Summary: What if, during the final confrontation at the school, you were the one taken hostage instead, used as leverage against Na Hwajin instead of Jang Seong Gu?
Author's Note: Lmao my babies here I am, writing a new fic for my latest obsession instead of completing my existing drafts hehehehe. There is a lack of teach you a lesson fics on here and I shall do my best to increase that. Hope you guys like it!
Disclaimer: This fic contains canon-typical violence, mentions of bullying, knives, etc. Reader discretion advised.
Main Masterlist
By the time Hwajin forced Gyu-cheol back against the far wall of the classroom, the fight had already taken its toll on the building around them. Several desks lay overturned across the floor, their metal legs twisted from the force of bodies being thrown into them, while shattered fragments of glass glittered beneath the weak afternoon light filtering through the cracked windows. Dust hung suspended in the air, disturbed by every movement, every impact, every laboured breath, and for the first time since entering the abandoned school, Hwajin allowed himself to believe that this was finally over.
The expression on Gyu-cheol's face had changed.
Gone was the arrogance that had accompanied him throughout the confrontation, replaced instead by the desperate uncertainty of a young man beginning to realise that he was no longer in control of the situation he had created. The sight should have been satisfying. It should have offered some measure of closure after years spent carrying memories that refused to remain buried.
Instead, an inexplicable sense of unease settled over Hwajin's shoulders.
It arrived, manifesting as nothing more than a tightening sensation in his chest, yet it was enough to make him pause.
Something was wrong.
His instincts had kept him alive for too long to ignore them now.
The realisation struck almost immediately afterwards.
You were gone.
Until that moment, he had not consciously registered your absence. The confrontation with Gyu-cheol had demanded his full attention, and somewhere amidst the chaos of pursuing him through the school, forcing him into a corner and preventing another escape, he had lost sight of the person who had entered the building beside him.
A cold sensation spread through his stomach. Slowly, his gaze swept across the room.
The overturned desks. The broken chairs. The cluster of students lingering near the doorway.
Then he saw you.
For a brief, terrible moment, he could not move.
The distance separating you was insignificant, yet it felt impossibly vast as his eyes travelled across the bruises marring your skin, the tears in your clothing, and the unmistakable strain evident in every line of your posture. One of Gyu-cheol's followers held you upright with an arm locked around your shoulders, while the other hand pressed a knife so tightly against your throat that a thin line of red had already begun to form beneath the blade.
You were trying not to show how much pain you were in.
That was the first thing he noticed.
Not the knife or the blood or the obvious danger.
You.
The effort it took for you to remain standing. The way your injured leg threatened to give way each time your captor shifted his grip. The tremor in your hands. The exhaustion visible in your eyes.
And despite all of it, despite the bruising already spreading across your face and the obvious fear you could not entirely conceal, you looked directly at him and attempted a reassuring smile.
The gesture was so absurd under the circumstances that it should have been impossible.
Yet there it was.
The sight hollowed something out inside him.
Without warning, another image forced itself to the surface of his mind.
A classroom floor stained red. A trembling hand. A weakening voice. The suffocating certainty that no matter how desperately he tried to reach her, he was already too late.
For years he had carried that memory with him like a wound that never healed properly, concealed beneath layers of discipline and routine and relentless work, convincing himself that if he remained vigilant enough, if he became strong enough, if he dedicated every waking moment to protecting others, then perhaps he would never have to experience that helplessness again.
Yet standing in that ruined classroom, watching another person he cared about held at knifepoint while he remained powerless to intervene, the old fear returned with such force that it momentarily stole the breath from his lungs.
Not again.
The words formed silently within the confines of his own mind.
Not again. He had failed once. The possibility of failing twice was unbearable.
Your eyes widened slightly as you recognised the expression on his face, and whatever discomfort you were experiencing seemed to become secondary to your concern for him.
It was infuriating.
Even now, even in this situation, you were worrying about someone else.
"Hwajin," you called, your voice noticeably weaker than usual, though you attempted to disguise it beneath an almost convincing smile. "I'm alright."
The lie would have been laughable under different circumstances.
You were bruised, bleeding, exhausted and visibly struggling to remain upright, yet somehow you still found the strength to prioritise his peace of mind over your own wellbeing.
Something tightened painfully in his chest. Because you should never have been standing there. You should never have been dragged into this. You should never have been forced to suffer the consequences of a conflict that had begun long before you entered his life.
And most of all, you should never have been looking at him as though his feelings mattered more than the knife resting against your throat.
Gyu-cheol noticed where his attention had settled and smiled. The expression carried all the cruelty of someone who had finally discovered exactly where to strike. For the first time since entering the room, genuine satisfaction appeared in his eyes.
He understood.
He understood that Na Hwajin's greatest weakness had never been his own pain.
It had always been the people he could not bear to lose.
His smile widened almost imperceptibly as he watched the change pass across Hwajin's face, and for a moment the room seemed to settle into an uneasy stillness, every person present instinctively recognising that something fundamental had shifted.
"Are you sure you want to do that?"
The question was directed at Hwajin, though Gyu-cheol's attention remained fixed upon the knife pressed against your throat.
Under ordinary circumstances, Hwajin would have dismissed the remark as another desperate attempt to regain control of a losing situation. He had spent years dealing with bullies who mistook cruelty for strength and manipulation for intelligence. He knew every variation of the game.
This time, however, his gaze remained locked on you.
Your condition was worse than he had initially realised.
Bruises darkened your arms beneath the torn fabric of your shirt. There was a stiffness to the way you carried yourself that suggested an injury somewhere along your side, and the colour had drained from your face to such an extent that it made his stomach tighten unpleasantly.
Most troubling of all was the effort it was taking for you to remain standing.
The sight filled him with a quiet, simmering anger unlike anything he had felt since Ga-yun's death.
Not because you were injured. Because he had allowed it to happen.
You must have seen something of that guilt reflected in his expression because, despite your circumstances, despite the knife resting against your skin and the obvious pain radiating through your body, you attempted another smile.
Nothing about this situation was fine. Nothing about the bruises decorating your skin or the blood at the corner of your mouth was fine.
Gyu-cheol noticed the exchange and chuckled. Then he gave a small nod.
The boy holding you understood immediately. The blow landed across your ribs with enough force to drive the air from your lungs. Pain exploded through your side. A strangled gasp escaped before you could stop it.
For a moment your vision blurred as agony radiated through your chest, forcing you to double forward despite the grip keeping you upright.
The metallic taste of blood filled your mouth.
Across the room, something dangerous flashed behind Hwajin's eyes. The reaction was instantaneous.
The carefully maintained restraint that had governed every one of his actions since entering the building began to fracture.
"Hwajin..."
You barely managed to force the warning through clenched teeth.
You already knew what Gyu-cheol was doing.
The bruises... the threats... the knife. None of it was truly about you. You were simply the instrument.
The weakness Gyu-cheol intended to exploit.
And judging by the expression on Hwajin's face, it was working.
Gyu-cheol laughed. The sound echoed through the ruined classroom.
"Look at you."
His voice dripped with satisfaction.
"After all this time, you're still exactly the same."
Hwajin took a step forward.
The knife immediately pressed harder against your throat.
He stopped. Every muscle in his body locked. Every possible outcome raced through his mind. None of them were acceptable.
For perhaps the first time in years, Na Hwajin found himself trapped.
Any action carried the possibility of harm reaching you first.
The knowledge was unbearable.
And Gyu-cheol knew it. He stepped forward, brandishing the knife in his hands. The metal reflected the flourescent lights above his head. He quickly stepped forward and lodged it inHwajin's abdomen.
"You know," Gyu-cheol continued, his grin widening, "this isn't going to fly in court."
His words carried a disturbing casualness, as though he were discussing the weather rather than the lives hanging in the balance around him.
"As self-defence. Or manslaughter."
A shrug followed.
"I'll have to move out of the country."
The students surrounding him laughed nervously. He pulled it out and stabbed him again.
"There are schools all over the world."
Your heart dropped. The complete absence of remorse in his voice was somehow more horrifying than the violence itself.
"NO!"
The word tore itself from your throat before you could stop it. The boy restraining you tightened his grip.
Yet your eyes never left Hwajin. Because for the first time since you had met him, he looked genuinely exhausted. As though years of grief, anger and regret had suddenly become too heavy to carry.
Gyu-cheol continued speaking, but the words blurred together in your ears.
Your attention remained fixed on the man standing across the room. The man who had devoted years of his life to protecting children. The man who had walked willingly into danger for people who could never repay him. The man who still carried the memory of Ga-yun like a scar no amount of time could erase.
You watched his chest rise and fall. Watched his jaw tighten. Watched how the blood now seemed to seep through the black clothes.
"Listen to me carefully."
The room fell silent. Even Gyu-cheol stopped smiling.
"Everyone in this country has the right to an equal education."
His gaze never wavered. He held the knife in his abdomen and stumbled ahead slightly.
"To the extent of their abilities."
The words carried a conviction so profound that they seemed to fill the classroom.
"And through that, the right to be happy."
For the first time since entering the building, you felt tears gathering in your eyes.
Even now, even after everything, even standing in the same place where his world had once fallen apart, he still found the strength to move forward.
"This is what children come to school for."
Hwajin took another step forward.
"Anyone who gets in the way of that..."
His eyes settled on Gyu-cheol.
"...no matter who they are...has to be taught a lesson."
Something changed in Gyu-cheol's expression. For the first time, fear appeared. The kind that arrives when a person finally understands the consequences of their actions.
And as you watched the confrontation unfold, your attention remained fixed on Hwajin alone.
Because despite the blood staining his clothes.
Despite the exhaustion visible beneath his composure.
Despite everything he had endured.
He was still standing.
Still protecting people.
Still choosing compassion where hatred would have been easier.
And somehow, that hurt more than anything else. Because all you could think was that none of this would have happened if you had been stronger.
For several seconds after the confrontation ended, you remained exactly where you were, unable to distinguish between the ringing in your ears and the distant sounds of voices echoing somewhere beyond the classroom.
The tension that had consumed every nerve in your body moments earlier had nowhere to go now.
The room itself seemed strangely distant, its outlines softened by exhaustion and shock, while your mind struggled to process the reality unfolding in front of you.
Gyu-cheol's words no longer mattered.
Neither did the frightened students gathered around him. Neither did the shattered desks or the broken windows or the years of pain that had finally culminated in this confrontation.
"Hwajin."
Your voice emerged barely above a whisper.
His gaze shifted toward you.
For a brief moment, you thought everything might be alright.
He was still standing.
But then you started to notice the way his focus seemed to drift for half a second before returning. The slight delay in his response. The effort it was taking for him to remain upright.
Fear gripped your chest with icy fingers.
No.
Hwajin's eyes found yours across the room as though he were attempting to comfort you.
The classroom tilted slightly as you forced yourself forward. Every step sent pain shooting through your ribs. Your legs felt unsteady beneath you. Your entire body protested the movement.
You ignored it. Nothing mattered except reaching him.
"Hwajin."
This time your voice cracked.
He opened his mouth as though to say something. Perhaps to reassure you. Perhaps to tell you he was fine.
His knees gave way first. The sight shattered whatever composure you had been desperately clinging to. You lunged forward. The impact nearly knocked the breath from your lungs as you caught him. His weight settled heavily against you. Far heavier than you expected.
"Hwajin."
You lowered both of you to the floor as carefully as your trembling arms allowed. The entire world seemed to narrow until only the two of you remained. Everything else faded into irrelevance.
Because Hwajin's eyes were beginning to close.
"No."
You reached for him without thinking. Your hands shook so badly that you barely recognised them as your own.
"Hwajin, look at me."
His eyelids fluttered. For a moment they opened. His gaze moved across the bruises on your face. The blood staining your sleeve.
"You idiot."
Your voice trembled.
"You absolute idiot."
His brow furrowed slightly. Tears slipped down your cheeks before you noticed them.
You wiped them away angrily.
This wasn't the time. You couldn't afford this. Not when he had spent the entire day protecting everyone else. The guilt settled heavily inside your chest. If only you had been stronger. If only you had stayed closer. If only you had noticed the ambush sooner. If only you had not allowed yourself to become leverage.
Then none of this would have happened.
Hwajin would still be standing.
Instead he was here. Because of you.
"I'm sorry."
The words slipped out before you could stop them. Hwajin's eyes opened slightly.
Somewhere beneath his composure, beneath the confidence and strength he projected to everyone around him, there was still a man carrying the memory of the woman he couldn't save.
A man who had spent years trying to outrun grief through work. A man who would absolutely convince himself that this was another failure.
Another person hurt because he wasn't fast enough.
Your fingers tightened slightly around his hand.
The distant sound of approaching footsteps grew louder. Someone was shouting. Someone was running toward the classroom.
Help was finally arriving. Yet you found yourself unable to look away from Hwajin. Unable to focus on anything except the steady rise and fall of his chest.
As long as that continued, nothing else mattered.
"Stay with me. You don't get to leave yet."
Your voice cracked again. Somehow his mouth twitched very slightly.
The smallest acknowledgement. And for the first time since this nightmare began, hope stirred within your chest. You held onto it with everything you had. Because you knew one thing with absolute certainty. If Na Hwajin had spent years carrying other people through their darkest moments, then you could spend one night carrying him through his.
The relief that should have arrived with the sound of approaching footsteps never fully reached you. You were still holding Hwajin’s hand. You were still speaking to him, though you could no longer remember the exact words you had last formed.
Sounds reached you late.
Even your own breathing felt separated from you, as though your body had decided to continue the task without consulting the rest of you first.
Hwajin remained beneath your hands, his presence still anchoring you in place, though even that anchor felt heavier now, more difficult to hold onto.
