still a stranger, would care that your attention shifted away from him for two seconds. Especially after you had spent the last fifteen minutes publicly humiliating him in front of the public.

You quickly type back.

You: abhi tak toh haan

Before your brain can spiral any further into nonsense, you shove your phone back into your bag with unnecessary urgency, pretending you were completely normal and not internally creating edits, playlists, and potential future wedding hashtags over one microscopic facial expression.

Actually embarrassing behaviour.

When you look back up, Uzair is still watching you. Amused. Like he can somehow hear every chaotic thought crashing around in your head and is enjoying the show way too much.

You quickly turn around before Uzair can say anything else, refusing to give him even a second to recover from whatever damage you had just caused. With as much dignity as a person rapidly escaping a market can have, you march straight toward Yalina.

Only to immediately slow down at the sight beside her.

There stood an actual mountain of a man with heartbreakingly pretty hair, looking like he was either trying very hard not to laugh or actively experiencing a medical emergency. His shoulders were shaking suspiciously, lips pressed together so tightly they’d nearly disappeared.

…Oh, he was definitely laughing.

You narrowed your eyes at him immediately. Suspicious. Judgemental. Slightly offended.

Before he could say anything, you dramatically grabbed Yalina’s wrist.

“Chalo.”

Yalina blinked in confusion. “Aray wait—” she gestured toward the giant beside her, “yeh mere fiancé Hamza—”

“No introductions,” you cut her off instantly with the urgency of someone escaping a crime scene. “Karachi ki awam unsafe hai.”

“kya?” Yalina wheezed.

But before she could question that deeply concerning statement any further, you were already dragging her away at alarming speed, practically speed-walking through the aisles like the government had issued a warrant for your arrest.

Behind you, the poor cashier looked seconds away from collapsing from laughter while Uzair remained standing there completely dumbfounded, grocery bag still hanging loosely from his hand like his brain had temporarily stopped processing events.

Halfway across the store, your impulsive tendencies unfortunately won again.

You turned back once.

Uzair was still staring.

So naturally, like the mature adult you were, you stuck your tongue out at him before disappearing around the aisle with Yalina in tow.

And that did it.

Uzair knew, with terrifying certainty, that even if he genuinely tried, he would probably never be able to forget you.

There was a brief moment of silence as he continued staring toward the gali-sized aisle you had disappeared into, the image of you sticking your tongue out at him replaying in his head with deeply irritating clarity. The tiny local shop suddenly felt louder somehow, filled with the sound of the ancient freezer humming, plastic wrappers crinkling, and the entire Karachi awam pretending not to stare while very obviously staring.

Then Hamza finally reached his side, looking between Uzair and the now-empty aisle with undisguised amusement written all over his face.

“Arey bhai,” he drawled, voice full of betrayal. “Bhabhi se intro toh karwata.”

Uzair snapped his head toward him so fast it was almost violent. “Chup kar.”

Unfortunately, that only made it worse.

Because now, for what felt like the thousandth time today, warmth crept up Uzair’s neck and across his face before he could stop it.

Hamza's eyes widened, Like he hit a jackpot and honest to god he did.

“Ohhhhhhh.”

Uzair already knew this idiot was never letting him live this down.

“Hamza.” His tone turned threatening.

“NAHI.” Hamza grabbed his shoulder like he’d just witnessed a national event. “Uzair Baloch blush kar raha hai? Public mein? Ek random larki ke liye jisne tumhe hot bola aur phir Yalina ko kidnap karke bhaag gayi?”

“She did not kidnap her.”

“Bhai woh literally uska haath pakad ke bhaagi hai jaise police raid hone wali thi.”

At this point, the entire sweet shop had become invested in the live romcom unfolding beside the kulfi counter. One aunty waiting for falooda was openly smiling. A little boy holding a melting chocolate cone kept staring between Uzair and Hamza like this was better than TV.

And somehow, in the middle of all this chaos, another employee shouted from behind the counter for what was probably the sixth time that evening,

“kulfi khatam hogayi hai!”

Not a single person complained.

Nobody cared.

The awam had already received premium entertainment while waiting for dessert. Entire live romcom. Free of cost. No booking fees. No subscriptions. 

Complete paise wasool experience. 10/10. Chef’s kiss. No notes. Would absolutely recommend.

From near the counter, Siyahi finally spoke up, “Bhai, ghar chalein?”

Considering the entire reason they’d come to Azam Sweets in the first place no longer existed.

Because the kulfi was finished.

Completely.

Khatam. Gone.

And somehow, despite that, Uzair was still staring toward the aisle you’d disappeared into.

Hamza let out an exaggerated “Astagfirullah,” he muttered dramatically. “Kulfi lene aaye thay. Bhai dil de kar jaa raha hai.”  

Uzair finally looked at him with a glare. “Hamza, qasam se agar tu aur bola na toh teri qabar pe khud ‘gone too far’ likhwaunga.” 

Siyahi glanced between the two men, already exhausted. “Bhai,” he reminded dryly, lifting the empty box slightly, “kulfi khatam hogayi hai.”

“I heard him the first six times too,” Uzair deadpanned.

Hamza snorted. “Kulfi khatam hui hai. Tumhara toh kaam tamam hua hai.”

“Hamza.”

