I know… I disappeared again. 😭
I’m really sorry for keeping you all waiting, but thank you for your patience and for all the lovely comments on the previous chapters, they kept me motivated to keep writing.
Here’s Chapter Three, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Pairing: Hamza Ali Mazari × Spy Reader
Words: 14.5K (Yes it’s a huge chapter so make yourself comfortable!)
T/W: Coping Up in a Life post after Passing Away of Loved Ones, General tooth rotting fluff, Implied Romance
A/N: All the Characters used in this Story are from the Dhurandhar Duology and belong to the rightful owners.
CHAPTER-III A SEAT AT THE TABLE
Hamza lingers in the shadowed hallway just outside the study door, perfectly concealed from view yet positioned close enough to observe through a narrow gap in the wood. The soft glow of the lamp inside casts long, dramatic shadows across Uzair’s face, highlighting the intensity of his focus as he reads a letter. The flickering light dances over his features, revealing a complexity of emotions that seem to shift like the shadows around him.
Suddenly, Uzair’s expression changes, morphing from one of sorrow to something heavier, a dense weight of responsibility settles upon his shoulders like a suit of armour being fitted for battle. This time, there are no outbursts, no outcry at the untimely passing of Rehman Bhai that has thrust him into a role he never sought. Instead, there is a quiet acceptance, an understanding that transforms his demeanour into one of grim resolve.
(This isn’t revenge; it's legacy.)
Uzair folds the letter neatly again after finishing it, exhaling deeply as if releasing the air of his former self. He stands upright, his spine straightening, resembling a soldier who has just received orders from a commanding officer. In that moment of clarity, Hamza realises that the game has irrevocably changed.
Power has just shifted entirely.
As Uzair steps out of the study, his entire posture radiates a newfound authority. The grief-stricken brother is gone, replaced by a man who carries himself with the weight of a crown freshly placed upon his head. His shoulders are squared, and he strides purposefully down the hallway, heading toward another wing of the mansion where private meetings frequently take place.
A silent command emanates from his presence: Follow
No words are needed. The hierarchy has shifted instantly; Uzair doesn’t seek permission anymore.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Hamza falls into step behind him, instinctively accepting his role in this evolving power dynamic. As they walk, they pass several servants who bow slightly upon recognising their new leader, but none dare to speak or question the path they take.
Tonight is no longer about mourning…
It’s about the redistribution of power.
Upon entering the dimly lit private lounge, the atmosphere feels dense with unspoken secrets. This is a space reserved for the family’s most confidential discussions, adorned with walls lined by bookshelves filled with volumes of knowledge, betraying the legacy of their lineage. A heavy oak table sits at the centre, positioned beneath an ornate chandelier that casts a warm, golden light.
Uzair does not sit. Instead, he stands resolutely behind his brother’s chair, a chair now claimed as his own, and finally turns to face Hamza, a flicker of determination gleaming in his eyes.
"Ab tumhare liye ek naya kaam hai," he states bluntly, the weight of authority in his voice.
"Main na sirf ghar ki zimmadari le raha hoon… balke saara operation bhi."
Now you have new work for me… I’m taking responsibility not just for this house but for all operations too.
He pauses, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in.
"Tu mera right hand hoga."
(You will be my right hand.)
This is not phrased as a question; it is a declaration, an undeniable truth. In this new regime, Hamza finds himself promoted or perhaps reassigned as Uzair’s enforcer-in-chief.
Hamza doesn’t react with surprise; he knew this moment was inevitable. From the instant Uzair took up the mantle of leadership, he would require a loyal enforcer at his side, and Hamza has always filled that role. However, there is something distinctly different about this acknowledgement. This time, it transcends mere security duties; it encompasses the entire spectrum of Uzair's world: political manoeuvrings, gang negotiations, defending the family’s honour… all of it.
"Hukum," Hamza replies simply, an obedient soldier acknowledging the weight of his new position, his acceptance unwavering.
Uzair studies him for a moment, gauging his reaction. After a beat, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small: a silver ring.
He holds it aloft between them, its significance hanging unspoken in the air.
The silver ring glints under the soft, dim light, simple in design yet clearly of high value, engraved with a small family crest upon the band. Uzair turns it slowly between his fingers before extending his hand toward Hamza, unveiling this pivotal moment.
This is not merely a token of promotion; it is an oath. A silent pact binding them in loyalty forged in blood and shadow from this moment forward. Such is the sacred bond reserved for those deemed most trustworthy in their perilous line of work.
A tense pause stretches between them, the air thick not with hostility, but with weighty expectation. Uzair’s expression is resolute; he isn’t smiling. He is waiting for Hamza to step forward and embrace this new role, one that surpasses the traditional boundaries of an enforcer.
Without uttering a word, he takes a step forward, reaching for the ring resting in Uzair’s palm. His calloused fingers brush against the younger man’s for just a brief instant, the touch electric with significance.
The cool metal feels heavy, its meaning resonating within him. He slides it onto his right hand, the hand that does not bear the marks of his violent work, flexing his fingers slightly to test its weight, as though strapping on a piece of armour.
A silent vow has now been sealed.
Uzair offers a single nod of approval, acknowledging their new bond. Then, he turns toward the liquor cabinet, pouring two glasses of whiskey without asking whether Hamza desires one, making it clear that tonight marks not just a transition of power but the beginning of a shared journey into the depths of their new reality.
This isn’t quite a celebration, but it teeters on the edge of one: two men now bound by a sense of duty that runs deeper than blood ties.
Uzair, with a steady hand, pours a glass of rich, dark liquid and hands it to Hamza, who takes it as they settle into the moment. They drink in silence, each sip heavy with unspoken thoughts.
The morning sun spills over the courtyard of the haveli like molten gold, casting a warm glow on the weathered stones and intricate carvings of the structure. The usual sounds of the household permeate the air: servants sweeping the courtyard, the cook barking orders to bustling assistants about the morning’s breakfast preparations, and a child’s laughter ringing out from somewhere deep within the haveli, wrapping the space in a fabric of normalcy.
Life has resumed its rhythm, but it’s not just the performative duties of everyday life or the machinations of political alliances at play. No, this feels like true family chaos, a resurgence of life after a period of deep grief.
Hamza watches the scene unfold from his usual spot near a sturdy pillar, the location a familiar comfort where he often stands watch. Yet today, everything feels different. The atmosphere is infused with authenticity. The way Uzair accepted responsibility without a trace of complaint resonated deeply. It was evident how everyone moved through their chores with a sense of ownership, despite the underlying sorrow that lingered in their hearts. Even the way the servants spoke to one another, filled with the easy camaraderie of kinship, revealed a bond that was genuine, no staged loyalty meant for the eyes of outsiders.
This was their truth, and that realisation unsettled Hamza far more than any gunfight ever could. Because now, he wasn’t merely infiltrating a crime syndicate; he was standing among people who genuinely loved one another.
The sensation hit him like a punch to the gut, the palpable warmth of familial bonds enveloping him. It was starkly different from the performative affection or political alliances he was accustomed to. Here, in this vibrant world, people cared for one another, fought to protect each other, and shared in their grief collectively. The contrast was brutal.
Hamza reflected on his upbringing in a cold, strategically loving Sikh household, where emotions were stifled beneath layers of duty and honour. Here? There was an openness to feelings. Hugs were exchanged freely in times of sadness, and a nephew could rush to his aunt after a rough game, receiving a kiss on the forehead without hesitation. When a servant accidentally dropped a tray, her carefree laughter filled the air as a fellow worker rushed to help her, embodying the spirit of community rather than punishment.
And Hamza, the undercover spy who had constructed a life of lies and deceit, suddenly felt like the one who didn’t belong. Not them, him. He was the imposter, pretending to fit in while secretly working toward their downfall. The weight of his deception felt unbearably heavy, a tangible force pressing down on him.
He watched Uzair, the man who had seamlessly transitioned from a stern commander just hours earlier to a doting uncle. Now, he sat relaxed, laughing lightly as his nephew clambered onto his lap, innocently asking for help with his shoelaces. Uzair didn’t push him away or scold him for being messy or too loud; instead, he simply allowed it to happen, an unguarded moment of familial love.
(How do you betray people like this?)
Hamza’s fingers twitched at his side, the weight of the silver ring he wore feeling heavier than ever. He had been assigned to dismantle this family, to destroy the bonds they held dear. But standing here, enveloped in the warmth of their interactions, all he could think was:
And that revelation shifted everything.
Later on, the clinic hums with a hush, the afternoon sun spilling through half-drawn curtains, creating patterns of light and shadow on the stark walls. The scent of antiseptic mingles with the air, familiar and clinical. As you carefully peel back the bandage on Hamza’s bicep, your focus sharpens on the stitches that hold his skin together, the redness around them indicative of minor irritation from the tightness of the closure.
At first, you work in silence, honing in on the task at hand, but soon a muttered comment escapes your lips: “You make a terrible patient.”
Hamza watches you intently, his expression enigmatic as always. Yet today, there’s an uncharacteristic softness in his gaze, a fraction less guarded than usual. When he deadpans back, “I’ve never been told otherwise,” there’s a hint of humour in his voice, almost eliciting a snort from you. You catch yourself, surprising both of you.
