If you don't like this, know that I tried my best. SMAUs are not my thing. This shit took me 5 hours to make. 😭🙏🏼 Also, yes, I took the help of ai to render certain images pls don't hate me for that. I am technically challenged in this editing department.🥲
Before streaming platforms, before X, before fan edits and Instagram reels,
Bollywood romances lived inside cinema halls, and in the late 90s and early 2000s, one pairing had the entire country convinced they were watching the greatest love story ever written. Not on screen, but in real life.
For nearly a decade, they were the couple everyone believed would end with a wedding announcement.
Instead they became the industry’s most famous unanswered question, Why did it end?
---
The Raina dynasty:
If you grew up around Bollywood, you grew up hearing the Raina name.
For decades, the Raina family had quietly built a reputation inside the industry as people who lived and breathed cinema, generations of actors, directors, screenwriters, editors(😭🙏🏼) and even music producers.
Atleast one person, generation after generation from the Raina family had been involved in nearly every era of Hindi cinema since the 60s.
So when Y/N Raina debuted as the lead, nobody called her a newcomer, she was already burdened with years of experience from just being a Raina.
Unlike many star kids, who were launched into lead roles with hoards of glamorous photoshoots and promotions and interviews;
She needed none of that, she was a star before she could even spell the word STAR.
Directors liked her because she could actually perform unlike many of her peers, critics liked her because she didn’t act like a typical industry kid, Audiences liked her because she felt… real, like one of their own.
And within two films, she had already built a reputation as one of the most promising actresses of her generation.
Then came the film that changed everything.
---
Long before the love story, before the headlines and the rumours, Akshaye Khanna had already carved out a reputation that made directors pay attention whenever his name appeared on a casting list.
He wasn’t the typical Bollywood heartthrob of the 90s, he didn’t chase the spotlight, he rarely attended parties and interviews with him were famously… unpredictable.
Sometimes thoughtful, sometimes blunt, sometimes so dry that journalists couldn’t tell if he was joking.
But the one thing nobody in the industry ever questioned was his craft, being the son of a legendary actor meant expectations were always high, but Akshaye never leaned too heavily on the weight of that legacy. If anything, he seemed determined to do things his own way.
By the time he reached his sixth film, directors had already noticed a pattern.
He chose roles other actors hesitated to touch, emotionally complex characters, morally grey protagonists, scripts that relied more on performance than glamour and blitz of the 90s.
Producers often joked that if you cast Akshaye Khanna, you were guaranteed a good performance, even if the film failed.
And audiences noticed too, there was something about him that felt different from the usual Bollywood leading man.
He was reserved and observant.
Almost intimidatingly sincere on screen.
Which is why when he was paired opposite rising star Y/N Raina for a romantic drama, most people assumed the casting was simply a smart combination of talent and popularity.
No one involved in the production knew that this casting decision would accidentally launch one of Bollywood’s most iconic partnerships.
---
Nearly two decades after their story had quietly faded into Bollywood folklore, the internet was suddenly forced to remember it again. One random afternoon in 2024, a popular Bollywood gossip page uploaded a cryptic post claiming that a very reliable industry insider had revealed something unexpected: Akshaye Khanna and Y/N Raina might be appearing in the same film for the first time since their split in 2007.
@/90sbollywoodkid NO WAY??? ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW???😲😲😲
@/cinemawithmeera If this is true I’m calling my mother because she cried for three days when they broke up.
@/genzbollyfan wait wait someone explain why the entire comment section is panicking 😭
@throwbackfilmy because before your time THIS was the couple of Bollywood.
@/akyn_supremacy THEY WERE LITERALLY ENDGAME I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING
@/alibaugkialibaba Younger fans don’t understand the hold Akshaye and YN had on the industry.
@/filmjournaljunkie if they’re really acting together again the nostalgia factor alone will make this film massive.
@/ynmyqueenforever My teenage heart cannot handle this information.
@/akshayesbathtub Their breakup in 2007 was my first heartbreak and I wasn’t even dating anyone.
@/genzfilmclub I've only seen their edits on YouTube but even I know they were iconic.
@/desicinelover THIS BETTER NOT BE A PRANK.
@/akynforeverrr3r imagine them playing a married couple again… I would simply collapse.
@/bollywoodgossipdaily If the insider source is legit this will be the biggest comeback casting in YEARS.
@/90sgirl1998 The way the entire 90s generation just woke up from the dead.
@/moviebuffrahul Bollywood just accidentally revived its most legendary ship.
---
Within minutes of the post circulating, screenshots of it began spreading everywhere. What had started as a single gossip page hint was now the biggest Bollywood discussion of the day. Fan pages, film journalists, and casual movie watchers all started posting theories, because if there was one thing the industry had never fully moved on from, it was the unfinished story of Akshaye Khanna and Y/N Raina.
From X/Twitter:
To reddit:
And to the whole of Instagram reminiscing their top 5 favourite films from the beloved pair.
@/shutupjennie
My top 5 from AK x YN:
Yeh Deewani hai jawani (1999)
Alibaug mein dil(1998)
Dil nahi chahta(2004)
Bungalow no. 3(2003)
Dhramvir ki Dharampatni(2005)
And honorary mention to 'Lagi Aaj sawan ki(2007)' the rain scene still has me on a chokehold.
And amidst the Internet meltdown, a sneaky little guy decided it was time to answer all the questions and shut all the rumours or....to make the already chaotic space a little more chaotic.
summary : (angsty, fluffy and first love all at once. fem oc (zalak mehra) is an undercover spy playing a journalism student in lyari and hamza Ali mazari accompanies her throughout the mission as he watches zalak fall in love with the bastard king of lyari - rehman baloch, while being foolishly inlove with her ever since he was 13.)
warnings : angsty, fluffy banter, sad ending? not sure depends on what the reader chooses at the end :)
disclaimer: this is purely fiction & does not represnt anyone in real life & is against terrorism. so treat as is and enjoy. love, aashu
The next morning smelled like gunpowder, coffee, and sleep deprivation. Zalak hadn’t slept.
Not really.
Every time she closed her eyes, she heard the same words again. Seduce and kill.
The training facility woke up before sunrise. Boots echoed through hallways. Officers barked instructions across the open grounds. Somewhere outside, metal clanged repeatedly from the combat arena. The entire place breathed discipline. And Zalak hated every second of it. “Oh bhenchod har subhe yeh chodbhangda karna padh raha hai ”, She murmured to herself. She stood in front of the washroom mirror, tying her hair into a tighter ponytail than necessary, staring at her own reflection like she didn’t recognise it anymore.
There were faint dark circles under her eyes now.
Good.
At least someone in this building looked haunted.
A knock sounded against the door.
“Five minutes,” came Jaskirat’s voice lazily from outside. “Agar princess ko aur beauty sleep chahiye ho toh bata dena, main nation ko hold pe rakh deta hoon.”
Despite herself, her lips twitched slightly.
Idiot.
“Tum jaise logon ki wajah se hi desh peeche hai,” she muttered while opening the door.
Jaskirat leaned against the wall outside casually, already dressed in black training gear. Turban tied perfectly. Arms crossed. Completely relaxed.
Too relaxed.
“How are you alive?” Zalak asked flatly.
“Good genetics.”
“Highly unfortunate.”
“Haan par tum phir bhi obsessed ho.”
She rolled her eyes and walked ahead, but he fell into step beside her easily.
For a few seconds, neither spoke.
And strangely enough, that silence felt familiar.
Safe. “Did you sleep?” he asked quietly. There it was. The softness beneath the jokes. Zalak kept walking. “Did you?” “Deflection. Nice.” “Observation. Hmm .” Jaskirat let out a quiet laugh beside her. “Tu har baat pe itna defensive kyun ho jaati hai?” “I’m not defensive.”
“Haan, aur main six-foot ka fairy princess hoon.”
Zalak shot him a look. “Tera sense of humour genuinely bakwas hai.”
“Phir bhi tu roz mere saath walk karti hai.”
“Hallway public property hai.”
“Dil bhi?”
She almost choked on air.
“Tum na,” she muttered, “har waqt itne cringe kaise ho sakte ho?”
“Natural talent.” “Narcissism.”
“Obsession.” He glanced at her sideways. “Mostly tumhari.”
Zalak ignored the sudden warmth climbing up her neck and kept walking ahead. “Tumhari problem kya hai exactly?”
Jaskirat grinned lazily. “Tu jab irritate hoti hai na, tab aur cute lagti hai.” She stopped walking so abruptly he almost walked into her. “Tumhe koi filter issue hai kya?” “Nahi. Bas self-control weak hai.” Zalak stared at him flatly. “Therapy try karo.” “Tu chal mere saath?” “Chal hatt.” “Date pe bhi nahi?” “Use liye toh kabhi nahi.”
“Harsh.” “You’ll survive.”
“Depends. Tum aur kitni baar attitude dikhaogi?”
She resumed walking. “Jitni baar zarurat padi.”
“Haan, but ek baat bataun?”
“Kya?”
“Tu jab gussa hoti hai na…” his mouth twitched slightly, “tab tere left cheek pe dimple aata hai.”
Zalak’s entire expression froze.
Then immediately hardened.
“I hate you.”
“Liar.”
“I’m serious.”
“Haan woh toh dikh raha hai.” He leaned slightly closer while walking beside her. “Isi liye subah uthte hi sabse pehle meri awaaz sun rahi thi.”
“That was unfortunately unavoidable.”
“But memorable.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re blushing.”
“I literally am not.”
“Tu literally hai.”
She glared at him harder, which only made him laugh quietly. God, she hated that laugh. Mostly because some stupid part of her liked hearing it. Jaskirat looked at her properly then. And immediately regretted asking. Because she looked exhausted. Not physically.
Emotionally. Like someone had reached inside her chest and rearranged something permanently. His jaw tightened slightly.
Arun Mehra had done that.
The morning combat session was brutal. Not because the drills were difficult. But because Arun was leading them personally. “Again.” His voice echoed sharply across the arena. Zalak wiped sweat from her forehead before throwing another punch toward the padded target in front of her.
Harder this time.
“Again.”
“Your opponent will not wait for hesitation, Zalak.”
Punch.
“Again.”
By the twentieth repetition, her knuckles burned. By the thirtieth, her breathing became uneven.
By the fortieth- “You’re angry,” Arun observed calmly. Zalak stopped abruptly.
The entire room fell quieter. Jaskirat glanced between them carefully from across the arena. Arun stepped closer slowly. “That anger will get you killed undercover.”
“Acchi baat hai na, mar toh jaungi at least.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Silence.
Even the officers nearby pretended not to hear. Arun’s face hardened instantly. “Control your emotions.”
Zalak laughed bitterly. “Control? Papa, you literally asked me to prostitute my trust for nationalism.” Jaskirat shut his eyes briefly. Wrong thing to say. Wrong place. But maybe the truth wasn’t supposed to sound polite. Arun lowered his voice dangerously. “Watch your tone.”