His face was close enough that you could see the faint tension still lingering there, the stubborn refusal to surrender even as his body demanded rest. His eyes had opened again at some point, though they no longer held the same clarity they had before.
You wanted to tell him to stop looking at you like that.
You tried to lift your head but it felt heavier than it should have. Your body resisted the motion as though it had already decided for you what came next.
Still, you forced your eyes toward the doorway.
Im Hanrim.
“Both of you—stay where you are!”
There was movement around her, additional officers flooding into the room, their presence filling the space with a sudden shift in atmosphere that should have felt like safety arriving.
It did not fully register. You saw Hanrim step closer. Saw her take in the scene in a single, controlled sweep of her eyes. And then her focus landed on the two of you.
Then she was moving again, kneeling beside you both issuing instructions you could no longer fully process.
The exhaustion that had been building since the moment you stepped into the school finally reached its limit, rising up through your limbs in a slow, unstoppable wave that left no room for resistance.
Your vision narrowed. The edges darkened.
You became dimly aware of Hanrim speaking again, her voice closer this time, directed at you specifically.
“Hey,” she said, more softly now, though still firm enough to hold authority, “you’re safe. Help is here.”
“I’m… sorry…”
The world tilted gently. And the last thing you were aware of, before everything dissolved into darkness, was the faint pressure of Hwajin’s hand still holding yours, as though even unconsciousness could not fully convince him to let go.
asdfghj this was written completely on a whim lmao i hope i got the names right. as always, comment and share!!! tysmmmm for reading!
Summary: You grab his hand in a crowd and forget to let go. Hwajin doesn't remind you.
Author's Note: Another Hwajin fic??? While my other wips cry?? Yes <3 enjoy!!!
Disclaimer: None ig? Its a short fic tho
Main Masterlist
The festival had been your idea.
Looking back, you would later decide that this was precisely why you had nobody to blame for what happened except yourself.
The streets were crowded long before noon, packed with people drifting between rows of market stalls draped in colorful fabric and strings of lanterns. The scent of grilled meat, sweet pastries, and freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air, while music from street performers blended into the constant murmur of conversation.
You loved places like this.
Hwajin tolerated them.
The distinction was obvious in the way he walked beside you with his hands in his pockets, his expression carrying the same calm indifference it always did. He looked like a man accompanying someone on an errand rather than attending a festival.
"You could at least pretend to be enjoying yourself."
"I am."
You glanced at him.
"You look like you're attending a business meeting."
"I enjoy those too."
You groaned dramatically. For the first time that day, the corner of his mouth twitched.
It was a victory.
A small one, but you would take what you could get.
The crowd thickened as you approached the main street. A large group emerged from one of the intersections, forcing everyone closer together until walking became a slow, awkward shuffle.
You found yourself jostled from both sides.
Someone accidentally stepped on your shoe.
Another person cut between you and Hwajin.
Before you could lose sight of him entirely, you reached out and grabbed his hand.
The gesture happened without thought.
It was practical.
You had no desire to spend the next hour searching for him through hundreds of strangers.
Hwajin glanced down briefly at your joined hands but offered no comment.
Satisfied, you continued forward.
The issue was that you forgot all about it almost immediately.
The first distraction arrived less than two minutes later in the form of a small shop selling handmade accessories.
"Oh, look at that."
Without hesitation, you pulled Hwajin toward the stall.
The elderly woman running it greeted you enthusiastically while you examined rows of bracelets and rings displayed beneath glass cases. Several minutes passed as you admired everything and asked questions, completely oblivious to the fact that you were still holding his hand.
When you finally moved on, you simply brought him with you.
Neither of you acknowledged it.
Then came the food stalls.
Then the book vendors.
Then a booth where a local artist was sketching portraits.
Each new attraction captured your attention so completely that the hand in yours became nothing more than a comforting certainty in the background.
Hwajin remained beside you through all of it.
Occasionally, you would feel his grip tighten slightly whenever someone attempted to push through the crowd too aggressively.
Sometimes he guided you around obstacles before you even noticed them.
At one point, when you became distracted by a display of pottery and nearly walked into a cyclist, he pulled you back without a word.
The entire thing felt so natural that your brain eventually stopped registering it as unusual.
By late afternoon, the festival had settled into a pleasant rhythm.
You bought snacks.
He carried them.
You talked.
He listened.
You dragged him into every shop that caught your interest. He followed with the patience of a man who had long accepted his fate.
The realization should have occurred much sooner. Unfortunately, it arrived nearly six hours later.
The sun had already begun to set when you wandered into a bookstore tucked away from the main street. The atmosphere inside was quiet and warm, offering welcome relief from the noise outside.
You browsed leisurely through several shelves before spotting a novel you had been searching for.
Excited, you reached for it.
The movement finally drew your attention downward.
To your hand.
To his.
Still connected.
Your brain stopped functioning. For several seconds, you simply stared. Then you stared some more.
Because surely there had been a mistake. Surely you had not spent an entire day holding Na Hwajin's hand.
An entire day.
Like some lovestruck teenager. Like a person completely incapable of behaving normally.
Slowly, horrified by your own stupidity, you turned toward him.
"Hwajin."
"Hm?"
His attention remained on the book he was examining.
"We've been holding hands."
"Yes."
You blinked.
The immediate response somehow made everything worse.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
That finally earned his attention. His gaze shifted toward you, calm as ever.
"You seemed occupied."
"I've been occupied for six hours."
A faint amusement entered his eyes.
"Approximately."
Heat flooded your face. You released his hand so quickly that it felt almost violent.
"Oh my God."
The words escaped in a groan.
"I'm so sorry."
"For what?"
"For this."
You gestured helplessly between the two of you.
"I grabbed your hand because of the crowd and then completely forgot about it. You must've thought I was insane."
The silence that followed lasted only a moment.
Then he closed the book in his hand and returned it to the shelf.
"No."
"No?"
"No."
You frowned.
The answer was suspiciously simple. Before you could question him further, Hwajin stepped closer.
Not enough to be overwhelming, just enough that your pulse immediately forgot how to behave.
"You don't need to apologize."
You stared.
"Why?"
For the first time all day, his expression softened completely. The change was subtle enough that most people would never notice it. Because it was reserved for very few people.
And because every time it appeared, it made your heart feel unsteady.
"I liked it."
The world ended. That was the only explanation. Civilization had collapsed. The earth had split apart.
Because Na Hwajin had just looked you directly in the eye and admitted something without being forced.
Your face became unbearably hot.
"Hwajin—"
"You were happy."
His voice remained calm... matter-of-fact, as though he were explaining something obvious.
"You kept finding things you wanted to show me. Every time you got excited about something, you forgot to let go and pulled me somewhere else."
You wished the floor would open beneath you.
Instead, he continued.
"I didn't mind."
The bookstore suddenly felt much too small.
Much too warm.
You could not look at him. You could barely look at anything.
A laugh escaped him then, quiet and rare.
The sound only made your situation worse.
When you finally managed to meet his gaze again, there was something unexpectedly gentle waiting there.
Something that made your chest ache.
Outside, the sky had darkened into shades of deep blue and gold.
People continued passing beyond the bookstore windows. The festival carried on around them. Neither of you paid much attention.
Eventually, Hwajin reached for your hand again.
This time, it was deliberate.
Your breath caught as he lifted it slightly.
Then, with the same calm certainty he brought to everything he did, he pressed a brief kiss against your knuckles.
The gesture lasted barely a second. It was enough to leave you completely speechless.
"See you tomorrow."
He released your hand, turned and walked toward the door.
Meanwhile, you remained frozen beside the bookshelf, staring after him while your entire face felt approximately the temperature of the sun.
Only when he disappeared into the evening crowd did you finally recover enough to whisper:
"...What the hell?!"
asdfghj i pulled this outta my ass lmao. I wrote this sleep deprived and on my phone so j hope this fic makes sense in the morning. Hope u guys liked it! Comments, likes and rbs appreciated <3
Summary: a pregnant you and a hunk of your husband, what could happen?
written in collaboration with @written-in-ishq
Author's Note: y'all guess what. a big fat thanks to @written-in-ishq who co-authored this fic. everyone say thank you to this gem. she never fails to feed my thoughts and fuel my daddy rehman obsession. guys pls read her fics i promise you theyre banger after bangers. (crimson vows is my comfort fic shoutout to daddy rehman)
Disclaimer: smut. viewer discretion advised. you are responsible for your own media consumption. contains oral sex (both f&m recieving), raw kasainuma sex, pregnant sex.
Main Masterlist | @written-in-ishq 's Masterlist
The late-night air in your apartment was thick with the scent of jasmine from the candle flickering on the nightstand. You lay sprawled across the cool sheets, one hand resting on the taut, heavy swell of your belly, the other tangled in your own hair. The pregnancy had turned your body into a foreign, beautiful landscape, and right now, every inch of it was screaming for your husband.
Rehman walked in from the bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, water still beading on his broad shoulders. He saw you first—the way your chest rose and fell, the way your lips were parted, the desperate little furrow between your brows. His gaze dropped to your breasts, which had become impossibly full and tender over the last few months. They were heavy, the nipples dark and prominent against the pale cotton of one of Rehman’s kameez’s that you've been wearing.
“Can’t sleep, jaan?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated straight through you.
You shook your head, a soft, pathetic sound escaping your throat. “Need you. I need… I don’t even know. I’m so fucking horny, Rehman. It hurts.” You were practically whining at this point.
He didn’t need to be told twice. He crossed the room in two long strides, the towel forgotten as it pooled on the floor. The mattress dipped under his weight as he climbed over you, caging you in with his arms. He didn’t kiss you first. He dipped his head, pressing his lips to the valley between your breasts, inhaling your scent like a man starved.
“Let me take care of you,” he murmured against your skin. His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, and you gasped. The sensitivity was maddening. Every touch sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.
“Please,” you whimpered, arching into him.
He pulled his kameez, exposing your breasts to the cool air. They were full, the veins visible beneath the soft skin. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, as he took one heavy nipple into his mouth. The sensation was overwhelming—the wet heat of his tongue, the gentle scrape of his teeth. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, holding him there.
“So beautiful,” he breathed, switching to the other breast. “So fucking perfect like this. You have no idea what you do to me.”
Rehman was in absolute awe everytime he saw your body. He couldn't fathom how an angel like you could be ever become even sexier. But seeing you desperate for his touch always drove him insane.
His hand slid down your body, over the curve of your belly, until his hands bunched up the fabric, only to find you bare and you felt the cool air hit your slick, aching folds. He positioned himself between your legs, his broad shoulders forcing your thighs apart.
“Rehman, I want to take care of you too,” you protested weakly, even as your hips tilted up to meet him. “Let me suck you off first.”
He shook his head, a dark, possessive look in his eyes. “No. Not tonight. Tonight, I worship you. You first. Always you first.”
He lowered his head, and the first touch of his tongue against your clit made you see stars. He was meticulous, almost reverent. He licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, then circled it with the tip of his tongue. Your hands fisted in the sheets as he worked you, his moans vibrating against your sensitive flesh.
But you could see him, even through the haze of pleasure. His other hand had drifted down, palming himself through his boxers. He was painfully hard, the outline of his cock straining against the fabric. He was getting off on this—on your taste, on your sounds, on the way your body responded to him.
“Rehman,” you gasped, reaching down and grabbing his wrist. “Let me. Please. I need to taste you.”
He looked up at you, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and wild. He was fighting it, you could see the war in his gaze. He wanted to be in control, to take care of you, but his own need was a living, breathing thing inside him.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice ragged. He pulled away, his chest heaving. “Okay. Okay, baby. But I’m not gonna last.”
You shifted, turning onto your side as best you could with your belly, and he moved to kneel beside your head. His cock was thick and flushed, the head already slick with precum. You took him in your hand first, stroking him slowly, watching his eyes roll back. Then you leaned forward and took him into your mouth.
The sound he made was broken, desperate. His hand found the back of your head, not pushing, just holding. You worked him with a rhythm that was frantic, hungry. You wanted to taste him, to feel him come undone because of you.
It didn’t take long. He was too wound up, too turned on from eating you out, from watching your pregnant body writhe. His hips jerked, and with a choked cry, he came, hot and thick on your tongue. You swallowed him down, looking up at him through your lashes.
He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, his face buried in your hair. You could feel his heart hammering against your back. You were both panting, slick with sweat.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled against your neck. “I told you I wouldn’t last.” You laughed, a breathless, satisfied sound. “Don’t apologize. That was perfect.”
He held you close, his hand splayed protectively over your belly. You thought he was falling asleep, his breathing slowly evening out. But then you felt it—a familiar, insistent pressure against the curve of your ass. He was hard again.
You turned your head, a wicked smile playing on your lips. “Rehman?”
He groaned, burying his face deeper into your neck. “I know. I know. I can’t help it. Seeing you like this… it does something to me.”
You shifted, pressing your ass back against him, and he let out a shaky breath. His hand slid from your belly down to your hip, guiding you, pressing his length against the cleft of your cheeks.
“Let me take care of you again,” he whispered, his voice thick with need. “I’m not done worshipping you yet.”
Shifting, so that you both were comfortable on bed, you braced yourself, Rehman's cock nudged between your cheeks, the thick head sliding along your skin until it presses firmly against your ass, you pushed back, grinding against him slowly, feeling every inch of his hardness throb in response.
Rehman gripped your cheeks and angled lower, the blunt tip parting your folds before he pushed inside, your pussy stretched around him, hot and slick, gripping his shaft as he sank deeper with one slow thrust, you moaned, the pleasure building as your husband fills you completely from behind, his hips flush against your ass.
He started moving, pulling back until only the head remained inside before diving forward again, each stroke had your walls clenching around his cock, Rehman reached around to rub your clit in firm circles as he fucked you, his thrusts growing harder and faster.