Back at the Baloch haveli, the house had settled into its usual late-night rhythm. The bright chaos of dinner time was gone now, replaced with softer sounds drifting through the halls, the television playing upstairs, the occasional clink of chai cups from the kitchen, Faisal’s voice carrying from somewhere in the lounge despite repeated instructions to sleep, and Naieem arguing back every few minutes like it was his full-time job. Warm lights spilled across the marble floors while staff moved quietly through the house finishing the last of the night’s work. 

Uzair had barely stepped into the living room before Faisal spotted him from the couch and reacted like a man who had finally caught a criminal returning to the scene of the crime.

“CHACHUUUU!”

The boy practically threw himself off the sofa and ran toward him at full speed, nearly crashing into the center table on the way. Everyone else in the lounge looked up instantly. Rehman sat back in his armchair with his reading glasses low on his nose, Ulfat was folding laundry while half-watching some drama on TV, and Naieem looked up from his phone the second he sensed possible entertainment.

Faisal stopped directly in front of Uzair, breathing dramatically.

“Kulfi?”

Not salaam.

Not aap agaye.

Bas seedha interrogation.

Behind Uzair, Hamza immediately pressed his lips together while Siyahi looked away like he wanted absolutely no involvement in what was about to happen.

Uzair closed his eyes briefly.

“…Kulfi khatam hogayi thi.”

Dead silence.

Faisal stared at him in complete disbelief.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN KHATAM HOGAYI THI?”

“Matlab jo hota hai jab cheez khatam hojati hai,” Uzair replied tiredly while taking off his watch. “Stock over. Khatam. The end.” 

As the chaos carried on in the lounge, Rehman quietly leaned back against the sofa and held out his hand toward Naieem with the smug confidence of a man about to collect his winnings. Gesturing for 

Maal.

Rokda.

Cash.

Because unfortunately for Naieem, he had lost the bet.

With visible annoyance, Naieem pulled a few notes from his pocket and slapped them dramatically into Rehman’s waiting hand.

But then-

Rehman’s victorious expression disappeared instantly.

Because Naieem calmly turned toward his mother and held out his palm the exact same way Rehman just had.

Ulfat narrowed her eyes immediately. “Naeeim…”

“Rules are rules, ammi.”

She let out a deeply offended huff before pulling money from her pocket anyway and shoving it into his hand while Rehman stared at his son in complete betrayal.

“…Tumne dono taraf bet lagayi thi?”

Naieem looked unbearably pleased with himself.

“Diversified investments.”

The absolute snake had apparently bet both on and against Uzair bringing the kulfi.

Either way, janab was making profit.

“CHACHU!” Faisal looked genuinely devastated now, pointing accusingly at Uzair like this betrayal would permanently alter him as a person. “Aap apne eklaute bhanje ke liye kulfi bhi nahi laa paaye!”

“Excuse me?” Naieem’s offended voice came immediately from the couch. “Main mar gaya hoon?”

“Narratively abhi important nahi ho,” Faisal shot back without even looking at him.

Meanwhile Faisal turned back toward Uzair with renewed determination. “Ab toh aapko mere notes likhne padenge.” 

The little menace didn’t even look upset about losing the kulfi anymore. If anything, he looked excited.

That was when cold dread finally washed over Uzair.

Oh no.

The notes.

He had completely forgotten that part of the deal.

“Dekho Faisal beta-” Uzair immediately started negotiating like a businessman trying to stop a lawsuit. “Main tujhe kal laakar dunga na kulfi. Apne favourite chachu ko ek free penalty toh do." Hamza losing his shit in the background was not helping his case.

Ulfat finally stepped in, already starting to feel bad for Uzair. “Arrey bas bhi karo, Faisal. Uzair thak gaya hoga.”

“Exactly!” Uzair pointed at her immediately like he’d just found legal representation. “Dekha? Sirf bhabhi samajhti hain mujhe iss ghar mein.”

Rehman finally looked up from his chai with the calmness of a man about to become deeply annoying on purpose.

“Nahi,” he said thoughtfully. “Notes toh ab likhne padenge. Mard ki zubaan hoti hai.”

Uzair stared at him in pure disbelief.

“Bhai?”

“Main neutral hoon.”

“Yeh neutral nahi hota,” Uzair said immediately. “Yeh woh hota hai jab banda maze le raha ho lekin sophisticated lagne ki acting bhi kar raha ho.”

Rehman took another sip of chai calmly. “Court faisla suna chuki hai.”

“Court biased hai.”

“Appeal reject.”

Uzair looked around the room in betrayal before pointing dramatically at Faisal. “Tum sab yaad rakhna, yeh bacha kal ko corporate blackmailer banega.”

Faisal looked deeply pleased with that prediction. “Thank you.”

The Baloch haveli had finally quieted down by the end of the night. The bright chaos from earlier had faded into softer sounds now the hum of the AC running through the hallways, and the television downstairs still playing at low volume because nobody in the house ever remembered to switch it off properly. Warm lights glowed dimly across the dining area where the remains of chai cups, snack plates, and Faisal’s aggressively untouched school books still sat spread across the table like evidence from a crime scene. 

Right in the middle of it all, Siyahi sat hunched over the dining table with the exhausted expression of a man who had somehow become academically employed against his will. One hand held a pencil while the other rubbed tiredly over his face as he stared at Faisal’s homework like it had personally ruined his future.