“No, you watch yours.” Her chest rose unevenly now. “You don’t get to turn me into a weapon and still expect me to speak like your obedient little daughter. Just because meine bachpan se aapke khilaaf kuch nahi kiya aap mujhe “fragile” nahi samjh sakte ho”
For one second, just one- hurt flashed across Arun’s face.
Then it disappeared beneath discipline again. “Training hall. Ten minutes. Full combat round,” he said coldly before walking away. The punishment didn’t surprise her. The disappointment did.
Ten minutes later, Zalak stood inside the boxing ring, tightening the wraps around her hands while officers gathered around casually to watch. Nobody interrupted Arun Mehra’s punishments. Especially not here.
Jaskirat climbed into the ring opposite her with a look that already said:
I hate this.
“You don’t have to hold back,” Zalak muttered.
“Yeah?” he said dryly. “Aur phir uncle mujhe goli maar denge.”
“Jassi.”
His expression softened slightly.
“I’m not hitting you properly.”
“Then I’ll hit you properly.”
“That sounded violent.”
“Good.”
Before he could reply-
“Begin.”
The fight started instantly.
Zalak lunged first.
Fast.
Too fast.
Jaskirat barely blocked the strike before she swung again.
And again.
And again.
Every hit carried frustration.
Fear.
Humiliation.
Jaskirat understood almost immediately.
This wasn’t training anymore.
This was grief with fists.
He stopped attacking completely after that.
Only defending.
Which annoyed her further.
“Fight back!”
“Zalak—”
“FIGHT BACK!”
Her punch landed against his jaw this time. Hard enough that the officers around them reacted slightly. Jaskirat’s head snapped sideways. Then slowly back toward her. And suddenly, He grabbed her wrists.
Firm.
Controlled.
Not hurting.
Just stopping her.
The entire ring became silent.
His voice dropped low enough that only she could hear. “You’re allowed to be scared.” That almost broke her. Because nobody else had said it. Not once. Not her father. Not the nation she was apparently supposed to die for.
Her breathing became uneven instantly. Jaskirat noticed. Of course, he noticed. He always noticed. “Leave me,” she whispered. But her voice cracked halfway through. And something inside him shattered quietly. He loosened his grip immediately. Zalak stepped back before anyone could see the tears building in her eyes. “Match over,” Arun ordered from outside the ring.
Cold.
Clinical.
Like he hadn’t just watched his daughter unravel in front of him.
Later that evening, Lyari appeared for the first time.
Not physically.
On screens.
Maps.
Files.
Photographs.
The briefing room lights dimmed as satellite images flickered across the projector wall. “Lyari,” Arun said calmly. “One of the oldest and most volatile regions in Karachi. Gang influence. Political corruption. Arms movement. Drug channels.” Images changed rapidly: narrow streets, crowded rooftops, armed men, port routes,crime scene photos. Then, finally,A photograph appeared. The room stilled slightly.
Rehman Baloch.
The image looked recently taken.
Dark kurta.
Silver watch.
Sharp eyes staring directly at the camera like he already knew who was watching him.
Not smiling.
Not angry.
Just…
dangerously calm.
Zalak felt something uncomfortable crawl down her spine. She hated to admit that she did find him attractive, like something so mysterious. Something so beautiful, under the mask of a strong, dangerous man. She knew he wouldn’t be cold towards her. She knew he’d melt.
Because he didn’t look monstrous.
He looked intelligent.
Which was somehow worse. Because oh God, she felt her body pulsing as she saw his images, in his sheer black kurta and the build he had. This woman was drawn. “This man,” Arun said evenly, “has survived six assassination attempts, bribed officials across three borders, and built one of the most protected underground networks in Pakistan.” Jaskirat stayed unusually quiet beside her. Arun continued:
“He trusts very few people. He kills faster than he forgives. And if either of you makes one mistake…”
The next slide appeared.
Bodies.
Blood.
Execution photographs.
Zalak looked away immediately. She didn't want to believe it. How could such a pretty face be so monstrous?
Jaskirat didn’t.
His eyes stayed fixed on the screen. Cold.Calculating.Already becoming Hamza.“Your flight leaves in forty-eight hours,” Arun finished.
Then finally, He looked at his daughter. Not like a father. Like an officer evaluating risk.“From this point onward,” he said quietly, “fear is a luxury you cannot afford.” And for the first time in her life,
Zalak wondered if her father had ever truly seen her as human at all.
Four Months Later
Four months were enough to turn fear into routine. Lyari no longer felt foreign to Zalak. That terrified her the most. The narrow streets had become familiar now. So had the chaos. Children running barefoot through crowded alleys. Bikes are speeding recklessly past tiny tea stalls. Cricket matches in broken lanes. The distant sound of azaan melting into loud political arguments at roadside cafés. And somehow,
among all of it, she had learned how to belong.
Or at least pretend to.
“Aapi! Ball dena!”
Zalak blinked before looking down at the little boy standing below her balcony expectantly. His cricket ball had landed near the flower pots beside her evening chai table again.“Tum logon ko har roz meri balcony hi milti hai kya?” she called out.
“Good luck hota hai!” She snorted softly before tossing the ball back down. “Chal jhoote!”
The children laughed loudly before running away again. For a moment, she simply stood there quietly. Four months ago, she had arrived in Lyari trembling so badly she couldn’t hold her passport straight.
Now? Now shopkeepers greeted her by name. Now, aunties in the neighbourhood sent food to her apartment and invited her to iftaars. Now she knew which streets to avoid after sunset. That was the dangerous thing about survival. Human beings adjusted too quickly.
Officially, Zalak Mehra no longer existed.
Now she was:
Zalak Sheikh.
A journalism postgraduate student researching: “Socioeconomic neglect and youth radicalisation in Lyari.”
A harmless civilian. A curious student. A girl carrying notebooks instead of secrets. And she played the role perfectly. Mostly because nobody ever suspected girls like her.
Soft-spoken.
Polite.
Educated.
Always smiling, carefully and adorned in beautiful floral Salwaar Kameez.
Exactly the kind of woman dangerous men overlooked. Or so intelligence had believed.
Her apartment sat above an old tea shop named “Washma Butt Biryani and Chai Shop”.
Movement routes.
Political meetings.
Weapon rumours.
Anything connected to Rehman Baloch. Though most information still came indirectly.Because after four months, she still hadn’t met him properly. Only glimpses. Whispers. Fragments. And somehow that made her feel even more anxious.
“Baloch sahab kal raat phir aaye the.” “Police checkpoint band karwa diya unhone.” “Kisi minister ka aadmi uda diya.” “Lekin orphanage ka paisa bhi wohi deta hai.” Every conversation contradicted the last.
Monster.
Messiah.
Criminal.
Protector.
Nobody described Rehman Baloch the same way twice. But everyone lowered their voice while saying his name.
Meanwhile, Hamza Ali Mazari had become real. Painfully real. Jaskirat sat silently inside the smoke-filled room while half a dozen armed men argued around him in aggressive Balochi Urdu. Illegal shipment routes. Port timings.Bribes.Weapons.The air smelled like cigarettes, sweat, and danger. And at the centre of the room sat Rehman Baloch.
Jaskirat had expected someone louder.Crueler.More dramatic.Instead,
Rehman barely spoke. And somehow that made him terrifying.Because everyone else in the room spoke nervously around him.While he simply listened.Watching.Observing.Calculating.The first thing Jaskirat noticed about him was his eyes. Nothing escaped them. Not trembling hands. No hesitation.Not lies.
Over the past month, something inside Rehman’s circle had shifted without anyone properly noticing when it started.
Hamza wasn’t treated like an outsider anymore.
At some point between dock fights, late-night drives, and sitting through endless meetings in overheated safehouses, he had become part of them. Rehman trusted him enough to hand him responsibilities without questioning every move, and Uzair somehow had gone from wanting to put a bullet in his head to acting like Hamza personally represented his blood pressure problems.
The safehouse was unusually loud tonight.
Donga was stretched across the couch, eating chips he definitely hadn’t paid for while Uzair argued with him over absolutely nothing.
“I’m telling you,” Uzair said, looking genuinely offended, “normal insaan chai ke saath biscuit khata hai. Tu nimco kyun kha raha hai?”
Donga looked at him blankly. “Kyunki mere andar creativity hai.”
“Tere andar acidity hai.”
Hamza snorted softly from the chair beside them while cleaning his gun. “Doctor ban ja tu. Bohot scope hai.”
Uzair pointed immediately. “Dekha? Yeh samajhta hai mujhe.”
“Main sirf yeh bol raha hoon ke tu har cheez pe lecture deta hai.”
“Because none of you thinks.”
“Tu itna sochta hai phir bhi dimak se dhila hai ,” Donga muttered.
“Allah tujhe utha kyun nahi leta honestly.”
“Application reject hogayi hogi.”
Siyahi, sitting near the window with his hood pulled over his head despite the heat, quietly slid Donga’s lighter away before he could burn the couch again.
Donga looked down. “Mera lighter?”
“Confiscated,” Siyahi replied calmly.
“Abe bhenchod de mereko”
“Aaja beta muh khol dedeta hu” Hamza said without looking up.
“Waah,” Donga scoffed dramatically. “Ek mahina pehle yeh banda naya tha. Ab muh mein lene wali baate kar raha hai”
Uzair leaned back with a grin. “Progressive environment hai hamara.”
“Progressive teri gaand,” Donga snickered.
At the far end of the room, Rehman sat silently with one arm resting against the chair, watching them over the rim of his teacup.
He rarely interrupted these conversations.
Mostly because the idiots entertained themselves well enough.
Hamza noticed it too, eventually, the way Rehman listened more than he spoke. The way a single glance from him could shut the entire room down despite the chaos five seconds earlier.
Father wasn’t the right word.
Rehman Baloch was far too dangerous for that.
But sometimes, watching him sit there while the boys argued over stolen snacks and terrible opinions, the resemblance came uncomfortably close.
“Waise,” Donga said suddenly, looking toward Hamza suspiciously, “ek baat bata.”
Hamza raised an eyebrow. “Kya?”
“Teri zulfein naturally achi hain ya effort daalta hai?”
The room went quiet for two seconds.
Then Uzair started laughing so hard he nearly dropped his cigarette.
Hamza stared at Donga in disbelief. “Tu mujhe dekh ke yeh notice karta hai?”
“Bhai mashallah kaafi khoobsurat hai tu.”
“Harami lighter ke liye kitna maska maar raha hai.”
“Nahi maar sakta,” Donga said smugly. “Dil se attached hai hu.”
Even Rehman’s shoulders moved slightly with suppressed amusement at that one.
Hamza leaned back in his chair, shaking his head quietly while the arguing continued around him.
And strangely enough,
for the first time in years,
the noise didn’t feel exhausting.
It felt like family.
Four months earlier, Hamza Ali Mazari had entered Lyari as a smuggler looking for work.
Violent reputation.
Fake military contacts.
No attachments.
Exactly the type of man Rehman’s network respected. Jaskirat had earned trust carefully. One fight at a time. One deal at a time. One controlled act of brutality at a time.
And that part disgusted him most.