(Almost laughed? At him? Never.)
Instead of indulging in levity, you roll your eyes and return to your work, maintaining your professional demeanour. After a moment, you challenge him: “Professional ethics?”
A small twitch of a smile dances at the corners of your lips, just for a brief second. But as you finish the meticulous task of removing the stitches, each one sliding out with ease under the care of your steady hands. Hamza, seated in the clinic chair, shows no signs of discomfort; he doesn’t flinch, nor does he even blink at the slight sting that accompanies each extraction.
As you finally lean back to inspect your work, you watch him flex his arm tentatively. He tests for pain or stiffness, moving it in small arcs. To your relief, there’s nothing, no wince, no grimace. “Done,” you announce briskly, your tone clipped but satisfied. “No infection. Good healing.” A rare moment of praise slips from your lips, catching you off guard. It wasn’t something you typically offered so freely.
Hamza’s gaze drops to his now-exposed skin, the area where the bandage had enveloped his wound. He studies it for a brief moment before meeting your eyes again. There’s a heavy silence that settles between you, thick and palpable. Then, as if he can’t just leave it at that, his voice flat and matter-of-fact, he states, “You’re a good doctor.”
It’s not a flirtation. There’s no hint of sarcasm or humour.
Just an unembellished fact presented with a sincerity that disorients you more than it should. You hadn’t expected such directness from Hamza, who usually communicates in grunts or short, straightforward answers.
Your hands still for a fleeting moment, an unexpected reaction to his blunt compliment. You hadn’t anticipated that coming from him. You clear your throat, suddenly acutely aware of the small space between you, the two of you crammed into the clinic chair. “I know,” you reply instinctively, the words escaping your mouth before you can censor them, immediately regretting the arrogance that laces your response.
A beat passes, the air thick with unspoken things. Then, in a quieter tone, you add, “…Thank you.” It feels awkward and uncharacteristic, as both of you navigate this unfamiliar territory of a normal conversation devoid of the usual tension or mission discussions that usually saturated your interactions.
Hamza nods once, acknowledgement exchanged, and with that, the moment dissipates. The silence stretches again, but now it’s different, comfortable rather than laden with awkwardness. You busily start to pack away the medical supplies, methodically tidying the tray with motions honed over countless similar tasks.
As you work, you feel Hamza’s gaze on you, his observation lingering longer than usual. Suddenly, he stands up with a practised fluidity, the kind that comes from years of discipline and training instilled in him to always be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. “I should go,” he states plainly.
There are no excuses or vague promises to see you later. He simply acknowledges his departure as a matter of fact. Turning toward the door, he pauses mid-stride. A fleeting hesitation hangs in the air, minor and almost imperceptible, unless someone is watching closely.
And you are watching closely.
Your fingers linger on the last gauze pad as you catch that brief stall, Hamza not fully committed to leaving. He hovers near the door, and you can sense that he wants to say something else, but the words escape him. The clinic is cloaked in silence, interrupted only by the faint ticking of a clock, the sunlight filtering through the window and casting long, lazy shadows across the floor between you.
A second ticks by… then another.
At last, without fully turning, Hamza finds the strength to speak again: “...Thanks.” The word hangs in the air, softer this time. It isn’t a reference to the stitches or to your professional skills. It’s an expression of gratitude, thanking you for more than just the immediate care, potentially for your kindness when Uzair had dismissed him so coldly.
The weight of his gratitude settles between you, heavy like an anchor. You don’t reply immediately; it feels momentous, balancing on the edge of something unspoken. Finally, you set the gauze down with purpose and look at him, truly seeing him.
Hamza still hasn’t fully turned around; his broad back remains partially blocking the doorway like a protective barrier. Yet, there’s a softness to his posture, his shoulders less tense than usual, revealing a sliver of vulnerability beneath the soldier façade.
“You're welcome,” you reply softly, your voice embedded with genuine warmth rather than professional detachment.
There’s no trace of sarcasm this time. No eye-rolling. Just sincerity, intertwined with something else neither of you has defined yet.
Another beat passes, the palpable silence filled with uncharted territory. Then, as if instinctively drawn to your gaze, Hamza turns just enough to glance at you over his shoulder…swiftly, as it appears, you school your expression back into stoic, stern-nurse mode.
Your eyes meet across the dimly lit confines of the clinic. For a split second, a heartbeat, neither of you looks away. The usual barrier that defines your relationship (spy versus spy, enforcer versus gangster's sister) dissipates in the flickering fluorescent light, leaving an almost palpable tension cloaked in the air.
Hamza's lips remain firmly pressed together, devoid of a smile, which is typical of him. Yet, there’s a subtle shift in his gaze that catches your trained eye, an almost imperceptible infusion of gratitude and perhaps a flicker of quiet affection, emotions he would vehemently deny if questioned.
Just then, a sharp knock breaks the moment, echoing off the sterile walls. You both spring apart as if caught in a moment of mischief, like schoolchildren discovered in an unsanctioned exchange.
“Y/N? Main yahin hoon,” calls Uzair from outside, his voice cutting through the room with urgency.
In an instant, the fragile bond forged in that fleeting moment shatters. You straighten your posture, your demeanour instantly shifting back to that of professional detachment. The vulnerability and unspoken tension that had just hung in the air is gone, evaporated in a heartbeat.
“Aa rahi hoon,” you respond evenly, the calm of your voice reflecting your swift mental reset. Rising from your chair, you smooth down your clothes with practised precision, wiping away any trace of the intimacy just shared.
Hamza steps aside, a silent acknowledgement of your need for distance, allowing you to navigate past him and approach the door. As you pull it open, Uzair stands there, looking worn yet sharply alert, likely summoned by some pressing matter related to the family's affairs or their brother’s criminal organisation.
He doesn’t even spare Hamza a glance, ignoring his presence entirely. Instead, the two siblings share a brief, meaningful look, an exchange that conveys an entire conversation without uttering a word.
“Chalo… mujhe tumse baat karni thi,” Uzair states, his tone firm yet not unkind. “(Come… I need to talk with you.)”
Nodding in acknowledgement, you follow him out of the clinic, your focus now solely on whatever urgent discussion lies ahead with your brother. As the door clicks shut behind you, a palpable silence fills the once-busy room, leaving Hamza isolated in the aftermath of the interrupted moment. The medical supplies remain meticulously arranged, a stark reminder that nothing of significance occurred, despite the intimacies exchanged just moments ago.
Hamza releases a slow breath, the air escaping his lips in a way that conveys a mix of relief and resignation. He rolls his freshly stitched arm, the sensation a mere distraction, while his gaze drifts toward the window. Out in the courtyard, he watches Uzair guide you down the path, clearly intent on discussing something serious, something that doesn't include him.
(No place for him there, he thinks ruefully.)
Hamza stands rooted for another moment, contemplating the quietude of the room around him. Then, with a practised ease, he slips out through a side exit, the route he always takes to remain unnoticed.
It becomes a relentless pattern; every few days, over the next Couple of Months you discover a new injury adorning him. First, a perplexing paper cut on his finger- how does someone even inflict that on themselves when their job is to enforce order? Next, there are bruised knuckles, evidence of tempered aggression, and later, a scrape across his forehead that suggests a mishap involving a wall or perhaps a particularly stubborn foe.
At first, you treat these wounds without comment. But as time passes, your exasperation with his reckless behaviour continues to swell, reaching a boiling point.
Then comes that day, an encounter you won’t soon forget. You're tending to yet another small scrape, the fourth injury you've patched up that week alone, when your patience snaps. “Do you wake up every morning and decide that violence is your hobby?” you fire back, the incredulity in your voice unmistakable.
Hamza takes a moment to respond, tilting his head slightly as if mulling over your interrogation.
Instead of a serious reply, he smirks, just the slightest arch of his lips, accompanied by a glimmer in his eyes that suggests mischief is a familiar companion.
“Only on weekdays,” he deadpans, delivering the line as though it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Your eye twitches in irritation, unable to process his cavalier attitude. You stare at him, unimpressed, while his smirk widens, his enjoyment evident as he revels in how flustered your response makes you.
“Weekdays?” you echo flatly, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “So, weekends are injury-free for you, then? What do you do, sit around quietly and knit?”
Hamza merely shrugs, lifting one shoulder with a casual grace as he inspects his freshly bandaged knuckles as if they're trophies of his reckless lifestyle, his expression one of indifference mixed with pride.
Then, with that same infuriating calm that always seems to set your nerves on edge, he says, “Sometimes.”
A lie. A blatant, outrageous lie. You could bet your last penny that it’s not anywhere close to the truth. But the way he utters those words with such serious conviction just makes it worse, intensifying your frustration.
You exhale sharply through your nose, a sound that’s equal parts a scoff and a laugh you desperately try to suppress. This man is utterly impossible.
Without another word, you grab the antiseptic wipe again, feeling a surge of determination. You press the wipe harder than necessary against his knuckles, relishing the chance to see if he’ll finally react.