Mera kya kata hai aaj poore din, he thought bitterly. Subah se bhaag daur karo, raat ko fractions solve karo.

“Yeh seventh class ka homework hai ya civil services ka exam?” he muttered under his breath while flipping the page.

Across from him, Faisal sat peacefully eating chips without even pretending to feel guilty.

“Bhai thora acha handwriting mein likhna,” he reminded helpfully. “Miss numbers kaat deti hain.”

Siyahi slowly looked up at him.

“Allah mujhe sabr de.”

Meanwhile, upstairs in his room, Uzair lay stretched across the bed in a black t-shirt and loose pajama pants, damp hair falling carelessly onto his forehead while the soft glow from his phone lit the sharp angles of his face. The AC hummed quietly in the background, cool air brushing against skin still warm from Karachi’s heat, but he barely noticed any of it.

Usually by this hour, his mind would still be stuck on work — shipments, factory calls, meetings, Hamza’s stupidity, tomorrow’s problems.

Unfortunately tonight, his mind had chosen violence instead. 

You.

Because every few minutes, against his will, your face kept appearing in his head like an ad he couldn’t skip.

Every few minutes, without permission, his thoughts drifted right back to Azam Sweets. Your dramatic expressions. The offended gasps. The way you’d confidently accused him of harassment after publicly calling him hot in the middle of Azam Sweets. 

And then-

That stupid little tongue out expression before disappearing around the road.

A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it, his head tilting back slightly against the pillow.

“Ajeeb larki thi,” he murmured under his breath.

But there was no real annoyance behind it.

If anything, the corner of his mouth lifted faintly again as he stared up at the ceiling, already knowing one deeply unfortunate thing with complete certainty.

He was probably going to think about Miss Kulfi for a very, very long time. Until he finally finds her again.

thank you sm for reading!!! 😭💔 genuinely mujhe nahi pata aap abhi tak yahan kya kar rahe ho but i appreciate it deeply!!!

Taglist: mujhe nahi pata kisko tag karu bas ek banda voluntarily iss circus mein aya hai @mainyahaankyunhoon 😭 this queen right here is genuinely the inspiration behind me writing this fic 😭 i’ve read all her fics and now i’m dangerously obsessed to the point ke mera khud ka 15k words ka azaab nikal gaya 💔

[harpiesfeatherduster]

Ranveer Singh in Dhurandhar (2025) directed by Aditya Dhar

[softurns]

this picture is so funny why the hell is khanani standing like that 😭😭

[twinblueflamee]

Sifar Safar by Karan Aujla ft. Jaskirat Singh Rangi 🦁

oh, ghaate baare dassan?

ki main vaadhe baare dassan, kude?

bhukh baare dassan?

ki main khaade baare dassan, kude?

chullheyan 'ch phulle parshaade baare dassan?

tainu ohna baare dassan?

ki main saade baare dassan, kude?

kinni ku si baapu ji di qadar dassan ni? dass, kitthon-kitthon langhi meri mother dassan ni? tainu ghar di story ya koi other dassan ni?

tainu sifar dassan? 

ya pehlaan safar dassan ni, kude?

gaun baare dassan?

ki main likhe bare dassan, kude?

kihna nu sikhaya?

ya main sikhe baare dassan, kude?

chhote hunde haare?

hun jitte baare dassan, kude?

vadde Aujle ja?

tainu nikke baare dassan, kude?

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(pic credits: YouTube, Pinterest, IMDB and my kweeen @tojisloft 🙇🏻‍♀️❤️🥰 for giving me the pictures of Jaskirat's family and my bhabhijaan @afortoru because she is a cutie ☝🏻🥰 and I love herrrrr 🫶🏻❤️)

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[whereissanz]

Here we observe the rare Lyari Alpha Male in his natural habitat.

Note the aggressive posturing, the territorial roars, and the complex hierarchy maintained through decades of unspoken loyalty. Tread carefully - one wrong move and the entire pack turns on you.

[roses-and-iron]

Actor Reader(Coz she is a fine shyt) x Akshaye Khanna. They dated in the past, people loved them both and on and off screen. They're breakup was a national news.😭(lets think Alia and Ranveer, how big it was when they revealed they were getting married or like Vijay and Rashmika rn) they stopped working together after the breakup. But Then they come together for Dhurandhar.( remember dilwaale? It was like so hyped coz kajol and srk being together in a movie after ages? Yeah it's something like that here as well) and well maybe Reader can play the role of Ulfat?and The proximities bring them together?👀

Rekindled - Akshaye Khanna x reader

2k words🎀

look who is back after an eternity, i hope this is good, wrote this in one go at 3am lol, not proofread. Sab @obsessedwidskincare ko thanks bolenge because she told me not to write angst so I didn’t! Tho mai to full mood me thi *cue evil laughter*😈

Pune University, 2001

“Oh my god, did you see?? Akshaye Khanna and Y/n L/n are dating!!” A college girl squealed dropping a magazine in front of her friends.

“Oh yes, they’re so gorgeous together!” Another one replied, staring at the couple on page six.

“Lucky her!” Third one said.

Akshaye Khanna and Y/n l/n were the IT couple of Bollywood in the 2000s. When the news of the two being a couple came out it was absolute chaos. The fans were lost their minds and loved the duo immensely, demanding more of the couple both on and off screen. The two worked together in several movies, directors and producers lining up to cast them together knowing the movie would become blockbuster even if it story sucked. The people loved them enough to watch three hours of bull crap just to see them together on the screen.