Because sometimes, he was too convincing.
Even to himself.
“Hamza.”
Jaskirat looked up immediately.
Rehman’s attention shifted toward him now.
Sharp.
Unreadable.
“Faizal ke liye tuition dhundna hai.”
That was it. That was the opening. Hamza and Zalak waited for 4 months. All the hard work they put in to set up now had a tiny flicker of hope. Jaskirat shrugged once casually. “Bazaar waali colony mein kaafi saari nayi tuition khuli hai bhai. Mein dhundke deta hu”
Rehman hummed.
For three long seconds, he simply stared at him.
Then finally,
a small smile appeared.
“Ek acchi private teacher lo le aana, kal shaam tak. ”
“Bhai aaj kal toh sabke khudke institutions hi hai”
“Mujhe nahi fark padta. Mujhe wo private tutoring ke liye gharpe chahiye”
Later that night, Jaskirat stood outside the warehouse smoking alone near the docks.
The Karachi air felt heavier at night. His phone vibrated once inside his pocket.
One coded message.
From Zalak.
You alive?
He stared at the screen longer than necessary.
Then typed back:
Unfortunately.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Then:
Still dramatic I see.
For the first time that entire day—
he smiled slightly.
God.
He missed her. Even after four months of seeing her occasionally during covert exchanges and accidental encounters during the bazaar errands that Donga and Hamza had to run, he still missed her. Maybe because neither of them could ever truly act normal anymore.
Meanwhile, across Lyari, Zalak sat cross-legged on her apartment floor surrounded by scattered interview notes and fake university paperwork when another message arrived.
It’s time.
Her fingers froze instantly.
Her heartbeat sped up before she could stop it.
Three months of preparation.
Four months in Lyari.
And finally, it was time to meet him.
Zalak swallowed slowly before typing:
And?
This time the reply took longer.
Much longer.
Then finally:
He needs a tutor. A private tutor for his only child, Faizal.”
A pause.
Another message a minute later. A rather long one
You remember all the briefings, right? Rehman is exactly thirty-eight, divorced, and no longer in contact with his ex- wife, Ulfat. Has one kid, Faizal, 10 years old and in 4th grade. Faizal lives with Rehman since Ulfat has given up child custody.
Zalak rolled her eyes.
Yes yes, itni bhi bhulakkd nahi hu yaar.
Hamza smiled and then replied.
This is our chance; you have to impress him and grab the spot permanently. Kal shaam ko 6 baje Baloch mahal pohochna.
Zalak stared at her screen silently. Outside, Lyari buzzed endlessly beneath the night sky. Somewhere in this city, the man meant to destroy her life was breathing under the same darkness. And for the first time since arriving in Pakistan.
She felt genuinely afraid again.
to be continued. ୨୧ ˖ㅤㅤ۫
authors note: guys omg i hope i didnt dissapointtt. the love chapter 1 has recieved is insane, like sooo many dms omg. so the long ass text that hamza sent i hope that clarified rehman's background. next chapter is when they are finally meeting omg omg .
Shout out to @royaldreamermonsoon for helping me witht the edits🥰(she did most of the work)
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, none of the incidents and events described in the fiction is real. Also this contains teensy bit of Dhurandhar spoilers, so read at your own risk.
P.S. at this point, this has turned more into a fic than a smau😭😭😭 honestly I can't help it. Aur flow flow mein zyada hi likh diya hai. So yeah. 😭😭😭 Deal with it I guess.
The morning sun is barely through the curtains when Y/N Raina pours herself a cup of chai and settles onto her couch. She's in her pajamas and hair a mess, She opens Instagram like she does every morning before hitting the gym.
Scroll, double tap a few posts from her mutuals, roll her eyes at reels and move on. But today was different because a sudden notification made her stop. Aditya Dhar's post is right there on her feed, uploaded 2secs ago and right on cue a mention from the said man pinged across her screen.
The official posters of the movie releasing on 5th December, she smiled at her poster, but then she made the mistake of scrolling and saw the second poster. Akshaye Khanna as Rehman Dakait. AKSHAYE BLOODY KHANNA. And the vague caption: 😏, like what is that even supposed to mean?!?
Her chai getting cold in her hand as she stared at the screen in shock. She zoomed in on the poster once. Twice. Three times. The comments were already on fire — "OMG AK AND YN???" and "I'M CALLING MY MOTHER" and "THE ARE GOING TO PLAY HUSBAND AND WIFRE AFTER 17 YEARS I'M NOT OKAY." Y/N puts down her chai. She's not going to be able to drink it now.
She calls Yami immediately. No hello, no good morning or how are you, just launching straight into it,
"Yami, I love you but I am not doing this."
There's a brief pause on the other end. Then Yami's voice, still thick with sleep, "Di? What are you—"
"Your HUSBAND. His post. The caption. The comments. I am not doing THIS."
Yami sighs. That long, patient sigh that only younger sisters (or sister adjacent friends) can muster. "Di... it's been seventeen years."
"I KNOW how long it's been."
"You're both professionals."
"Yami—"
"You signed the contract."
"Yes, but i didn't know HE was—"
"He didn't know either. Adi told me. He literally called me after Akshaye signed and said, and I quote, 'I've made a terrible mistake or a masterpiece. Time will tell.'"
Y/N wants to be angry, but she can't. Aditya's chaos is somehow endearing. It's why Yami married him.
"I can't do this," Y/N says again, but softer.
"You can. You've done films with actors you hated."
"I didn't hate them-"
"You told me you wanted to throw a chappal at Uday Chopra during Fareb."
"That was different. He kept humming some stupid tune while I was trying to do an emotional scene."
"Di." Yami's voice goes serious. "You are Y/N Raina. The Y/N Raina. You were the 90s girl crush. You rocked the early 2000s. You survived THE breakup when the entire country was picking sides. You can survive a movie with hardly 30 mins of your part."
Y/N doesn't say anything.
"Besides," Yami adds, "you haven't seen him in seventeen years. Maybe he's ugly now."
Despite herself, Y/N snorts. "He's not ugly."
"Oh? So you keeo tabs on him huh? And how do you know?"
"I... saw a photo once. At an award show. I wasn't looking. It was in the background."
"Sure it was."
"Shut up."
Yami laughs. "Just get through the script reading. One day at a time. And Di? Don't kill him. I need this film to release. Adi has put way too much money, time and our future child on this project"
Yami hangs up. Y/N stares at her phone Fir a long minute, then at the ceiling, then at her half finished chai. She's not sure she believes a word Yami said. But she doesn't have a choice.
Aditya Dhar's office is not what people expect. It's a converted apartment in Lokhandwala, three bedrooms knocked into one large space, walls covered in posters of films, some of which Y/N was a part of, whiteboards filled with scribbled dialogue, and a coffee machine that hasn't been cleaned since 2022.
The long table in the center is covered in scripts. Dhurandhar scripts for todays reading, scene breakdowns, character sketches, color coded index cards taped to the edges. Water bottles line the center like soldiers.
Y/N arrives first. She stands in the doorway for a moment, taking it in. The room smells like paper and coffee and nervous energy.
She finds her seat. Her name card says Y/N RAINA in bold letters. She sits down, picks her script in front of her, and pretends to read it. She's not reading it. She's watched the door three times in the last two minutes.
She's not waiting for him. She's just... aware of the possibility of him entering the room any minute. Yeah, absolutely, she's just nervous because she hasn't seen this man since july of 2007, atleast that's what she tells herself.
Then the door opens and one by one people start trickling in, first was Ranveer Singh arrives like a weather system; loud, energetic, and absolutely impossible to ignore. He's wearing something that can only be described as "art teacher meets rockstar." He hugs Aditya, then turns to Y/N.
"Y/N ji! I am your biggest fan. No, really. My mother named my sister after your character from your first movie!."
Y/N laughs. She likes him immediately.
Arjun Rampal arrives next, sipping on some green concoction, quiet. Cool. Sunglasses indoors. He nods at everyone, shakes a few hands, and immediately hugs Y/N and then takes a seat near the middle.
Danish Pandor comes in with a box of cookies. "I bake when I'm nervous. I was very nervous last night. There are seven types. Please take some so I don't eat them all myself." Y/N takes a sugar cookie and immediately decides, scratch Ranveer, this is her favourite person on set now.
Rakesh Bedi ji is on his phone when he walks in, mid conversation about a goat that wouldn't cooperate on a shoot in the 80s. He hangs up, looks around the room, and immediately starts telling the goat story to anyone within earshot.
Sanjay Dutt enters last, the room goes quiet. Not because anyone is scared, Sanjay has a gentle energy these days but because it's Sanjay Dutt. He has a presence that fills every corner. He greets everyone with a warm namaste and takes his seat at the head of the table.
Then the door opens again and Akshaye Khanna walks in, Y/N, despite not wanting to, steals glances at Akshaye, his hair buzzed, eyes not as passionate, his face is leaner than she remembers.
He nods at Sanjay. "Sir."
Sanjay nods back. "Akshaye."
He shakes Ranveer's hand. Greets Arjun. Nods at Danish. Listens to Rakesh ji's goat story for exactly three seconds before moving on.
He does not look at Y/N.
She notices. The room notices. Ranveer's eyes dart between them. Danish offers cookies to no one in particular. Arjun takes off his sunglasses and pretends to read the script.
Akshaye sits at the opposite end of the table. Maximum possible distance.
As everyone starts flipping the pages, a panting mess of a girl barges in. A very starry eyed Sara Arjun engers the room, she's young barely twenty and with big sparkly eyes and a face that still has teenage softness.
She scans the room. Sees Sanjay Dutt. Freezes. Sees Ranveer. Freezes again.
Then she sees Y/N, her face changes. Like someone turned on a light from inside.
"Oh my god," she whispers, sitting right beside her.
"Oh my god," Sara says again, louder. "You're THE Y/N Raina."
Y/N smiles,"I am. And you're Sara Arjun. I watched Deiva Thirumagal the other night, it was very beautiful. I cried so many times!"
Sara looks like she might faint. "You saw my film!?"
"Yep, and i loved it. You were incredible even at such a young age."
Sara's hands fly to her face. "I grew up watching your films. I had a poster of 'Dil kho gaya' on my wall. I even have all the limited edition watches that you released in collaboration with 'samay watches'!!"
Y/N pulls Sara into a side hug, genuinely grateful for all the love. Meanwhile Sara looks like she's ascended to heaven.
The early scenes are fine. Too much graphic gore in Y/N's opinion, but still fine.
But then they get to Page 21. The Slap scene.
They move past a few more pages.
Page 35.
Script: 'Rehman holds Ulfat's hand in comfort.'
Akshaye stops reading. "Why does he have to hold her hand?!"
Aditya explains. Akshaye grumbles. Y/N rolls her eyes.
Page 102.
The car scene. Ulfat holding onto Rehman as SP Alsam attacks their car.
Y/N stops reading, "I'm not comfortable with this." Aditya explains why this scene is particularly necessary for the plot, why the desperation amd the emotions are necessary, Y/N grumbles. Akshaye mutters something under his breath.