Hamza doesn’t flinch. Not even when the sharp sting of the antiseptic hits his skin. Instead, he simply watches you, his dark, unreadable eyes reflecting a faint trace of amusement. There’s something infuriatingly composed about his demeanour, and you can tell he’s entirely unrepentant. He knows this gets under your skin, and somehow, that makes it all the more irritating.
After applying the ointment with slightly more force than medically advisable, you fix him with a saccharine smile and say, "Next time, try wearing gloves."
Your tone is laced with a barely concealed threat, suggesting: I will personally strangle you if I see another scrape on you tomorrow.
Hamza’s lips twitch, just a hint of a smile threatening to break free as he flexes his newly treated hand. The antiseptic stings, but it pales in comparison to the satisfaction he derives from watching you get riled up like this. He knows you care; that’s what makes the whole situation so amusing to him.
"Gloves," he repeats slowly, testing the word as if it were foreign to him, “…Huh.” The translation for his expression is clear: I will absolutely not be wearing gloves.
Then, unable to resist the opportunity for provocation, he leans in ever so slightly, close enough that you have to tilt your head up to maintain eye contact, and says, with all the gravity of a man delivering a profound truth, "They restrict movement."
As if being an enforcer requires such delicate precision that even the lightest fabric could hinder his capabilities.
It’s such a ludicrous excuse, yet he delivers it with a straight face. Your eyebrow arches higher than ever, scepticism dripping from your expression.
You don’t buy it for a second. The "restrict movement" excuse is so flimsy that even you, who rarely argue with him, recognise he's spinning a tall tale. But instead of calling him out directly, you decide to take a more cunning approach.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across your face, a grin that hints at mischief.
Without any warning, you dive into the clinic drawer and pull out a pair of bright pink fuzzy mittens, the kind that grandmothers wear in winter, pastel and cheerful. You hold them up between you as if they were a weapon, a delightful threat.
Hamza blinks. Once. Twice.
His amusement wavers slightly.
His gaze drops to the mittens, bright pink with tiny embroidered flowers dotting the fabric. They are the epitome of frivolity, a sharp contrast to his tough persona built on intimidation and grit. For the first time since you’ve known him, Hamza looks genuinely unsettled.
(This is worse than being stabbed.)
You stay silent, simply holding the mittens up in front of him, unwavering in your challenge, staring him down as you dare him to protest.
The silence stretches between you, laden with tension, as if the entire world has paused to witness this absurd showdown.
Then, with all the gravity of a man accepting his fate, he slowly reaches out, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric.
Hamza takes the mittens from you with the solemnity of a soldier receiving orders to march into battle. The pink fabric looks utterly ridiculous against his massive, battle-scarred hands, and for a moment, you wonder if this is truly the end of his fearsome reputation.
He stares at the mittens for another agonising second, and then, without any drama or complaint, he slips them on.
The effect is catastrophic.
Instantly, his entire intimidating presence crumbles like a sandcastle under the weight of a tidal wave. The feared enforcer of Lyari, now reduced to a comical figure clad in flower-covered fuzzy mittens that struggle to contain his knuckles.
You try your hardest to suppress your laughter, but you fail miserably.
A single snort escapes before you can stop it.
The sound, unexpected and almost childlike, makes Hamza’s expression flicker, a mix of wounded pride and quiet resignation crossing his face. He looks down at his hands, wiggling the fingers slightly as if testing the very limits of these absurd accessories.
The mittens are painfully cute, and you realise there’s no coming back from this moment.
No dignity left to salvage.
And yet… he doesn’t take them off. He doesn’t protest. Stubbornly, he stands there: a towering 6’1" mountain of muscle forced into ludicrous pastel fluff that seems to mock everything he represents. Beneath the layers of soft fabric, it’s clear that he is suffering.
(But he accepted it, a silent surrender in a battle against conventions.)
Just when you think you’ve ruined his cool silhouette, he finds a way to turn the tables in the most unexpected manner. Without a hint of warning, he reaches out with one mittened hand, the bright pink contrasting sharply with the more serious tones of his demeanour, and he boops your nose.
(A single pink-fingered poke, executed with all the gravity of a monk's prayer.)
Deadpan as ever, he remains stoic, leaving you in a state of incredulity. The boop lands soft, absurd, utterly un-Hamza-like. Your eyes widen in shock; did he really just…? Did the most feared man in Lyari’s underworld just boop your nose like a character out of a cartoon, innocent and nonsensical?
(Yes. He absolutely did.)
For a fleeting moment, time seems to freeze around you both.
Then, without warning, your expression morphs: first disbelief, then a fresh wave of betrayal at the absurdity of the moment. The tension cracks open and spills out in a burst of laughter, unexpected and joyous.
Not just a quiet chuckle, but a full, unabashed laugh, the kind that sends your shoulders shaking and prickles tears at the corners of your eyes, a sound that fills the sterile clinic with warmth and honesty.
Hamza watches this transformation unfold, his usual stoic mask tinged with something dangerously close to satisfaction, a flicker of intrigue behind his guarded exterior. The sound of your laughter, real and unfiltered, resonates in the space around you, rippling through the air like a long-lost melody. It’s a noise he hasn’t heard from you before; it’s not laced with sarcasm or veiled wit… It’s genuine amusement, alive and bright.
And it does something profound to him.
(Something warm. Something dangerous.)
Though his lips remain set in their accustomed line, a softness creeps into his eyes, the edges of his expression nudged upward as he keeps those ridiculous mittens on, observing you revel in the laugh like it’s the best thing that’s happened all week.
Then, as if unable to contain himself, he boops your nose again.
A second pink-mitten tap, this time more deliberate.
(This time? Mischief dances in his eyes, daring to test the limits of your laughter.)
You remain caught in the whimsy of the moment, still giggling, bright and unguarded, when his mitten taps your nose once more. Almost instinctively, you swat at his teasing hand, but your aim falters as he stands just out of your reach. In your half-leaning forward stance, like a child attempting to avenge her wounded pride, the mittens make him clumsy, and he doesn’t withdraw quickly enough.
Seizing the opportunity, you grab the offending pink paw, holding it hostage between both of your hands, a playful act of defiance.
Hamza blinks, caught off guard for the first time in what feels like ages.
Does he pull away, reclaiming his dignity? Or...?
Instead, he remains steady, allowing you to hold his mittened hand, and he stares down at you with that same quiet intensity you’ve grown accustomed to. But now, there’s a flicker of something else glowing within his gaze, perhaps playfulness or curiosity?
The pink mittens appear even more ridiculous up close, fluffy and floral against the rugged scars etched across his knuckles, reminders of battles fought in a different world.
(You’re still holding it.)
(Neither of you is moving.)
Then, very slowly, as if every motion were deliberate and significant, Hamza turns his palm upward in your grasp.
Not a request to let go, but perhaps an unspoken wish to intertwine your fingers, even through the layers of ridiculous winterwear.
The gesture, while simple and innocent, is laden with vulnerability. It feels soft. Intimate.
Your breath hitches in your throat, caught between surprise and something deeper, as you register the warmth radiating from his palm, offering itself to you, mittens and all. In that moment, the silly mittens transform into silent witnesses of an unspoken flirtation, where laughter blooms amidst absurdity, igniting a spark of something new between you.
You hesitate for a fleeting moment, a whirlwind of thoughts racing through your mind, but then you slowly curl your fingers around his, lacing them together despite the ridiculous fluffiness of the mittens. The oversized mittens, bright and fuzzy, might seem childish in any other context, but at this moment, they feel warm and right.
(Your hands fit perfectly, better than you imagined they would, even with these absurdly oversized things on.)
No words are exchanged between you two, but the silence is filled with a palpable warmth that seems to wrap around both of you. And maybe, just maybe, there's something else blossoming between you, an unspoken connection that neither of you is quite ready to name.
Hamza doesn’t grip your hand too tightly; he holds it just firm enough for you to feel the solidness of his presence without overwhelming you. And then, in a surprising gesture, he gently presses your joined mittened hands against your cheek.
The touch is feather-light, a stark contrast to the often forceful demeanor he projects to the world. In that moment, he transforms from the hardened figure you know into someone vulnerable, almost reverent. The soft, cuddly fabric of the mittens brushes against your skin, a delightful friction that enhances the warmth radiating from his hand beneath.
You don’t pull away. You don’t feel the need to break the sweet, quiet spell that envelops you. Instead, you let it happen. You allow him this intimate moment, this tender connection that says so much without the need for words.
For someone like Hamza, who has always been so controlled and guarded, this quiet display of affection feels like a confession, a soft admission of something deeper than either of you have bothered to articulate.
(No mission talk. No spy games, no pretence.)
Just a man holding another person’s face gently with these pink, fuzzy mittens, something barely said yet so clearly felt.
The slight absurdity of the moment should ruin it completely, but somehow, it only serves to deepen its authenticity. If anything, it makes it feel even more real.