Zoom TV, 2003

“Bollywood’s favourite couple, Akshaye Khanna and Y/n L/n part ways after three years together.” The TV anchor spoke in a sensational tone, as if telling the tale of the century. “Dono adakaro ne apne raaste alag karliye hain, surtron ki maanen toh inn dono ke bich mahino se ann ban chal rahi thi aur akhir me dono ne alag hone ka faisla kar liya.” She added, staring into the camera. “Kya iss break up wajah Akshaye ki Karishma Kapoor ke sath nazdikiyaan toh nahi? Ya shayad Akshaye ko Y/n ka apne co star John Abraham ke sath promotions karna pasand nahi! Iss raaz ke khulase ke liye humare saath jude rahiye, sirf Zoom tv par!”

Somewhere in a salon a woman gasped, somewhere in an office a man cheered as if he had a chance with Y/n, and somewhere a teenager was sobbing into her pillow that her favourite couple was no longer together, making all her comfort movies her worst nightmare. The emotions were high.

Bandra, February 2024

Y/n L/n had an amazing Bollywood career, she started off as a child actor, then grew up to be the leading lady of almost every other early 2000s Bollywood movies. As she aged she sometimes took up on roles of older sisters or young aunt, then gracefully took an exit from the industry, choosing to keep her dignity intact. To say she was surprised when Aditya Dhar approached her for the role of Rehman Dakait’s wife in his upcoming movie Dhurandhar. But she didn’t deny it, she didn’t ask who would be playing Rehman Dakait, she just took on the role as wanted to be a part of such an amazing story. She could tell it was going to break all records.

Alibaug, February 2024

Akshaye was skeptical about the role, he didn’t want to do it at first, he didn’t want to play a terrorist. “I’ll dwell on it,” he’d told Mukesh Chabra with no intention of giving it a second thought. The script laid idly on the table of his office in his house in Alibaug, he glanced at it in passing and paused. He picked it up when his eyes landed on the cast list,

Ranveer Singh as Hamza Ali Mazari

Rehman Dakait TBD

Danish Pandor as Uzair Baloch

Y/n L/n as Ulfat Baloch

Arjun Rampal as Major Iqbal

Aslam Chaudhary TBD

He paused at that one name, Y/n L/n. He scanned the sheet with his eyes and realised she’d be playing the role of his wife. Twenty years passed and still his heartbeat quickened at the sight of her name. Twenty years passed and yet the two of them had never married anyone else. Twenty years later they were going to work again if he agreed to the role. That had to mean something right? Maybe this was fate giving them another chance. He didn’t think twice before calling Aditya to let him know he’s on board.

The shoot started five months later, the set was buzzing with excitement and determination, crew running around to make sure everything was perfect, while the actors went over their lines, fighting off the nerves. Y/n had learnt about Akshaye playing Rehman and she almost backed out of the movie because even after twenty years her heart still skipped a beat at the thought of being in the same room as him, playing his wife, having to look at him like she loved him and still maintain boundary enough to sell it as acting. But she didn’t quit, she was a professional and she wouldn’t let her lingering feelings get in the way of her professionalism.

The reason of their breakup was marriage. She wanted to settle down while he wanted some time to figure himself out before taking such huge decision. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to marry her, he knew deep in his heart if he ever got married it would be to her but at that time he was scared to tie the knot, not because he didn’t love her, but because he was scared he wouldn’t be the best choice for her. He wanted to change himself for the better before they took the final decision. It was a case of right person wrong time. Things escalated, fights and arguments got too much. She decided to leave and he let go. Neither of them fought hard enough, blame it on the age or ego, but it happened. And even after being set free, Y/n couldn’t bring herself to marry anyone else.

Today they were shooting the hospital scene, the two of them were still yet to meet each other. Y/n was sitting on her makeup chair, wearing a simple suit, and her hair was tied into a loose braid, a few stray locks framing her face. Tears streamed down her face and it looked like she had been crying for a while.

“You okay?” She heard a familiar voice behind her, a voice she hadn’t heard in person in twenty years. She raised her head to look at Akshaye standing behind her, clad in his all black pathani, his wig perfectly set on his head. He looked so handsome that she had to take moment to collect herself.

“Hm? Yeah! Just wanted to look like I’d been crying. You know, before scene rituals.” She said standing up to face him. Her face was wet from the tears but to him she looked ethereal in even in a simple suit.

“No glycerin?” He chuckled awkwardly.

“You know it.” She replied with ease, like it was just as easy to banter with him even after years of distance. And he did know that she didn’t rely on makeup or glycerin to make her seem sad. It was raw and real acting.

“Kaisi ho?” He couldn’t help but ask.

“Theek. Tum?” She bit her lip, looking at him. That one strand of hair falling over his forehead doing things to her heart.

“Theek,” he mimicked the nod of her head. They both stayed silent for a few seconds, only for the silence to be interrupted by one and only Ranveer Singh.

“Kya sir, Y/n ma’am ko bol rahe ho araam se thappad maare?” He joked appearing behind Akshaye, who rolled his eyes while Y/n chuckled.