They still haven't spoken to each other. Not once. Every protest is aimed at Aditya. Every complaint is about the script, the direction, the characters anything except each other.
Aditya closes his script like a disappointed girlfriend, "Alright. We're not continuing the reading. We're doing chemistry exercises."
Y/N and Akshaye both look like they've been asked to eat glass.
"Look at each other," Aditya instructs.
They look at each other. It's painful. Y/N's face is stiff. Akshaye's jaw is tight.
"No. Like... LOOK at each other."
They try again. Y/N's gaze meets Akshaye's for half a second before skittering away. Akshaye looks at the wall. Then the ceiling. Then the cookie box.
"You two are supposed to play husband and wife. Right now you look like you're at a divorce mediation."
Ranveer raises his hand. "Should I leave the room or—"
"Stay. Everyone stay. They need an audience."
Y/N shoots Aditya a death glare. Akshaye mutters something that sounds like "this is humiliating."
They run through a few scenes, first a romantic one, a fighting one, a longing stare across a crowded room one. Every single one is stiff. Awkward. Painful.
It's like someone fed them neem leaves.
Aditya puts his head in his hands as the two most promising actors of their time stand there like awkward dads in the womens section of the mall.
Aditya sighs, and brings them back to Page 21. The grief scene.
"Okay. Let's run it."
Y/N and Akshaye stand. Facing each other. Three feet apart. Feels like three hundred.
"Action."
Y/N finds the tears. Her face crumbles. She doesn't make a sound. This scene explores the part where she found out her eldest was killed in a gang attack, she has slapped her husband and is now supposed to be pulled in his arms by him as a means of comfort.
Akshaye steps forward for the same,his arms open.
Y/N looks at his arms. Then at his face. Then back at his arms.
She steps back.
"I don't want to cuddle this man. Can't you use a body double Adi?"
Akshaye drops his arms. "A body double for cuddling!?"
"They have those."
"They really don't."
"Then I don't know. A pillow. A stuffed toy. Anything."
Akshaye turns to Aditya. "Look, I understand why I have to comfort her but is the hug thing absolutely necessary—"
"You are not hugging Y/N ma'am. Your character Rehman is hugging his wife Ulfat. There is a difference."
"She's playing Ulfat. So technically—"
"TECHNICALLY, you are an actor doing his job. Now can we please move on?"
Akshaye makes a face. Y/N crosses her arms.
No one moves.
Aditya slams his script on the table.
The room goes dead silent.
"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU TWO? You are GROWN ADULTS. You have been in this industry for decades. You have done love scenes. You have done crying scenes. You have done scenes that required ten times more intimacy than a hug and a shoulder to cry on."
He points at Akshaye. Then at Y/N.
"Whatever happened between you two, I don't care. It was SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO. You are here to do a job. So ACT LIKE PROFESSIONALS and DO THE SCENE."
Aditya storms outside to take a breather.
Y/N looks down at her hands. Her ears are burning, Akshaye stares at the wall. His jaw is tight, but not in anger anymore. Because Aditya is right. They've been acting like children. Refusing to look at each other. Protesting every touch like it's the first time they've ever been asked to act.
Seventeen years. And they still haven't figured out how to be in the same room without making it weird.
Y/N takes a breath.
"He's right," she says quietly.
Akshaye nods. Just once. "Hmm."
They don't look at each other. But for the first time, they're not avoiding it either. They're just... standing there. Guilty. Tired. Ready to try.
This time, Y/N doesn't protest. Akshaye doesn't grumble.
Y/N closes her eyes. She finds Ulfat, the woman who has lost everything. The tears come again, but different now. She's not crying as Y/N. She's crying as a mother who lost her child.
Akshaye steps closer. His hand hovers near her shoulder. Then it lands.
She doesn't flinch.
He pulls her in. Slow. Careful. Like she's made of glass.
Y/N leans into his chest. Her forehead presses against his collarbone. She can feel his heartbeat. Steady. Calm. It hasn't changed.
She hates that she remembers what his heartbeat feels like.
The scene ends. No one speaks.
Aditya nods. "Again."
They do it again. Better this time. The chemistry, the real, natural chemistry that made them the IT couple in the 90s is still there. Buried under seventeen years of silence and hurt and stubborn pride.
Soon everyone moves to rehearse their scenes, Akshaye and Y/N are still at it, Sara is talking with the choreographer, Aditya is instructing Ranveer and Danish to put more bromance into their part..or whatever that means, while Arjun, Rakesh ji and Sanjay Dutt are reading their script in a corner. More set workers started arriving, milling about to finalise more details before the shoot begins next month. One of those set workers, young and clearly an intern on his first day of work makes the mistake of clicking a very blurry photo of Akshaye and Y/N hugging. To everyone on set, they were practising their scene but the leak of that photo the very evening was going to make the media lose their shit yet again. Rumours flying. Twitter trending. Conspiracy theories buzzing yet again.
Sara unbeknownst to her, fueled the already burning fire. She posted a group photo with the remaining cast on her Instagram story.
And that confirmed the suspicions. It were indeed Y/N and Akshaye hugging! The same jacket, the same salwar! It had to be them! The media was having a field day with it.
The headlines write themselves.
"AKSHAYE X YN CONFIRMED? Akshaye Khanna and Y/N Raina's hugging moment Goes Viral."
"From 'not in contact' to physical contact!"
"Dhurandhar Set Leak Shows Intimate Scene Between Bollywood's Most Famous Exes."
News channels pick it up. Entertainment shows run segments. Fans are losing their minds on every platform.
Theories everywhere. Did they reconcile? Is this acting? Is life imitating art? Did Aditya Dhar plan this whole thing as viral marketing?
No one knows. Everyone is guessing.
Y/N's phone starts buzzing. Then buzzing again. Then won't stop.
Until later when she goes back to her home and turns the news on, only to find the blurry Instagram post from that stupid intern and the screenshot of story from Sara's account making round in every news outlet.
She groans and turns the TV off.
Then again, she makes the mistake of opening her social media app. Thousands of notifications have piled up, more incoming.
"This," she says, voice muffled by her palms, "is exactly what I needed after coming back to the industry two decades later. Lovely. Just lovely."
She turns the notifications off and almost decides to deactivate her accounts, only stopped by an incoming call.
It's a number she hasn't seen in seventeen years. No name. Just digits. But she recognizes it immediately. She hates that she recognizes it immediately.
"Why hasn't this man changed his number since 2005?" she mutters.
She answers. "Hello Akshaye."
A pause on the other end. Then his voice, lower than she remembers, rougher over phone.
"How did you knkw it was me?"
"You havent changed your number ober a decade."
"You memorised my number?"
There was a pause on the line.
"Did you call to breathe into the phone, or...?"
"No. I..." He stops. Starts again. "You've seen the news? The photo?"
"Everyone has seen the photo. Including my aunt in Canada. She asked me if we're back together. In those exact words. 'Are you back together with that nice Khanna boy?'"
A beat. Then ....did he just almost laugh?
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her I'm blocking her if she asks again."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer she's getting."
Silence. Not uncomfortable. Just... there.
Then Akshaye says: "I didn't leak it."
"I know."
"How do you know?"
"Because you don't even know how to post on Instagram."
There it is. Almost a joke. Almost like old times.
She should save it. They're working together. It's practical. She opens the contact screen. Her fingers hover over the keyboard.
She types "Akshaye". Stares at it. Deletes it.
Types "AK". ...no doesn't feel right.
Types "Mister Khanna". Stares at it hard, ...what is she doing?! Ugh.
She can't do it. She can't type his real name. It feels too heavy. Too much like opening a door she closed a long time ago.
Finally, she types: "Rehman"
The character. Not the man. That's safe. That's professional. That's just the role he's playing.
She stares at the name for a moment.
Rehman.
It doesn't feel like his name. His name is Akshaye. It has always been Akshaye. Even when she was trying to forget it, it was there, buried somewhere in the back of her mind, waiting.
But she's not brave enough for Akshaye. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
She saves the contact. Locks her phone. Puts it down on the couch next to her.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, none of the incidents and events described in the fiction is real. Also this contains teensy bit of Dhurandhar spoilers, so read at your own risk.
P.S. at this point, this is a fic only. No Smau😭 I am just not good with SMAUs I guess😭😭😭 sorry guys😶🌫️😓😶
One month later when the shoot begun, Y/N had somehow become a permanent prop on the set of Dhurandhar.
Officially, she only had a handful of scenes in the film. Unofficially, she showed up almost every day.
At first, she'd told Aditya it was to get comfortable with the cast and crew since this was her first film after a major hiatus.
Then she'd claimed it helped her stay in character, after that she'd started saying she was observing the filmmaking process, it was fascinating to her.
Nobody believed her. Not even Aditya.
Because what do you mean, the 5 time national award winning actress, Y/N Raina. the one woman who literally grew up in movie sets needed to be on set everyday just to feel comfortable with the cast and crew or observe the filmmaking process?
Especially not after she'd shown up on three separate days wearing sunglasses and carrying absolutely nothing except a cup of her low sugar chai.
"You're not shooting today, are you?" Sara asked one morning.
"No."
"Tomorrow?"
"No, my shoot starts next week actually."
Sara blinked.
"Then why are you here?"
Y/N pointed vaguely toward the set.
"Research."
Sara looked over at Ranveer. Ranveer looked at Sara.
Neither of them said a word, but their expressions said enough.
Research, my foot.
Meanwhile, across the set, Akshaye was filming a scene with Sanjay Dutt.
And somehow, despite claiming she was simply there to "observe", Y/N always seemed to be observing whichever scene Akshaye happened to be shooting.
Funny how that worked.
---
Y/N should have looked away, that was the first problem.
The second problem was that she infact did not look away.
Akshaye was standing under a shed, across the set, half turned toward the green screen while the makeup artist touched up his makeup and said something to make him give that small smirky smile, the lazy tilt of the corner of his face.
Y/N stared for one second too long, because those lazy smiles were only reserved for her once.
and then, when the make up artist help his chin with her fingers to brush something off of his nose, Y/N's mind could only scream one thing,
"Why is she touching my—"
But then she stopped.
No, no. Absolutely not.
My what?
She averted her gaze and frowned at the tea in her hand like it had personally offended her. The problem was not the makeup artist, the problem was not even Akshaye, the problem was whatever had just happened in her head and the fact that she had gone a over a decade without thinking like this and was now apparently relapsing in public.
Sara, came over after her scene to sit with her favourite costar on set. Only to see her glaring at Akshaye Khanna across the set, or rather the girl doing his touch up.
Sara sat beside her and said carefully, “uh...di...why are you glaring at the makeup team like that?”
“I am not glaring.”
“You are glaring...”
Y/N blinked once and looked away. “They’re touching him too much.”
Sara stared at her.
Y/N immediately regretted her own mouth. “I mean— his costume. They’re touching his costume too much.”
“Right.”
“It’s distracting.”
“Mhm.”
Y/N turned to her chai, sipping more aggressively now. “What?”