As night blankets the Haveli, Shimmers of candlelight dance across the walls, casting flickering shadows in the serene atmosphere. Meanwhile, Naieem sits stubbornly at the dining table, his small figure hunched over his plate, pushing food around with an exaggerated frown. The adults surrounding him have tried everything in their arsenal: soft, pleading tones, casual negotiations, even thinly veiled threats of denying him dessert. But every attempt falls flat against his stubbornness.
Then, as if appearing out of nowhere, Hamza arrives.
He slips into a chair right next to the boy without uttering a single word, and with practised ease, he picks up his fork. His hands, so skilled in the art of manoeuvring through complex tasks, approach his plate with a kind of precision that borders on ritual, and he begins slicing the pieces of chicken into even triangles, each cut made with military-like accuracy.
(He’s not putting on a show for anyone.)
(He’s just methodically going through his meal, treating it like an everyday affair.)
Naieem’s eyes, wide with a mixture of scepticism and curiosity, shift over to him. He watches intently as Hamza chews his food, his calm demeanour unwavering. There’s something almost magnetic about Hamza’s presence; he doesn’t directly acknowledge the boy, but by simply continuing to eat with a quiet, steady rhythm, he draws Naieem in.
Gradually, Naieem’s curiosity begins to overtake his stubbornness. Slowly, almost unconsciously, he picks up his own fork, mirroring Hamza’s movements. He cuts a piece of chicken, awkwardly at first, the fork slipping a little, but then, as he sees the neatness of Hamza’s pieces, he focuses more intently, adjusting the way he holds the fork.
(A silent mirror, reflecting hope and connection.)
Hamza doesn’t comment, save for a tiny nod of acknowledgement when he sees the boy take his first, tentative bite. But internally, something shifts within Hamza's quiet resolve.
This small act, the boy choosing to replicate his actions, signals trust, not in a family member, not in his brother Uzair, but in this quiet enforcer who had earlier that day held his face with fuzzy mittens. A bond that feels unlike anything else he’s known.
You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, observing the scene unfold before you. There’s no sense of swooning, just a captivated sense of watching something rare: Hamza being gentle in a way that nobody else has ever witnessed.
Naieem continues to eat the rest of his meal without so much as a whimper, small bites, perfectly timed, mimicking Hamza’s steady pace. No fussing. No tears.
Hamza, after finishing his own meal with the same precision, casually slides a piece of naan toward the boy’s plate, offering it like a peace treaty without any fanfare.
Just a simple, silent act of sharing, an unassuming gesture that speaks volumes.
Naieem takes the piece and breaks off a small portion, popping it into his mouth as he savours the warm, fluffy bread. It’s a moment so ordinary, yet it feels significant.
This isn’t just any dinner; it’s probably the first time in weeks the boy has eaten properly, devoid of tantrums and frustrations, all under the quiet guidance of the man with pink mittens.
And it happened because Hamza sat next to him.
You don’t smile outwardly… but inside, something tight in your chest begins to loosen as you witness an unexpected moment. The scene unfolds quietly, yet its significance resonates deeply. This isn't merely Hamza showing his affinity for children; it's a testament to his character, to his conscious choice to embrace kindness when no one else is watching, under the gentle hum of the dining room's ambience.
After the plates are cleared, Naieem, now full and content, slides off his chair. In a departure from his usual energetic tendencies to dash away, he makes his way over to Hamza, his small feet pad softly against the polished wood floor, each step full of newfound courage. Without hesitation, he reaches up and hugs Hamza’s leg, his little arm wrapping around the thick, solid muscle. It's a simple yet heartfelt gesture, an unspoken thank-you wrapped in childlike innocence.
Hamza freezes for just a heartbeat, clearly caught off guard by this unexpected show of affection. Children don’t usually seek him out; he’s more of a distant figure in their lives. But then, slowly, he softens, resting a hand on the boy's head, just once. The gesture is light, a gentle pat that could almost be mistaken for accidental… but it wasn’t. There’s a depth to that simple touch; he meant it.
The kid doesn’t linger, not wanting to overstay his welcome in this newfound tenderness. Instead, he scampers off after Uzair, a burst of energy propelling him forward, leaving Hamza sitting there… looking strangely peaceful, almost contemplative as if the moment has unlocked something within him.
You finally step forward from your hiding spot near the doorway, unable to resist the pull of the scene you just observed. The moment Hamza notices your movement, his sharp gaze locks onto yours, piercing through the dim light of the room. In that instant, he doesn’t look away, doesn’t attempt to mask the softness that just flickered across his face. There’s no teasing in his eyes, no sarcasm dripping from his voice, just a profound, quiet understanding passing silently between the two of you, a connection that acknowledges what just transpired.
Then, unexpectedly, Hamza does something that catches you completely off guard: he holds out his hand, palm open. It’s not a demand nor an assertion of power; it’s simply an invitation, calm and sincere, reminiscent of how he sat with his nephew just moments ago.
You hesitate for a fraction of a second, your heart racing slightly at the unexpected gesture, before walking over and taking his hand. His palm is warm and calloused, a testament to years of battling through life’s challenges, yet there’s an undeniable gentleness in how he guides you to the seat beside him.
You sit shoulder-to-shoulder, the bare table between you reflecting the polished wood under the soft lamplight, devoid of any distractions. There are no words spoken, only a palpable silence that stretches comfortably around you both, a silence filled with unspoken thoughts and shared presence.
Hamza turns his head slightly, his focus shifting from the room around him to your profile instead, a subtle act of intimacy in itself. And then… he lifts your joined hands, bringing them closer to his face, and presses a kiss to the back of yours.
The kiss is light, achingly tender, a chaste brush of his lips against your knuckles that lasts only a breath but feels profoundly intimate. It’s not a passionate display, but rather a quiet, intimate moment, his kind of tenderness: reserved yet meaningful because he initiated it, something that doesn’t happen lightly in public.
(Hamza doesn’t do public affection.)
He never touches anyone quite like this.
Your breath hitches, an involuntary reaction that surprises you, but you don’t pull back. You don’t feel the need to react dramatically; there’s no need for theatrics in this softly charged space between you. Yet, something flickers in your eyes… is it surprise? Is it warmth? Maybe it’s something softer, a gentle spark of connection neither of you anticipated feeling tonight.
The silence stretches between you, but it’s far from awkward; it’s a soft, delicate quiet that settles around two people comfortable in each other’s silence, no need to fill the space with unnecessary words. Hamza continues to hold your hand, his thumb moving absentmindedly, tracing slow, soothing circles over your skin, as if he’s exploring this new closeness, testing the waters of an uncharted territory.
He doesn’t kiss you again, nor does he feel the need to break the tranquillity with words. It's enough, this shared moment in time, a fragile beauty enveloped in silence.
They just sit there, existing together in the dim, sprawling room. The atmosphere is thick with unspoken words and shared glances, creating a moment suspended in time.
Then, the door creaks open, and the servant enters, a young maid balancing a delicate tray laden with steaming chai for late-night tea. She pauses abruptly at the sight before her, her eyes widening in surprise as she takes in the scene: Hamza Ali Mazari, the intimidating enforcer known for his steely demeanour, is sitting close to Uzair's sister, their hands intertwined in a gesture of intimate connection.
The maid stands frozen, her grip on the tray wobbling slightly, eyes flicking between the two of them in disbelief. This wasn't a sight she anticipated: an enforcer who often commanded respect and fear, now sharing such a tender moment with his boss's sibling. A tense silence envelops the room as she processes the surreal tableau before her.
Hamza, seemingly unfazed by her sudden appearance, does not react with anger or irritation. Instead, he slowly lifts their linked hands as if making a silent declaration for all to see. With deliberate ease, he plucks one of the cups of chai from the tray without uttering a word, the act itself radiating a message clear as day: Yes. This is happening.
The maid swallows hard, visibly flustered. After hastily setting down the other cup, she nearly trips over herself in her eagerness to leave the room, retreating as if she had stumbled upon a deeply private moment she was never meant to witness. The door clicks shut behind her, sealing the two of you back into a world cloaked in secrecy, the tension that hung in the air dissipating as quickly as it arrived, leaving just Hamza and you again, cocooned in your quiet little slice of night.
Hamza lifts his cup first, blowing gently on the surface of the hot chai before taking a measured sip. His expression is inscrutable, yet there’s an undeniable shift in his demeanour now that the weight of observation is lifted. Relaxed. Unbothered. No longer the fierce enforcer under watchful eyes, he is simply a man enjoying a moment of harmony.
You reach for your own cup, feeling the warmth seep into your palms, offering comfort after the surprising sweetness of the earlier encounter. You sip your chai in silence, both of you cocooned in a bubble of ease, two spies who usually thrive in shadows now sitting openly, allowing a tender layer of vulnerability to unfold.
As the night deepens, the library remains softly illuminated, golden rays filtering through tall windows that frame the scene in an ethereal glow. Entering the room, your gaze immediately locks onto him: Hamza sits cross-legged on the floor, absorbed in one of your books, its pages spread wide across his lap.
Your eyes narrow as you quickly zero in on a slight imperfection: one corner of the page is crumpled, clearly folded to mark his place. You gasp, not in a theatrical sense, but with genuine horror, the betrayal striking an anxious chord within you.