Your orgasm hit first, pussy spasming, pulsing tight around his shaft as waves of pleasure rolled through you and you cried out, pushing back to take Rehman as deep as possible.
The rhythmic squeeze of your climax dragged Rehman over the edge right after, he buried himself to the hilt, cock jerking as he pumped thick ropes of cum deep inside you, His release flooded you, hot and heavy, filling you until it began to leak out around his still-thrusting length.
He stayed pressed against your ass, breathing hard, his cock twitching with aftershocks as the last of his load emptied into you.
He softly lay beside you, making sure you're comfortable before pulling you closer to him so that you lay on his arms. As you both lay there, tangled and spent, his softening cock still nestled inside you, his hand never left your belly, a silent promise that he would worship you, in every way, for the rest of your lives.
AAAAHHHHH HOPE U GUYS LIKED IT AND AS ALWAYS SHOW YOUR LOVE BY LIKING, REBLOGGING AND COMMENTING <33
Summary: A quiet, rainy afternoon brings a rare moment of warmth to the usually distant Water Hashira.
Author's Note: its been raining since yesterday night and i just wanted to write smth quick for my husband hehehehe, oh how i wish to be cuddked against giyuu rn
Disclaimer: None
Main Masterlist
The scent of rain and damp earth hung heavy in the air, but inside Giyuu’s estate, it was perfectly warm.
You sat on the engawa, watching the rhythmic drop of rain from the roof. Next to you sat Giyuu. He was, as usual, completely silent, staring out at the garden with his hands resting quietly in his lap.
To anyone else, he looked cold and unapproachable. But you knew better. You knew the small, subtle signs of his comfort. Right now, his shoulders were completely relaxed, and he was sitting just an inch closer to you than etiquette strictly required.
"Giyuu," you murmured, breaking the quiet.
He turned his head slowly, his deep blue eyes locking onto yours. "Yes?"
Without a word, you reached out and slid your hand into his. His fingers were cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the room.
For a second, he went entirely still. His eyes widened a fraction, surprised by the sudden touch. Then, very gently, his long fingers curled around yours. He didn't just hold your hand; he squeezed it, a quiet, grounding pressure that spoke volumes.
"Your hand is cold," you teased softly, leaning your shoulder against his.
"The rain," he replied simply. But a faint, barely noticeable dust of pink spread across the tips of his ears.
You smiled, pulling his hand into your lap and covering it with your other hand to warm it up. Giyu watched your movements with a soft intensity, as if trying to commit the exact feeling to memory.
"Better?" you asked, looking up at him.
Giyu didn't answer right away. Instead, he shifted his weight, leaning his head down until it rested gently against yours. It was a rare, incredibly tender gesture from the Water Hashira.
"Yes," he whispered, his voice low and incredibly soft. "Better."
The rain continued to fall, but neither of you moved for the rest of the afternoon.
its quite short but i just wanted to write this scene out. hope u guys liked it <33
Summary: A collection of headcanons exploring Rehman Dakait's journey from absent-mindedly memorizing everything about her to realizing that loving her has become the most natural part of his life.
Author's Note: i wrote this in a way that you can read it as "rehman x reader" or as "rehman x ulfat". hope you guys like this take on headcanons. i wanted to write something other than my wips lol so here you have a long ass headcanon fic (~9k words omfg)
(also let us assume that rehman is a sweatshirt typa guy because he'd be absolutely delicious in sewatshirts AAAAAHHH)
lyrics from the song "Pehla Nasha" from the movie "Jo jeeta woh Sikandar"
(i love this song sm its one of my favs)
Disclaimer: None. Just a fluffy headcanon <33
Main Masterlist
Pehla nasha, pehla khumaar
(The first intoxication, the first hangover)
Rehman doesn't notice it at first. One day he's listening to a conversation, and the next he's realizing he knows how she takes her tea, what songs she hums under her breath when she's distracted, and exactly which expression means she's about to argue with someone.
He starts remembering things she mentions once and never brings up again. A favorite childhood snack. A book she loved. A flower she thinks is underrated. Months later, she'll casually mention one of those things and stare at him when he remembers every detail.
The first time she fixes his collar, it's completely absent-minded on her part. She smooths it down, tells him he looked ridiculous, and walks away. He spends the next ten minutes trying to remember what anyone else was saying.
He catches himself looking for her in crowded rooms. Not consciously. His eyes just drift toward where she usually stands.
If she arrives somewhere late, he notices immediately. If she's absent, he notices even faster.
She becomes the first person he looks for when something funny happens and the first person he wants to tell when something good happens.
He learns the sound of her laugh before he realizes he's done it. In a room full of people, he can pick it out instantly.
If she wears anklets, the sound instantly perks him up. There is no sweeter melody than the soft clinking of metals against her ankles.
He starts collecting random facts about her without meaning to. Not important things. Tiny things. The way she always pushes sleeves up when she's focused. The way she rereads messages before sending them. The way she steals fries from everyone else's plate despite ordering her own.
Whenever she talks about something she's passionate about, he listens far longer than anyone else. He may not understand half of it, but he remembers every word because she's the one saying it.
His friends notice before he does. They'll catch him staring at her while she's talking and exchange knowing looks behind his back. Uzair is skeptical at first but once he meets her, he realises why his brother is hooked. She really is just an angel in disguise.
He becomes oddly protective of her comfort. He'll quietly move her chair away from direct sunlight or hand her a glass of water before she asks.
If someone interrupts her repeatedly during a conversation, he'll find himself annoyed on her behalf.
The first time she gets genuinely upset, he's surprised by how much it bothers him. Her bad mood somehow affects his own.
She could be surrounded by ten people, perfectly fine, and he'll still glance over every now and then just to make sure she's okay.
He starts saving things she would like. A funny video. A song recommendation. He'll see something and immediately think, She'd laugh at this.
If she compliments him, even casually, he remembers it for an embarrassing amount of time.
She once calls him pretty instead of handsome. He spends the rest of the day pretending that didn't affect him while internally replaying it every few hours.
He begins noticing when she's tired. The slight droop of her shoulders. The way her voice gets quieter. The little yawn she tries to hide.
Whenever she's around, his mood improves without him realizing it.
When she's not around, he catches himself checking his phone more often than usual.
She'll mention wanting to try a café, visit a bookstore, watch a movie, and weeks later he'll somehow remember every single one.
The realization doesn't hit him all at once. It happens in pieces. In a hundred tiny moments.
The moment it finally clicks is painfully ordinary. She's laughing at something stupid. Sunlight is hitting her face. Nothing remarkable is happening.
And suddenly he thinks, completely unprompted
"I could spend the rest of my life listening to that laugh."
The thought scares him a little.
Mostly because he means it.
Naya pyar hai,
(This love is new)
Rehman starts carrying things for her long before either of them acknowledges how often it happens. At first it's practical. She's trying to juggle too many bags at once, struggling to hold a coffee while looking for something in her purse, balancing books against her chest in a way that makes it obvious she's about to drop at least one of them.
Without thinking, he reaches over and takes whatever seems heaviest. The strange part is that he never asks. One second she's holding something and the next it's in his hands. After a while she stops being surprised by it. The moment they leave a store together, she automatically passes him the heavier bags. If she's carrying boxes, he takes the largest one before she can argue. If she's moving furniture, he somehow ends up doing most of the lifting. Neither of them ever discusses when this arrangement started. It simply becomes one of those things they both accept without question.
What surprises her isn't that he carries things for her. It's how attentive he is to things she never actually complains about. She'll mention once that a certain bag hurts her shoulder if she carries it for too long, and months later he'll still take it from her the second he sees it.
She'll spend an entire afternoon insisting she's fine, only for him to quietly point out that she's been switching the weight from one arm to the other every few minutes. Sometimes it feels like he's paying attention to details she isn't even aware of herself. Whenever she asks how he notices these things, he shrugs as though the answer should be obvious.
The truth is that by this point he spends so much time observing her that little changes rarely escape his attention.
There are days when she deliberately refuses his help just to see what happens. She'll insist she can carry everything herself, balancing an unreasonable number of shopping bags on both arms while stubbornly walking ahead. Rehman usually lets this continue for about thirty seconds before taking half of them anyway. The conversation that follows is always exactly the same. She tells him she's capable of carrying her own things. He tells her he never said she wasn't. She accuses him of being impossible. He informs her that she's the difficult one. Somehow he still ends up carrying everything by the end of it.
The thing she eventually realizes is that carrying things isn't really about the bags themselves. It's the fact that his first instinct is always to make things easier for her.
If something looks inconvenient, he fixes it. If something seems heavy, he takes care of it. If there's a way to remove even a small discomfort from her day, he does it without thinking twice.
Rehman isn't naturally expressive when it comes to affection, so his feelings have a habit of appearing in practical ways. He won't always tell her he's worried she'll tire herself out. He'll simply take the weight from her hands and continue walking as though it's the most normal thing in the world.
Remembering her favorite snacks starts the same way everything else does—with information she doesn't expect him to keep. She mentions things casually. A candy she loved as a child. A brand of chips she always buys when she sees them. A particular drink she likes but never remembers to get for herself. Most people hear those details and forget them within the hour. Rehman somehow stores them away indefinitely. Months later she'll find him returning from a convenience store with her favorite snack in one hand and something for himself in the other, looking genuinely confused when she asks how he remembered.
Sometimes she thinks he remembers things about her more accurately than she does. She'll walk into a store, stare at an entire shelf of snacks, and admit she can't decide what she wants. Rehman will immediately reach for the exact thing she usually picks.
The first time it happens she assumes it's luck. The tenth time she realizes it definitely isn't. Somewhere along the way he's memorized her preferences with frightening accuracy. Not because he sat down and tried to learn them, but because he listens whenever she talks.
He never makes a performance out of these gestures. That's what makes them mean so much. He doesn't hand her favorite snacks over with some dramatic explanation about how he remembered her mentioning them three months ago. Usually he just places them beside her and continues whatever he was doing. Half the time she has to ask whether they were meant for her. His answer is always the same. "Who else would they be for?" As though the possibility of buying something specifically because it would make her happy is completely self-explanatory.
There are moments when she starts noticing how often he thinks about her when she isn't around. She'll receive a random text message containing nothing but a photograph from a grocery store. A few minutes later another message arrives. Saw this and thought of you. The realization catches her off guard every time. Rehman isn't the type to constantly verbalize affection. Yet somehow the fact that he saw something ordinary during his day and immediately associated it with her feels more intimate than any grand declaration ever could.
Walking beside her brings out a protective streak that he never consciously acknowledges. It starts so subtly she almost misses it. Every time they're walking near traffic, he automatically moves to the outside of the sidewalk. Every time they cross a road, he positions himself between her and the cars without seeming to notice he's doing it. The habit is so natural that she suspects he isn't even aware of it himself.
Once she finally notices, she can't stop paying attention to it. No matter where they're walking, he always ends up closest to the road. If she changes sides, he'll eventually switch places with her again. Sometimes it happens so smoothly she barely registers it until several minutes later. When she points it out, he immediately denies everything. According to him, he's just walking normally. According to her, he's completely incapable of being subtle.
The arguments become increasingly ridiculous after that. She starts intentionally moving to the traffic side just to watch his reaction. Rehman usually tolerates it for a few minutes before finding some excuse to switch places. He'll claim he wants a better view of something. He'll pretend he needs to avoid a group of people. Once he actually attempted to convince her that the pavement looked smoother on the other side. None of his explanations are remotely believable, and both of them know it.
What makes the habit so endearing isn't the protectiveness itself. It's how instinctive it is. Rehman doesn't pause to think about whether she needs looking after. He doesn't calculate risks or consciously decide to be protective. His body simply reacts before his mind catches up. Somewhere along the way, keeping her safe became automatic.
Making sure she gets home safely becomes another routine neither of them remembers establishing. In the beginning he asks her to text him when she arrives. It seems reasonable enough. Then it becomes something that happens every single time she leaves. If it's late, he waits for confirmation that she's inside. If she's taking a ride home, he checks whether she got there safely. If she's walking, he pays attention until he knows she's reached her destination.
The messages are usually brief. Sometimes it's just a simple "Home?" followed by a thumbs-up when she confirms. Other times it's a reminder to let him know when she arrives. The words themselves aren't particularly emotional. What matters is the consistency. No matter how busy he is, no matter how tired he is, he always remembers.
She doesn't realize how much she's grown accustomed to it until one evening her phone battery dies before she can text him. By the time she manages to charge it and turn it back on, she finds multiple messages waiting. None of them are dramatic. None of them are angry. They're simply increasingly concerned attempts to make sure she's okay. For some reason that affects her more than if he'd openly admitted he was worried.
Rehman would never describe himself as someone who worries excessively, but she learns very quickly that he becomes restless when it comes to her safety. If she's running unusually late, he notices. If she changes plans unexpectedly, he notices that too. He trusts her completely, yet that never stops him from wanting confirmation that she's alright.
The concern isn't rooted in possessiveness. It's much simpler than that. The thought of something happening to her is enough to make his chest tighten in a way he doesn't particularly enjoy.
Eventually she begins sending those messages before he can ask for them. Not because he expects it, but because she likes knowing he'll read them. She likes the certainty of receiving a reply a few moments later. She likes knowing someone is waiting for that confirmation. More than anything, she likes knowing that among all the people in his life, she's become someone he thinks about even after she's gone.
Rehman's affection has never been loud. It exists in the small decisions he makes every day, in the habits he's formed without realizing it, and in the countless ways he quietly chooses her comfort before his own.
Long before he ever says how he feels, he's already showing her.
Naya intezaar
(This wait is new)
The first time she steals one of his hoodies, it isn't even intentional. She gets cold, he tells her to take it, and neither of them thinks much of it at the time. The strange part comes later, when the hoodie somehow never makes its way back to him.
Weeks pass. Then months. At some point it becomes permanently incorporated into her wardrobe despite technically belonging to someone else. Rehman notices, of course. He notices because he notices everything when it comes to her. Every now and then he'll see her wearing it and feel something in his chest tighten unexpectedly.
There is something strangely domestic about seeing another person so comfortable with your belongings that they stop treating them like borrowed items. The hoodie stops being his and becomes hers in every way that matters. Whenever someone points out that she's wearing his clothes again, he acts as though it isn't worth discussing.
Secretly, he likes it far more than he intends to admit.
Eventually it develops into a habit that neither of them questions. If she's cold, she reaches for his hoodie before asking. If they're spending time together and she notices one draped over the back of a chair, she'll put it on without thinking twice. Rehman never objects. In fact, he becomes suspiciously willing to leave hoodies behind whenever she's around. She begins finding them in her apartment, in her car, mixed in with her own laundry. The number of sweatshirts he supposedly forgets becomes statistically impossible. The truth is that he enjoys the quiet familiarity of it. There is something comforting about knowing pieces of his everyday life have found a place among hers.
What surprises him most is how quickly it starts feeling normal. There should probably be something strange about walking into a room and immediately recognizing one of his hoodies because she's wearing it. Instead, his brain accepts the sight with alarming ease.
Somewhere along the way, seeing her wrapped up in his clothes became one of those small things capable of improving his mood instantly. He never tells her that, of course. If she asks, he'll claim she simply steals too much. She'll remind him that he gave her most of them voluntarily. He'll insist that's not the point. Neither of them will acknowledge the fact that he always seems pleased when she keeps them.
Late-night tea becomes another ritual that develops so gradually neither of them notices it happening. It usually starts on evenings when neither of them feels particularly tired. They stay up talking longer than intended, one conversation leading into another until the hour becomes embarrassingly late. At some point one of them suggests tea. More often than not, it's Rehman. He disappears into the kitchen while she remains where she is, and by the time he returns he's carrying two mugs because making tea for only himself no longer occurs to him automatically.
Those late-night conversations become some of his favorite moments with her. There is something different about people after midnight. The world feels quieter. The usual distractions disappear. Conversations drift naturally from one subject to another without either of them paying attention to where they started. Sometimes they discuss serious things. Sometimes they spend half an hour debating something completely ridiculous. The topic rarely matters.
Rehman simply enjoys listening to her when she's relaxed enough to speak without filtering every thought. She has a habit of becoming more animated when she's comfortable, and he finds himself watching her more than participating in the conversation.
She eventually realizes he knows exactly how she takes her tea. Not approximately. Exactly. The amount of sugar. The amount of milk. The specific way she likes it prepared. She never remembers telling him any of those details. When she points this out, he looks genuinely confused. From his perspective, he has made her tea often enough that remembering should be expected. The fact that he can recall the smallest preferences without effort doesn't seem remarkable to him. It only seems remarkable to her because she's beginning to understand how much attention he pays when she isn't looking.
Falling asleep on his shoulder happens by accident. At least the first time. They're sitting together after an unusually long day, both too tired to hold a proper conversation. One moment she's awake. The next she's drifting in and out of sleep without realizing it. Rehman notices immediately. He notices because her responses become slower, her eyes keep closing, and she begins leaning slightly closer every few minutes. By the time her head finally settles against his shoulder, she's already asleep.
He freezes.
Not because he wants to move away. Quite the opposite. The problem is that he suddenly becomes intensely aware of every movement he makes. He doesn't want to wake her. Doesn't want to disturb her. Doesn't want to acknowledge how absurdly pleased he feels about something as simple as her trusting him enough to fall asleep beside him. For the next hour he remains almost completely still. His shoulder eventually goes numb. He refuses to do anything about it.
After that, it starts happening more often. Long car rides. Movie nights. Evenings spent talking until exhaustion catches up with her. Rehman eventually becomes accustomed to the weight of her head against his shoulder, though the feeling never loses its effect on him. There is an intimacy in being trusted during someone's most vulnerable moments. Every time she falls asleep beside him, some part of him feels quietly honored by it.
The funniest part is that she never understands the extent of his internal crisis. She wakes up refreshed and comfortable while Rehman has spent the last forty-five minutes debating whether adjusting his position would disturb her. The moment she apologizes, he dismisses it immediately. He tells her it isn't a big deal. The truth is that he would willingly remain uncomfortable for hours if it meant she could rest peacefully.
The casual touches begin so gradually that neither of them can identify when they became normal. At first there's a certain awareness whenever they make contact. A brief hesitation. A moment where both of them notice it. Over time that awareness fades. Touch becomes integrated into their interactions so naturally that it stops feeling significant.
She starts nudging his shoulder when she wants his attention instead of calling his name. Rehman begins resting a hand against her back when guiding her through crowded spaces. She reaches over to adjust something on his jacket without thinking. He brushes a piece of lint off her sleeve mid-conversation. None of these gestures are particularly intimate on their own. What matters is the ease with which they happen.
The change becomes obvious when other people start noticing it before they do. Uzair and Hamza exchange knowing looks whenever she leans against him without hesitation. Someone eventually points out how often Rehman reaches for her during conversations. Neither of them understands what everyone else finds so remarkable. By that point the contact feels entirely natural.
Rehman doesn't consciously decide to stand close to her. He simply does. She doesn't deliberately seek him out whenever they're in the same room. She simply gravitates toward him without realizing it.
There are countless examples of it scattered throughout their days. Her hand brushing briefly against his arm while she's laughing. His fingers resting against her shoulder when he's speaking to her. The absent-minded way she fixes his collar or smooths down a wrinkle in his shirt. The equally absent-minded way he moves a strand of hair out of her face when it keeps blocking her vision. None of these moments receive any attention when they happen. They are too familiar by then. Too deeply woven into the fabric of their relationship.
Rehman eventually realizes that this is what comfort looks like. Not grand declarations or dramatic displays of affection. Just the quiet certainty of another person's presence becoming part of his everyday life. Somewhere between all those ordinary moments, the space between them disappears entirely.
Kar loon main kya apna haal
(What should I make of myself)
Rehman has never been particularly comfortable with crowded places. It's not that he dislikes people. He simply prefers knowing where he is going, having enough space to move, and avoiding unnecessary chaos whenever possible.
Unfortunately, crowded places become significantly more frustrating once she is involved because he becomes incapable of focusing on anything except whether she's still beside him.
The first few times it happens, he doesn't think much of it. A busy market, a packed shopping mall, a festival where people are moving in every direction at once. He keeps glancing over his shoulder to make sure she hasn't gotten separated from him. He tells himself it's common sense. Anyone would do the same. The problem is that he continues doing it long after he's confirmed she's perfectly fine.
It starts with small gestures. A hand resting lightly against her back when they're moving through a crowd. A quiet "this way" whenever people begin blocking the path ahead. He positions himself where he can keep an eye on her without making it obvious. If someone bumps into her, he notices immediately. If she falls behind, he notices that too. There is something about crowded spaces that brings out an instinctive protectiveness in him, though he would never describe it that way. If anyone asks, he'll claim he's simply making sure they don't lose each other.
The first time he reaches for her hand, it isn't romantic. At least that's what he tells himself afterward. They're trying to make their way through an unusually crowded area, people constantly cutting between them and forcing them apart. One moment she's beside him. The next she's several steps away because a group of strangers has moved between them. Before he can even think about it, he's reaching back and taking her hand. He simply guides her through the crowd and continues walking.
What catches him off guard is how little he wants to let go afterward. Once they're somewhere quieter, he becomes aware of the fact that their hands are still linked. For a brief moment he considers pulling away. Then she shifts slightly closer, still talking about something completely unrelated, and the opportunity passes. Neither of them acknowledges it. Neither of them mentions it later. Yet after that day, hand-holding becomes one of those things that happens naturally whenever a place becomes too crowded.
She eventually starts reaching for him first. Sometimes she doesn't even realize she's doing it. They'll enter a busy street or a packed train station and her hand automatically finds his. Rehman always notices. Every single time. No matter how often it happens, there is still a small part of him that feels absurdly pleased by the fact that her first instinct is to reach for him when things become overwhelming. He never comments on it. He simply closes his fingers around hers and continues walking as though it has always been that way.
Looking after her when she's sick introduces him to an entirely different kind of helplessness. Rehman likes solving problems. He likes being useful. If something is broken, he fixes it. If something goes wrong, he finds a solution. Illness doesn't work that way. He can't simply make her feel better, and that frustrates him more than he expects.
The first time she gets sick while he's around, she insists she doesn't need help. This is entirely predictable. She spends the entire day claiming she's fine despite looking exhausted, sounding terrible, and clearly running a fever. Rehman listens to this argument for approximately five minutes before deciding he is no longer interested in her opinion on the matter.
What follows is perhaps the closest thing she has ever seen to him becoming bossy. Not rude. Not controlling. Just completely unwilling to entertain her stubbornness. He makes sure she takes medicine on time. He reminds her to drink water. He brings food even when she insists she isn't hungry. Whenever she tries getting out of bed to do something unnecessary, he gives her a look that immediately communicates how unsuccessful that plan is going to be.
The surprising part is how gentle he becomes during all of it. Most people know Rehman as someone composed, practical, and intimidating when he wants to be. Very few people get to see the softer side of him. The side that carefully checks whether she's comfortable. The side that remembers exactly which soup she likes when she's sick. The side that lowers his voice without realizing it because she has a headache. The side that remains patient even when she's grumpy from feeling unwell.
There is something oddly intimate about being cared for when you're sick. Illness strips away pride in ways most situations don't. You're tired, uncomfortable, and not particularly concerned with looking presentable. Rehman sees all of it and doesn't seem bothered in the slightest. He never makes her feel guilty for needing help. Never acts inconvenienced. Never treats her vulnerability as something embarrassing. If anything, he seems grateful for the opportunity to take care of her.
One afternoon she wakes up after falling asleep unexpectedly and finds him sitting nearby with a book in his hands. For a moment she just watches him. He notices almost immediately and looks up.
"How long have you been sitting there?"
He shrugs.
"Not long."
She knows that's a lie.
Mostly because the tea beside him has already gone cold.
Sitting beside her when she's upset becomes another habit he develops without realizing it. Rehman isn't naturally drawn to emotional conversations. He cares deeply about the people in his life, but his instinct has always been to solve problems rather than discuss them.
If someone is struggling, he immediately starts searching for practical solutions. If someone is stressed, he looks for ways to fix whatever is causing it. The problem is that not every difficult moment can be solved.
It takes him time to understand that sometimes she doesn't need answers. Sometimes she doesn't need advice. Sometimes she simply needs someone willing to stay.
The first few times she's upset around him, he approaches the situation the way he approaches everything else. He offers suggestions. Potential solutions. Different ways of looking at the problem. She listens politely, but he eventually notices that none of it is helping. The issue isn't that his advice is bad. The issue is that she isn't looking for advice at all.
One difficult day she barely says anything. She just sits there staring at the floor, clearly overwhelmed by something she isn't ready to talk about. Rehman begins mentally sorting through possible solutions before stopping himself. Instead of speaking, he simply sits down beside her.
Minutes pass. Then more minutes. Neither of them says much. Eventually she leans slightly toward him. For the first time, he understands that his presence is helping more than any solution he could have offered.
After that, he starts paying closer attention. He learns the difference between the moments when she wants advice and the moments when she wants comfort. He learns that some frustrations are temporary and simply need to be vented. He learns that sadness often becomes easier to carry when someone is willing to sit with it instead of trying to remove it immediately.
Eventually he becomes surprisingly good at it. Not because he suddenly stops wanting to solve problems, but because he learns that comfort is its own kind of solution. Sometimes she needs reassurance. Sometimes she needs distraction. Sometimes she needs silence. Rehman begins recognizing the difference with impressive accuracy.
He learns that she appreciates physical affection more when she's upset. He learns that she tends to withdraw into herself before talking about what's bothering her. He learns which distractions work and which ones don't. Most importantly, he learns that being present matters far more than being perfect.
The gentleness in all of these moments catches her off guard because it exists beneath so many layers of practicality. Rehman will always be protective. He will always want to solve problems, carry burdens, and make difficult things easier.
Yet the longer they know each other, the more she discovers that his protectiveness isn't rooted in control. It comes from care. It comes from paying attention. It comes from wanting her to feel safe enough to fall apart when she needs to.
Aye dil-e-beqaraar
(O restless heart)
Rehman accumulates photographs of her the way other people collect receipts they swear they're going to throw away later. None of them are particularly remarkable on their own. She isn't posing for them. Half the time she doesn't even know they're being taken. They're the sort of pictures most people would delete immediately because nothing important is technically happening.
She's standing in line waiting for coffee. She's reading something on her phone with a small frown between her brows. She's laughing at a joke someone else made. She's staring out a car window during a long drive, completely unaware that anybody is looking at her. If someone ever asked why he kept those photos, he wouldn't have a proper answer.
The truth is that every time he looks at them, he remembers exactly what that moment felt like. The weather. The conversation. The reason she was laughing. The song that happened to be playing in the background. Somehow those ordinary moments become worth preserving simply because she was part of them.
The collection grows much larger than either of them would probably consider normal. Rehman never intends for it to happen. Every photograph starts with the same thought. She looks happy. The lighting looks nice. This would make her laugh later. One picture becomes ten. Ten become fifty. Before long, his camera roll contains enough evidence to make the situation impossible to explain away. The worst part is that he doesn't even realize how often he's doing it until someone catches sight of his gallery and starts scrolling. Suddenly there are dozens of photographs of the same person scattered between everything else. Tiny pieces of her day that he decided were worth keeping.
What makes it worse is that he rarely takes photographs of anyone else. Most people could disappear from his camera roll entirely without him noticing. Yet somehow he has pictures of her trying to read restaurant menus in poor lighting. Pictures of her holding drinks she insisted she didn't want before immediately stealing them from somebody else. Pictures of her looking unimpressed after losing an argument. Pictures of her smiling at things she doesn't realize make her smile. The pattern becomes embarrassingly obvious once someone points it out, though Rehman spends an impressive amount of time pretending otherwise.
Remembering conversations from months ago becomes another habit he develops without understanding why it surprises people so much. As far as he's concerned, if she tells him something important, of course he's going to remember it. The fact that other people forget details doesn't really occur to him because he isn't paying attention to what everybody else says. He's paying attention to her.
She mentions things casually and assumes they've disappeared into the void the moment the conversation ends. A childhood story she suddenly remembers halfway through dinner. A book she loved when she was younger. A place she's always wanted to visit. An offhand comment about something she'd like to learn one day. Most of those conversations happen once and are never revisited.
Months later she'll bring one of those subjects up again only to discover that Rehman remembers every detail with alarming accuracy.
At first she assumes it's coincidence. Then it keeps happening. She'll stop in front of a bookstore and mention a novel she talked about half a year ago. Rehman immediately remembers the title. She'll reference a story she told him once during a late-night conversation. He remembers the names of the people involved. She'll casually mention wanting something she'd forgotten about herself, only for him to remind her of a conversation that happened months earlier. Eventually she starts looking at him differently whenever it happens because remembering details is one thing. Remembering them consistently is something else entirely.
The strange thing is that Rehman never treats those memories as impressive. He doesn't realize how unusual it is because remembering her has become effortless. Other people require concentration.
With her, information simply stays. He remembers things because they're attached to her, and somewhere along the way his mind decided that made them worth keeping.
One of his favorite things, though he'd never admit it out loud, is listening to her talk about subjects she genuinely loves. Not things she discusses out of politeness. Not topics she feels obligated to care about. The things that immediately make her eyes brighten and her voice become more animated. Everybody has subjects like that. Things capable of transforming an ordinary conversation into something much more alive. Rehman learns hers quickly.
He learns that certain topics make her forget to be self-conscious. He learns that when she's excited, she talks with her hands more. He learns that she has a habit of speaking faster when she's passionate about something and then immediately apologizing afterward because she's convinced she's been talking too much. The apology never makes sense to him. As far as he's concerned, she could continue for another hour and he wouldn't mind.
Sometimes she catches him watching her during those conversations. Just listening. There is always something slightly embarrassing about being caught paying that much attention to somebody, so Rehman usually looks away and pretends he wasn't doing anything unusual.
She never realizes how much information he's absorbing during those conversations. Every recommendation she makes. Every story she tells. Every opinion she shares. Months later she'll reference something she barely remembers mentioning and discover that Rehman still does. It isn't because he has an exceptional memory. It's because hearing her talk about things she cares about has become one of his favorite experiences, and people tend to remember the things they enjoy.
The realization that she's become his favorite person arrives slowly enough that he almost misses it.
He notices that she's the first person he wants to tell things to. Whenever something amusing happens, she's the person he thinks of. Whenever something frustrating happens, she's the person whose opinion he wants. When he sees something interesting during his day, his immediate instinct is to send her a picture. When he hears a joke she'd appreciate, he makes a mental note to tell her later.
Without meaning to, he begins filtering experiences through the question of how she would react to them.
The change becomes especially obvious whenever she's absent. A funny story happens and he reaches for his phone before remembering she isn't available. Somebody says something she'd have found ridiculous and his first instinct is to look toward her before realizing she isn't there. The absence feels strangely noticeable in ways he doesn't entirely understand. It's only then that he begins recognizing how thoroughly she has woven herself into his daily life.
He starts comparing new experiences to old memories involving her. A restaurant becomes the place she laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink. A song becomes the one she spent weeks obsessing over. Entire locations become attached to memories of conversations they had there. She leaves traces of herself everywhere without realizing it, and Rehman finds himself noticing those traces long after she's gone.
The truth is that becoming his favorite person doesn't happen because of one grand quality. It happens because of a thousand small ones.
If somebody asked him when it happened, he wouldn't be able to answer. Somewhere between memorizing conversations she barely remembered having, collecting photographs he couldn't bring himself to delete, and listening to her talk about things she loved with an attention he reserved for nobody else, she quietly became the person he looked for first. The person he wanted to share things with. The person whose presence made even uneventful days feel better.
It's a realization he keeps entirely to himself for a long time. Not because he's ashamed of it, but because saying it out loud would make it real in a way he's not prepared for.
So instead he continues doing what he's always done. He remembers. He listens. He collects photographs. He watches her smile at things that make her happy. And every day, without ever saying a word about it, he loves her a little more than the day before.
Mere dil-e-beqaraar tu hi bata
(My restless heart, you only tell me this)
Rehman develops a habit of playing with her hair long before he consciously realizes how attached he has become to the gesture. It starts innocently enough. They're sitting beside each other, she's focused on something else, and a strand of hair keeps falling across her face every few minutes.
Eventually he reaches over and tucks it behind her ear without thinking. The movement is so natural that neither of them pays much attention to it. After that, it starts happening more often. He'll absent-mindedly smooth down flyaways while she's reading. He'll brush a strand away while she's talking. Sometimes he'll twirl a section of her hair around his fingers during long conversations without even noticing he's doing it.
Physical affection has never come particularly easily to him, yet touching her somehow feels different. There is no awkwardness attached to it. No hesitation. Just the quiet certainty that she belongs within his space and that reaching for her has become as natural as breathing.
She notices the habit before he does. At first she thinks it's accidental. Then she begins paying attention and realizes it happens far too often to be coincidence. Whenever they're sitting together, his hands inevitably find their way into her hair. Sometimes he's fully aware of what he's doing. Other times he's distracted by a conversation or focused on something else entirely, yet his fingers still drift toward her without conscious thought.
The realization amuses her endlessly because Rehman remains completely oblivious to how obvious he is. When she finally points it out, he immediately denies everything. The denial lasts approximately thirty seconds before he realizes he's currently absent-mindedly playing with a strand of her hair while arguing that he never does such a thing.
What she loves most is the comfort behind the gesture. There is nothing performative about it. He isn't trying to be romantic. He isn't attempting to impress her. If anything, the habit exists because he's comfortable enough to stop monitoring his own behavior around her. The affection slips through in unconscious ways. A hand resting in her hair while they're watching a movie. Gentle fingers working through the ends while she's lying beside him. Small moments that reveal how much he enjoys simply being close to her.
Unexpected cheek kisses become another thing neither of them remembers introducing into the relationship. One day they aren't there. The next they seem to happen constantly.
The first one catches him completely off guard. She's leaving after spending the afternoon with him, he says something mildly amusing, and before either of them can think about it she leans forward and presses a quick kiss against his cheek. Then she walks away as though nothing unusual has happened.
Rehman spends the rest of the evening thinking about it far more than he would ever admit.
The problem with small gestures is that they often carry more weight than dramatic ones. A cheek kiss isn't particularly significant on paper. It's brief. Casual. Over almost as quickly as it begins. Yet Rehman discovers that something about them affects him disproportionately. Perhaps it's because they always happen unexpectedly. Perhaps it's because they're never performed for attention. Whatever the reason, he finds himself becoming embarrassingly fond of them.
Before long they become woven into ordinary moments. A quick kiss before she leaves. One after he does something thoughtful for her. One when she's feeling particularly affectionate and doesn't have a better way of expressing it. Every single time, Rehman reacts the same way. A brief pause. A barely noticeable smile. The faint look of someone trying very hard not to appear pleased despite failing completely.
Eventually he starts returning them. Not often at first. Rehman has always been slightly more reserved when it comes to initiating affection. Yet the longer they're together, the easier it becomes. Sometimes he'll lean down and press a quick kiss to her cheek while walking past her. Sometimes he'll do it after she says something that makes him laugh. The reactions are always worth it. She never expects it, and he secretly enjoys catching her off guard for once.
There is something deeply endearing about how quickly these small displays of affection become integrated into their daily lives. Neither of them treats them as remarkable anymore. They simply exist. Tiny reminders of love scattered throughout otherwise ordinary days.
Sleepy cuddles are perhaps the most obvious example of how much their relationship changes over time. In the beginning there is still a certain awareness whenever they find themselves curled up together. A consciousness of where limbs are positioned and whether they're taking up too much space. Eventually that awareness disappears entirely. Rehman reaches a point where pulling her closer feels as automatic as adjusting a blanket.
He discovers very quickly that she's significantly more affectionate when she's tired. The closer she gets to falling asleep, the less concerned she becomes with personal space. She'll curl against his side without thinking. Rest her head against his chest while barely awake. Reach for him in her sleep with complete confidence that he'll be there. Rehman pretends not to find any of this devastatingly adorable.
The reality is that those quiet moments become some of his favorites. There is something uniquely intimate about being trusted in someone's most vulnerable state. When she's exhausted enough to stop overthinking, every action becomes honest. Every instinct leads her toward him. Sometimes she'll fall asleep halfway through a conversation and wake up hours later still tucked against his side. Sometimes she'll barely open her eyes before immediately moving closer again. Each time it happens, Rehman feels the same quiet warmth settle somewhere in his chest.
He learns all her sleepy habits without meaning to. The way she buries her face into whatever she's cuddling. The way she steals blankets and then denies doing so. The way she unconsciously seeks warmth whenever she's cold. He memorizes these details the same way he memorizes everything else about her. Not deliberately. Simply because paying attention to her has become one of the most natural things in the world.
What makes those moments special isn't the physical closeness itself. It's the comfort. The complete absence of tension. Neither of them is trying to impress the other anymore. They exist together exactly as they are. Sleepy, comfortable, occasionally ridiculous, and entirely at ease in each other's presence.
Quiet mornings become his favorite part of living life alongside her.
Rehman has always appreciated solitude. Before her, mornings belonged exclusively to him. They were quiet, predictable, and largely uneventful. Then she became part of them.
The first thing he notices is how much he enjoys waking up beside someone he genuinely likes spending time with. Not just loves. Likes. There is a difference. Plenty of people are pleasant in carefully planned moments. Very few remain pleasant before coffee, before conversations, before either person has fully woken up. Somehow she manages it effortlessly.
Their mornings rarely involve grand romantic gestures. More often they're built from small routines. Sharing breakfast. Existing in comfortable silence. Trading lazy conversations neither of them will remember later. She sits across from him scrolling through her phone while he drinks tea. Sometimes one of them reads while the other talks. Sometimes neither speaks at all. The beauty of it lies in how effortless everything feels.
Rehman begins looking forward to those hours more than he expects. There is something deeply comforting about knowing exactly how she takes her tea. About hearing her sleepy voice from another room. About finding evidence of her existence scattered throughout a shared space. These moments would probably seem boring to anyone observing from the outside. To him, they feel invaluable.
Sometimes he catches himself watching her during those quiet hours and feels a strange sense of disbelief.
Just the simple realization that this is his life now. That the person sitting across from him, stealing bites of his breakfast and talking about something completely random, has somehow become the center of his everyday existence.
Pehla nasha, pehla khumaar
(The first intoxication, the first hangover)
Somewhere along the way, loving each other stops feeling like something either of them actively does and starts feeling like something that simply exists. Neither of them can pinpoint exactly when it happens. There is no dramatic moment attached to it. No specific day they can circle on a calendar and say, this was it.
Instead, it arrives so gradually that they only recognize it in hindsight. One day Rehman realizes he no longer spends time questioning what she means to him. He no longer catches himself being surprised by how much he cares. The uncertainty that once accompanied those feelings has disappeared completely.
Loving her has become as natural as every other part of his life. It requires no effort, no deliberation, no conscious decision-making. It simply exists in the same way breathing exists. Constant. Familiar. Unquestionable.
The relationship settles into routines so comfortably that neither of them notices them forming. There are certain messages that arrive at the same time every day. Certain phone calls that happen automatically whenever something interesting occurs. Certain places they always visit together and certain traditions that emerge for no reason other than the fact that they enjoy them.
What begins as coincidence slowly transforms into ritual.
A particular café they always end up returning to. A television show neither of them is especially invested in but somehow continue watching together. The way they always sit in the same places when spending time at each other's homes. These routines would probably seem insignificant to anyone else. To Rehman, they become some of the most comforting parts of his day.
He discovers that love is often hidden inside repetition. Not because repetition is exciting, but because it reflects choice. Every routine they build together is something they continue choosing over and over again. Every shared habit becomes proof that they have created a life that fits around both of them.
Rehman has never been particularly sentimental about these things, yet he finds himself becoming unexpectedly attached to them. A morning feels slightly incomplete if he doesn't receive a message from her. A restaurant feels strange if she isn't sitting across from him. Entire sections of his life quietly rearrange themselves around her presence until imagining them without her becomes difficult.
One of the things that surprises him most is how little they need to explain themselves anymore. In the beginning, understanding each other required effort. Conversations. Clarifications. Learning.
Over time, that effort becomes unnecessary. Rehman starts recognizing her moods before she says a word. He can tell when she's tired by the way she walks into a room. He can tell when something is bothering her from the expression she makes while pretending everything is fine. Sometimes she only needs to look at him for him to understand exactly what she's thinking.