Sara nodded once, with the seriousness of a person humoring an older sister who had clearly lost control of her own life.
---
By the time Y/N’s first scene came up the following week, the mood on set had changed.
It was the scene where Ulfat slaps Rehman after their son’s death. Not a pleasant scene. Not a soft one. Aditya had been clear from the very start that he wanted it to feel sharp, raw, and ugly. He wanted to make the viewers feel the pain of a grieving mother.
Y/N was standing opposite Akshaye, reading the scene one last time , getting into the character.
Then Aditya said, “Action.”
The first slap landed too softly.
“Cut,” Aditya said immediately. “Again.”
Y/N frowned. “I hit him.”
“No, you did not.”
“I did.”
“You patted him on the cheek.”
Akshaye looked offended on principle. “Thank you. I also felt patted.”
A few people behind the camera bit their lips to keep from laughing.
Second take.
Still not impactful enough.
Third take.
Aditya looked at her like she was personally insulting him. “Y/N ma'am.”
“What?”
“You are not slapping your friend who keeps stealing fries from your plate.”
Y/N glared at him. “I am trying not to actually injure him.”
Akshaye folded his arms. “That would be a very kind concern if you had not already slapped me four times.”
“Because you keep moving.”
“I am standing still.”
“You lean away.”
“That is called survival.”
“Then survive better.”
A small sound came from somewhere near the monitors. Ranveer had definitely heard that. Danish had definitely heard it too. Sara and Arjun looked away in the way people do when they are trying not to smile.
On the fifth take, Y/N finally slapped him properly.
The sound was loud enough to make the room go still.
Aditya finally nodded. “Good. We are keeping that one.”
The scene ended with Rehman pulling Ulfat into his arms.
Akshaye did it exactly as written in the script,
Y/N cried out in grief, just as the plot demanded, and after the scene she stood there for one second too long, enjoying the warmth of an embrace she hasnt felt in a long time, before she realised what she was doing and abruptly jumped apart from his arms.
And then he walked away before she could say anything.
That should not have annoyed her as much as it did
----
The next scene they wanted to shoot was the Mai Kaloch bridge scene, the location was farther out from the set, so everyone had to take vans.
The team packed up to shoot the last scene for the day and hurriedly loaded everything in the studio vans that the production provided for the cast and crew.
Y/N ended up in the same one as Akshaye, Danish was already in the front seat.
He looked like a man who had made a mistake and knew it.
The van had barely started moving when Akshaye said, without even turning fully toward her, “You hit me too hard.”
Y/N stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“You know what I said.”
“I was being careful.”
“Careful?”
“Yes. Careful.”
“You slapped me five times.”
“Because Aditya kept saying it was not enough.”
“The fifth one seemed personal.”
“The fifth one was the first one that actually looked real.”
Akshaye turned to her now. “So you admit you wanted to hit me.”
Y/N leaned back in her seat. “I want to hit you right now.”
Danish made a tiny choking sound from the front.
Akshaye ignored him. “You looked too pleased with yourself.”
Y/N stared. “I did not.”
“You did.”
“I was stressed.”
“You were smiling.”
“I was not smiling?! I was a grieving mother-”
“You were smiling. I saw it.”
“Why are you arguing like this?”
“Because you started it.”
Y/N pointed at him. “You started it.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“You were too close to Arjun.”
Y/N blinked. “What?”
Akshaye’s expression stayed flat, but his ears were very slightly red. “While I was shooting.”
“So?”
“So nothing.”
“Then why mention it?”
“Because he’s married.”
Y/N went quiet for half a second.
Then: “What are you implying?”
Akshaye crossed his arms. “I am not implying anything.”
“That sounded like an implication.”
“It was an observation.”
“You are unbelievable.”
From the front seat, Danish closed his eyes, being trapped inside a moving car with two divorced parents fighting.
This was going to be a long ride.
---
The second the van stopped, Y/N got out, Akshaye got out behind her,and he was still talking.
"You never answered my question."
"There was no question."
"There absolutely was."
Y/N didn't even bother turning around, instead she spotted Arjun near where the monitors were being set up and immediately walked towards him.
That somehow made Akshaye even more annoyed.
Across the set, Danish and Ranveer watched the whole thing unfold.
Ranveer snickered beside him, Danish just sighed and said,"this is nothing, you should have been in the car...they were bickering like children"
and just because he could'nt find a better gossiping partner than Ranveer, Danish proceeded to tell him everything.
The slap argument. The accusation. The fact that Akshaye Khanna, accused Y/N of flirting with Arjun Rampal...
Ranveer nearly dropped his coffee.
"He did WHAT?"
Ranveer's face lit up.
"Oh, this is worse than I thought."
"No, it's exactly as bad as you think."
Both men looked across the bridge, Y/N and Arjun were standing together, chatting comfortably while the crew prepared the setup.
Arjun was showing her something on his phone as Y/N laughed.
Akshaye, meanwhile, was standing thirty feet away pretending not to watch them.
The pretending part wasn't very convincing for a veteran actor like him.
Ranveer walked upto Akshaye, looking far too innocent than whatever was cooking in his mind,"You know," he said casually, walking up beside Akshaye, "Y/N ma'am and Arjun sir are really look nice together huh?."
Akshaye didn't look away from the bridge.
"Hm."
"They've been talking a lot lately."
"Hm."
Danish joined in.
"Very good chemistry."
"Hm."
Ranveer nodded thoughtfully.
"I mean, they've known each other forever."
"Hm."
"And Arjun sir is very handsome."
That finally got a reaction.
Akshaye turned.
Ranveer immediately knew he'd won.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, Aditya chose that exact moment to call for the next scene.
And unfortunately for Y/N, the scene happened to involve her.
---
The bridge sequence was a tense one, SP Aslam would ambushed the car while Donga drove Rehman, Ulfat and Faisal, to the hospital after his fainting spell.
Aditya had been pacing for the last ten minutes, checking the angle, the light, the blocking, the timing. The whole scene had to land properly because it was not just action. It was fear. It was panic. It was the kind of moment where Rehman had to protect his family without losing control of the entire situation.
Y/N was in the backseat setup with Azinkya, who was playing the role of Faizal Baloch. Akshaye was beside her, already in character, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead. Naveen was in the front as Donga, and the van-turned-car set looked almost too real in lighting.
Then Aditya called, “Action.”
The car pulled into motion, a car toppled down the side that would be later remastered to look like it fell off the bridge and into the water below.
For a few seconds, everything played out exactly as planned. The tension built. The road narrowed. The camera followed their faces. Then SP Aslam’s ambush began, a shot rang out, the car jerked to the side. Y/N clutched at Azinkya in her arms, Akshaye turned sharply, all focus, all urgency, his voice low and commanding as Rehman was supposed to be.
“Stay in the car, he will not hurts you guys,” he told her, exactly as written. “Do not get out until he arrests me. Take Faisal to the hospital as soon as this is over.”
Y/N looked at him, still breathing too fast from the scene, still holding the child close.
Then Akshaye did something that was not in the script.
He leaned in and kissed her forehead.
Just long enough to make Y/N’s whole chest go tight.
For one second, she forgot where she was.
the bridge, the cameras, the crew, the child actor, all of it disappeared. It felt too real.
That was the problem.
Aditya, from behind the monitor, practically straightened at once, "Oh that was brilliant improv Akshaye sir!!".
Y/N blinked, still frozen.
Akshaye pulled back like nothing had happened, but there was the faintest crease between his brows, like even he did not fully know why he had done it.
Aditya was smiling when he approached them,
“That stays,” he said. “That is exactly what the scene needed.”
Y/N stood there for one more second, her treacherous heart doing flips for reasons unknown to her.
---
The secondher scene was over, Y/N disappeared.
She simply got out of the car set, nodded at a few crew members, ignored the way Ranveer was looking at her with far too much curiosity, and headed straight for her vanity van.
Her heart was still beating too fast. It was ridiculous, really.
It was one kiss. A forehead kiss.
Actors did far more intimate scenes every day...she herself had done far more intimate scenes herself.
She had spent three decades in the industry, she had kissed people on camera, been kissed on camera.
Hell she had even done a not so friendly for work scenes with people when the film called for it. Done all of it, with him as well.
So why was this affecting her?
Inside the vanity, she sat down heavily on the couch and pressed both hands against her face.
The answer arrived immediately, because it was Akshaye, the man she has once dated, the man she absolutely could not stand(we believe you girl), the man she still....
still what? no no no, absolutely not. She cant let her mind go to forbidden depths right now...not after a decade of being okay...
Outside, filming resumed.
Akshaye stayed on the bridge to finish the remainder of his scenes with Sanjay Dutt.
He looked toward Y/N's van exactly twice, then forced himself to focus.
Because following her would be a terrible idea, an absolutely horrible idea, a spectacularly stupid idea.
The shoot wrapped twenty minutes later, and Aditya called for a long break until the next scene.
Sanjay Dutt, instead of going back to his own vanity headed directly toward Y/N's.
He didn't bother knocking. He never had.
Y/N looked up as he walked in.
"You're supposed to knock."
"I changed your diapers."
"What-No, you did not."
"I babysat you."
"I was 15. and That was one time."
"It still counts."
Y/N rolled her eyes.
Sanjay made himself comfortable on the couch opposite hers.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Then he said casually, "That boy still makes you nervous."
Y/N looked offended," No he doesn't it's just...I just am not used to filming such intense scenes anymore."
"Sure."
Y/N threw a cushion at him.
He caught it without effort.
"Very mature."
"You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
A comfortable silence settled once again in the room.
The kind that only came from decades of knowing someone.
Then Sanjay sighed.
"You know, life is strange."
Y/N immediately groaned.
"No."
"Yes."
"No philosophy lectures." Y/N buried her face in her hands.
Sanjay ignored her antics and continued,
"Sometimes life gives you one chance at happiness."
His voice softened.
"And sometimes, when you're very very lucky, it gives you another."
Y/N stared at the floor.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you do."
"I really don't."
"Beta."
That one word made her look up.
Sanjay was smiling that 'wise one' smile,"You don't have to explain anything to me."
Y/N swallowed but didn't say anything.
Sanjay continued, "But you should stop lying to yourself."
She opened her mouth and closed it.
Sanjay nodded once, like he'd gotten the answer anyway.
"I thought so."
Then he stood. Just a hand on her shoulder, patting it softly like a brother consoling his soul sister.
"Think about it."
And then he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Y/N sat there for a long time afterward.
The vanity suddenly felt very quiet, her eyes drifted toward the mirror towards her reflection, towards the woman staring back.
Seventeen years.
Seventeen years of avoiding him, seventeen years of pretending she was fine, seventeen years of insisting she had moved on.
And all it had taken was a month on one film set for everything to come crashing back.
The worst part?
She wasn't even sure it had ever left.
That was the thought she couldn't stop coming back to.
The possibility that she'd spent seventeen years convincing herself she'd gotten over him.
When really she'd just gotten better at missing him.
---
Y/N spent exactly 27 minutes thinking about Sanjay's lecture.