"You folded the corner!" you accuse, your voice rising an octave, unable to mask the shock.
Hamza glances up slowly, his expression calm and unfazed by your indignation. And then, without a hint of shame or guilt, he replies nonchalantly, "...Yes." The audacity in his tone suggests this is just another normal part of his day.
You stare at him, wide-eyed, as if he had just committed a heinous crime against the sanctity of your books. He holds your gaze, utterly unrepentant, a hint of mischief playing at the corners of his mouth. Hamza doesn’t even attempt to justify his actions beyond the brief smirk he wears.
Instead, he reaches for another book lying beside him. As he opens it, you realise he’s turning the very act of folding pages into a point of pride. The contents reveal a chaotic collection of items wedged between the pages: receipts from bustling shops, a crumpled prescription slip, an old train ticket with ink smeared from the elements, and nestled amongst these forgotten treasures is a delicate dried leaf.
He flips through the pages slowly, delighting in watching your reaction morph from shock to incredulity. "Your definition of 'actual bookmark' seems flexible," he states flatly, as if laying down logical ground rules for a debate taking place in a surreal realm.
The audacity. The sheer gall he possesses leaves you momentarily speechless, grappling with how to respond to someone who so blithely disregards the boundaries you hold dear.
Your mouth opens, then closes again, momentarily at a loss for words. You stand frozen, eyes wide in disbelief, staring at the chaotic assortment of items scattered across the table. They resemble the evidence laid out in a courtroom, each piece telling a story of its own, but you feel as though they are all pointing straight at him.
As the shock recedes, it is replaced by an overwhelming sense of betrayal. The weight of realisation sinks in, heavy and unyielding. “You…” you begin, your voice tinged with incredulity, “you’ve been doing this with every book?!”
This isn’t merely a solitary, careless act of folding a page. No, this is something far more insidious; it’s a recurring pattern, a conscious lifestyle choice that leaves you clutching your heart in anguish. The implications of his actions resonate deeply.
Hamza, seemingly unfazed by your turmoil, merely shrugs. The motion is casual, almost indifferent, a tiny lift of his shoulders as if this were the most mundane of topics, not something that could send chills down your spine.
He smiles a rare transformation. This isn’t the restrained smirk or the stoic half-smile you're used to seeing on his face. No, this is something altogether different. It’s a genuine, full smile, bright and infectious, radiating warmth and mischief in a way you’ve seldom encountered. It lights up his entire face, casting aside the severe countenance that typically defines him.
In an instant, you feel punched in the chest, taken aback by just how disarming this simple expression is. For someone who so rarely allows joy to surface, this smile is uncharacteristically bright. It softens his features, making him appear younger, almost innocent, stripping away the layers of his enforcer persona to reveal just Hamza.
You momentarily forget the scandal of the folded pages, lost in the sheer difference a smile can make. Then the weight of reality crashes back down on you with a resounding thud:
Your beloved reading materials, now marred by his thoughtless antics!
The fury wells up, but it feels muted now, dimmed by the unexpected beauty of his smile. You try to cling to your outrage; you really do. You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, preparing to unleash a proper scolding.
But then he smiles again. This time, it lingers longer, losing some of its guardedness, and suddenly, the words you had been rehearsing evaporate in the air between you.
All that escapes your lips is a breathless, “You’re ridiculous.” The words lack any real heat; instead, they drip with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.
His smile widens at that, as if he knows he has successfully disarmed you with charm alone. There’s an undeniable twinkle in his dark eyes, a victorious glimmer that only fuels your frustration further.
And then, without any forewarning, he reaches out. His finger lightly taps the folded corner of the book, a silent admission of guilt accompanied by a playful nonchalance, as if to say, “Worth it.”
You exhale sharply, an involuntary sound that’s half a laugh and half a sigh of surrender. In that moment, you recognise the futility of the argument. There’s no winning when he looks at you like that, playful and utterly beguiling.
So, instead of persisting in your futile protest, you act on impulse, an uncharacteristic decision for a spy like you.
You grab the book from his lap with a decisive motion. Before he can react, you snatch it away and begin smoothing out the torn and folded page with your fingers, carefully restoring it to its rightful state as though you were an offended librarian reprimanding a mischievous child for their carelessness.
Hamza watches in silence, an amused glint in his eyes, no protest on his lips, just quiet amusement as you fuss over what he has created out of chaos.
Once you have finished smoothing the page, feeling a wave of satisfaction at restoring order, you gently place the book on a side table, carefully positioning it out of harm's way. You turn back to Hamza, hands now resting defiantly on your hips, ready to deliver your next demand.
He still sits there, legs crossed like a patient giant, watching your every move with those deep, dark eyes of his. The corners crinkle slightly, remnants of the smile still etched on his face, radiating a silly happiness that feels disproportionately large for the triviality of the situation.
You can’t help but shake your head at how absurd it is that he appears so intensely joyful over something as mundane as scolding him about books.
Then, without missing a beat, you point an accusing finger at the scattered items that now serve as evidence of his misdeeds. “And those. Give them to me,” you demand, wanting to rid him of any remnants of his crimes against your literature.
Hamza blinks at you, his expression transitioning from playful to surprisingly deliberate. With measured slowness, he reaches for the second book, opening it to reveal pages stuffed with receipts, tickets, and more evidence of his curious method of bookmarking. He gingerly extracts each item, handing them over one by one, all the while wearing that infuriatingly charming smile.
The prescription slips flutters slightly as he pulls it free from wherever it had been wedged between the pages of his book. The edges are frayed, and the ink has faded over time, a testament to its age. Last to emerge is a dried leaf, its surface crisp and brittle from having been pressed for who-knows-how-long into the confines of those pages, now a piece of art that has succumbed to time’s tender, yet ruthless hand.
He holds all these remnants in his palm like they’re treasures from a bygone era, a peculiar little collection of memorabilia transformed into makeshift bookmarks. It’s a moment heavy with significance, and yet so ordinary.
He extends his hand towards you, offering his small trove without hesitation. There’s no resistance, no sense of possession clinging to his treasures, just a quiet act of sharing. The gesture carries the weight of a peace offering, the kind borne out of unspoken understanding or reconciliation.
You receive the items from his open palm, examining each one with a mix of disbelief and reluctant curiosity. The prescription slip, worn and faded, whispers secrets of past afflictions. The train ticket, creased and marked, has been carried around too long, each wrinkle a reminder of a journey taken for reasons unknown. And the dried leaf?
It’s delicate, its veins intricate, likely plucked from a place carrying meaning, perhaps a favourite spot or a stolen moment of peace amid the chaos that marks his life. This strange little collection speaks volumes, showing a side of Hamza you didn’t expect, something oddly tender lurking beneath his rugged exterior.
Without thinking, you gently turn the leaf over in your fingers, your mind racing with possibilities, and then you glance back at him, a silent question hanging in the air: "Why do you use these?"
Hamza hesitates for just a brief moment, the briefest flicker of uncertainty crossing his otherwise stoic face. As if he’s torn between sharing a piece of his world with you and retreating back into the shadows. Finally, he offers a quiet response, simple yet loaded with meaning: “I don’t carry bookmarks.”
There’s no pretension in his words. No fancy leather bookmarks adorned with intricate designs. No paper clips or whimsical bookmarks cheered up with vibrant illustrations. Instead, he turns to what’s readily available; the very items that weave the fabric of his life. A receipt from a mission site, a ticket stub from a solitary journey, and the leaf picked up during a rare moment of respite.
It’s practical, yes, but there’s an undeniable undercurrent of sentimentality in his choices. He shrugs nonchalantly, as if dismissing their importance, but you can feel the weight behind his words, the quiet reverence he holds for those seemingly random scraps.
You study his face as he speaks, really looking at him, and in that moment, a realisation dawns: these items are anything but arbitrary. Each piece holds a story waiting to be told. The prescription slip? It might stem from an injury sustained during an undercover mission, a reminder of the physical toll of his chosen path. The train ticket? Perhaps it signifies a trip taken to gather vital intel, an act wrapped in secrecy. And that leaf? It could represent the only sliver of tranquillity he experienced in weeks, a brief escape from the burdens of guns and relentless missions pressing down on him.
In the stark contrast of his life filled with duty and shadows, these tiny artefacts showcase the flickerings of beauty and moments of humanity that still exist for him.
Your expression softens in response to this revelation. Without uttering a word, you slowly fold each item back into its original shape, taking care to preserve their significance, and then hand them back to him.
As he takes the items back into his grasp, his fingers brush against yours briefly, sending an unexpected spark of electricity through the space between you. He says nothing, but you notice a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, an unspooled mystery that leaves you slightly breathless.
Then, to your surprise, Hamza reaches into his pocket. The movement is almost hesitant, as if he’s uncovered another layer of himself he doesn’t often share. He pulls out a small, folded piece of paper, not a receipt or a ticket but something more personal.
It's a handmade bookmark, crafted with what appears to be thin cardstock, the edges slightly worn as if it’s been lovingly preserved. It’s clearly been handcrafted with care, an intimate endeavour that raises questions you want to ask but don’t. Where did he get this? Why does he have it hidden away amongst the remnants of a life lived in shadows?