The same thing happens in reverse. She learns the subtle differences in his silences. The distinction between quiet contentment and quiet frustration. The way he rubs the back of his neck when he's stressed. The specific look that means he's about to disagree with someone but is still deciding whether the argument is worth having. There are entire conversations they manage without speaking. A glance exchanged across a crowded room. A raised eyebrow. The smallest shift in expression. Somehow it becomes enough.
Friends notice it before they do. Someone will ask a question and both of them answer simultaneously. Someone will mention a problem and she'll already know exactly what Rehman is about to say. People laugh about it. Make comments about how much time they've clearly spent together. Rehman usually dismisses those observations with a shrug, though privately he understands what they're seeing.
Familiarity has woven itself so deeply into their relationship that understanding each other no longer feels like work.
There is a particular kind of comfort that comes from being known completely and loved anyway. Rehman never expected to value that feeling as much as he does. She knows all the things he tries not to show people. The stubbornness. The occasional bad moods. The tendency to carry too much responsibility on his own shoulders.
She has seen every version of him, including the ones he doesn't particularly like, and has never treated any of them as reasons to leave. The same is true for her. He knows her flaws as well as her strengths. The insecurities she tries to hide. The habits she apologizes for unnecessarily. The parts of herself she sometimes worries are difficult to love. None of that changes anything.
If anything, knowing those imperfections only deepens the affection. There is something profoundly reassuring about reaching a point where neither person feels the need to perform. They stop trying to appear more impressive than they are. They stop hiding ordinary human flaws behind carefully maintained images. What remains is something much stronger than infatuation. Trust. The certainty that they can exist exactly as they are and still be wanted.
Home begins to mean something different because of her. Before, it was always a place. An address. A building. Somewhere he returned to at the end of the day. Gradually that definition changes without his permission. Home becomes wherever she is. Not in an exaggerated or poetic sense. In a practical one. The feeling he associates with home—comfort, safety, familiarity, peace—starts appearing in her presence instead of a location.
There are days when neither of them does anything remarkable. No adventures. No important conversations. No memorable events. They spend hours occupying the same space while focusing on entirely separate things. She reads while he works. He watches something while she scrolls through her phone. Occasionally one of them shares a thought. Occasionally they don't. Yet somehow those days remain among his favorites. Not because of what happens, but because of how peaceful they feel.
That peace becomes one of the defining features of their relationship. Rehman never has to wonder where he stands with her. Never has to second-guess her affection. Never has to work for reassurance because reassurance exists naturally within everything they do. The relationship no longer feels fragile. It no longer feels new. Instead, it feels solid. Reliable. Like something built carefully over time rather than stumbled into accidentally.
Loving her becomes integrated into every part of his life in ways both large and small. It's present in the routines they share, the habits they've developed, and the countless details they've memorized about one another. It's there in every inside joke, every familiar glance, every moment of understanding that requires no explanation. He stops noticing individual acts of love because they have become inseparable from daily life itself.
Sometimes he thinks about the version of himself from the beginning. The man who memorized small details without understanding why. The man who found himself looking for her in crowded rooms. The man who carried things for her, remembered her favorite snacks, and convinced himself none of it meant anything. Looking back now, the path seems obvious. Every small moment led here. Every quiet act of care. Every conversation. Every ordinary day spent together.
The realization doesn't overwhelm him the way he once imagined it might. Instead, it settles over him with the same warmth that has come to define so much of their relationship. A simple truth. A steady certainty.
She is his favorite person.
She is the first person he wants to tell things to, the person whose opinion matters most, the person who can make difficult days easier simply by existing. She is the person who knows him better than anyone else and the person he trusts most in return. More importantly, she is the person who makes the world feel familiar no matter where they are.
By the time Rehman understands all of this, it no longer feels like a revelation. It feels like something he has known for a very long time.
Because after everything—the realization, the quiet acts of care, the growing affection, the softness, the protectiveness, the love woven into everyday moments—it all comes back to one simple thing.
Home is no longer a place he returns to.
Home is her.
Chaahe tum kuch na kaho
Maine sun liya
Ke saathi pyar ka
Mujhe chun liya
Chun liya, maine sun liya
(Even if you didn't say anything
I've heard it
That the companion of your love
You've selected me to be that
You've selected me, I've heard it)
asjafj hope u guys liked it!! as always, likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated <33
By the time Hamza crossed into Rehman's territory, the road had narrowed into a strip of cracked asphalt that seemed less like an official route and more like a reluctant concession to civilization.
The city had disappeared hours ago.
The glass-fronted buildings, crowded markets, and endless noise of traffic had gradually given way to open land that stretched toward the horizon without interruption. The farther he traveled, the more distant the outside world seemed. Even the air felt different here. It carried the dry scent of earth that had endured too many summers and not enough rain.
Hamza rested one arm against the window frame and watched the landscape pass by.
The journey had taken most of the day.
His driver, a middle-aged man with weathered skin and a talent for silence, had spoken only when necessary. Hamza preferred it that way. Conversation would have required attention, and attention was already occupied by the task waiting at the end of the road.
Rehman Dakait.
The name had followed him for years.
It surfaced in conversations spoken behind closed doors, in warnings exchanged among armed men, in reports that circulated through networks built on secrecy and distrust. There were stories attached to the name, hundreds of them, and no two ever seemed entirely identical.
Some described a ruthless criminal who controlled entire regions through fear.
Others spoke of a strategist capable of dismantling rival operations before they fully understood they were under attack.
A few claimed he possessed an almost impossible ability to anticipate betrayal before it occurred.
Hamza believed the simplest version.
Rehman Dakait was a dangerous man.
Everything else was decoration.
Dangerous men inspired myths. They always had. The reality beneath those myths was usually far less complicated.
Power. Violence. Control.
Strip away the stories and that was what remained. He had learned that lesson young.
The vehicle rounded a bend, and a small settlement appeared in the distance. A cluster of buildings stood beneath the harsh afternoon sun. Their walls were painted in faded shades of blue and yellow that had been softened by years of exposure. A row of trees lined one side of the road, providing pockets of shade where vendors had set up makeshift stalls.
The driver slowed.
A herd of goats wandered lazily across the road.
Neither the animals nor the boys chasing them appeared particularly concerned about traffic.
Hamza glanced toward them.
The children could not have been older than ten. Their clothes were dusty. Their shoes looked worn. Yet they laughed with an ease he rarely encountered in the city.
One of them stumbled. The others immediately stopped to pull him back to his feet. The incident lasted only seconds before the group continued running. The driver waited patiently until the road cleared.
Then they moved on.
Hamza returned his attention to the landscape.
Nothing seemed remarkable. Nothing felt threatening. That, more than anything, unsettled him.
For years he had heard descriptions of this territory spoken with caution.
Men lowered their voices when discussing it.
Routes were planned carefully. Supplies moved discreetly. Entire operations adjusted themselves around the influence Rehman possessed here.
Hamza had expected signs of that influence.
Armed checkpoints. Visible security. Evidence that power was being enforced.
Instead he found ordinary people living ordinary lives.
The contradiction irritated him. Perhaps because it threatened the certainty he had carried with him throughout the journey.
The road continued south. An hour later, they encountered a truck parked at an awkward angle along the shoulder.
Its hood stood open. A man in grease-stained clothing leaned over the engine while muttering what appeared to be increasingly creative curses.
The driver slowed instinctively.
Before Hamza could ask why, he noticed several other vehicles already stopped nearby.
Not because of an accident.
Because people were helping.
Two farmers emerged from a pickup truck carrying tools.
Another man arrived with a container of water.
Someone else crouched beside the engine and began examining the problem.
No one appeared to know one another particularly well. No money changed hands. No argument followed.
They simply stopped and assisted because assistance was needed.
Hamza watched the scene through the window. Five minutes later the truck engine started. A cheer erupted from the gathered group. Several men exchanged brief smiles before returning to their vehicles.
The entire interaction ended as casually as it had begun.
The driver accelerated once more.
Hamza remained silent.
The image lingered unexpectedly. People should have behaved that way. Communities should have functioned that way. Yet somewhere along the line, he had become accustomed to a different reality.
One where favors accumulated debt. One where generosity carried conditions. One where every act of kindness eventually demanded repayment.
This place seemed to operate according to different rules.
He did not trust it.
Places that appeared simple often concealed the greatest complications.
Late afternoon sunlight stretched across the road as they approached the village that would serve as the next stage of his assignment.
It was larger than he expected. Buildings clustered around a central square. Small shops lined the main road. A school stood near the edge of the settlement, its courtyard filled with children despite the late hour.
The effect transformed what should have been an ordinary village into something unexpectedly alive.
Hamza studied it through narrowed eyes. Someone had invested effort here. Someone cared whether these streets felt hopeful.
That realization sat uncomfortably beside everything he believed about the man who controlled the region.
The vehicle rolled slowly through the square.
People moved about their business without visible concern.
Shopkeepers arranged merchandise. Women carried groceries home. Children darted between groups of adults.
An elderly man sat outside a tea stall reading a newspaper several days old. The atmosphere reminded Hamza of places he had known before politics, crime, and power had begun shaping every aspect of daily life.
For a brief moment, the village felt disconnected from those realities.
The illusion vanished when he noticed armed men positioned discreetly around the square.
Not many.
They blended naturally into their surroundings. Most people would not have noticed them.
Hamza did.
Their posture gave them away. The way they observed without appearing to observe. The way their attention tracked movement instinctively.
Subtle but present.
Finally, something made sense.
The driver pulled to a stop outside a modest guesthouse. "This is where you'll stay," he said. Hamza nodded. The man retrieved his luggage from the trunk. Their arrangement ended there.
Hamza stood alone beneath the fading sunlight and surveyed the village.
A warm breeze carried distant voices through the square.
Somewhere nearby, someone was playing music. The melody drifted through open streets before disappearing again. He adjusted the strap of his bag and began walking.
The assignment itself was straightforward.
Observe.
Integrate.
Report.
Nothing more, nothing less.
He had performed similar work before. Patience was one of the few skills he trusted completely. Information revealed itself eventually. Every system contained weaknesses. Every organization possessed fractures. Every leader made mistakes.
The key was learning where to look.
As he crossed the square, he became aware of several curious glances.
New faces attracted attention in places where everyone knew one another.
A tea stall occupied one corner of the square. The scent of cardamom drifted toward him. Without consciously deciding to, he found himself approaching it.
A handful of elderly men occupied nearby tables. Conversation paused briefly when he arrived. One of them offered a polite nod.
Hamza returned it.
He ordered tea and the owner prepared it without haste. When the cup arrived, Hamza settled into a chair near the edge of the stall and listened.
Villages had their own rhythm. Information moved differently here. People discussed matters openly. Not because they were careless. Because trust existed where secrecy was unnecessary.
Fragments of conversation reached him.
Harvests, family visits, school examinations, medical appointments...
Nothing useful.
Then a familiar name surfaced.
Rehman.
The voice was that of an elderly man whose beard had turned entirely white.
"He promised the supplies would arrive before Friday," the man said. "If he said it, they will."
Another nodded immediately.
"Of course they will."
The certainty in his voice drew Hamza's attention.
Faith.
As though disappointment was unthinkable. The conversation continued. No one lowered their voice. No one spoke with fear.
The men discussed Rehman with the same ease they might have discussed a trusted relative.
Hamza took another sip of tea. The contradiction deepened.
A criminal leader should not inspire this kind of confidence. Respect, perhaps. Fear, certainly. Not trust.
Trust belonged to different kinds of men.
As evening approached, the square gradually filled with longer shadows. The old men eventually rose from their seats. One of them paused beside Hamza's table.
"You are not from here."
It was a statement rather than a question.
"No."
The man's gaze sharpened slightly.
"Business?"
"Something like that."
A faint smile appeared. The expression carried neither suspicion nor hostility.
For a moment, the older man seemed to consider him carefully.
Then he asked the question Hamza had expected from the beginning.
"You have come looking for Rehman sahib?"
Hamza held the man's gaze. Around them, the sounds of the village continued uninterrupted.
Children laughed somewhere across the square. A shopkeeper lowered a metal shutter. The evening call to prayer would begin soon.
"Maybe," Hamza replied.
The old man smiled.
"Then may Allah make your journey easier."
He adjusted the shawl resting across his shoulders.
"He has done more for this village than any minister ever has."
The old man continued walking before Hamza could respond.
Hamza remained seated. The tea had gone cold. For the first time since entering the territory, uncertainty crept into the edges of his thoughts.
He watched the fading sunlight settle over the village and found himself wondering whether the stories he carried with him had omitted something important. That possibility disturbed him more than any threat ever could.
The guesthouse stood at the far end of the square, its entrance framed by climbing vines that had long ago escaped the boundaries of the trellis meant to contain them. The building itself was modest, built of stone that had weathered countless summers, but it was clean, well-maintained, and unexpectedly welcoming.
Hamza remained seated for another minute after the old man departed.
The conversation should have been insignificant. In another place, under different circumstances, he would have dismissed it entirely.
People often spoke highly of powerful men. Influence had a way of creating loyalty, whether genuine or manufactured. Fear could imitate admiration convincingly enough that even those expressing it struggled to distinguish one from the other.
Yet something about the exchange continued to trouble him.
The old man had not sounded intimidated. Nor had he sounded eager to impress a stranger. His confidence had been simple and unforced. As though he had stated a fact no reasonable person would dispute.
Hamza finished the last of his tea and stood.
The owner of the stall nodded politely as he passed.
If anyone suspected he did not belong here, they concealed it well.
He crossed the square at an unhurried pace, taking in details he had overlooked upon arrival.
The school building sat at the edge of the village, its walls freshly painted despite the age of the structure itself. A fenced playground occupied one side of the property. The swings were old but functional. Several children still lingered there, reluctant to surrender the final hour of daylight.
A short distance away stood a medical clinic. The sign above the entrance had faded, but the building appeared active. Through the windows he caught glimpses of movement inside.
Further along, a small grocery store displayed sacks of rice and flour outside its entrance.
Nothing about the village suggested wealth.
The roads required repairs.
Several buildings showed signs of age.
Most of the vehicles parked nearby had clearly been in service for many years.
And yet the settlement possessed something many richer places lacked.
Dignity.
People cared for what they had.
It irritated him.
He preferred certainty. Certainty simplified decisions. The world made more sense when people occupied clearly defined roles.
Victims.
Villains.
Heroes.
Criminals.
Reality, however, rarely respected such categories.
The guesthouse owner greeted him warmly. She was a woman in her sixties whose expression carried the calm authority of someone accustomed to managing both travelers and unexpected problems.
After showing him to his room, she left him alone without unnecessary conversation.
The room overlooked the village square. It contained little beyond a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. Hamza set his bag beside the desk and approached the window. From this height he could observe much of the settlement without attracting attention.
Years of training had made the habit instinctive. Every new location required assessment. Entrances. Exits. Patterns of movement. Potential risks.
He catalogued each detail automatically.
The square remained busy despite the approaching evening. Groups of men gathered outside shops. Women returned home carrying groceries and supplies. Children moved through the streets with the seemingly limitless energy possessed only by the young.
Life unfolded below with a rhythm that felt entirely natural.
Nothing appeared staged. Nothing suggested a community performing happiness for the benefit of outsiders.
The longer he watched, the more difficult it became to reconcile the village with the image he carried of Rehman Dakait.
In a village where everyone knew everyone else, invisibility became difficult.
He ate dinner slowly. Darkness settled beyond the window. Lights appeared throughout the square. Conversations continued.
Somewhere nearby, laughter rose above the evening air.
For a place supposedly governed by a feared criminal, the atmosphere felt remarkably peaceful.
The thought annoyed him enough that he pushed it aside.
Appearances meant little.
History offered countless examples of powerful men cultivating public affection while concealing far uglier realities.
Rehman would be no different.
No one reached his position through kindness alone.
Power demanded compromises. Perhaps the villagers simply did not see those costs. Or perhaps they chose not to. Either explanation remained possible.
After dinner, Hamza left the guesthouse and resumed exploring.
The temperature had dropped slightly. Families occupied the streets. Several shops remained open. The scent of freshly baked bread drifted from a nearby bakery. As he walked, he noticed how frequently people greeted one another.
The village functioned less like a collection of households and more like an extended family.
Near the outskirts of the settlement, he found a group of men gathered around a partially completed building.
Construction materials occupied the surrounding area. Generators hummed nearby.
Curiosity slowed his steps. One of the workers noticed him watching.
"We should finish by next month."
Hamza glanced toward the structure.
"What is it?"
"A secondary school."
The worker's expression brightened immediately.
"The old one is overcrowded."
Another man joined the conversation.
"Children travel from neighboring villages now. There isn't enough space."
Hamza studied the building. The scale suggested significant expense.
"Government project?"
The workers exchanged amused looks. One of them laughed.
"No."
The answer arrived quickly enough to be revealing.
"Then who is paying for it?"
The first man wiped dust from his hands.
"Rehman saheb."
The response carried the same certainty he had heard throughout the day. As though the explanation required no further elaboration.
Hamza looked back at the unfinished school. The workers resumed their tasks.
He continued walking. The village eventually gave way to open land. Fields stretched into darkness beyond the final row of houses. A cool breeze moved across the landscape. For a while, he simply stood there.
Listening.
The distant sounds of the settlement reached him faintly.
The simplicity of the moment felt strangely foreign.
His life had been shaped by tension for so long that quiet sometimes seemed unnatural.
He could not afford sympathy. Not here. Not toward a man like Rehman. No matter how many schools he built. No matter how many clinics he funded. No matter how many villagers spoke his name with affection.
A criminal remained a criminal.
That fact mattered. It had to matter.
By the time he returned to the guesthouse, the square had grown quieter. Most families had gone home.
Only a handful of people remained outside.
Hamza climbed the stairs to his room and approached the window once more.
He disliked how easily the impression formed.
Because somewhere beyond the village existed another reality.
Weapons. Smuggling routes. Armed operations. The machinery of power that allowed men like Rehman to maintain control.
One reality did not erase the other. The villagers saw the protector.
Hamza intended to find the man behind the reputation.
Whatever version of him existed beneath the gratitude and admiration. Eventually every mask slipped. Every carefully constructed image revealed its cracks.
The challenge was patience. And Hamza possessed patience in abundance.
Outside, the final lights disappeared one by one.
Silence settled over the village.
For the first time since crossing into the territory, Hamza lay awake longer than necessary.
If Rehman Dakait was truly the monster he had always been told he was, why did every person in this village speak of him as though he had saved them?
And if they were right, then what exactly had Hamza walked into?
-
Hamza woke before dawn. For several moments he remained still, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling above him while the remnants of sleep slowly receded. The room was quiet. Beyond the window, darkness still lingered over the village.
Then, from somewhere in the distance, the call to prayer rose into the morning air.
The sound carried clearly across the settlement.
Hamza sat up and crossed to the window. The sky had begun to pale along the horizon. Below, the village emerged gradually from shadow.
A few men walked toward the mosque. Shopkeepers prepared for the day. Women swept courtyards and front steps.
The rhythm of the place already felt familiar despite the short time he had spent there.
Perhaps because it moved with certainty.
He watched for several minutes before stepping away. His assignment had begun. Observation first. Conclusions later.
The mistake many inexperienced operatives made was deciding what they believed before gathering enough information to justify it.
Hamza had spent years avoiding that error.
After breakfast, he left the guesthouse and made his way toward the center of the village.
The square was already busy.
Children hurried toward school carrying worn backpacks. Vendors arranged produce outside small shops. Several elderly men occupied their usual positions outside the tea stall. The owner greeted him with the same easy politeness as the day before.
By midmorning, Hamza had settled into a routine.
The villagers spoke readily. Perhaps because they had little reason not to. Perhaps because they had spent too long relying on one another to develop suspicion as a habit.
Either way, information came easily.
Most of it appeared irrelevant. Yet throughout nearly every conversation, one name surfaced repeatedly.
Rehman.
Not always directly. Sometimes through stories. Sometimes through references so casual they seemed unconscious.
But he was present everywhere.
Hamza found himself growing increasingly frustrated. No one criticized him. No one expressed resentment. No one hinted at fear.
The absence felt unnatural.
Every powerful man had enemies.
Every leader disappointed someone.
Yet here, admiration seemed almost universal.
Late that morning, Hamza stopped beside the school.
Children occupied the courtyard during a break between lessons. The sound of laughter carried through the warm air. A woman stood near the entrance speaking with several teachers.
Judging by the way students greeted her, she held some position of authority.
Hamza approached casually. The woman noticed him almost immediately.
"You are staying at the guesthouse."
Everyone noticed everything. "Yes."
She smiled politely.
"You are adjusting well?"
"So far."
The woman introduced herself as the school's headmistress. Their conversation remained brief at first. General questions. Nothing significant.
Then Hamza allowed the discussion to shift naturally toward the school itself.
"It seems larger than I expected."
The headmistress glanced toward the building.
"Praise be to God."
Her expression softened.
"There were years when we worried we might have to close."
"Why?"
"Funding."
The answer came without hesitation.
"The government promised assistance repeatedly. Very little ever arrived."
She paused.
"Eventually someone else stepped in."
Hamza already knew the name before she spoke it.
"Rehman."
The woman's smile widened slightly.
"Yes."
There was genuine affection in her voice.
"He believes education changes everything."
The statement surprised him enough that he struggled to conceal it.
"You expected something different."
Hamza chose his words carefully.
"I expected a man in his position to prioritize other things."
A brief laugh escaped her. "He does."
The response caught him off guard. For the first time, someone had acknowledged complexity.
The woman folded her arms. "I am not naïve, Mr. Hamza."
His attention sharpened immediately. She had learned his name. Of course she had.
"In this region, survival often requires difficult decisions."
The headmistress looked toward the children playing nearby.
"I do not pretend to understand everything Rehman sahib does."
Then she met his gaze directly.
"But I know this school exists because of him."
Her tone remained calm.
"I know several of my students are alive because he paid for their medical treatment. And I know that when powerful men attempted to seize land belonging to widows in this village, he stopped them."
She offered a small shrug.
"People judge according to what they see."
The conversation ended soon afterward. Yet her words remained with him as he continued walking.
People judge according to what they see.
Perhaps that was exactly the problem. The villagers saw one version of Rehman.
Others undoubtedly saw something very different.
Power looked noble when it served your interests. Its darker edges remained easier to ignore.
Around midday, Hamza entered a small restaurant near the square. The owner greeted him enthusiastically and insisted he try the day's specialty. By now, refusal would have appeared stranger than acceptance. He sat near the window and observed the street outside.
Business was steady. Families came and went. Workers stopped briefly before returning to their jobs.
At the table beside him, two elderly men discussed an upcoming delivery. One of them lowered his voice slightly.
"Has anyone heard from Rehman sahib?"
The other nodded.
"He should return today."
A third man joined the conversation.
"By evening, they say."
Something shifted in the atmosphere immediately. The discussion spread. One table became three. Three became five. People spoke casually, but excitement threaded through their words.
As though a long-awaited guest were finally coming home.
Hamza listened carefully.
No one seemed concerned.
A village fearing its ruler celebrated his absence. A village loving its protector counted the days until his return.
The realization sat heavily in his thoughts.
Throughout the afternoon, the pattern continued.
The expectation became impossible to ignore. By three o'clock, even Hamza found himself paying closer attention.
What kind of man inspired this response?
What kind of leader became woven so thoroughly into the fabric of a community that his arrival transformed an ordinary day into an occasion?
The answer remained frustratingly out of reach.
As the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, the village grew busier rather than quieter.
Several shopkeepers stood in doorways instead of behind counters.
Waiting.
The entire settlement seemed to be waiting. Hamza stood near the edge of the square. A group of boys raced past him.
One nearly collided with a vendor before changing direction at the last second.
"Slow down," the vendor called.
The boys continued running. One shouted over his shoulder.
"He's coming."
Several nearby adults smiled immediately. A woman standing outside a grocery store looked toward the road leading into the settlement. A moment later, another person followed her gaze. The way people instinctively react when something important approaches.
Hamza turned. At first he saw only dust rising in the distance. Then a vehicle emerged.
No armored convoy. No display of power. No fleet of armed escorts. Just a single dust-covered vehicle moving steadily toward the village.
For a moment, silence settled over the square. Then the children moved first. As though some invisible signal had been given. Straight toward the approaching jeep. The reaction spread through the village. People stepped outside. Shopkeepers abandoned counters.
Smiles appeared everywhere.
Hamza felt his attention sharpen.
This was what he had come for. The source of all the stories. The man hidden beneath reputation and rumor. The jeep rolled into the square and came to a stop. Dust settled slowly around it.
The driver's door opened. A man stepped out. And for the first time, Hamza saw Rehman Dakait.
He was taller than expected. Broad-shouldered. Dressed simply. Nothing about him appeared designed to impress. No visible display of wealth. No unnecessary guards surrounding him. Yet the effect of his presence was immediate. The atmosphere shifted around him.
Children surrounded him almost instantly. Several speaking at once. Others tugging at his sleeves. One climbed onto the side of the jeep before being gently redirected.
Rehman listened patiently. As though every story being told deserved consideration. As though none of the children represented an interruption.
Hamza watched carefully. Searching for performance. Searching for calculation.
Instead he found something more difficult to dismiss. Ease.
The interaction felt practiced only in the sense that it had happened countless times before.
A man greeting people he genuinely knew. A community welcoming someone who genuinely belonged.
An elderly woman approached next.
Rehman bent slightly to kiss her hand before she could stop him. The gesture provoked immediate protest from her. He laughed.
The scene unfolded with an intimacy that unsettled Hamza more than any display of authority could have.
Because power was easy to understand. This was something else.
And as he stood at the edge of the square watching villagers gather around the man he had spent years hearing described as a monster, one thought surfaced with quiet certainty.
That cannot be him.
-
For several moments, Hamza remained exactly where he was.
The square continued moving around him, but his attention remained fixed on the man standing beside the jeep.
Rehman Dakait.
The name carried enough weight to alter conversations hundreds of miles away. Men negotiated differently when his interests were involved. Entire operations accounted for his influence.
Yet there was nothing theatrical about him. Nothing that resembled the image Hamza had spent years constructing in his mind.
He had expected someone harder. More visibly dangerous. A man eager to display authority.
Instead, he saw a person who appeared entirely comfortable standing in the middle of a crowd without demanding control of it.
The distinction was subtle.
Rehman listened to all of them. Hamza found himself studying details he had not intended to notice. The slight smile that appeared when one child interrupted another. The familiarity with which the children approached him.
The absence of fear.
Children were often the most reliable judges of character. They recognized danger instinctively. Adults learned to ignore their instincts. Children rarely did. A man who frightened them could not conceal it for long. Yet these children behaved as though his arrival represented the best part of their day.
The realization irritated Hamza. Because it complicated things. And complications rarely served useful purposes.
Eventually, the crowd began to disperse. People still approached Rehman constantly.
The respect flowed both ways. That was what Hamza noticed most. The villagers respected Rehman. But Rehman respected them in return.
He was still watching when a young man hurried across the square. The urgency in his movements immediately attracted attention. He approached Rehman directly.
The change in Rehman's expression was almost imperceptible.
He nodded once. The young man gestured toward the northern edge of the village. Several others were already moving in that direction.
Curiosity rippled through the crowd.
Hamza watched Rehman turn and begin walking.
Whatever had happened, it was enough to interrupt his return home. Without consciously deciding to do so, Hamza followed. Not closely enough to attract notice. Just near enough to observe.
The gathering led toward a communal water pump located near a cluster of houses.
Even before reaching it, Hamza understood the problem.
The pump stood surrounded by frustrated villagers. Several containers sat empty nearby. Water pooled around the base of the structure. in a village where reliable water mattered, even a minor disruption affected everyone.
Hamza expected Rehman to issue instructions. Perhaps delegate responsibility. Call for someone qualified. Instead, Rehman crouched beside the pump and began examining it himself.
The conversations around him continued. Several villagers offered suggestions. One elderly man insisted the issue involved a damaged pipe. Another blamed a faulty valve. Neither appeared particularly convincing.
Rehman listened anyway.
Then rolled up his sleeves. Hamza frowned.
Surely not.
Yet minutes later, the feared outlaw whose reputation extended across entire regions was kneeling in the dust beside a broken water pump.
Hamza remained near the back of the crowd, searching for the performance of the carefully cultivated image.
Yet if this was an act, it was an extraordinary one.
The repair took nearly forty minutes. During that time, the crowd transformed repeatedly. At one point, a little boy approached holding a half-eaten piece of bread.
Without hesitation, he offered it to Rehman. The gesture was so unexpected that several adults laughed. The boy looked offended by their reaction.
"I can share."
Rehman accepted the offered piece with complete seriousness.
"Then I am honored."
The boy appeared deeply satisfied.
Hamza watched the exchange and looked away. Something about it bothered him. The longer he observed, the more difficult it became to maintain emotional distance.
He preferred certainty. Preferred clearly defined boundaries. This man continued erasing them.
Eventually, water surged through the system again. A cheer rose from the crowd. Children celebrated as though witnessing a historic achievement. Several women immediately began filling containers.
The mechanic accepted congratulations despite contributing only half the labor. Rehman seemed content to allow it.
As the gathering dispersed, people stopped repeatedly to thank him.
The entire situation left Hamza with the uncomfortable impression that this sort of thing happened often. Perhaps every day.
By now, the sun hung lower in the sky. Golden light stretched across rooftops. The village settled into the softer rhythm of late afternoon.
Perhaps every story he had heard over the past twenty-four hours aligned perfectly with what he was witnessing.
And eventually, for the first time, Rehman seemed aware of the stranger observing him.
One moment he was speaking with a shopkeeper. The next, his gaze shifted. Finding Hamza immediately. Hamza had spent most of his life avoiding attention when necessary. He understood how to disappear. Yet something about Rehman's attention felt different.
Rehman excused himself from the conversation and walked directly toward him. Hamza remained where he was. Retreat would appear suspicious.
By the time Rehman stopped, several feet separated them. Close enough for conversation.
Up close, the details became clearer. There was a calmness about him. The kind possessed by people who no longer felt the need to prove anything. His eyes were particularly striking.
This was a man who noticed things.
"You're new."
Hamza kept his expression neutral. "I arrived yesterday."
"I thought so."
"Do visitors stand out that much?"
A faint smile touched Rehman's face. "In villages like this, everyone stands out."
The answer was reasonable. Yet Hamza suspected it contained more than it revealed. For a moment neither spoke.
"No family here?"
"No."
"Work?"
"Something like that."
The corner of Rehman's mouth lifted slightly. "Something like that."
The phrase echoed between them. Then he nodded once. A gesture signaling the conversation's conclusion.
"Well."
He glanced briefly toward the square.
"No one passes through here by accident." Before Hamza could formulate a response, Rehman stepped away.
As evening approached, Hamza found himself staring after the retreating figure.
For the first time since entering the territory, he understood why the villagers trusted Rehman.
-
The village changed after sunset. The children eventually disappeared into their homes. Shopkeepers lowered metal shutters over storefronts. The crowds that had filled the square throughout the afternoon gradually thinned.
Vehicles arrived after dark. They came separately rather than together. Some carried supplies. Others carried men. Their arrivals attracted little attention from the villagers.
For two days he had been surrounded by stories. Now, finally, he was beginning to see the machinery hidden beneath it.
The village trusted Rehman. That much was undeniable. But trust alone did not maintain influence across an entire region. Trust did not secure supply routes. Trust did not build networks. Trust did not make rival organizations reconsider their decisions.
Power did. And power always carried a cost.
The question was what that cost looked like here. Hamza intended to find out.
After dinner, he left the guesthouse once more. Above him, stars stretched across the sky in numbers impossible to see within a city.
The village itself seemed peaceful. Yet signs of activity remained. Lights burned inside several buildings. Men moved quietly between locations. Vehicles occupied streets that had stood empty only an hour earlier.
Hamza followed those details carefully. Eventually, they led him toward the edge of the settlement. A large warehouse stood beyond the final row of homes.
During daylight it appeared ordinary. At night, it became something else. Security was subtle but unmistakable. Armed men occupied positions nearby. Not enough to attract attention.
He watched vehicles arrive. Watched information move through conversations too distant to hear.
And finally, he saw Rehman. Gone was the man fixing water pumps. Gone was the man patiently listening to children argue about football.
This version stood at the center of a discussion involving maps spread across a table visible through an open doorway.
Several men surrounded him. When he spoke, others listened. The shift was immediate.
Hamza studied the scene carefully. This was the man he had expected to find. Perhaps not in appearance. But in function. The man whose influence extended beyond villages and gratitude. The man whose decisions carried consequences.
Hamza felt a measure of relief.
At last. Something familiar. Something understandable.
People often romanticized men like Rehman. Especially those who benefited from their protection. But protection and power were never separate things.
One required the other. And power, regardless of how it was used, remained dangerous. A sudden movement near the warehouse entrance drew his attention.
An elderly farmer had arrived. The man looked entirely out of place among armed guards and operational discussions. Yet no one stopped him.
Within moments, he was speaking directly to Rehman.
The conversation lasted several minutes. Hamza could not hear the words.
The farmer appeared distressed. Rehman listened and asked questions.
The interaction ended with a brief nod. One of the men beside Rehman immediately pulled out a phone. Instructions moved quickly through the network.
A problem had entered the room. Solutions were already leaving it.
Later, Hamza would learn the details.
A local official from a neighboring district had attempted to seize farmland belonging to two widows. The situation had dragged on for months. Complaints had gone unanswered. Legal requests had disappeared. Nothing changed.
Until the farmer brought the matter to Rehman. By the following afternoon, the land would be returned.
The contradiction returned stronger than ever. The outcome was just. The method was not. And yet the villagers would celebrate the result.
Hamza hated how difficult the situation was becoming. He preferred cleaner lines. The world refused to provide them.
The deeper Hamza looked, the clearer the picture became. Rehman's organization was disciplined. Nothing about it resembled chaos. Every movement carried purpose. Every instruction fit into a larger structure.
Which meant his influence had not emerged by accident. It had been built.
The realization should have reinforced Hamza's suspicions. Instead, it complicated them further. Because the man directing this network was the same man who had spent forty minutes repairing a village water pump.
The same man children trusted without hesitation. The same man who remembered names., listened to concerns, paid for schools, protected widows.
Near midnight, activity finally began slowing. Vehicles disappeared into the darkness. One by one, lights inside the warehouse switched off.
Eventually only a single figure remained outside.
Rehman.
He stood alone for several moments looking toward the village below. From a distance, the settlement appeared peaceful. A community resting beneath the protection of the man watching over it.
The villagers did not love Rehman despite what he was. They loved him because of what he did.
The problem, however, remained unchanged. Good intentions did not erase violence. Protection did not erase criminality.
The scales refused to balance. And no amount of gratitude could make them balance.
Rehman eventually turned away from the village and disappeared inside the warehouse.
Hamza exhaled slowly and then began walking back toward the guesthouse.
The roads were empty now. Only the occasional barking dog disturbed the silence. Moonlight stretched across rooftops.
The village slept, yet his thoughts remained restless.
By the time he reached his room, exhaustion should have claimed him. Instead, he found himself standing at the window.
A man capable of inspiring loyalty that bordered on devotion. A man capable of commanding armed networks across entire regions. A man who carried both kindness and danger with equal ease.
Hamza had spent years believing the world divided itself neatly.
Good men.
Bad men.
Victims.
Monsters.
Somewhere in the distance, a mosque clock marked the passing hour.
Hamza remained at the window a little longer trying unsuccessfully to reconcile the protector with the criminal.
The benefactor with the outlaw.
The man with the myth.
Eventually, he gave up and prepared for sleep.
Yet even as he lay in darkness, one final thought remained.
Good men did not carry guns like that.
And for the first time in his life, Hamza found himself hoping the stories were true—and praying they were not.
A.N: HOW ABOUT THAT? it took me more than a week to get this out of my ass but here you go my lovies. this is just an intro to hamza arriving at lyari and being shocked at the start difference in what he expected and what reality was. tysm for all the love and for waiting asdfgkll.
Updates will be spordaic. if you're lucky u may get 2 updates in a day or you may have to wait for another week before i come back from the depths of hell lmao
Summary: You're obsessed with him, and him with you.
Author's Note: hello my lovely babies. idek if this fandom is alive anymore but ehh someone someday will read it. axl my baby has revived me from the depths of hell that is writers block. so yes. you will have updates on my other fics too dw
Disclaimer: none! just flufffffff. oh used Y/N in this one. sorry y'all </3
(also just look at him AAAAGHHH I WANNA GOBBLE HIM UPPP)
Main Masterlist
The familiar screech of Axl's garage door rattled through the neighborhood.
Inside, Axl and his friends stumbled through another song, the drums a little too loud, the guitar a little out of tune, and Axl insisting they were 'totally getting better.'
Across the driveway, you sat on the Hecks' front steps with a paperback resting in your lap. You hadn't turned a page in ten minutes.
You were listening.
Every now and then, the garage door would slide open so someone could grab a soda, and Axl would glance toward the house.
The fourth time, he caught your eye.
His face lit up so quickly it was almost comical.
"Hey!" he called, grinning like he'd forgotten everyone else existed.
You smiled back, lifting your hand in a little wave. "Hey."
His bandmates exchanged amused looks.
"Dude," one of them muttered. "Your girlfriend's here."
Axl rolled his eyes, trying—and failing—to look cool.
"Yeah, so?"
He abandoned his guitar against a speaker and jogged over to you without another thought.
"You've been here long?"
"Like... twenty minutes."
"For real?" He frowned. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You looked busy."
"I would've taken a break."
"You've taken four already."
"...Okay, that's fair."
You laughed, and Axl couldn't help laughing with you. He plopped down beside you on the steps, knees bumping yours.
"You hungry?" he asked.
"I had dinner."
"Dang."
"Why?"
"'Cause I was gonna steal whatever Mom made."
You giggled.
From inside the house, Frankie happened to glance out the front window.
"...Mike."
Mike didn't look up from the TV.
"Hm?"
"Come here."
"If this is another squirrel—"
"It's not a squirrel."
He wandered over with the enthusiasm of someone expecting absolutely nothing interesting. Frankie pointed through the curtains.
Outside, Axl was talking animatedly with you, using his hands so much he nearly smacked himself in the face. You laughed so hard you had to lean against his shoulder.
Without thinking, Axl rested an arm around you.
Mike blinked. "...Who's that?"
"That's Y/N."
"I know who she is."
"No, I mean..." Frankie gestured dramatically. "Look at him."
Mike squinted. Axl was smiling. Actually smiling. Not his usual smug grin. Not his 'I got away with something' grin.
A genuine, ridiculously soft smile.
"...Huh," Mike said.
"I have never seen him look at anyone like that."
Outside, Axl reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear before immediately pretending he hadn't done something so unbelievably sappy.
You looked up at him with the kind of smile that made your whole face glow.
Frankie pressed a hand to her chest.
"Oh, my gosh."
Mike folded his arms.
"I didn't even know he knew how to do that."
Axl stood, offering you his hand.
"C'mon."
"Where?"
"I wanna show you something."
He led you inside the garage. His band groaned the second they saw him.
"There he is."
"Took you long enough."
Axl ignored them. "Guys, this is Y/N."
"We know," one of them laughed. "You mention her every practice."
"I do not."
"You literally said, 'Y/N likes this song.'" Sean rotorted.
"And yesterday it was, 'Y/N thinks this riff sounds better.'"
"And don't forget—"
"'Y/N said my hair looked nice today.'" They all said in unison.
You covered your mouth to hide your smile. Axl's ears turned bright red.
"Shut up."
His friends burst into laughter.
"You are whipped."
"I am not whipped."
"You walked away mid-song."
"Because she was outside!"
"Exactly."
You reached over, slipping your fingers into his.
"It's okay."
He looked down at your joined hands, then back up at you with the biggest grin.
"...Okay, maybe a little."
By the time the sun had disappeared, the porch lights flickered on. You checked your phone.
"I should probably head home."
"I'll walk you."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
He said it so simply that it made your heart flutter. You smiled up at him, completely lovestruck.
"Okay."
He grabbed your hand before either of you could overthink it.
The two of you wandered down the sidewalk together, hands swinging between you as your conversation slowly disappeared into the warm Indiana evening.
Frankie watched from the porch until you were nearly out of sight.
"You see that look she gave him?"
Mike nodded once.
"The one like he hung the moon."
Frankie smiled softly.
"And the way he looks at her..."
Mike chuckled.
"Our kid?"
"Our kid."
He shrugged.
"...Might be the one."
Frankie leaned her head against his shoulder.
"I think so too."
Down the street, Axl squeezed your hand. You squeezed back.
Neither of you noticed the Hecks smiling from the porch.
as always, comment and share!!! tysmmmm for reading!