Twenty seven minutes too many.
Which was why she found Sara.
Well,
Found was a strong word.
Sara had been sitting outside craft services eating chips and scrolling through her phone when Y/N appeared and sat down beside her.
"Di?"
Y/N stared straight ahead.
"Sara."
"ooh you sound serious."
"I am serious."
Sara immediately put her phone away.
"What's going on? you okay?"
Y/N folded her arms, then unfolded them.
"ummm.....let's say..."
Sara's eyes lit up.
Y/N immediately regrettedsaying anything, but continued anyway.
"Let's say, hypothetically, there are two people."
Sara nodded.
"Hypothetically."
"They used to be veryyyy close."
"Mhm."
"A long time ago."
"Mhm."
"They have a fall out."
"Mhm."
"They don't talk for years."
Sara's grin was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
"And then they meet again."
"Mhm."
"And one of them starts wondering if maybe..."
Y/N paused.
"...if maybe they still want to be friends with the other person."
Sara stared, Y/N stared back.
Then—
"Akshaye sir."
Y/N nearly fell out of her chair.
"What?!"
"You're talking about Akshaye sir."
"I am not."
"You are."
"I said hypothetically."
"Di."
"Sara."
"It's Akshaye sir."
Y/N looked offended.
Sara looked amused.
"Okay."
"Okay what?"
"Tell him."
Y/N blinked.
"What?"
"Tell him."
"Tell him what?"
"How you feel."
Y/N looked horrified.
Like this was the most obvious solution in the world.
"That's it?"
"Yes."
"That's your advice?"
"Yes."
"What if he doesn't feel the same anymore?...its been ...17 years..."
Sara shrugged.
"Then at least you'll know."
Y/N looked scandalized.
Sara wasn't finished.
"Or."
"No."
"Maybe kiss him."
Y/N gasped so loudly that three nearby crew members turned around.
"SARA."
"What?"
"You cannot just say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because you can't!"
"You literally dated..."
"SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO."
"So? and dont think just because I wasn't born in the 90s, I don't know about The leak"
"The leak" in question: (Y/N and Akshaye Caught making out in the sets of Alibaug mein dil)
Y/N pointed a finger at her.
"You are shameless."
Sara grinned.
"You adore me."
"I absolutely do not."
"Sure."
Y/N stood up immediately.
Mostly because she needed to leave before Sara said something even more embarrassing.
As she walked away, she could still hear Sara laughing behind her.
She is too old for this.
Meanwhile,
On the opposite side of the set, Akshaye was attempting to mind his own business.
key word: attempting.
because, Arjun Rampal has decided to bother him for no reason.
The older actor dropped into the chair beside him, neither spoke for a moment.
Then-
"You know."
Akshaye immediately knew he wasn't going to like whatever came next.
"What?"
Arjun took a sip of coffee.
"I've known Y/N for a very long time. Longer than you have."
Akshaye groaned,
"Please don't start, i dont want to talk about her."
Arjun ignored him.
"She still looks for you subconsciously, you know? She keeps bringing you up in conversations, keeps showing up at your scenes when she clearly doesnt need to."
Akshaye went still.
Arjun continued casually.
"You know what's funny?"
"What...?"
"She thinks she's subtle."
That actually got a laugh out of him.
Arjun noticed.
"You're not subtle either."
Akshaye immediately stopped laughing.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure."
"I don't."
"Sure."
"Arjun."
"Akshaye."
The two men stared at each other.
Then Arjun sighed, for the first time, his voice softened.
"You both lost seventeen years."
The joke vanished.
"So don't lose eighteen."
And unlike Sara's advice, there was no teasing in it.
Just a friend looking out for another friend.
---
After that day, things on set changed in the smallest ways first.
Y/N and Akshaye did not suddenly become soft and sweet with each other. That would have been suspicious. They still argued, still bickered, still looked at each other like the other one had personally offended their bloodline. But the fights got lighter. Less sharp. More familiar than angry.
The dynamics have changed, they knew it did.
Y/N would show up, Akshaye would notice, and instead of saying something rude, he would just look at her for a second too long and then go back to his script. She would catch him watching her and immediately pretend not to notice. It became almost routine.
Sara noticed first, obviously, she was too sharp. Then Ranveer. Then Danish. Then even Arjun, who had the good sense not to say anything to their faces.
The crew started catching them in normal conversations, which was somehow more alarming than the fights.
Y/N leaning over Akshaye’s shoulder to look at the monitor.
Akshaye handing her chai without being asked.
Y/N laughing at something he said and then looking annoyed with herself for laughing.
Ranveer and Danish would exchange looks every time.
“Are we seeing this?” Ranveer would murmur.
Danish would grin into his coffee. “I think our emotionally constipated parents are about to get together again.” Ranveer would just smile at that and do a quick prayer like,"rabb di shukar hai"
Then the last day of Akshaye's shoot came.
And with it, the scene that ruined whatever Y/N was building with Akshaye over the last few months.
summary : (angsty, fluffy and first love all at once. fem oc (zalak mehra) is an undercover spy playing a journalism student in lyari and hamza Ali mazari accompanies her throughout the mission as he watches zalak fall in love with the bastard king of lyari - rehman baloch, while being foolishly inlove with her ever since he was 13.)
warnings : angsty, fluffy banter, sad ending? not sure depends on what the reader chooses at the end :)
disclaimer: this is purely fiction & does not represnt anyone in real life & is against terrorism. so treat as is and enjoy. love, aashu
The world started spiralling around her, blurring eventually as she was unable to differentiate between a bad dream and reality. “Seduce and kill,” these were the last words she heard from her beloved father before she passed out.
Zalak Mehra, the kind of girl you’d see only in movies. Not that she was drop-dead gorgeous or flawless, like Aishwairiya Rai - she surely did have flaws , but she was the kind of daughter every parent prayed for. Papa ki pari. Papa ki jannat. Not that she was some straight-A student who worked four part-time jobs to feed her family, no, but she obeyed her father. Always obeyed, obeyed, and obeyed. Sometimes, when her heart wasn't willing, she still obeyed because to her, her father was Batman and everything he did was “beta tumahre bhala ke liye hi hai”. She was the beloved daughter of none other than an army intelligence officer, Arun Mehra. He was a charmer at work; although he was a single dad, he somehow managed to strike the perfect work-life balance.
Yet somewhere beneath the bedtime stories and annual amusement park visits, Arun Mehra carried a darkness no one,not even his daughter, had ever truly seen.
For Zalak, her father was everything.
He braided her hair when she was seven because she refused to let the maid touch it. He stayed up till 3 a.m. helping her build a solar system model in eighth grade. He clapped the loudest at every debate competition. Every birthday, without fail, he wrote her handwritten letters beginning with: “To the bravest girl I know.”
And maybe that was why it hurt more.
Because brave girls were never warned before being sacrificed.
When Zalak woke up, the sharp smell of antiseptic filled her nose. Her lashes fluttered open slowly. White ceiling. Dim yellow light. And an uneasy sort of cold from the air conditioner. For a moment, she thought she was in a hospital, until she realised hospitals didn’t usually have armed guards outside the door.
Her throat burned. “Papa…?” The word barely escaped. The door opened immediately. Arun Mehra stepped inside. Fresh uniform. Sleeves rolled perfectly. Expression unreadable.
But his eyes, his eyes looked exhausted.
The moment he saw her awake, relief flashed across his face for half a second before the officer in him returned. “You fainted.” Zalak pushed herself up weakly. “You drugged me?” Silence. That silence answered everything. Her breathing became uneven. “You weren’t joking…” “No.”
“You actually want me to go to another country?” Zalak chuckles humourlessly, “And that too a country like Pakistan?” Arun looked away.
Not live.
Not survive.
Just infiltrate.
Complete mission.
Disappear if necessary.
“Rehman Baloch hai uska naam,” Arun finally said. “Lyari’s most untouchable criminal asset. Arm routes, political contacts, underground financing, saalo se track kar rahe hai usse.” His voice became colder, professional.
“Every officer we’ve sent failed.” “Aur aap abhi mujhe bejne wale ho?” she whispered. “You’re the only way in.” The room felt suffocating. Zalak laughed suddenly, a broken, disbelieving laugh. “Wow.”
Her eyes filled instantly.
“All those years…” she said shakily, “all those bedtime stories and birthday cakes and I love you beta… was I being raised as your daughter or as your backup plan?” That hit him.
Hard.
She saw it in the way his jaw tightened. But Arun Mehra was a patriot before he was a father. And patriots were experts at burying guilt beneath duty. “You think this is easy for me?” he snapped. “Then don’t do it!” “I don’t have a choice!”
“You ALWAYS have a choice!”
Her voice cracked violently. Outside, even the guards went silent. For two whole minutes, they just looked at each other with heavy breaths, unable to comprehend what they had brought upon themselves.
Arun took a long breath before speaking again, quieter this time. “You think I don’t know what kind of man he is?” He stepped closer. “I’ve read every file. Every photograph. Every murder scene. Rehman Baloch is dangerous, intelligent, and manipulative. “Par mein kyu papa? Mein kyu? Mein aapki pari thi aur aap mujhe itni aasani se bejne wale ho?”
“Beta asaan nahi hai. Par mujhe pata hai tum karlogi, because he has one weakness.”
Zalak stared at him. “He falls in love too easily with women who look fragile.” The insult settled slowly. Fragile.
“Fragile? Mein kamzor? Papa aap kya khudko sun rahe ho?” She spoke as if trying to sound strong, but her eyes betrayed her. He stayed silent, almost as if pretending he didn't hear her.
A pawn dressed as bait. Tears rolled down her cheeks now, uncontrollably. “You’re asking me to die.” “No,” Arun whispered. “I’m asking you to save your country.” There it was. The sentence every soldier’s child grows up hearing. Nation before self. Duty before emotion. India, before everything. And suddenly Zalak understood something horrifying. Her father had already convinced himself this was worth it.
“Seduce and kill” was the plan. For the last three months, Zalak spent time reading every piece of information about this man and physically training for emergencies. Zalak was never good with books; she’d often daydream as she sat in the library across from her father, monitoring her. And when it came to mastering physical training, she did it as if she were born with a six-pack of abs. She was a master of all trades atleast as long as it had nothing to do with books.
time skip (training arena)
The first time Zalak met Jaskirat Rangi after three years, he was bleeding from his eyebrow and grinning like an idiot.
“Still staring?” he smirked, tossing his boxing gloves aside. “Ya army training ne aankhon ki sharam bhi nikaal di?” Zalak rolled her eyes from where she stood near the training hall door, arms crossed tightly over her chest.“Arey main toh bas yeh dekh rahi thi ki tum aaj kal poore bandar jaise ban gaye ho.” Jaskirat laughed loudly, the same loud, carefree laugh she remembered from childhood summers in Delhi. “Achha ji? Mujhe toh yaad tha aapne bachpan mein bola tha ki aapko monkeys bade cute lagte hain.” The same boy who used to climb compound walls to steal raw mangoes for her because she once casually mentioned liking them.“Cute aur tum mein zameen-aasmaan ka farq hai.” Zalak smirked playfully.