He holds it out to you, silently offering this piece as an alternative, and your breath catches in your throat. This is different; it carries none of the haphazardness of the scraps he gathers. This bookmark is imbued with intention. The edges are neat, the colours muted yet chosen with care, like someone took the time to fold it just right, infusing it with purpose. Did he craft this himself? Or did someone, perhaps someone meaningful, give it to him?
You don’t voice the questions swirling inside your mind, instead, you simply stare at the lovingly made bookmark, wondering what stories lie behind it, and for a moment, the weight of silence lingers between you, heavy with unspoken words and shared understanding.
Delicately, as if handling a fragile treasure, you extract the colourful bookmark from Hamza’s fingers. Holding his gaze, you slip it tenderly between the pages of your own book, testing his reaction to this intimate gesture. Hamza’s eyes follow the movement intently, his expression a mix of curiosity and hope as the handmade bookmark nestles snugly amidst your story. There's something undeniably personal about this exchange, akin to a secret shared in a quiet corner of the world.
In that moment, you embrace his offering without mockery or judgment, this simple act acknowledges the connection between you. A small, rare smile curls at the corners of his lips, a flicker of warmth breaking through the usual reserve.
Then, in a surprising turn of events, Hamza reaches for another book perched on the nearby shelf, one that’s yours but has sat untouched for far too long. He opens it to a random page, an act that feels almost spontaneous, and slides his handcrafted bookmark inside, marking this book too. The gesture raises questions: does he do this for you, or for his own sake? Regardless, two of your books now bear his mark, creating a quiet bond between them.
The library returns to its serene state, the silence only interrupted by the gentle rustle of pages as Hamza turns one in his newly chosen book. The handmade bookmark protrudes slightly from between the leaves, a subtle yet definite claim, a promise of shared stories and thoughts. He isn’t engrossed in reading; instead, he seems to be holding the pages open as if searching for a reason to leave the marker there, wanting it to stay for a while longer.
You take notice of his unspoken actions. No words are exchanged, but you lean towards your own marked book, the one graced by his cardstock divider, and settle into a chair directly across from him. Not too close to invade his space, yet not distant enough to feel like strangers. The two of you exist in a comfortable, parallel silence, like two spies in a secret mission, sharing not just books, but something deeper that remains unvoiced.
A few weeks later, the atmosphere at the dinner table is different; something feels incomplete. Uzair surveys the room, scanning the faces of those present.
“Where’s Hamza?” he inquires, his voice laced with a hint of irritation.
A guard stationed nearby replies, “He’s outside.”
Uzair's gaze sharpens. “Call him.”
A moment later, Hamza steps into the room. He stands just inside the doorway, his tall frame and broad shoulders displayed in his usual dark kurta, resembling a soldier awaiting a command. The room holds its breath as his presence shifts the air, but he remains standing, hesitant.
Uzair's brow furrows in disapproval. “Sit.”
“It’s alright,” Hamza replies, a hint of defiance lacing his voice.
Uzair’s expression darkens. “It’s not a request,” he asserts firmly.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the cook, accustomed to Uzair’s commands, swiftly places another plate on the table, sliding it into position without a second thought. The routine is familiar, and yet Hamza becomes acutely aware of its implications. No one questions this sudden invitation for him to join dinner after years of isolation; his inclusion is simply accepted.
Hamza advances slowly, each step feeling like a journey into unfamiliar territory. The chair beside Uzair is silently pulled out by a servant, the sound of it echoing in the tense atmosphere. Taking a deep breath, Hamza finally sits down for the first time in years, the weight of the moment settling around him like a heavy cloak. The dining room falls into a brief silence, all eyes still on him, as he contemplates this unexpected gathering.
At this table, a sense of warmth envelops the atmosphere.
Surrounded by family, the rhythmic clatter of silverware fills the air as dishes, fragrant and vibrant, are passed around: steaming biryani, smooth raita, and crisp, golden parathas. Despite the hustle of the meal, no one makes a conscious effort to look in his direction or initiate conversation with him directly. Yet, his plate is filled to the brim, much like everyone else's, a clear indicator of inclusion.
There is no special treatment here, just the comforting embrace of normalcy. You slide a small bowl of verdant mango pickle toward Hamza without uttering a single word, as if it were second nature for him to be part of this gathering.
The meal continues seamlessly, as though Hamza has always been a cherished member of these communal dinners. The conversation flows effortlessly around him: playful banter, animated disagreements about the latest political developments, and a humorous complaint about the unseasonable weather, all familiar sounds that create a rich tapestry of familial interaction. No one expects Hamza to chime in; he has never felt comfortable sharing his thoughts at these tables in the past.
But every so often, a small gesture of inclusion nudges its way: Naieem passes the basket of freshly baked bread without even a glance, as if it’s simply routine. When he reaches for the curry bowl, you slide it a little closer, ensuring he has easy access.
These actions are small yet meaningful, ordinary gestures that quietly communicate one powerful message: they are including him.
And what does Hamza do? He eats his meal quietly and methodically, but there’s a shift in his demeanour, a subtle change in his posture that wasn’t there before. There’s a newfound sense of belonging blossoming within him, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, he has a place here, even if it remains unspoken among them.
As the dinner winds down and plates are cleared, warm tea is brought out. The family begins to disperse slowly: some drift toward the sitting room for a game of cards, while others step outside to share a smoke beneath the fading twilight. Hamza, however, remains seated at the table, lost in thought. He grapples with uncertainty, unsure of where he fits now. Should he leave? Or should he stay and… what? Join them?
No one gives him explicit instructions, leaving him to navigate this new terrain alone.
Then, unexpectedly, Uzair stands and glances back at Hamza, his expression implying an unspoken invitation, an assumption that Hamza will naturally follow. It's not a command; rather, it feels like an acknowledgement that he belongs with them after the meal has ended.
Hamza rises without hesitation, the movement sharp and resolute, like a soldier responding to a call of duty he has longed for. He follows his younger brother into the sitting room, a space that feels inviting: low, plush couches and a card table already set up with colourful decks of cards spread across its surface. Someone is pouring whiskey into glasses, the amber liquid catching the light.
They’re engaged in a game of Rummy, or perhaps it’s just drinking and talking, the atmosphere light-hearted and merry. Hamza momentarily lingers near the doorway, a flicker of uncertainty washing over him. Is he truly invited to sit, or is this mere proximity a chance gathering?
Then, with an effortless gesture, one of his cousins pats the empty seat beside him on the couch. No words are exchanged, just the unambiguous message that space is being made for him, that he is wanted here. And that silent confirmation speaks volumes.
Hamza walks over and lowers himself into the seat, cautious and tentative, as if he fears the couch might reject him. The cushion dips slightly beneath his weight, offering a reassuring embrace. Donga, seated next to him, hands him a whiskey glass without lifting his gaze from the cards he’s shuffling, an act so casual it radiates comfort. No fanfare, just an act of sharing: here’s a glass for you.
Hamza accepts it, his fingers curling instinctively around the cool glass, but he doesn’t raise it to his lips just yet. He simply holds it, cherishing the moment.
As the game begins, laughter erupts when someone deliberately plays a wrong card, igniting playful chaos. Another player groans dramatically about "cheating," adding to the fun. And Hamza? For the first time, he simply watches. He isn’t playing, yet he feels a sense of belonging wash over him as he observes the lively group around him, a space shared, a circle formed.
The game continues, laughter flowing freely, jokes exchanged, cards enthusiastically slammed down on the table. One uncle pretends to be offended over a stolen trick, adding to the tapestry of familial warmth and connection. In this moment, Hamza is not just a bystander; he is a part of something larger, something that finally feels like home.
Hamza sits back in his chair, absorbing the lively atmosphere around him. He remains quiet, opting to listen rather than speak, allowing the warmth of family camaraderie to wash over him. This is an ordinary moment, devoid of missions or the shadow of violence, a rare respite that feels both refreshing and comforting.
Laughter and playful banter fill the room as family members engage in lighthearted antics, their silliness echoing against the walls. Beside him, Donga gives a gentle nudge to his glass, a silent toast that Hamza instinctively reciprocates. He takes a cautious sip of whiskey, feeling the liquid warmth travel down his throat. It burns slightly, a sensation he’s not quite accustomed to this casual sipping among trusted company, rather than in the tense presence of enforcers or targets. But he doesn’t grimace; instead, he swallows and allows the warmth to settle in his chest, appreciating the change of pace.
The whiskey seems to unlock a small part of him that’s been tightly sealed. Tension eases from his shoulders, and the ever-present clench of his jaw begins to fade. After some time, he finds himself dealt into the next round of cards. Without hesitation, he accepts the hand thrust into his care, merely observing at first, taking in the way his cousins engage with the game. They laugh and tease each other, their merriment contagious.
As the game unfolds, he grows more comfortable, gradually allowing himself to partake. It’s devoid of grand gestures; instead, when it’s his turn, he places down a card, simple and unremarkable. Donga sitting beside him reacts as if he’s just accomplished a monumental feat, beaming with encouragement as he slides another drink Hamza’s way to celebrate his participation.