“Hello to you too Ranveer.” She giggled looking over at the hyper excited man.

“Iski baat mat suno, you hit me as hard you need to, bas screen pe accha dikhna chaiye.” Akshaye said firmly, and for a second she hesitated but agreed nonetheless.

Soon they all were called for the scene, everyone turned serious and into work mode as Aditya yelled “Action!” The doors opened and Akshaye turned to see y/n walking in angrily, the pre crying looked amazing as now her face perfectly captured the expressions of a woman who’d lost her son. She stopped one foot away from him, glared at him and slapped him. He flinched then pulled her into his arms as she sobbed. “Meri jaan hai tu!” He whispered his dialogue feeling it more than he should’ve.

“CUT!!” They did a few more takes before they called it a day.

A few weeks passed in the blur of hectic shoot days, y/n was sitting on her chair scrolling through Instagram when she stumbled upon a bts picture posted by Aditya Dhar.

adityadhar you are not ready for this! @yourusername #akshayekhanna

User1: Dhar sahab cooked with the casting

Akshayefan: please get back together @yourusername #akshayekhanna

Riya123: my 2000s heart is healing #yourshipname

y/n_updates: i will sell my soul for these two to get back together

Y/n chuckled reading the comments, a weight settling in her heart. She too would sell her soul to get back with Akshaye if she was being honest. She shook her head and locked her phone.

“Kitna chupaegi, Tara?” She heard a voice from behind her, she was tired of people sneaking up on her from behind. She didn’t need to turn to see who it was, only one person called her Tara and talked in a certain way. Sanjay Dutt, her old friend, her rakhi brother who called her Tara because she was a star. “Tum dono kab tak ye bhagne ka khel kheloge? Itni umar me bhi thakte nahi ho kya?” He said sarcastically, dropping onto the chair beside her.

“Agar humari umar hogayi hai toh aapka apne baare me kya khayal hai?” She joked changing the subject but he saw through it.

“Accha mazak hai, par mai seriously nahi leta.” He laughed leaning back into the chair. “But seriously, kya laga rakha hai? Dono sirf aahein bharte rehte ho, bees saal kaafi nahi hai kya samjhne ko?”

“Apko kuch nahi pata. Mai aagy badh gayi hoon.”

“Sindoor to nahi dikhta.” He retorted coolly.

“Sirf shadi karne se move on nahi hota.”

“Par chora bhi toh shadi ke liye hi tha na?” He was not going easy on her, he kept throwing in facts at her that she couldn’t defend or deny. “Baat karne se masle hal hote hai.” He gave her a knowing look. A look that said trust me. He patted her head and walked back to where he came from.

While shooting the scene on the bridge, where they were supposed to take Faizal to the hospital, her mind kept replaying the conversation with Sanjay, in the cramped space of the car, Y/n sat on the car floorboard, overwhelmed by the way Akshaye was looking at her, “Rehman,” she whispered with tears in her eyes. He leaned down and kissed her forehead and something inside her broke which she was sure was caught by camera, which wasn’t Ulfat. All Y/n.

The director yelled cut and before they could call for a retake she marched towards her vanity, slamming the door behind her. She hated it was affecting her so much, she hated that even after twenty years his lips had an effect on her body. She hated that the line between acting and reality was blurring. She wiped her face with a tissue paper, crumbling the material in her hand afterwards.

The doorknob moved and the door creaked open, slowly. Akshaye walked in with tentative steps, reading the room. She stiffened looking at him through the mirror. More tears poured down her eyes as he inched closer. Even after two decades he knew her body, knew her mannerisms, he just knew her. He walked closer slowly and pulled her into his chest. She didn’t fight it, she didn’t push him away, she clutched his shirt pulling him closer. He leaned down to press a hard kiss to her head. “I’m sorry.” He muttered lowly.

“Me too.” She sniffled nuzzling further into his chest.

Neither of them spoke, but the air in the room had changed, charged with unspoken feelings. They didn’t need words to relay how they felt. They knew and it was enough. His arms around her tightened as if to say, “ I love you” and she turned her head slightly so her cheek was pressed into his chest, an action that screamed, “I love you more.” And this time neither of them were letting go.

Tags:

@shadylovedhurandhar @mainyahaankyunhoon @ramayantika @maraudersbitchesassemble @twinblueflamee @jacqueline-17 @mylifesalreadyfucked @i-am-yourmom @trippitoas27 @desi-brownie @ooopssssu @anayaverse @shotsyfeather @diaryofawhoretbh @multifandom-boss-bitch @sanpiece @geometric-circle @seasonofthenerd @galexy085 @hosh-udaaye @skiicoreee @dc-reign @terijhukinazar @sebbymybaby21 @suvarnarekha @nerdreader @draculauras-stuff @rini4everdreaming @akinrawsx @myboysfavouritetoy @rehmandakaitswife @wan2bey-n @sweatycreatorprincess-blog @depressedgiftedburnout @tojisloft @written-in-ishq @warnermeadowsgirl @icypurpleluv @harrystyleskiwi9 @noor-archive @doresthings @akshayekimk0 @erenfox @mischiefmanaged666 @nooriyat

[ishq-e-rehman]

Kitna ghoorogi, chaand

Pairing: Uzair Baloch x reader

Summary: Uzair drowning in grief after Hamza and Yalina's walima/// Uzair being unable to stay away from you after getting drunk

A/N: heavily inspired by my own fantasies hehe. might be a little cliche but im learning baaki maza boht aayege.

warnings: MDNI, very slight bdsm, smut without plot coz plot was in part 1

This is a written piece intended strictly for adults (18+). It contains explicit sexual content and mature themes that may not be suitable for all readers. If you are under 18, please do not read further. Viewer discretion is strongly advised.