“Oho.” He placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “Itni insult? Aur main woh banda hoon jo tere liye compound walls cross karta tha. Kacche aam churata tha.”
Zalak hated how easily he could still make her smile. “Tumhara confidence na, genuinely concerning hai.”
“Aur tera attitude genuinely hot hai.”
“Flirting band karo.”
“Army walon ko orders dene ki aadat hoti hai kya?”
“Tum jaise logon ko control mein rakhna padta hai.”
“Dangerous ho gayi hai tu.” He tilted his head, eyes dragging over her face for a second too long. “Pehle sirf daant-ti thi. Ab aankhon se bhi attack karti hai.”
Before she could reply, Sushant from the training hall yelled, “OYE JASSI! Training khatam ho gayi ya romance period chal raha hai?”
Jaskirat looked offended. “Excuse me, mere standards bhi hain.”
“Exactly. Isi liye toh shock ho raha hai.”
One of the girls sitting nearby snorted. “Yaar tum dono ki shaadi kara do koi. Roz ka yehi hai.”
“Shaadi?” Zalak nearly choked.
Jaskirat, meanwhile, looked way too entertained. “Dekha? Public demand.”
“Public ko therapy ki zarurat hai.”
He leaned against the punching bag casually. “Waise tujhe pata hai, tu jab irritate hoti hai na…” He lowered his voice slightly. “Tab aur pretty lagti hai.”
For one stupid second, her breath caught.
And of course, he noticed.
The idiot’s smirk widened instantly.
“Haye,” one of the boys whistled dramatically. “Major sahiba toh gayi.”
Zalak grabbed the nearest towel and threw it straight at Jaskirat’s face while everyone around them howled with laughter. “Tum sab pagal ho.”
He was the same. Except he wasn’t really a boy anymore. At twenty-eight, Jaskirat had grown into something far sharper. Broad shoulders. Turban tied neatly. Heavy eyes that always looked like they were hiding ten different thoughts at once. His father had once served beside Arun Mehra before dying during a covert operation years ago. After that, Arun practically became family to him.
Which meant Jaskirat had grown up around Zalak, too. And unfortunately for him, he’d fallen in love at thirteen and never truly recovered from it. It was stupid, honestly. Because Zalak never noticed. Or maybe she did and simply chose not to say anything. “Papa said you’ll be helping with field prep,” Zalak muttered, rolling her eyes. “Helping?” Jaskirat scoffed. “Baby, I practically begged for this assignment.” That made her look at him.
Begged?
Before she could ask, Arun entered the hall. The atmosphere shifted instantly. Even Jaskirat straightened slightly, and Zalak tucked her hair back as she stood up. Arun placed a file onto the metal table. “From today onward,” he said, voice calm and emotionless, “you are Hamza Ali Mazari.” Jaskirat’s eyes dropped to the forged passport inside the folder. New name. New identity. New religion. New country.
A whole new man.
He had done undercover work before, but this one felt different the second he looked up and saw Zalak sitting across the room.
Because she looked terrified. And Arun Mehra still looked willing to send her anyway.“You’ll enter Karachi through Balochistan routes,” Arun continued. “Rehman Baloch’s men have been expanding recruitment inside Lyari. We’ve managed to create an opening.” Jaskirat flipped through the file silently.
Hamza Ali Mazari.
Age twenty-eight.
Arms runner.
Ex-military connections.
Violent record.
No family.
The perfect kind of man for someone like Rehman to trust. “You’ll join his network first,” Arun said. “Gain proximity. Build credibility.” “And her?” Jaskirat asked quietly. Arun’s eyes shifted toward Zalak. “She enters later.” Zalak stiffened slightly. Undercover training had changed her in three months. She carried herself differently now. Sharper posture. Controlled breathing. Fewer unnecessary words. But Jaskirat still noticed the tiny things. Like how her fingers curled whenever she was anxious. Like how she stopped making eye contact whenever Arun discussed the mission too clinically.
“Her identity?” Jaskirat asked.
“Zalak Sheikh,” Arun answered. “Civilian.A journalism student. No intelligence links. She’ll cross paths with Rehman naturally.”
Naturally.
The word sounded sickening. Because everyone in the room knew nothing about this was natural. Jaskirat closed the file slowly. “And what exactly is her role once she gets close?”
Silence.
Then Arun finally said it.“Lure him. Make him fall in love. Charm him. Basically, carry out an elaborate honey trap. ” The rage that rose inside Jaskirat was immediate. No.”The room went still. Arun looked at him coldly. “Excuse me?”I said no.” Jaskirat stood now, jaw tight. “You trained her for intelligence gathering, fine. Surveillance, fine. But this-”
“This mission is not up for debate.” “But you’re asking her to manipulate a man who cuts people open for entertainment!”
“Enough.”
“No, sir, not enough.” His voice hardened. “You know exactly what men like Rehman Baloch are capable of.” Zalak stayed silent the entire time. And somehow that made it worse. Because she wasn’t disagreeing. She had already started accepting it. Arun stepped forward slowly. “You were chosen because you can separate emotions from duty.” That almost made Jaskirat laugh. Because if there was one thing he had never been able to separate from Zalak.
It was emotion.
“You made the wrong choice then,” he said quietly. For the first time, Arun’s expression shifted slightly.
A warning. But Jaskirat didn’t care anymore.“She’s not bait.” Arun’s eyes became steel. “The nation does not care about your feelings.” And there it was. The final nail.
Duty over humanity.
Country over daughter.
Mission over everything.
Arun broke this silence, realising what he just said, “ There is no one I trust more to do this job apart from you two. I know you two will accomplish the mission without any hindrances. And return to India.”
Jaskirat looked toward Zalak then. Maybe expecting her to fight harder.Maybe expecting her to say she wouldn’t do it. Instead, she asked softly, “What are the chances I make it out alive?” Arun didn’t answer immediately. And that silence terrified Jaskirat more than any spoken truth ever could.
time skip (later that day)
That night, Jaskirat found her in the shooting range long after everyone else had left. The room echoed with bullets.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Every shot is perfectly centred. Zalak reloaded mechanically without looking at him. “You should sleep. We leave in two days.” He whispered.
“It’s not something you should care about now, Jassi”
“Come on, Zalak, I have known you ever since we were kids. I know when something is wrong, and you don't have a say in this.”
Another shot.
“Little late for that conversation.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Finally, she lowered the gun. Her eyes looked exhausted. “Tumhe lagta hai mein nahi janti kya ho raha hai” she whispered. “Papa keeps calling it patriotism because it sounds prettier than sacrifice.” Jaskirat’s chest tightened.
“Then walk away.” She looked at him for a long moment.
And smiled sadly. “You know I can’t. Bachpan se papa has raised me for this, not that I have known about this mission, but I have come to accept my fate, Jassi. ” Because she was Arun Mehra’s daughter. Raised on stories where heroes died smiling for their country. Raised to believe fear was weakness. Raised to obey. Jaskirat hated it. Hated the uniform. Hated the mission. Hated Arun for putting her here. But most of all, he hated Rehman Baloch already. Because somewhere in the future, another man would get to hear her laugh, see her smile, touch her life…while Jaskirat would stand beside him pretending to be Hamza Ali Mazari.
Pretending not to know the girl he’d loved since he was thirteen.
Do I already know that my series, 'the act' is not doing well? YES.
Do I still feel like writing a spin off smau(with excerpts of media gossips, interviews, pap media run tabloids) showing their pre breakup life? ALSO YES.
YOU GUYS WRITING FICS ABT REHMAN AND AKSHAYE WHEREAS YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW SUCH A BIG ASS HE IS IN REAL LIFE (he's my uncle) HIS JUDGEMENTAL ASS HAS ME DYING
summary : (angsty, fluffy and first love all at once. fem oc (zalak mehra) is an undercover spy playing a journalism student in lyari and hamza Ali mazari accompanies her throughout the mission as he watches zalak fall in love with the bastard king of lyari - rehman baloch, while being foolishly inlove with her ever since he was 13.)
warnings : angsty, fluffy banter, sad ending? not sure depends on what the reader chooses at the end :)
disclaimer: this is purely fiction & does not represnt anyone in real life & is against terrorism. so treat as is and enjoy. love, aashu
The drive back home should have been simple.
It wasn't.
Zalak sat quietly in the backseat of the Mustang as Karachi's evening lights blurred past the window.
For once, her mind wasn't occupied with coded messages, surveillance reports, or mission timelines.
It was occupied by a man.
A dangerous man.
A criminal.
A target.
And somehow...the same man whose eyes had softened when Faizal smiled.
The same man who had remembered she preferred coffee over chai after hearing it only once. The same man who kept looking at her as though she were a puzzle he wanted to solve.
"Kya problem hai bhenchod," she muttered under her breath.
Unfortunately, Hamza heard.
"Kya problem hai?"
Zalak immediately straightened.
"Kuch nahi."
"Haan, main toh yaha behra hu na"
She rolled her eyes.
"Tum kab se itne nosy ho gaye?"
"Jab se tumhari acting kharab hone lagi."
That got her attention.
Slowly, she turned toward him.
Hamza wasn't smiling anymore.
His expression had become unusually serious.
"Tum usse pasand karne lagi ho."
The words landed heavier than she expected.
"Kisko?"
"Rehman ko."
Silence.
The car continued moving.
Outside, neon signs flickered.
Inside, something uncomfortable settled between them.
"Aaj bus dusra din tha Hamza, Tu overthink mat kar. "
"Nahi."
Hamza looked out the window.
"Tum kar rahi ho."
Zalak hated how quickly her chest tightened.
Because somewhere deep down...
She knew he wasn't completely wrong.
"Tumhe pata hai na mission kya hai?"
His voice had lowered.
The teasing was gone.
Only concern remained.
"Tum mujhe yaad dilane wale kaun hote ho?"
The question came out sharper than intended.
Hamza flinched.
Almost invisibly.
But she saw it.
And immediately regretted it.
Because Hamza never deserved her frustration.
Not him.
Never him.
"Sorry."
The apology arrived quietly.
Hamza forced a smile.
"Koi baat nahi."
Neither spoke for the rest of the journey.
That night, Zalak couldn't sleep again.
This time it wasn't because of the mission.
It was because every time she closed her eyes—
She remembered Rehman's smile.
The way he'd looked at Faizal.
The way he'd looked at her.
And that was infinitely more dangerous.
At 1:17 AM, she finally gave up and walked onto her balcony.
The city below was mostly asleep.
A cool breeze brushed against her face.
For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe.
Then her secure phone vibrated.
One message.
From Headquarters.
Her heartbeat immediately accelerated.
MISSION UPDATE
Target movement confirmed.
The evidence collection phase begins immediately.
Gain access to private sections of Baloch Mahal.
Priority level: Red.
The warmth she'd carried all evening vanished instantly.
There it was.
Reality.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
She stared at the screen.
Then slowly lowered the phone.
Because suddenly all she could think was—
If the evidence existed...
What would she do when she found it?
And worse.
What if she didn't want to?
The next afternoon
Baloch Mahal felt strangely different. More familiar.
Which was exactly the problem.
The guards greeted her by name.
The housekeeper smiled when she arrived.
Someone in the kitchen apparently already knew how she liked her coffee.
She was becoming comfortable.
Spies died when they became comfortable.
Faizal, however, had other priorities.
"Didi!"
The child came sprinting down the hallway.
"Main kal poori raat fractions kar raha tha!"
"Yeh jhoot hai."
"Nahi sach!"
"Faizal."
"Thoda sa jhoot hai."
She laughed.
The boy immediately grinned.
Mission accomplished.
Unfortunately, another pair of eyes had witnessed the interaction.
Rehman.
Standing near the staircase.
Watching.
Again.
Zalak felt it before she even looked up.
When their eyes met, something flickered across his expression.
Something warmer than curiosity.
Something far more dangerous.
"Dekha Abbu?"
Faizal proudly announced.
"Didi mujh par hasti hain."
"Haan."
Rehman folded his arms.
"Lekin tumhare jokes pe nahi."
"Abbu!"
Hamza, standing nearby, nearly choked on his tea.
The hallway erupted into laughter.
Everyone except Hamza.
Because while everybody else was laughing—
He was watching something else entirely.
Watching the way Rehman looked at Zalak.
Watching the way Zalak unconsciously looked back.
Watching a disaster unfold in slow motion.
And the worst part?
Neither of them realised it yet.
Later that evening, Hamza found himself alone on one of the mansion's balconies.
The sounds of conversation drifted up from the gardens below.
He didn't need to look.
He already knew who was there.
Zalak.
Rehman.
Faizal.
A strange little picture of happiness.
The kind Hamza had spent years imagining for himself.
The kind he had always secretly hoped for.
Ever since he was thirteen.
Ever since a stubborn girl with scraped knees had punched a bully for him and then demanded half his lunch as payment.
He laughed bitterly at the memory.
"Tu bhi kya cheez hai, Hamza."
His voice disappeared into the evening wind.
Because after all these years,
after every mission,
every fight, every sacrifice, every moment spent protecting her.
She still looked at someone else.
And the cruellest thing?
He couldn't even blame her.
Because Rehman wasn't pretending anymore either.
Hamza had seen it.
The lingering glances.
The attention.
The way Rehman listened whenever Zalak spoke.
The way his entire mood changed around her.
The bastard was falling, too.
Fast.
Hamza closed his eyes.
And for the first time since arriving in Lyari,
He wondered whether the mission would destroy only one heart.
Or three.
Far below, in the gardens,
Zalak laughed at something Faizal said.
Rehman watched her laugh.
And neither of them noticed the storm already gathering above their heads.
Because some stories begin with gunfire.
And some begin with a smile.
This one had begun with both.
And very soon, one of them would demand a price.
two weeks later
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Fourteen tutoring sessions.
Fourteen evenings spent inside Baloch Mahal.
And somehow, against every rule she had ever been taught,
Zalak Mehra had stopped counting days by mission reports.
Now she counted them by sunsets.
Specifically, the sunsets she spent on the verandah with Rehman Baloch, sipping coffee.
The routine had developed so naturally that neither of them could pinpoint exactly when it started.
At first, she arrived at five.
Taught Faizal.
Left.
Simple.
Professional.
Safe.
Then one evening, Faizal had insisted she stay for dinner.
The next time, Rehman had offered coffee afterwards.
The conversation then stretched on for forty minutes.
And now,
Now it had become expected.
Dangerously expected.
Every evening, around seven-thirty, Faizal would finally finish his lessons.
Every evening, around seven-thirty-five, Rehman would appear.
And every evening, around seven-thirty-six, he would somehow find an excuse to keep her there.
"Miss Zalak."
"Hm?"
"Ek sawal hai."
She looked up from packing her books.
Rehman stood beside the library door.
Hands folded.
Expression completely serious.
"Ji?"
"Faizal ke marks improve ho rahe hain."
"Allah ka shukar hai."
"Problem yeh hai."
She blinked.
"Problem?"
"Haan."
He nodded gravely.
"Ab uska confidence bhi improve ho raha hai."
A voice immediately shouted from the hallway.
"ABBU MAIN SUN SAKTA HOON."
Uzair and Donga burst out laughing.
Zalak pressed her lips together.
Failed.
And burst into laughter.
The corner of Rehman's mouth twitched upward.
Mission accomplished.
Again.
It became their thing.
Little conversations.
Pointless conversations.
The kind that should not matter.
The kind that somehow mattered the most.
One evening.
The electricity had gone out across half the neighbourhood.
Generators hummed throughout the estate.
The library glowed softly beneath lantern light.
Faizal had been sent away after completing homework.
Leaving only two people behind.
Zalak.
Rehman.
The rest of the boys were busy tracking the shipment of weapons.
"Journalism mein sabse ajeeb assignment kya mila tha?"
Rehman asked.
Zalak looked up.
"Ek baar mujhe teen din tak ek bakri ka interview follow karna pada tha."
Silence.
Rehman blinked.
"Bakri?"
"Haan."
"Interview?"
"Haan."
"Bakri ka?"
"Haan."
Rehman stared at her.
"Main explain kar sakta hoon."
"Nahi."
"Sun toh lo."
"Nahi."
"Rehman—"
"Main kisi bhi explanation ko accept nahi karunga."
For the next ten minutes, she attempted to explain.
For the next ten minutes, he refused to accept any explanation.
And for the next ten minutes, Hamza laughed so hard he nearly suffocated.
The worst part?
The most dangerous part?
Zalak genuinely enjoyed herself.
She enjoyed being there.
Enjoyed listening to them.
Enjoyed laughing.
Enjoyed him.
And every day that realisation became harder to ignore.
Meanwhile,
Rehman was having an entirely different crisis.
At two-thirty in the morning.
The mansion slept.
The guards rotated shifts.
The hallways stood empty.
And Rehman Baloch sat alone in his office pretending to review paperwork.
Pretending.
Because for the last fifteen minutes, he'd been reading the same page.
"Bhai?"
Uzair stood nearby.
Waiting. Assisting.
Rehman didn't respond.
"Bhai?"
Still nothing.
"REHMAN BHAI ."
Finally
“Kya hua madarchod?"
Uzair stared.
"Bhai aap bhees minute se ek h page dekh rahe hai file ki"
Rehman glanced downward.
Indeed.
Same page.
Same paragraph.
Same sentence.
"Hm."
Uzair narrowed his eyes.
Dangerously.
Suspiciously.
"Aapko wo pasand hai"
The file almost slipped from Rehman's hand.
"Aisi bachkaand baate mat kar Uzair"
"So aapko pata hai mein kiski baat kar raha hu?"
“Uzair."
"You drove her home yourself yesterday."
"Driver busy tha."
“Hamze ko bej dete”
Silence.
Uzair sighed.
The sigh of a man witnessing disaster in real time.
"Ya Allah."
"What?"
"Aapko sacchi pyaar hogya hai."
For a moment, something uncharacteristically boyish crossed Rehman's face.
Small.
Embarrassed.
Almost helpless.
Then he looked away.
And that was answer enough.
Because the truth was, he did.
More than he should.
Far more than he should.
He liked hearing her laugh.
He liked watching her explain things.
He liked how she treated Faizal.
He liked how she challenged him.
He liked that she wasn't intimidated by him.
He liked that she argued.
He liked that she listened.
And somewhere during the last two weeks,
He had stopped looking forward to evenings.
He looked forward to her.
Which was a problem.
A very serious problem.
Because Rehman Baloch had spent his entire life surviving enemies.
Bullets.
Betrayals.
Power struggles.
Nothing had prepared him for one journalism student in a pink salwar kameez.
One Thursday evening,
The lesson ended unusually late.
Almost ten-thirty.
Faizal had an upcoming exam.
The extra tutoring session stretched longer than expected.
Outside, rain poured from the sky.
Relentless.
Silver sheets of water hammered against the windows.
Zalak looked outside.
"Oh no."
"Problem?"
Rehman asked.
"I didn't bring an umbrella."
"Aap Mustang main aayi ho"
"Still."
He stared.
Then shook his head.
“Chaliye"
“Kaha?"
"Main chodd deta hu"
"Rehman ji, it's okay"
"Zalak."
The use of her first name stopped her immediately.
Because he almost never used it.
Usually, it was Miss Zalak.
Or Teacher.
Or some variation of formality.
Not Zalak.
For one strange second—
The room became very quiet.
Even Hamza noticed.
And the tiny shift made his stomach sink.
Because Rehman noticed too.
And neither looked away.
"Main chodd deta hoon."
His voice softened.
"Bahut baarish hai."
This time, she nodded.
The drive felt different.
Rain tapped against the windshield.
The city glowed beneath blurred lights.
Jazz music played from the radio.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Comfortable silence.
The most dangerous kind.
Finally,
she glanced toward him.
"Aap Jazz music hi sunte hai kya?"
He laughed quietly.
“Waise toh western classical bhi sunta hoon. Par Jazz ka mujhpe alag hi asar rehta hai”
"Waise hi mujhpe Hindustani classical—”
Rehman looked at her. Her breath hitched. For a second. She genuinely looked caught.
Then he laughed.
Actually laughed.
"Accha?"
"Haan.”
She smiled. Thank God he didn’t think much about it.
And Zalak's heart did something extremely inconvenient.
Outside her apartment building, the car stopped.
Neither moved.
Rain continued falling.
The dashboard lights painted soft shadows across his face.
For one brief moment, it felt like the rest of the city had disappeared.
"Tum kal aaogi?"
The question escaped him before he could stop it.
Not:
Will Faizal have class tomorrow?
Not:
What time will you arrive?
Just, "Tum kal aaogi?"
She looked at him.
Really looked at him.
And suddenly, the mission flashed through her mind.
The reports.
The lies.
The fake identity.
The secrets.
Everything she'd been trying desperately not to think about.
Because the terrifying thing wasn't that Rehman was falling for her.
The terrifying thing was that she wasn't sure she was falling alone anymore.
A small smile appeared on her face.
Soft.
Bittersweet.
"Haan."
Relief crossed his expression so quickly he probably didn't even realize it happened.
But she saw it.
And that made everything worse.
Much worse.
Because as she stepped out of the car and walked toward her building—
she could feel his eyes following her.
Not possessive.
Not demanding.
Just making sure she got inside safely.
The same way he always did.
The same way she had started looking for him whenever she arrived.
And neither of them understood yet that the closer they grew, the more impossible the ending would become. Above them, hidden behind clouds, the storm continued gathering.
And somewhere in a secure intelligence office, a new mission report waited unopened.
One that would change everything.
to be continued. ୨୧ ˖ ۫
author's note ♡
Oh no.
Hamza Nation, are we surviving this chapter???
because our boy is DOWN BAD.
Meanwhile, Zalak is forgetting basic spy training every time Rehman smiles, and headquarters is sitting somewhere screaming into a wall.