With Hamza now officially eased into the circle, the game continues, accompanied by a steady rhythm of laughter and the occasional playful banter. Bluffing, celebrating, and playful taunts swirl around him, and he observes carefully, soaking in the dynamics of the game and the nurturing atmosphere. At one point, someone jokingly challenges him to take two shots at once if he loses a round. Hamza, however, manages to navigate the game successfully and avoids defeat until much later, when he finally loses. True to the challenge, he downs both shots without a hint of protest. The whiskey ignites a warmth that spreads to his ears, and he finds himself passing laughter freely, a low chuckle escaping him at a particularly silly joke.
It’s the first time in years that anyone has heard Hamza truly laugh, and although there are no spoken comments regarding it, he can feel the joy radiating from his family as their smiles broaden with each genuine sound that escapes him.
As the night progresses, the card games gradually transform into storytelling sessions, each tale weaving a rich tapestry of shared memories. Eventually, one of the younger cousins pulls out a guitar, strumming the chords of an old Punjabi folk song that reaches
Hamza’s ears like a familiar echo from his past. A wave of nostalgia washes over him, memories of his mother singing that very song flooding back, those simpler times that now feel like a distant dream. He doesn’t say a word, but his expression softens, and his focus sharpens as the music envelops the room.
Then, almost instinctively, he joins in, his voice hushed and rough from years of neglect yet surprisingly in tune as he adds his vocals to the melody. The room falls silent for a heartbeat, taken aback by this unexpected contribution. But as soon as Hamza’s deep, gravelly voice fills the air, a glimmer of surprise transforms into delight, and everyone’s smiles widen in response. Siyahi, who strums the guitar, beams and increases the volume, encouraging Hamza to sing more.
No teasing is aimed at him; no one mocks his unresolved roughness or absence of practice. Instead, they embrace his voice, welcoming it into the fold of their gathering. Hamza hesitates briefly, uncertain whether he should continue, but as he observes the gathered family leaning into the music, he feels the warmth of their support and the infectious joy of the moment. Gathering his courage, he sings another line, this time louder, letting the music flow from him unrestrained.
And suddenly, the atmosphere transforms. It feels like a genuine family night, a cocoon of warmth and companionship enveloping everyone present. The melody builds steadily, with Hamza’s voice growing more assured as it intertwines beautifully with the strumming of the guitar and the harmonies of those around him. The sound evolves into a rich tapestry of voices, melding together in a warm embrace of harmony.
Someone in the room starts clapping along to the rhythm, the lively beat reverberating against the walls, turning the gathering into a spirited celebration of music. You and Uzair exchange glances, your eyes sparkling with delight at how Hamza, typically reserved and quiet, shines in this moment. He appears utterly at ease, becoming an integral part of the unfolding joy.
Then, someone excitedly suggests another song. Others chime in, encouraging even more music. The whiskey you poured earlier has been forgotten on the table, its presence overshadowed by the sweet melodies that now fill the room. The cards that once lay scattered on the table are completely abandoned. All that matters now are the songs, the laughter bubbling between verses, and the intimate gestures of friends leaning into one another’s shoulders as they sing in unison.
For once, Hamza isn’t just a silent observer, isolated from the warmth of the group. He’s woven into the fabric of this lively tapestry, a part of something bigger.
Later that night, in the stillness, the soft glow of the encrypted screen illuminates Hamza’s face, revealing a blend of contemplation and strain as he types intently. The usual clinical report is open before him, yet his fingers hover uncertainly above the keyboard. He looks at the line that reads: Subject emotionally vulnerable. It rings true, a raw reflection of his heart, but that is not what the Intelligence Bureau wants to see.
With a quick motion, he deletes the line, opting for something more palatable. He types instead: Leadership stable. Cold. Detached. Professional. And, deep down, he knows it’s a lie.
He hesitates, a knot forming in his stomach, then erases that statement too. His gaze drifts upward toward the haveli, transfixed by the soft light spilling from a window. The familiar sounds of laughter drift down to him, a distant but clear reminder of the joy that persists inside. It’s late, yet the vibrant energy hasn’t dimmed; no one seems inclined to call it a night just yet.
As he watches the light dance in the window, a wave of emotion constricts his chest.
This space, which he’s always referred to as "the target’s residence," "a mission location," suddenly transforms in his mind. For the first time, he recognises it as what it truly is: home.
His encrypted device sits forgotten on his lap, the weight of its expectations pressing against him. No report has been sent. No updates filed. Instead, in an act of bold defiance against the rigid protocols he’s adhered to, he closes the device slowly and deliberately, leaving it on the table beside him. Without a second thought, he rises and walks toward that warm, glowing light, drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
Meanwhile, upstairs in your room, you sit cross-legged on your bed, your laptop balanced on your lap. The screen stares back at you, dark except for the dim glow of an encrypted message draft. Your report should articulate the facts: "Target's younger brother remains aloof but shows slight trust toward Hamza." Yet here you are, staring at it, a blank expression crossing your face.
Every time you attempt to craft something official, your mind drifts back to Hamza’s expression tonight, the way his laughter filled the space, how effortlessly he blended into the family dinner, as though he had always belonged there. The cursor blinks mockingly at you, a persistent reminder of the professional analysis expected from you, rather than the rush of warmth you feel.
You attempt to put your thoughts into words, typing: "Target’s family appears cohesive." But that doesn't quite capture the depth of what you've witnessed. Without a moment of hesitation, you hit delete, erasing the line, as your heart grapples with the emotional reality confronting you.
Hamza Ali Mazari shows signs of increasing integration within the household, a statement that hangs in the air, vague and unsatisfying. It lacks urgency, not capturing the essence of the unfolding situation. After a moment of contemplation, she shifts her focus and finally settles on a neutral observation: "No notable security breaches observed." While this is technically accurate, it ultimately falls short of addressing the deeper implications of what had transpired that evening.
With a feeling of frustration, you close the laptop, the screen dimming into darkness as your thoughts whirl like leaves caught in a gust of wind. There’s an unmistakable weight in the room, heavy with unspoken thoughts and lingering emotions. You set the laptop aside on your nightstand, leaving it unplugged and unfinished, a testament to her internal conflict. The atmosphere around you is tranquil, interrupted only by the soft hum of the ceiling fan and muted echoes of music wafting up from the gathering downstairs, where laughter mixes with the strumming of a guitar.
Leaning back against the plush pillows, you find yourself fixated on the ceiling, an odd sense of disorientation enveloping you. What were you truly doing here? This mission had been intended to be straightforward: infiltrate the household, gather necessary intel, and eliminate targets as ordered. Yet here you found herself, lost in an increasingly complicated web of feelings that contradicted your professional objective.
Absently,your fingers trace a loose thread on the blanket draped your legs, each pull acting as a reminder of how you had chosen to abandon your prior dedication to the task at hand. There’s no regret gnawing at your conscience, only a relentless stream of thoughts, primarily revolving around Hamza, the way his smile had lit up the room earlier tonight, the unexpected joy in his voice as he sang along to familiar tunes. It’s these memories that echo in your mind, demanding attention.
As the music from downstairs gradually diminishes, the vibrant atmosphere gives way to a serene calm. Voices drop to whispers, laughter fades, and soon, the house settles into a soothing hush, punctuated only by the occasional creak of old wooden beams as they settle for the night.
You hear footsteps in the dimly lit hallway, light and hurried, most likely the servants tidying up after the evening’s festivities. But then, distinct and deliberate, she recognises the sound of heavier footfalls. It’s Hamza. His gait has become familiar to her now, each step measured and purposeful. He pauses just outside your door, a brief hesitation before he continues on, his path leading to his own room down the hall.
The hallway falls silent once again, his door clicking shut with a soft finality that signals his retreat into solitude. You stay awake in the quietude, though you know you should be sleeping; early duties beckon you in the morning. But your mind is far too active, replaying the details of the night: the shared dinner, their casual conversations, his rare and fleeting smiles, the sense of ease that enveloped them in each other’s presence.
A pang of realisation hits you square in the chest. This wasn’t part of the mission plan. You had been trained to be cold, unwavering, a professional above all else. Yet here you were, ensnared in something deeper, something that challenged the very foundation of her assignments.
The house is now completely silent: no music, no voices, just the faint, sporadic creak of the floorboards as the old house sighs. You turn to your side, facing the window where moonlight cascades into the room, illuminating the floor with silver patterns that dance over the rugs and furniture.
In this moment, you feel anything but the solace of sleep. There are no prayers spoken, no tears shed, just contemplation. You wrap your thoughts around Hamza’s expression at dinner, that mix of surprise and gratitude as he realised he was included in their world. His voice, so rich and warm as he sang along, threatened to shatter the barriers she had erected. And above all, dangerous thoughts flicker through your mind: how desperately you desire for tomorrow to weave him into your plans once more.
As the night stretches on, the tension in her shoulders gradually dissipates. Slowly, your heartbeat steadies, and you feel the pull of sleep as your eyelids grow heavy. Unbeknownst to you, you drift off, the anxieties of the day fading into the background.