Part 1 (Meri hi ho, chaand)

This is a fictional work and does not endorse, glorify, or justify the actions depicted. It is written purely within the narrative context of the film’s characters and storyline.

You turned off the shower after 30 long minutes, muscles relaxed and exhaustion slowly wearing off. You rested your forehead against the navy tile of the shower wall and sighed. It had been an exhausting day for you— with helping Yalina prepare for the wedding to getting a tree up the stairs settled a deep ache in your muscles. The balloon of steam surrounding you was oddly comforting and you never wished to get out of it. Alas, all good things had to end.

Reluctantly, you stepped out of the shower, grabbing your towel and drying yourself. You got dressed into your pink lace nightgown, which went down to your knees and had tiny floral engravements on it. You opened the door to your bedroom and stepped out, the steam from the bathroom escaping to the bedroom. To your surprise, Uzair was still awake.

Uzair sat up straighter against the headboard when he heard the door open. He had changed into grey pajama pants while you were showering, and you were impressed that he had managed to do it himself without knocking the entire closet over himself. But then again, you were underestimating your husband. He was pretty strong and you were being reminded of that as you shamelessly stared at his very shirtless torso.

Thick hair on his chest, thinning across his abs and spanning down to beneath his pants. And his arms. God, exactly how much did he work out? And more importantly, when?

Uzair was a little more composed now, having chugged 6 glasses of water within 30 minutes. His mind was slightly less foggy and he noticed your heated stare. He noticed the way you subconsciously licked your lips when you were staring at his abs and the way your breath hitched just a pinch when your eyes moved to his forearms.

But his gaze didn’t stop there.

He noticed your tightened nipples poking through the flimsy fabric of the nightgown. He noticed how your chest rose and fell as your breath quickened. He noticed your bare legs, and how badly he wanted to see them spread apart for him. He smirked to himself at the visual, his tip already leaking.

“Kitna ghoorogi, chaand?”, he teased in a low drawl.

That broke whatever trance you seemed to be in. On any other day, you’d reply with something flirty— like ‘Jab tak hain jaan’ but you were annoyed at Uzair today. There’s no way he was getting it tonight, no way you were going to give in. Probably, a voice in your head reasoned, but you pushed it deep down. Hence, despite the blush creeping up your neck, you huffed.

“Ghoor nahi rahin thi. Kisika qatl kitne andaazo mein ho sakta hain, uske baare mein gaur kar rahin thi.”

“Aapki toh adaayein hi itni qatilaana hain, mohtarma. Iss mulaazim ke liye toh wahi kaafi hain.”, he grinned and brought his hand to his heart, pretending to be hurt.

You stared at him for at least 10 seconds with a blank face. Your husband was a flirt, that was a fact. However, he was, for the most part, a bad flirt. He relied on cheesy one- liners way too much and was very much aware of the fact. He was also aware of the fact that his lame pick up lines were one of the first things you had liked about him. And while you were still fond of his adorable attempt at flirting, sometimes you just wondered how someone could be that niche. Instead of expressing your thoughts, you just shook your head, Uzair’s grin still intact.

“Aapka kuch nahi ho sakta.”

Uzair’s smile dimmed and his gaze darkened ever-so-slowly, eyes trained on your chest. You knew exactly what he was looking at, and you didn’t mind it all too much. You loved the way he undressed you and fucked you with his eyes alone, and you loved it even better when he fucked you with his cock after, as well.

“Tum kuch karke toh dekho, meri jaan. Phir dekhna kya kuch nahi ho sakta.”, he said quietly.

Butterflies.

Butterflies fluttering around in your stomach, goosebumps on your skin and you clenched your legs almost unnoticeably.

Almost.

Uzair noticed. Of course he did.

A slow smirk spread across his lips and you hated giving him that satisfaction. You hated the way your breath betrayed you and the way your body temperature rose a few degrees just by a single sentence from him. You hated the way you wanted him to fuck you 6 ways into oblivion and you definitely hated the way your panties were drenched with your own arousal.

Uzair wiggled his eyebrows at your speechlessness and you groaned internally.  Still, head held high, you ignored him completely in favour of walking to your side of the bed and picking up the half- finished novel– Humsafar by Farhat Ishtiaq– from the small bedside table, and settled onto the bed, resting your back against the headboard and folding your knees, holding your book against them. You read the first sentence, then the second, then the third. However, your mind couldn’t comprehend the words in front of you. In fact, your mind hadn’t been on the book at all. It was on your husband who was currently, literally breathing down your neck.

You hadn’t realized when he had shifted closer but once you did, it was hard to focus on anything except the warmth of his breath grazing your neck and breasts.

Uzair, on the other hand, couldn’t bear not being close to you. He had scooted over the minute you sat on the bed and was itching to touch you, to bite into your soft skin.

And so, he did exactly that.

Your hands tightened around the edges of your book when you felt the first peck on the side of your neck. And then on your shoulder, up your jaw and finally on your throat, before tilting your head towards him by your throat and hovering his lips over yours. Your breaths mingled, and he could’ve kissed you with a tilt of his head, but he was waiting for your permission.

For permission to destroy you.

You looked down at his lips, so full, so inviting, so bitable.

Fuck it. You can be mad at him tomorrow.

You crashed your lips onto his and his hands immediately found your waist, pulling you closer towards him, while swiping his tongue against your bottom lip and you opened your mouth without wasting a second. Your one hand held his should for support and the other took purchase in his hair, stroking and tugging. The subtle taste of rum in his mouth enhanced the feeling as he sucked on your tongue and you hummed at the feeling.

Uzair felt more drunk on you than he had ever been on alcohol. He needed to be as close to you as humanly possible. Needed to touch you, drink you, eat you and leave you a whimpering mess after he was done with you. He saw nothing but you.

Slowly, he moved his hand upwards, circling your nipple with his thumb through the thin fabric of your nightgown and swallowed the whimpers that left your mouth.

Reluctantly, you pulled away for air, eyes hazed and breath running faster than time. You watched as Uzair changed positions to settle in front of you and spread your legs apart, eyes darkening at the sight of wet patch on your panties.

He trailed gentle kisses down your left knee, and sucked on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, while his other hand moved to your cunt, pulling your panties to the side and collecting your wetness with his thumb. You moaned at the feeling, and tried to push his head down further.

“Uzair”, you whispered.

Rip.

You gasped as the sound of your panties being ripped filled the room. He was definitely going to buy you new ones and you were not accepting anything less than Victoria’s Secret. Uzair’s eyes were trained on your pussy, dripping very shamelessly for him and him only.

You were annoyed. Not only was he taking his sweet time when you were throbbing, he also ripped apart your panties. You opened your mouth to complain.

“Ye kya kiy–“

“Nazre kitaab se hatni nahin chahiyein.”, he interrupted you with a dangerously low voice and laid down between your legs, a finger massaging your hole.

Confused, you continued to stare at him. Maintaining the eye contact, he leaned down and spit on your pussy, and your moaned, feeling his spit drip down combined with your own juices.

Slap.

He slapped your pussy with enough force for you to shift backwards, hitting the headboard. A loud yelp escaped your lips in pain before a wave of pleasure coursed through your body at the contact.

“Kitaab pe nazre rakho, meri jaan”, he warned and you immediately lowered your eyes to the book in front of you.

That was all he said before diving into your pussy, tongue fucking you and lapping up all the wetness like he’d been starved for aeons, eyes on you to make sure you were doing as he asked.

Moans and whimpers escaped your lips as he worked on your pussy relentlessly and you were having a hard time focusing on anything but that feeling. All you saw were white spots dance in your vision. You buried your hand in his hair and tugged when he hit a sweet spot, making him groan against your pussy.  He hooked his arms under your legs to keep you in place as he absolutely devoured you.

His mouth moved upwards and he sucked on your clit before gently biting the soft bud, simultaneously pushing two fingers inside you and curling them up exactly against your g-spot. And that’s when you lost it.

You threw your head back with a loud moan, the book slipping from your hands and onto the bed. Not a moment was wasted before another slap echoed through the walls of your room. You moaned in pain and pleasure, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes. But you didn’t care anymore. You were so, so close to cumming.

And Uzair knew. He felt the walls of your pussy clenching around his fingers and your legs starting to shiver against his shoulders. And just when you were on the verge of drowning, he pulled away. You groaned, frustration pooling behind your eyes as a sobbed escaped your lips.

Uzair looked at you, eyes softening a tad and he leaned forward to press his lips to yours delicately.

“Thoda sabr karo, chaand.”, he whispered against your mouth.

But you didn’t want to be patient. You wanted him, raw, and inside you, right now.

You put your hands on his shoulders and wrapped your legs around his torso, and conveniently flipped him over, straddling him while he lay on the bed. It was surprisingly easy, but that was only because he let you do it.

He chuckled and watched as you pulled his sweatpants and boxers off with urgency, lifting his hips up to help you.

“Itni kya besabri hain? Aur thi bhi toh pehle hi bata deti. Main tabhi tumhari khwaahish poori kar deta.”, he smirked.

But you’d had enough of his jokes and messing around.

“Chup rahein.”, you ordered, grabbing ahold of his cock and stroking slightly with your fingertips. The smirk on his face vanished as he let out a low groan at your touch. You fisted his cock at the base and stroked upwards, making precum leak out of his tip. You spread it around the head of his cock with your thumb, making Uzair’s breath quicken.

It was your turn to be smug now. You hovered directly over his cock, and ground your pussy on his cock, teasing him. Uzair’s hands fastened around your waist as you rubbed the tip of his cock against your clit and moaned, before putting just the tip in your pussy, moving it around against your walls. Uzair was not having it.

He tightened his hold on your waist and pushed all the way in one deep thrust and the breath was knocked out of your lungs at the sheer size of him. You threw your head back in pleasure and started slowly rocking against his cock. Uzair let out a deep groan and moved his hands to your ass, kneading and massaging, and then spanked you harshly. You moaned and leaned forward, placing your hands on his abs for support.

Uzair tugged on your nightgown, and you pulled it over your head, his hands instantly coming up to roll your nipple between his fingers.