Outside your door, however, Hamza stands once more, the shadows cloaking him in mystery. He hadn’t gone straight to bed after all. Quietly, he retraces his steps back to her hallway, pausing just outside your room, a moment of hesitation hanging in the air before he lifts his hand. With careful precision, he knocks softly, the sound barely more than a whisper, yet charged with an unspoken question that echoes in the silence.
The knock is barely audible, a single, careful tap against the polished wood of the door. It hangs in the stillness of the night like a whisper.
You don’t stir immediately; you are enveloped in a world of dreams, the kind that pull you deeper into sleep’s embrace.
Hamza stands on the other side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, an unsettled energy coursing through him. He glances down the dimly lit hallway, the shadows playing tricks with his mind. Should he leave? Come back tomorrow when the sun offers clarity? This was a rash decision; he hadn’t planned it, he had meant to stick to the mission, to keep things professional.
But then, he hears it, a soft rustle from within the confines of the room. The subtle sound of sheets shifting as you begin to wake, blinking against the remnants of sleep and confusion that cloud your mind.
You sit up slowly, feeling the softness of the mattress beneath you and the tousled strands of your hair brushing against your shoulders. Your heart starts to race as you squint toward the door, trying to decipher the faint silhouette beyond. With a sleepy groan, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting the chill of the wooden floor, a stark contrast to the warmth of your bed. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you make your way to the door, the small click of the lock echoing louder in the silence as you turn it without a word.
As you pull the door open, the hallway stretches out before you, cloaked in darkness save for a single dim lamp flickering softly at the far end. Standing there is Hamza, framed by shadows, still fully dressed in his kurta, which is beginning to show signs of wrinkling, the fabric crumpled from long hours of wear. His expression is unreadable, a mix of nervous energy and quiet anticipation.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks, the air between you heavy with something unspoken. The silence is thick yet comfortable, wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Hamza’s eyes linger on your features, drinking in how drowsy you look, the way your hair falls softly around your face, tousled from sleep.
Then, with an almost hesitant grace, he lifts his hand slowly, as if fearing to break the fragile moment. He reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against your cheek as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is feather-light, sending a shiver down your spine, and you feel your breath catch in your throat, the intimacy of it electrifying.
In that dim corridor at 3 AM, no mission hangs over you, no roles to play, just two people suspended in a moment, standing close enough to kiss. The air crackles with an unspoken tension, charged with emotions neither of you can name. Hamza’s hand hovers near your face after fixing your hair, his thumb almost grazing the soft curve of your cheekbone, searching your eyes for permission.
Is this allowed? Should he cross the line that has always kept you apart?
He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, to backtrack into the safety of friendship and familiarity. Yet, the pull between you is undeniable. You don’t pull away. Instead, instinctively, you meet him halfway, your hands rising as your fingers curl into the fabric of his kurta, the warmth of his body drawing you closer. You rise onto your toes, closing the distance, pressing your lips to his.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if both of you are testing the waters, unsure of what lies beneath. Then, Hamza makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat, a mix of surprise and desire, and suddenly, the kiss deepens. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him, as if trying to meld your bodies into one, and your mouths move together with an urgency that has been simmering below the surface for far too long.
There are no words exchanged. No need for explanations or confessions. Just heat radiating between you, a language borne of longing, of months spent battling the tides of restrained desire that have finally crashed down. The kiss turns desperate, a wild need coursing through both of you. Hamza’s hands slide up your back, fingers pressing you closer, his grip firm yet gentle, as if he cannot get enough of you.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers tangling in the softness of his long hair, losing yourself in the moment. Neither of you cares about the time, the mission ahead, or the world outside that may come crashing in. All that matters is this electric connection you’ve been avoiding for what feels like an eternity, a bond now set free in the whispered intimacy of the night.
Then Hamza does something unexpectedly bold: he lifts you effortlessly, a surprising strength radiating from him as he carries you backwards into your room, never breaking the kiss that had ignited between you. The heavy wooden door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud, sealing the moment and leaving no room for doubt; there is no turning back now.
The door locks automatically, an ancient mechanism in the haveli clicking into place with a satisfying finality. The room is cloaked in darkness, the only illumination coming from the pale glow of moonlight streaming through the window, casting silvery shadows that dance at the edges of the room.
Hamza doesn’t pause for a moment, his lips never leaving yours as he continues to walk you backwards until the edge of the bed meets the back of your knees. He lowers both of you gently onto the soft mattress, your bodies still connected, still entwined in a passionate embrace. The air is thick with anticipation, each shared breath a mingling of warmth and desire, and the rush of emotions sends your heart racing.
This is happening, no hesitation, no second thoughts. His hands explore your body with a fervour that sends electric jolts through your skin, the warmth of his touch igniting sensations you didn’t know existed. It feels intoxicating, the way your breaths start to come in hurried gasps as the kisses deepen between you.
Hamza pulls back just enough for your foreheads to touch, both of you breathless, a vulnerable intimacy hanging in the air. His eyes are dark, shimmering with something raw, unfiltered, and undeniably real. There’s a moment of silence as he processes the whirlwind of emotions, not answering right away.
Because the truth is, he doesn’t have a logical reason for being here, no mission justification or pretence of checking the security of your room. It’s simply and profoundly…he wanted to see you. Finally, he murmurs, his voice low and rough around the edges, “Couldn’t sleep.” It’s a simple truth, honest and devoid of embellishment.
Then he adds quietly, “Wanted to talk to you.” The words hang in the air, almost a confession, but you sense a deeper layer, something that hovers just beneath the surface of his exterior.
You study his face intently, taking in the way his jaw is tensed, the way his breath hasn’t quite steadied after that fervent kiss. You believe him… mostly. But you know Hamza doesn’t just show up at someone’s door without a purpose, especially not at yours.
Instead of calling him out or probing for answers, you decide to offer him the gentleness he seems to crave. Reaching up, you cup his cheek with your palm, your thumb brushing lightly over the stubble, the slight roughness contrasting with the softness of your skin. Your touch is gentle, questioning, waiting to see how he’ll respond.
Hamza leans into your touch, just slightly, as if he’s a man starved for tenderness finally receiving it after what feels like years. His eyes flutter closed for a brief moment, and you notice the way the tension in his body eases slightly under your soothing caress, your palm providing a warmth that seems to melt away the barriers he usually maintains.
Then, without warning, he turns his head and presses a soft, reverent kiss to the centre of your hand. It’s different from the passionate kisses shared before; this one speaks of affection and depth. When he looks back at you, there's a profound absence of pretence, revealing Hamza, the real man beneath the armour he usually wears.
The moment hangs in the balance, fragile yet intimate. His lips still tingling from where they kissed your hand, his expression open in a way you’ve rarely witnessed. Slowly, quietly, he lifts his own hand and mirrors your earlier gesture: tracing the curve of your cheekbone with his thumb.
There’s no rush, no urgency; just slow, deliberate touches as if you’re both exploring uncharted territory, discovering each other in a way that feels entirely new. Each contact is imbued with a sense of wonder, as if this is the first time you are truly seeing one another, not just as lovers but as two souls unveiling their truths beneath layers of past experiences.
The mission feels like a distant constellation, utterly detached from the gravity of the moment unfolding between them. The silence hanging in the air isn’t a void; instead, it brims with unspoken words, heavy with nuances and meanings. It’s a tapestry woven from everything that has gone unsaid, the fleeting glances shared across bustling rooms, the electric tension that crackles silently during dinners filled with too many people and too few words.
Hamza inches closer once more, but this approach is different. It's deliberate and gentle, a contrast to the urgency of their former encounters. As he closes the gap, he presses his lips against yours with a tenderness that speaks volumes. This kiss is not borne of brute desire; rather, it’s imbued with a profound depth, like he’s infusing the very essence of his years of solitude into this single touch.
You surrender to the moment, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck, drawing him in as you respond with equal fervour. You finally allow yourself to embrace this connection, one that exists outside the boundaries of missions and identities. Here, in this intimate space, nothing else matters.
The kiss stretches on, lingering longer and diving deeper into uncharted territory. It becomes a silent confession, whispered in the dim light, engulfed by the glow of the moon and the warmth of whispered breaths. Outside, the haveli stands in serene slumber, wrapped in a cocoon of night, oblivious to the clandestine meeting taking place within its walls.
No one is aware of your shared moment; no one bears witness. You are merely two spies, once cast in opposing roles, now entwined in a way that feels surprisingly effortless, as if this connection was destined all along.
On your bed, you find yourselves tangled together, sharing a first real kiss that subtly rewrites the narrative of their lives, forever altering the landscape of their relationship.
That’s all for Chapter Three!
Well… I suppose some things were bound to happen eventually. 👀
I’d love to know what you thought of the chapter and, of course, the ending! Thank you for reading, for waiting so patiently, and for showing these characters so much love.
See you in Chapter Four! ✨
CHAPTER-I, CHAPTER-II, CHAPTER-IV
Taglist: @dhoodhsoda @gulaabjamun08 @pleasetagmejaaneman @precioussophia @batata04 @granddynamonovajbvgijj