“Kitni haseen lagti ho aise. Jee karta hain zindagi bhar yahi rahu.”, he groaned.

He pulled you closer against his chest as your pace increased, the sounds of your moans filling the room, and he sucked on your nipple, grazing his teeth around the bud. You whimpered when he pulled away and blew on the sensitive skin, the wetness and the coolness of his breath sending pleasure directly to your core.

“Meri ho, sirf meri.”, he rasped in your ear, trailing kisses down your jaw and neck.

You were getting tired and your thrusts were getting sloppy. Uzair took matters in his own hands and started thrusting upwards with a relentless place. You had lost sense of the world at this point, Uzair being the only thing occupying your mind as you chanted his name like a prayer.

He brought his hand down between the two of you, and rubbed your clit with a punishing speed and you felt a coil in your stomach for the second time that night. Your pussy clenched around his cock and he groaned as he felt his own end building.

His pace increased, if that was even possible, his cock hitting the perfect spot every time and you finally drove over the edge, cumming on his cock with a loud moan and stars in your vision. He fucked you through your orgasm, feeling you pulsating around him and continued to fuck you even after you were down from the high.

You fell limp against him and he slapped your ass again, chasing his own high. You squeezed your pussy around his cock and that sent him over the edge. He came with a loud moan, filling you up with his cum.

You just laid there for a while, catching your breath and savouring each other’s presence.

“Lagta hain Rehman bhai ki baccha paida karne wali baat par humne kuch zyada hi gaur kar liya.”, you giggled.

Uzair laughed against your shoulder.

“Toh sahi toh keh rahein the bhai. Wo bade hain, buzurg hain, unki baat hume maan ni chahiyein na”, he said proudly.

You chuckled, agreeing with him, although you definitely didn’t agree with the ‘buzurg’ part.

A few solitary moments later, he gently pushed you off of him, and cleaned you and himself up. You looked at him with a grateful look and he wiggled his eyebrows at you in question.

“Kya? Itna toh main kar hi sakta hu.”, he said very casually like it was the silliest thing in the world.

You smiled at his generosity and shook your head, inviting him to join you in bed.

The moment his head hit the pillow and his arms found your waist, his eyes started drooping. Even in his half- drunk; half asleep state, he managed to capture your lips in a kiss one last time before falling in a deep slumber, and you fell with him.

The next morning, you planned your revenge for the whole Hamza situation. During breakfast, you walked up to the table and leaned down to where he was sitting on the dining table.

“Aaj aapki khuraak ka intezaam hoga.”, you whispered.

He looked at you in confusion and didn’t have time to process when Rehman walked in. You beelined to Rehman and made a dramatic scene while complaining to him about Uzair’s drinking habits.

“Rehman bhai inhone kal fir itni pee li. Inse chala toh kya utha bhi nahi jaa rahan tha. Donga aur Siyahi chhorhke gayein inhe. Aur toh aur, Rehman bhai, ye aapko buzurg bol rahein the.”

You looked at Uzair at the last sentence, eyelashes batting in innocence, while Rehman glared at him. Uzair’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to explain.

“Rehman bhai ye–“

“Buzurg hoga tera abbu, saale.”

And then Rehman proceeded to give Uzair an hour- long lecture about his drinking while you silently snickered from the corner of the room, and you and Ulfat almost lost it when you discovered Uzair washing down the balcony with sleeves and pants rolled up and a mop in hand. Yes, Rehman had given him cleaning duty out of pure pettiness for calling him old and you knew you were going to pay for it tonight, but the pure look of misery on Uzair’s face was definitely worth it.

taglist: @precioussophia @malekathesimp68 @carmenred28 @seasonofthenerd @kamalkafool @mainyahaankyunhoon @goodasaysboo @hereforfanfictionsfr @gulaabjamun08 @bobcuts-blog @stoicepochmaw @goodnightkatherine @mrgrungusthefrog @debsreads21 @obeythebutler @marvelfamily3000 @cloudmast @written-in-ishq @kisswithknife @carmenred28 @tojisloft @cloudmast @girllostinfictionworld @buchanana00 @sea-breeze-in-my-hair @judespoision @gehra-hua @main-apni-favorite-nahi-hoon @imrankaunbsdk @why-am-i-like-this-blog @desigurlie @ppinkitten @allthingsmythology @kitty-minnieee @fluffycheesecakey @work-of-procrastination @rosesandpeoniesthings @oinswiftie

a/n: dm to be added or removed from the taglist<3

[byvishanti]

listennnnn I just noticed something.

the difference in? hamza and uzair’s gun handling styles.

this alone was lowkey a giveaway of hamza’s identity on it's own because uzair being a gunda (lmao) doesn't know proper gun handling when holding down his pistol in this scene — which is finger in the trigger, pointing the barrel downward, which could EASILY lead to him jerking back on instinct when faced with sudden attack and shoot himself in the leg.

hamza, on the other hand? proper trigger discipline. finger outside the trigger but outlined across the barrel, ready to position itself at the first sign of conflict but safe for his own handling. these specific details are only present when you are officially trained in gun handling and combat, which? hamza as a R&AW agent? is.

idk if aditya did this on purpose or not but it's extremely cool and I won't be surprised if it's one of these niche details that were noticed by major iqbal and had him looking at our man hamza like: