Untitled

You pursed your lips and squinted your eyes at the man trailing after Uzair as he entered the haveli.

“Uzair bhai,” you sauntered towards him, “Naya boyfriend?”

“Ek chamaat marunga,” he grumbled.

“Oh? Rehman bhai ko bataungi aap kya bol rahein hain”.

“Main bhi bhai ko bataungu tu kya bakwaas kar rahi hai”.

The two of you looked at each other for a second, before you held a hand out, “Dono kuch nahi kahenge. Truce?”

Uzair sighed and gave you a limp handshake, and then turned to the man behind him, “Hamza, yeh hai Y/N, meri behen. Isse bachke rehna. Humne isse pagal khane mein bharti karne ki bahut koshish ki, par woh isse lene se mana kar-”

You punched his arm as hard as you could, ignoring his yelp. You turned to Hamza, “Conditioner kaunsa use karte hain aap?”

“Ji?” the man in question looked at you in confusion.

“Zulfon mein kaunsa conditioner lagate hain? Bahut hi sundar zulfein hain aapki”.

“Nikal yahaan se. Har baar ehmakhaana baatein karni hoti hai,” Uzair left the room, Hamza followed right after.

He turned back to look at you, immediately looking away when you winked at him.

—

“Kal se Hamza tumhe college le kar jayega,” Rehman said over dinner.

“Kyun?”

“Donga ko aur doosre kaam hain”.

“Oh, toh Hamza farigh hai?”

“Hamza koi farigh nahi hai,” Uzair rushed to his friend's defence, “Woh Babu Dakait aaj kal bahut ghoom raha hai. Tumhari safety ke liye Hamza kal se saath rahega”.

“Oh, toh Donga bhai mujhe mehfooz nahi rakh sakte hain,” you started to bicker when Rehman shut you and Uzair down with a single, withering look.

“Y/N,” Ulfat intervened, “Waqt kharaab hai. Apne bhai ki maan lo, warna college bhi nahi jaane denge”.

You shut up real quick and ate your biryani, kicking Uzair’s foot when he started to snicker.

—

The next morning, Hamza was at the haveli bright and early. To his chagrin, you sauntered out at nine.

“Bibi, aap ko late nahi ho raha hai?” he asked.

“Hamza… Hamzu? Main kya aap ko Hamzu bula sakti hun?” you didn’t wait for an answer, before continuing, “Hamzu aisa hai ki meri classein sirf gyarah baje shuru hoti hain. Agar mere bhai mein thodi akal hoti toh woh aap ko yeh bata deta. Khair, itni ummeed un se rakhni nahi chahiye”.

You pointed to the car, “Ab hum dono jaldi aa hi gayein hain, toh chalein. Main aap ko nashta kara deti hun - meri treat!”

“Bibi-”

“Bibi nahi, Y/N. Bibi bulaya toh gussa ho jaungi,” you stalked off towards the car, Hamza following you.

“Bi- Y/N, aap mujhe nashta na karayein-”

“Arrey, ab aap mujhe batayenge mujhe kya karna chahiye?”

“Nahi nahi, mera woh matlab nahi tha”.

“Theek hai, toh chalo, nashta karne chalein?”

You asked him to drive to Kaybees, citing they had ‘Karachi’s best khageena’. And when Hamza took his first bite, he had to agree.

Seeing his stern expression relax, you smiled a bit, “Achcha hai na? Kabhi bhi kahin achcha khaana khana ho toh mujhe batana. Mujhe nayi nayi cheezein khaanein ka bahut shauq hai. Aap ko achchi jagah ke baare mein bataungi”.

He nodded, concentrating on his food.

“Waise,” you leaned back in your chair, “Bhai bata rahe the ki aap Aalam bhai ki dukaan me kaam karte the?”

At the mention of Aalam, he finally looked up, “Ji”.

“Unke saath kaam kaise pada?”

“Sheher mein naya tha, aur unhonein kaam par rakha”.

You pursed your lips, noticing he didn’t want to speak. You insisted on paying the bill, before heading off to college.

—

It was your daily routine now. Hamza would come by ten, drop you off to college and head to the factory, before returning to pick you up at four.

He started to slowly open up to you, his one sentence answers becoming longer. Soon, he started asking you questions as well.

“Aaj paper kaisa tha?” he asked after a particularly difficult one.

Your lower lip trembled and your eyes welled up, “Hamzu, paper bahut kharaab tha. Main fail ho jaungi”.

You held your head in your hands, “Aur agar main iss baar bhi accounting mein fail hui toh Uzair bhai mera bahut mazaak udayenge. Aur Rehman bhai toh mera nikaah kara denge”. You spun around to look at him, “Aur agar unhonein mera nikaah kisi accountant se kara diya toh? Ya Allah, mujhe zindagi bhar number dekhne padenge”.

Hamza snorted, quickly turning it into a cough when you gave him a dirty look, “Y/N, aap ne bahut mehnat ki. Teen hafte se aap ne toh ice cream ke liye bhi nahi roka,” he teased. “Ab imtehaan ho gaya hai. Jo nateeja aana hai woh aayega. Ab chalte hain, aur raste mein main aapko chai pilaunga”. He winked at you, “Meri treat”.

—

This year for Eid, the whole family went to the factory. As both the brothers and Ulfat were busy distributing sweets, you spotted a small boy, around four years old, sitting in the corner.

You went and sat next to him. He looked at you, before looking down at his hands.

Smiling, you handed him a chocolate. When he looked at you apprehensively, you made a ‘shh’ gesture, before quickly closing his fingers around the chocolate. He looked up at you in surprise, and you giggled, smiling harder when he joined in.

“Mera naam Y/N hai. Aur tumhara?”

“Asif”.

“Asif, tumhe koi achchi games aati hai? Mujhe yahaan bore maar raha hai”.

As you continued to speak with the boy, you failed to notice Hamza standing in the corner, looking at you fondly.

With no care in the world, you simply continued to play with the little boy, making him laugh.

—

When you returned to college after Eid, Hamza returned sharp at four to pick you up.

As he drove out the gate, he stopped for a second looking at a grey van across the road.

“Hamza, sab khairiyat?”

“Hm? Haan, bas soch raha tha kis raste se jaana hai”.

“Cheel Chowk ki taraf se chalein, mujhe doodh soda ka mann hai,” you said, noting the way his eyes were now on the rearview mirror, and a finger on his chin as though he was lost in thought.

—

You’d had a long day of classes and assignments, and just wanted to relax before you got home.

So you and Hamza bought ice cream and stopped by the beach. You were in the car, taking dainty bites of your chocolate cone, while he practically inhaled his orange popsicle and immediately ripped open another.

“Yeh aapka sabse favourite ice cream hai?”

“Nahi,” he said, mouth full, “Pista kulfi sabse best hoti hai. Mere ghar-”. He stopped halfway, and took another bite of his popsicle.

“Ghar ki yaad aati hai?”

He turned to look at you in the unusually bright sunset, “Kabhi kabhi”.

“Kya miss kartein hain?”

He looked down at the ice cream dripping on your fingers, before looking straight at you, “Ammi ke haath ka khana. Sabse behtareen halwa puri banati thi woh”.

“Halwa puri?”

He nodded, “Meri beh-bhai ko bhi-” he sat up straight, “Mere bhai ko bhi bahut pasand tha. Jis din ammi nashte me halwa puri banati thi, hum dono ka din bahut hi behtareen hota tha”.

“Aapke bhai ab kahaan hai?”

“Bade bhai Azaad Baloch army mein mujahid the.” he looked down, “Shaheed ho gaye”.

“I’m so sorry,” you gently placed your hand on his. He stared at it for a long moment, blinking only when you retracted it.

He looked out of the window, “Ek baat poochun?”

“Bilkul”.

“Kya tumhe kabhi darr lagta hai?” He turned towards you, “Tumhare dono bhai itne khatarnak… peshe mein hain?”

You smiled wryly, “Bahut darr lagta hai. Har subah jab Uzair aur Rehman bhai ghar se nikalte hain, main dua maangti hun ki wapis aayein”.

You leaned back into your seat, watching the ice cream drip down your fingers and your wrist, “Par jab unhein mera aur bhabhi ka khauf dikhta hai, woh aur bhi laparwah ho jaate hain, hum dono ki chinta karte hue”. 

You shook your head, “Isiliye main humesha unse itni chhed khaani karti hun - so there’s one less thing to stress about”.

—

“Bhai,” you sidled up to Rehman on the couch, giving him the full puppy eyes, “Bin Qasim Park ke paas mela laga hai. Please sab chalein?”

“Koi nahi jayega, hum tere jaise farigh nahi hai,” Uzair yelled from the other room.

You pouted at Rehman, lower lip trembling just the way you knew would melt him, “Aap humesha kaam mein busy hain. Apne bhaiyon ko do hafton se theek se bhi nahi mili”.

 He visibly melted, “Ek raat kaam rok lenge. Kal raat hi chalte hain”.

You beamed at him, hugging his arm, “Shukriya bhai! Main abhi bachchon ko bata deti hun!” You rushed past Uzair to tell your nephews, sticking your tongue out at him, grinning when he gave you a soft smile.

—

The mela was a sensory overload.

Bright lights, loud laughter and screams, and a melange of colours surrounded you. As you walked around, the scent of frying oil followed you until you begged Uzair to buy you samosas.

It wasn’t just the six of you that had come. Uzair, hypervigilant about safety, had insisted that Donga, Siyahi, and Hamza accompany you all.

Rehman, Ulfat, and the kids had walked off to the rollercoaster, followed by Donga. Rehman looked queasy already as Ulfat and the boys jumped in excitement.

Uzair and Siyahi made their way towards the edge of the park to sneak in a cigarette.

That left you and Hamza.

“Hamzu, aap ko koi ride try karna hai?”

“Nahi. Aap sab ko mele le aayi hain, aap ko kaunsa ride try karna hai?”

You turned to him, “Aap ko ek raaz batau?” When he nodded, you continued, “Mujhe ye sab rides nahi pasand”.

“Toh hum yahaan kyun aayein hain?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“Bachche Uzair aur Rehman bhai ko bahut miss karte hain. Aur Uzair bhai bhi aaj kal bahut stressed lag rahein hain. Mujhe laga agar hum sab ek baar kahi bahar chalein toh sabka dil bhi behel jayega aur bachche bhi khush ho jayenge”.

His eyes turned soft and just as he took a step towards you, you heard Uzair’s voice, “Y/N! Hamza! Bhai kahan hain?”

Hamza immediately stepped away from you, “Bhai bhabhi aur bachchon ko rollercoaster le gaye hain”.

Uzair smirked, “Bhai ko nafrat hai un rollercoasteron se. Aaj dekhna bhai toh ultiyaan karenge”.

“Chee,” you scrunched your nose, “Uzair bhai, you’re disgusting”. 

He shrugged, “Chal, jab tak bhai aatein hain, ek round maar lein mele ka?”

You walked next to your brother, eyeing the fleece-lined jackets at one of the stalls 

“Bhai, aap ek naya jacket le lein. Aap ke purane wale mein kitne chhed ho gayein hain”.

“Arrey usme kya hai, kyun fizul me naya jacket lun?”

“Aap ko thand lag jayegi!”

“Baloch hun, ye Karachi ki sardi se kuch nahi hota hai mujhe”.

“Toh jacket pehen na hi bandh kar lo!”

As the two of you argued, your eyes wandered across the mela, before falling on a small stall with silver jewellery. You stopped mid-sentence and walked away, Uzair huffing and following you without any complaints.

“Y/N, aap ko chudiyaan leni hai?” Siyahi asked, as him and Hamza followed the two of you.

“Pata nahi,” you mumbled, looking at the beautiful display. Your fingers gently ran over a pair of filigree jhumkas that gleamed under the moonlight.

“Lene hai? Dila dun?” Uzair asked, eyes tracking your soft expression.

“Nahi bhai,” you said, “Par agar aap ko kabhi koi ladki achchi lage toh us ke liye aise jhumke khareed lena. Us hi waqt nikaah ke liye maan jayegi”.

“Chup,” Uzair grumbled, walking off to another stall, ignoring the way you laughed and followed him.

The two of you ended up at a stall that sold good quality shawls. You held up a soft black woollen one, “Shirani saab ke liye ye wali le kar jaayein agli baar”.

“Tujhe lagta hai unhe achcha lagega?” Uzair asked, brows furrowed as he seriously considered it.

“Bahut achcha kapda hai, aur bahut achche daam mein de raha hai. Main sach keh rahi hun, le lein. Shirani saab ko tohfe pasand hai,” you teased.

You then turned to Siyahi, “Kya lagta hai?”

“Achcha hai. Balochistan mein bahut thand padi hai is saal”.

You nodded, turning to Hamza, but finding an empty space there.

“Hamza?” you craned your neck, and your eyes fell on him at the jewellery stall. You saw him take change from the owner and put it in his wallet, before taking a clear packet and stuffing it in his pocket.

The light fell on the packet and your breath hitched as you noticed they were the very same jhumkas you had touched.

Your eyes met his across the ground, and the two of you just stared at each other. The tips of his ears had gone red, but his gaze refused to back down. Your mouth was slightly open as your thoughts ran at the speed of light.

You started to shyly smile, when you noticed Hamza stiffening and starting to yell Uzair’s name. Your brows furrowed, before you felt a large hand come around you and the weight of metal against your temple.

Before you could scream, a palm came and covered your mouth, pulling you against a wall of mass.

“Y/N!” Uzair screamed, unable to do anything but point his gun at the man behind you.

“Ek kadam aage liya toh isse jaan se maar dunga!” the man behind you yelled.

“Babu saale, bachchi ko chhod!” Uzair yelled.

Your heart raced as you noticed Siyahi lowering his gun, “Babu, tujhe hum se problem hai. Bachchi ko chhod aur mard ke tarah baat kar!”

“Mard?” Babu sniggered, “Saale tu mardaangi ki baat karega mujh se?”

“Babu,” you heard Uzair’s voice shake. From the corner of your eye, you noticed another man standing next to Babu and pointing his gun at Uzair.

Dread started to fill you, and your eyes searched for Hamza, who was staring straight ahead at Babu. He met your eyes and gestured for you to stay calm.

You took a deep breath, and stood still. Hamza quietly pulled his gun out.

Just as he started to take aim, the man next to Babu suddenly turned towards him. 

A gunshot ripped through the air. You violently jerked at the sound, unused to it. The sudden movement gave Uzair an opening.

You heard two more gunshots behind you. The grip around you loosened, and you heard the thud of Babu’s body meeting the ground.

The man next to Babu fell forward, a hole in the back of his head, Siyahi’s gun having met its mark.

Your brows furrowed, if this gunshot hit him, then the first… You looked up and ran towards Hamza, the boys hot at your heels.

Before you could react, Uzair moved forward, crouching down and taking Hamza in his lap, “Lodu, tu kyun hila?”

“Distraction chahiye-” he said, weakly.

Siyahi called an ambulance in the background, and you heard Rehman and Donga arrive at the scene.

White noise flooded your ears as Uzair explained everything that happened, while gently cradling Hamza in his lap.

“Donge, tu bhabhi, bachchon, aur Y/N ko ghar le ja,” Rehman said.

“Nahi”. The white noise stopped.

“Kya?”

“Nahi bhai,” you looked up at Rehman, eyes moist, “Yeh sab meri galti hai. Main aap ke satah hospital chalungi”.

“Y/N, yeh bakwaas karne ka waqt nahi hai”.

“Bhai,” Uzair was looking at you with an unreadable expression, “Isse aane do”.

—

You sat next between your brothers as Hamza was taken inside the operating theater.

You closed your eyes, but all you could see was red. You opened them with a gasp, before Uzair’s hand covered yours, “Kyun aana tha?”

You bit your lip and closed your eyes again, a tear falling down your face, “Meri wajah se unhein goli lagi hai”.

Rehman lit a cigarette, “Teri koi galti nahi hai. Woh Babu saala-” he turned to Uzair, “Kya hua uska?”

“Khatam kar diya,” Uzair replied with a hardened voice, “Par yeh sab kal dekhenge bhai”.

Rehman nodded, folding his arms.The three of you sat silently for what felt like hours, until the surgeon came out.

Uzair was immediately on his feet. You watched as he spoke to the doctor, his shoulders gradually relaxing, before he sighed in relief.

He returned to your seat, “Sab khairiyat hai. Woh hosh mein hain”.

Rehman stood up and placed his hand on your head, before following Uzair into the room.

Siyahi looked across the room at you knowingly.

—

When your brothers came out, Rehman walked out followed by Siyahi, while Uzair sat next to you.

“Woh theek hai”.

“Hm”.

“Teri galti nahi hai. Babu ki hai”.

“Hm”.

“Tu usse pasand karti hai?”

You paused. That was enough to answer his question.

“Main kuch nahi keh raha hun. Bas pooch raha hun”.

You looked down at your hands.

“Ja,” Uzair said, “Woh tera intezaar kar raha hai”.

—

You entered the room and just the sight of him on the hospital bed made your eyes well up.

“Y/N,” he said, “Kyun ro rahi ho?”

You sat next to him, tears spilling out, “Mujhe maaf kar dein. Meri wajah se-”

“Y/N,” he said firmly, “Uzair aur Rehman bhai ne bhi aap ko kaha hai. Aap ki isme koi galti nahi hai. Babu ki hai”.

The tears continued to roll down your face. He reached his hand out and covered yours, “Aap ne jhumke dekh liye the, na?”

“Aap ko abhi jhumke ki baat karni hain?”

“Babu ki toh nahi karni”.

You sighed, “Aap ne jhumke kyun liye?”

“Aap hi Uzair se keh rahi thi ki agar koi ladki pasand ho toh-”

You gasped, “Aap kya keh rahein hain!”

“Aap janti hain main kya kehna chahta hun”. He winced as he adjusted himself.

“Hamza,” you started crying, “Hum nahi-”

“Kyun?”

“Aap jaante hain kyun! Yeh zindagi itni khatarnaak hai. Main apni zindagi aise nahi guzaar sakti! Agar aaj aap ko kuch ho gaya hota toh? Aap ko koi andaza bhi hai mujh par aaj kya beet ti agar aap- aap-”

“Y/N,” he tightened his hold on your hand, “Main wada karta hun ki main hamesha tumhare paas wapis aaunga. Zinda”.

“Aap aisa wada nahi kar sakte hain. Iss- iss kaam mein nahi”.

“Jaanta hun. Aur yeh sab jaante hue, main yeh wadaa kar raha hun”. He looked straight at you.

“Hamzu, aap samajh nahi-”

“Main jaanta hun tum aaj bahut darr gayi thi. Tumhari aankhon mein maine aaj sachcha khauf dekha. Aur yeh khauf ko main bhaga nahi sakta. Par main wada kar raha hun. Main tumhara hun. Aur har baar, main wapis tumhare paas zinda aaunga,” he said determinedly. 

You took a deep breath, “Sach me?”

“Maan jao na”.

You nodded, letting out a long sigh.

“Aap bahut dard mein honge. Main haveli chali jaati hun”.

“Hm,” he started, “Ek favour karogi?”

“Batayein”.

“Woh table par mera samaan hain. Mera wallet mere takiye ke neeche rakh dengi?”

You stood up, confused, but walked over to the table at the edge of the room. As you pulled his wallet out of the mound of clothes, your hands brushed against the pocket of his pants. You turned to him, and he was already looking at you.

“Jhumke hain,” he said, quietly.

You pulled them out, admiring the delicate filigree work.

You went over and helped him up, before placing the wallet under his pillow and helping him lay down.

“Jhumke pehen ke toh dikha do?”

A short, wet laugh escaped you, “Aap ko sona nahi hai?”

“Aap ko ek baar unn jhumke mein dekh lun toh neend badi achchi aayegi”.

You shook your head slightly and grinned. You removed the studs you were wearing and carefully put the jhumkas through your ears. The whole time, your eyes were on him, and his on your ears.

You adjusted the jhumkas and looked at him shyly, “Kaisi lag rahi hun?”

“Bilkul meri”.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Tag list (If you'd like to be added/removed please let me know!) 

Uzair was less like a husband and more akin to a golden retriever that Veena had inadvertently adopted, that trailed after its owner with a constantly wagging tail and softened brown eyes wherever she went. 

Persisting even behind a locked door. 

In fact, especially behind a locked door. 

Or if she attempted to carve out a sliver of personal space to gather her wandering thoughts, decompress, or covertly compile critical intel.

Yet, her husband's omnipresence was making the subtle art of espionage an increasingly difficult feat to achieve. 

If she so much as diverted her attention to something other than him, while in his vicinity, he would instantly pout and whine with offence, as if she had painted his favourite jeep a vibrant shade of pink all over again. 

It was an exasperatingly endearing routine, much like the predicament she found herself in right now. 

Veena had stepped out of the steaming confines of the bathroom after a bath, and just as a safety precaution, she had taken care to close the bedroom door behind her. 

This preemptive measure was because Faisal had a habit of sprinting unannounced into her and Uzair's room to drag her into whatever chaotic shenanigan he had cooked up. Fortunately, the boy possessed the decency to knock whenever the door was closed.

The poor child had been traumatised a few weeks prior when he had carelessly pushed a closed door open, only to be greeted by the scandalous sight of his Chachi sitting flush against his Chacha's lap as the two of them passionately kissed each other's faces off. 

Thus, to guarantee herself a fleeting window of peace and quiet, and to go over her elaborate skincare routine before drying her damp skin, she had decided to lock the bedroom door for an uninterrupted minute.

In hindsight, she really should have known better than to expect solitude. 

It was as though Uzair possessed an internal radar calibrated to detect the exact moment she attempted to distance herself from him, even for the most harmless and mundane reasons. 

Barely a moment had slipped by before rapid succession of light knocks rattled against the wood, followed by the muffled cadence of Uzair's voice calling out her name. 

"Veena?"

A defeated sigh escaped her lips, yet she was entirely powerless to stop the smile that broke across her face at his predictable impatience. 

"Haan?" she called back.

Outside, the handle jiggled restlessly as he tried to gain entry, only to realise the door was locked. 

"Kya hua? Darwaza kyu band hai?" he questioned with childish bewilderment, making Veena let out a snort at his antics. 

Amused by his desperation, she gathered a generous dollop of lotion into her palms, smoothly rubbing the fragrant cream over the expanse of her legs. 

"Darwaza isiliye band hai, kyuki main bhagne ki planning kar rahi hu," she joked playfully.

In response, an elongated whine echoed through the wood, "Veenaaaa!"

"Kya?" she called out again, intentionally injecting a touch of irritation into her voice to egg him on. 

There was silence for a beat before his voice cut through the quiet, sounding like a petulant child pouting for his favourite toy. 

"Darwaza kholna, meri gun ander reh gyi hai," he pleaded through the barrier.

Veena bit her lower lip, trying to suppress the giggle that threatened to erupt from her chest at his absurdity. Her towering husband was a literal child when it came to her affection, always inventing the most outlandish excuses just to force himself into her proximity. 

She cast a swift glance toward the dresser where his gun typically lay discarded whenever he crossed the threshold of the Haveli, and surely enough, the surface was bare.

Still, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt, she padded over to the wooden dresser. She pulled open the drawers, sifting through his personal items, and even went as far as to lift the plush pillows on the bed, beneath which he kept the weapon at night for easy reach in case of an emergency. 

Predictably, there was no weapon in sight.

Amused by his transparent ploy, she adjusted the towel around her frame and sat down at the edge of the bed. She glanced between the empty dresser and the locked door, unable to resist the overwhelming urge to tease him. 

"Gun kamre mien nahi hai," she called out. 

From the hallway, Uzair let out a frustrated sigh, "Kamre mien hi hai," he insisted stubbornly.

"Acha? Kaha hai, main de deti hu tumhe," her shoulders shook as she erupted into a fit of giggles. 

"Tumhe mujhe pareshan karne mien mazza atta hai na?" he muttered, as she kept giggling. 

"Maine kab pareshan kiya tumhe?" she shot back.

He rattled the door handle once more with an insistent tug. 

"Main kapde badal rahi hu!" she exclaimed. 

“Toh?”

"Toh kya toh? I need some privacy," she asserted. 

"Not from me you don't," he countered before he whined once again like a child, "Veena, please!"

Yielding to his relentless charm, she shook her head, and finally rose from the bed and closed the distance to the door. The moment she turned the lock and stepped aside, the door swung open to reveal Uzair lingering closely against the door frame. 

He stepped slowly into the bedroom, his eyes locking onto her figure with an intensity that made the air grow thick, his hand reaching backward to lock the door behind himself.

His obsidian eyes descended from the smooth, exposed expanse of her bare shoulders, tracking a single, glistening droplet of water as it escaped the curve of her neck and disappeared tantalisingly into the valley of her breasts, tracing a slow path down to her slender legs.

His eyes darkened to a stormy black as he took a step closer, forcing her to instinctively take a step back, in a teasing dance of chase.

As his intense, unblinking eyes remained focused on her face, Veena felt a sudden heat rise up her cheeks, staining her skin a deep crimson. 

It was one thing to tease him from behind a locked door, but it was an entirely different thing to have him standing directly before her in all his towering, six-foot-two glory. 

The rolled-up sleeves of his navy blue kurta exposed his corded, muscular forearms, and the crisp pathani suit perfectly highlighted his exceptionally broad shoulders and lean, athletic build. His glinting silver chain peeked through the opened top buttons of his kurta, hair disheveled from the oppressive Karachi heat.

He was drinking her as if he were a man starved for an eon, looking at her with a hunger that suggested only she possessed the power to quench his thirst. 

He should not have been wielding this much power over her. 

He was a target, for fuck's sake.

But it was terrifyingly easy to forget that cold reality when he looked at her as if she were his entire universe.

And the truth was, she knew she absolutely was his entire world, a realisation that made the execution of her tasks infinitely more difficult and emotionally devastating. 

As he continued his slow advance toward her and she retreated step by step, a nervous, breathless laugh slipped from her lips. 

"Kya?" she whispered. 

Uzair didn't take his eyes off her for a fraction of a second, a dangerously enticing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 

"Darwaza kyu lock kiya tha?" he asked. 

"Kaha na, main kapde badal rahi thi."

"Darwaza band kar deti, lock kyu kiya?" Uzair questioned with a tilt of his head. 

God, this man has no business being this hot, Veena thought to herself. 

The back of her knees struck the edge of the mattress, and she fell backward onto the bed. She looked up at him and snapped, "Ye kamra mera bhi hai, main jo marzi karu!"

Uzair stood towering over her for a long, moment, simply looking down at her vulnerable form sprawled upon the sheets. In her fall, the damp towel had ridden up, exposing her thighs to the warm air in the room. Slowly, he lowered his massive frame down onto the floor in front of her.

"Kamra bhi tumhara hai..." he rasped, his voice thick with burning desire as his eyes locked onto hers, "...aur main bhi." 

The weight of his words, spoken with such reverence, made her breath hitch. 

He placed his broad palms on either side of her thighs, his long fingers spreading wide against her skin as he gently guided her legs apart. The pads of his thumbs inched up along the sensitive inner skin, as he drew little circles into her flesh. 

He sat further back onto the heels of his feet, his heavy-lidded eyes intensely focused as they studied the growing want blooming across her flushed face.

She watched him with bated breath as he dipped his head between her parted thighs, his face turning to the side so he could press his warm, parted lips firmly against the highly sensitive inner flesh of her thigh. The contact made a violent shudder ripple through her body.

"Uzair!" she gasped, her fingers instinctively twitching against the bedsheets. 

"Abhi toh maine kuch kiya bhi nahi, jaan," he chuckled against her thigh, his hot breath ghosting over her bare skin and sending a fresh wave of goosebumps cascading down her legs.

The agonisingly slow trail of his lips began to rise higher and higher along her inner thigh. Her head fell back against the mattress, the rest of her body helplessly following suit to surrender to the mounting pleasure. 

Desperate for closer contact, she adjusted her weight and pushed herself further up the bed, scooting backward against the pillows so as to make more space for his massive frame to fit comfortably between her legs.

He moved in perfect tandem with her, his lips remaining in place against the inner curve of her thigh as if his mouth were fused directly to her skin. As he shifted, the rough, prickly texture of his beard scraped against her soft flesh, creating a friction that stimulated her senses in the best way possible. 

He anchored himself between her thighs, resting his weight heavily on his elbows as his face inched closer and closer to her aching core.

Shifting his weight for a brief moment, his arms came up from their placement at the edge of the bed to wrap possessively around her hips, encompassing her in a vice-like hold. His fingers clawed demandingly at the pliant squish of her inner thighs, the pads of his fingers pulsing against her skin with pressure as he effortlessly pried her legs even further apart. 

He was intentionally making her wait the exact same way she had made him wait behind the locked door just moments before. Nuzzling inwards, he pressed a searing kiss into the innermost crease of her thigh, followed by another, and then another in a slow progression. 

The more kisses that followed, the closer his lips crept toward her exposed cunt, his hot breath driving her crazy. By the fourth, and then the fifth kiss, his lips finally reached the hypersensitive outer lips.

Her stomach shuddered violently as a direct response to his touch, a tremor rippling through her core. It was when she felt her lower back lift completely from the sheets that her hands shot downward, her fingers desperately seeking an anchor and burying themselves deep into his thick, dark hair. 

Bending her legs at the knees, she lifted her feet and placed them firmly against his broad, muscular back, her heels digging into his spine. 

A dark, triumphant grin spread across his face against her skin. He had her exactly where he wanted her, and he was precisely where he belonged, lost in his sanctuary.

His lips finally circled her clit, and it was there that he resumed pressing open mouthed kisses. Each pressing touch of his mouth made her thighs twitch uncontrollably beside his head. Then, his tongue extended outward, flat and wet, as he licked a long stripe from the middle of her cleft all the way up to where his lips hovered just below the mound of her clit.

He repeated the motion, drawing his tongue over and over and over her sensitive flesh until all that coated her skin was the slick sheen of his spit. Before long, those broad licks turned into concentrated suckles, his mouth moving with focus on a single spot, driving her to the brink of insanity.

With his grip still firmly encompassing the upper curve of her thighs, he adjusted her body within his grasp, angling and tilting her hips upward so as to better nuzzle his face deeper between her folds. Her legs inadvertently trailed further down the length of his broad back as her thighs pressed tightly into his rigid shoulders, completely bracketing his head. 

Uzair loathed being trapped or contained in any capacity, yet this was the best trap he had ever encountered. If it were up to him, he would never want to escape from this for rest of his days.

Slowly, his hold withdrew from her thighs and roamed upward, his hands flat against her skin as his thumbs led the way, running up the sides of her torso. He paused when his hands reached her breasts, his palms cupping the aching mounds. He held each of them nice and firm, squeezing the supple flesh and using the grip as an anchor to tether himself to her, keeping her exactly as she was.

Pinned, exposed, and near him.

His tongue curled between her slick folds, the once flat muscle now growing pointed as he pushed it through her lips. While his touch was light, her overstimulated body processed it as anything but, and the moment the tip of his pointed tongue lapped squarely against her hypersensitive clit, her entire body jerked violently, making her hips buck against his face in an uncoordinated motion. 

Her nails raked sharply across his scalp, her fingers pushing through his hair as she grabbed a fistfuls of the thick strands on either side of his head. While it was a desperate effort of control on her part to ground herself, the forceful grip only served to encourage him, egging him on to have her respond in such a visceral manner. 

But there was only so much direct pleasure her body could endure, especially with his mouth so concentrated on her throbbing bundle of nerves.

When his thumbs and index fingers simultaneously began to pinch and tweak her nipples, the dual stimulation became extremely overwhelming, and she tried to scamper away from him. 

A loud, broken moan tore from her lips, echoing off the bedroom walls. 

"Uzair...its...its...too much," she cried out, her head thrashing against the sheets.

With every wet lick, suckle, and kiss he pressed into her skin, she felt herself creeping closer and closer toward the precipice. It began to teeter dangerously into an unbearable threshold of pleasure, her hips shuddering against his invading tongue as she tried to retreat from the bottomless pit of ecstasy. 

He refused to let her get far, his grip tightening like iron around her breasts to hold her in place.

"No," he growled into her wet skin, the word reverberated directly against her clit, sending a vibration straight through her body.

"Please...Uzair!" she wept, her hands pushing weakly at his shoulders as she tried to scramble backward up the mattress. 

But in the very next second, his hand left her nipple and slapped down hard against her throbbing, soaking pussy. The sharp, stinging impact cracked through the quiet room, making her cry out in a mixture of shock and arousal as her spine arched completely off the bed.

He did it again, and then again, the impact of his palm against her wetness causing her sweet juices to spray out across his lips and chin. 

Before she could even process the sensation, his lips circled around her clit again, his tongue lapping ravenously at the overflow. In that suspended moment, she felt herself reach the edge of the cliff, the tension in her lower abdomen tightening to a breaking point.

The climax hit her harsh and fast, a blinding explosion of heat that shattered her composure entirely. She tried to move, to writhe away from the oncoming storm, but his hands grabbed her thighs in a bruising grip, pulling her lower body even closer to his face as he ruthlessly nipped at her bundled nerves. 

She cried, panting out nonsensically, her voice dissolving into mindless pleas and whimpers as he continued to eat her out like a man possessed.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she choked out, her voice severely strained, as her juices gushed out in waves, completely drenching his face, lips, and beard. 

If she had thought it felt like too much before, she was surely mistaken, because the intensity of the orgasm was paralysing. She made one last, weakened attempt to rid him from her body, her trembling hands pushing uselessly at his head, but it was of no use. 

He further secured his grasp around her trembling thighs, never stopping for a single second as he kept lapping greedily at her juices, as if wasting even a single drop would be sacrilegious. He held her there, refusing to let her come down from her high.

"Stop moving," he commanded against her wet skin. 

"Uzair," she whined, her body twitching beneath him as the aftershocks continued to roll through her muscles. 

But when she really, seriously, tried to flee the overwhelming sensitivity, he finally let up. He slowly released her shaking, shuddering body, though his face remained buried deeply between her thighs, his chest panting as he drew in ragged breaths.

He placed one final kiss on her swollen, throbbing clit, making her let out a pathetic, high-pitched mewl. 

Then, slowly lifting his head, his face coated with her juices, he placed a soft kiss on the innermost corner of her thigh and muttered, as if in a drunken haze. 

"Dubara darwaza lock matt karna."

shoutout to biwi ji for letting me ramble about Uzeena in her DMs @obsessedwidskincare ♥️😭🫂 the best fr 💕🥺🫵🏻

Taglist

(Please send an ask if you want to be removed from the taglist ♥️✨)

@harrystyleskiwi9 @kenkozkmg @yembarzal @cloudmast @bitchy-bi-trash @geometric-circle @shadylovedhurandhar @thegay-lord @yumiliciousblog @sanpiece @tojisloft @nervouscashrascalflowers @fangirly-min @desi-brownie @criticalcoffeecrisis @tanipartner @blossomedfloweroflove @obsessedwidskincare @pavbhajisupremacist @saniisinsane @taliareads @luvvkk @curiousbutbored @oh-no-nana @stayc6025 @rehmandakaitswife @chummywchimmy @yoooooll @deeeeexx @goldenharrysworld @noone1233nobody @perfectcherryblossomrebel @donewithmath @layinglowkey @doresthings @angellwhispers @grovelingmen @goodnightkatherine @willowsgoldenhour @nooriyat

Young Jaskirat who laughed out loud with his siblings everytime his papa tried to steal a piece of rasgulla only to get smacked on hand my his mother's spatula.

Young Jaskirat who loved his hair getting caressed by his mother while keeping his head on her lap. Perks of being the iklauta raja beta.

Young Jaskirat who always prepared surprises for his mother's birthday. From the moment he started understanding the meaning of birthday, his mother's almirah was never empty after midnight on her birthday.

Young Jaskirat who always hid his face behind his mother's dupatta whenever he faced any difficulty. Even for few minutes. He did.

Young Jaskirat who always saw Harleen as his second mother and always ate from her hands every single day. Only exceptions were the days when Harleen used to be sick, on those days, he used to feed her from his hands.

Young Jaskirat who always strolled around Harleen holding her dupatta in his hands pleading her to do his school homeworks because he found it *useless*.

Young Jaskirat who hated anyone giving him fashion advice or touching his hair, always used to stand in front of Harleen happily for his hairstyles and OOTD because according to him only Harleen was a genuine fashionista in the whole pind.

Young Jaskirat who always used to get angry or sometimes cry whenever his papa or mummy brought up the topic of Harleen's marriage because according to him no man was good enough for her but secretly he was terrified of living alone without her.

Young Jaskirat who always saw Jasleen as some kaanch ki gudiya because she was almost his first daughter considering how much he cared about her since he saw her as a newborn.

Young Jaskirat who always choke-slammed Jasleen whenever he got chance, despite seeing her as a fragile peace because according to him he was just making her strong for future.

Young Jaskirat who hated studies, always pushed Jasleen to study well and fought with anyone who said that girls should learn household works instead of studying.

Young Jaskirat who always grumbled about Jasleen's mission of completely draining his pocket money on Rakhi, but ended up giving her his share of sweets too because she loved it.

Hamza who now carries the phantom weight of the hand of his papa whenever he achieve something in his mission, be it transmitting any information or killing any terrorist or helping someone needy.

Hamza who remembers the memories of his papa making tea now whenever he sits with Aalam to have a cup of his *noon chai* though he never finished the cup ever before Aalam's death.

Hamza who always gets reminded of how he couldn't be on time when his family was getting tormented despite promising himself to be their shield.

Hamza who keeps that old vintage watch in his almirah safely and plans it to gift it to Zayan as the blessings of his grandfather who was never aware of them.

Hamza who couldn't eat any sweet now because his father loved sweets. Eating sweets now always makes his nauseous because of trauma.

Hamza who now can't get any head caresses from his mother despite growing out the hair so long. Though his mother would have scolded him for keeping his hair this long. He misses the scolding. Imaginary scolding.

Hamza who always goes to masjid on his mother's birthday now. He badly wishes to atleast visit a gurudwara and pray for his mother's well being and happiness, but... Life is cruel sometimes.

Hamza who just keeps his face hidden in pillows expecting some warmth in difficult situations. Even for few minutes. He does.

Hamza who now eats anything without tantrum because nobody will tolerate his antics other than his didi.

Hamza who now did every *useless* works without complaining anything because the one who used to listen to his complaints is not with him anymore.

Hamza who now wears only black because that was the only color which doesn't need styling and looked good on him always, as his didi told him.

Hamza who now just cries at the thought of his didi being away from him. He feels only guilt and remorse for not being able to come in time when his didi needed him.

Hamza wanted his firstborn to be a girl so that he could atleast see a glimpse of his Jasleen in the baby.

Hamza who now regrets not making Jasleen actually able to fight in those future moments. If only he could spend more time with her...

Hamza who constantly keeps worrying whether Jasleen completed her studies or not? Or she also indulged in household chores after his departure?

Hamza who now craves for Jasleen's mission of draining his pocket. What is the use of being Sher-e-Baloch when his sister is staying there without gifts in Rakhi?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

UHH... HOW WAS IT??? SORRY IF IT SUCKED.

‘Neeche utaro, Hamza… Abhi kuch der baad Zayan ko khana bhi khilana hai…’ He shook his head, his voice low and steady, the kind of tone that seemed to wrap around her like a blanket.

‘Nahi meri jaan, kahin nahi jaa rahi ho tum. Pehle ab tum aaram karogi aur tumhare saare kaam mai dekh lunga’

He carried her down the hallway, each step deliberate, feeling the heat radiating from her body seep into his own. The bedroom door was ajar, the soft glow of a nightlight spilling onto the polished floor. Hamza gently lowered Yalina onto the rumpled sheets, pulling the quilt up to her chin before he even had a chance to straighten the pillows.

He moved to the small wooden cabinet beside the bed, retrieved the antipyretics (PCM milti hogi kya paxtan me? 💀), and measured out a precise dose into a tiny spoon. Returning to her side, he tipped the spoon gently against her lips.

‘Chalo munh kholo, Yalina.’

Yalina obliged, her eyes half‑closed, and swallowed the medicine with a grimace that softened as the cool liquid slid down her throat. Hamza brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead, his thumb tracing the line of her brow. ‘Kaisa lag raha hai?’

Yalina made a disgusting face while scrunching her nose, ‘Yuckk! Aur jaadu ki goli di thi kya tumne jo dete hi theek hojaungi.’

He smiled, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. The contact was brief but warm, sending a faint shiver through her.

‘Hojaogi theek jaldi, chalo aaram karo ab. The world won’t collapse even if you take twenty‑four hours to heal.’

He rose, padded to the kitchen, and returned with a steaming bowl of plain rice with some daal. He settled on the edge of the bed, placing the tray within easy reach. ‘Thoda sa kha lo meri jaan, just to keep your strength up.’

Yalina lifted her head weakly, eyes flickering with gratitude. Hamza guided the spoon to her lips, blowing gently on the mix of rice and pulses to cool it before each sip. She ate it slowly, the warmth spreading through her chest, easing the tightness that had knotted her muscles.

When the bowl was half‑empty, she set it down with a sigh. ‘I’m sorry…’ Hamza shook his head, his hand finding hers and squeezing it gently. ‘You don’t have to apologize for being sick. You’re doing the hardest job there is, keeping us all safe and fed. Let me do the worrying for now.’

He tucked the quilt tighter around her shoulders, making sure no draft could slip in. Then he slipped off his shoes, climbed onto the bed beside her, and pulled her into a gentle embrace. Her head rested against his shoulder, her breathing beginning to even out as the fever’s grip loosened.

Throughout the night, Hamza became a quiet sentinel. Every half‑hour he stirred, checking the thermometer tucked under her arm, feeling the heat of her skin with the back of his hand. When the numbers crept upward, he whispered reassurances, wiped her brow with a cool cloth, and offered another sip of water.

Each time he rose, he padded softly to the adjacent room where Zayan slept, his small chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm. Hamza lingered a moment, brushing a stray curl from the boy’s forehead, pressing a light kiss to his temple before slipping back to Yalina’s side.

When the first pale light of dawn began to creep through the curtains, Yalina’s fever had broken. Her skin was cool to the touch, her breathing deep and steady. She turned her head toward Hamza, eyes bright despite the lingering fatigue.

‘Thank you… for everything.’

The first light of dawn filtered weakly through the heavy curtains, but Hamza had already drawn them shut, sealing the room in a soft, velvety darkness. The air was still, the only sound the faint, rhythmic breathing of Yalina as she lay curled against the pillows, her forehead slick with a thin sheen of sweat.

A migraine had gripped her like a vise, turning even the whisper of a breeze into a jagged stab of pain. She winced as the faintest creak of the floorboard echoed in the hallway, and a low, frustrated groan escaped her lips.

Hamza moved silently, his bare feet padding across the cool wooden floor. He paused at the doorway, eyes softening at the sight of his wife’s strained expression. He slipped a hand beneath the edge of the blanket, feeling the tremor in her shoulders, and whispered, ‘Yahin hoon mai jaan.’ His voice was a low murmur, meant only for her ears, a promise wrapped in warmth.

He eased onto the edge of the bed, the mattress sighing under his weight. Gently, he lifted Yalina’s hand and placed it against his palm, fingers intertwining. Her grip was tight, desperate, and he answered with a steady pressure, letting her know he would not let go.

‘It’s too bright,’ she whispered, her voice raw. ‘Andhera bhi aisa lag raha hai jaise jala dega.’

Hamza nodded, though she couldn’t see his face in the gloom. He reached for the small bedside lamp, twisting the knob until the glow faded to nothing but a faint ember. Then he pulled the thick, blackout curtains tighter, sealing out any stray sliver of light that dared to creep in. The room sank into a deeper hush, the world outside reduced to a muffled murmur.

He rose quietly, walked into the bathroom, and returned with a soft, chilled cloth. He folded it neatly, the fabric cool against his fingertips, and laid it gently across Yalina’s forehead. She inhaled sharply at the contact, a small gasp of relief escaping her lips. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed, her eyes fluttering shut as the chill seeped into her throbbing temples.

Hamza settled back onto the bed, his elbow resting on his knee, his other hand cradling the back of her head. He began to rub slow, circular motions into her temples, his thumbs pressing just enough to ease the tension without causing her discomfort. Each stroke was deliberate, a silent conversation of care. ‘Does that feel better?’ he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She managed a faint smile, the corners of her mouth twitching despite the pain. ‘A little… it’s like the pressure is easing.’ She squeezed his hand tighter, her nails digging lightly into his skin, a silent plea for him to stay. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her temple, the brush of his lips a feather‑light promise.

The minutes stretched, each one a tender echo of the last. Hamza adjusted the cold compress whenever it began to warm, swapping it for a fresh one from the small stash he kept in the drawer. He whispered encouragements, ‘You’re doing so well, my love,’ ‘Just breathe with me,’ his voice a steady anchor amidst the storm inside her head.

Yalina’s breathing gradually slowed, the sharp spikes of pain dulling to a throbbing ache that pulsed in time with Hamza’s caresses. She shifted slightly, turning her face toward him, seeking the comfort of his presence. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, but she fought to keep them open, wanting to drink in the sight of his concerned gaze.

‘You’re amazing,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse but sincere. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

Hamza’s chest swelled with a quiet pride. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead, his touch feather‑soft. ‘You’re amazing too,’ he replied, ‘stronger than you think.'

A soft sigh escaped her as the migraine’s grip loosened just enough for her to slip into a light, restless doze. Her hand remained clasped in his, a lifeline she clung to even in sleep. Hamza watched her, the rise and fall of her chest a gentle rhythm that matched his own heartbeat. He whispered low, almost to himself, ‘Sleep, meri jaan. I’ll be right here when you wake.’

The house remained deathly quiet, the only sounds the faint tick of the wall clock and the occasional distant chirp of a bird outside, muffled by the thick curtains. Hamza stayed motionless, his attention wholly on Yalina.

The migraine had not vanished completely, but its sharp edges had softened, replaced by a dull, manageable ache that she could bear with his steady presence beside her.

‘You’re doing great,’ he whispered again. Yalina’s fingers tightened around his, a silent acknowledgment of his devotion. In the dim, hushed room, surrounded by the soft darkness and the steady beat of two hearts, the world narrowed to this moment, tender, beautiful, and utterly, quietly perfect.

Hamza shuffled into the living room like a defeated warrior, his usually impeccable suit swapped for an oversized jacket that swallowed his frame whole. He flopped onto the sofa with a theatrical sigh, pulling four fluffy blankets over himself until only the tip of his nose peeked out like a shy groundhog. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were watery and wide, fixated on the ceiling as if plotting his demise.

‘I think… I think I’m dying... MAIN MARNE VALA HOON YALINA,’ he whispered, voice cracking like a toddler’s after a scraped knee. ‘Ninety‑nine degrees. That’s practically a fever of the apocalypse.’

Yalina entered the room carrying a steaming mug and a bowl of daal chawal that smelled like home and hugs. She paused, trying not to laugh at the sight of her gangster husband curled up like a burrito, his tough exterior completely melted away.

‘Are meri jaan! it’s just a cold,’ she said, setting the tray down on the coffee table. ‘You’re not dying. You’re just… extra.’ Hamza peered out from under the blankets, his lower lip jutting out in a pout that could have melted steel. ‘Extra? Yalina, I feel like my soul is leaving my body. I can barely lift my arm to reach for the remote.’

She smiled, shaking her head fondly. ‘Alright, Sher-e-Drama, let’s get you sorted.’ She lifted the blanket just enough to slip a spoonful of daal chawal onto his lips. The warm, spiced lentils and rice slid in, and he let out a contented hum, eyes closing briefly as if savoring a tiny victory.

‘Mmm… that’s the good stuff,’ he murmured, voice muffled by the blanket. ‘Tum bilkul hoor ki pari ho, pata hai tumhe?’ Yalina chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. ‘Just doing my wife duties. Chai piyoge?’

She poured his favorite chai into his beloved chipped mug, just the right amount of milk, a hint of cardamom, and a drizzle of honey. She handed it to him, watching as he cradled it like a precious artifact.

‘Thank you, my love,’ he said, taking a delicate sip. ‘This… this is the only thing keeping me from crossing over to the other side.’ Yalina rolled her eyes affectionately, but her heart swelled. She settled beside him on the sofa, pulling the blanket a little higher over his shoulders. With one hand, she began to rub slow circles into his back, feeling the tension ease under her palm.

‘You know,’ she started, ‘when you’re not pretending to be on your deathbed, you’re actually pretty adorable.’

Hamza opened one eye, a mischievous glint breaking through the faux‑weakness. ‘Adorable? Me? I’m a feared gangster, little lady. People tremble at the mere mention of my name.’

‘Sure they do,’ she teased, nudging his side. ‘Right after they see you sniffling for a tissue.’ He let out a dramatic groan, flopping back onto the pillows. Yalina laughed, the sound soft and warm.

He reached out, grasping her hand with a grip that belied his frail act. ‘Stay,’ he begged, voice barely above a whisper. ‘Your presence is the only real medicine.’ She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. ‘Never leaving your side, my big baby.’

Hamza pulled her closer, tugging the blankets until they both were cocooned together. He nestled his head against her chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, and sighed contentedly.

‘Now… maybe just a little more tea?’ he asked, eyes half‑closed, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. Yalina smiled back, handing him another cup of tea. ‘Anything for my favorite patient.’

As they lay there, the world outside faded, leaving only the gentle scent of the tea, and the quiet, enduring love that turned even the toughest gangster into the sweetest, most endearing toddler when the sniffles struck.

UHH... HOW WAS IT??? I HOPE YOU ALL LIKED IT <3

The factory’s rusted doors groaned shut behind them, sealing the dim interior in a thick, metallic hush. Fluorescent tubes flickered overhead, casting a sickly pallor over the concrete floor littered with oil stains and broken pallets. 

In the centre of the space stood a heavy wooden chair, its back bolted to a steel frame, the seat slick with old grease. Shehzad was already bound to it, thick ropes biting into his wrists and ankles, his chest heaving as he tried to draw breath through the terror that clung to his throat like a second skin.

Rehman Dakait, the father, stepped forward, his shoes striking the concrete with a rhythm that matched the pounding in his chest. In his hand he gripped a thick iron rod, its surface pitted from years of use. He lifted it, eyes locked on the trembling man before him, and without a word brought it down, against the soft flesh of Shehzad’s groin.

A guttural scream ripped from Shehzad’s throat, a raw, animal sound that echoed off the walls. ‘Ahhh!’ he choked, his hips jerking involuntarily as the rod struck again, this time angling upward to crush the base of his cock. Rehman’s jaw tightened, each blow was a deliberate punctuation to the words he whispered, voice low and furious, matching the cadence of the diary entry he’d clutched in his other hand.

‘I wanted to come home…’ Rehman said, the rod descending again, striking the shaft just below the glans. Shehzad’s body convulsed, a spray of precum and blood misting the air. ‘I wanted to go back to them…’ Another blow, this time targeting the left testicle, the impact sending a shock of white‑hot pain through his pelvis. He gasped, tears streaming down his cheeks, his mouth forming silent pleas that were swallowed by the roar of his own agony.

Uzair and Hamza moved like shadows, their massive frames locking the chair’s legs in place. When the force of Rehman’s swing threatened to tip the seat, Uzair slammed his shoulder against the left leg, Hamza braced the right, their muscles bulging as they held the chair immovable.

Their hands clamped Shehzad’s hair, forcing his head up so his eyes locked onto Rehman’s blazing gaze. Each time Rehman’s lips moved to recite the diary line, the two men’s grips tightened, a silent promise that there would be no escape, no mercy.

Outside the immediate circle of violence, Ulfat, the mother, stood like a statue carved from ice. Her arms were crossed, her gaze fixed on her husband’s relentless assault. When Rehman’s eyes flickered, when a tremor of grief threatened to break through his hardened exterior, she lifted her chin and gave him a single, cold look. The world seemed to still, the fury in Rehman’s jaw hardened, his grip on the rod became viselike, and he drove it down again with renewed ferocity.

‘I want to live in the haveli again…’ The rod struck the right testicle this time, a sickening crunch accompanying the impact. Shehzad’s scream rose to a piercing wail, his body bucking against the ropes, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. Sweat and blood mixed on his skin, slicking the rod as Rehman pulled it back for another swing.

The blows continued, each one a brutal punctuation to the words from the diary, each one a reminder of the life that had been snuffed out inside his daughter’s fragile body. The room filled with the wet, meaty thuds of iron meeting flesh, the sharp intake of Shehzad’s breath, the low, animalistic grunts of Rehman’s exertion, and the choked sobs that escaped the husband’s lips when the pain became too much to bear.

After what felt like an eternity, Rehman lowered the rod, his chest heaving, his knuckles white from the strain. He stepped back, the rod clattering to the floor with a dull clang. Shehzad hung limp in the chair, his groin a ruined mess of bruised, swollen tissue, blood seeping through the ropes and pooling on the concrete beneath him. His eyes were wide, unfocused, staring at the ceiling as if trying to flee the horror inside his own skin.

Ulfat finally moved. She slipped from the shadows, her bare feet silent on the gritty floor. In her hand she cradled a small, gleaming scalpel, its edge catching the weak light. She approached Shehzad with the calm of a surgeon preparing for a routine incision, her expression devoid of any flicker of emotion, no pity, no rage, just an empty, terrifying stillness.

She leaned close, her face exactly in front of his face, and whispered in a voice that sounded like a lullaby gone wrong, ‘Tell me, did you like the way she screamed when you…?’ Shehzad’s eyes darted to hers, terror widening them further. He tried to speak, but only a choked whimper escaped his lips.

Ulfat’s smile was a thin line. She lifted the scalpel and, with a precision that made the air feel colder, began to trace a thin line along the ridge of his left cheek. The blade kissed the skin, parting it with a whisper of hiss, as a thin line of blood welled up, dark and slow. She did not flinch, her eyes remained fixed on his, unblinking.

‘Did you like the way she begged?’ she asked, her tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. She pressed the scalpel deeper, the cut widening, a small flap of skin peeling back like a petal. Shehzad’s scream tore from his throat, a raw, ragged sound that seemed to shake the very rafters. Blood spurted, hot and slick, running down his jaw and staining the collar of his shirt.

Ulfat paused, lifted a small dish of coarse sea salt, and let a pinch fall into the fresh wound. The salt hissed as it met the exposed flesh, a burning, searing pain that made Shehzad’s body convulse violently. He bucked against the ropes, a guttural howl tearing from his lungs, his eyes rolling back as the agony exploded across his face.

‘Did you like the way she cried?’ Ulfat asked again, her voice unchanged. She took a fine needle, its tip glinting, and began to stitch the wound shut with thick, black thread. Each pull of the needle was a slow, deliberate tug, the thread biting into the raw edges, sealing the pain inside. Shehzad’s whimpers turned into moans, each stitch, a fresh wave of torment that made his whole body shudder.

Uzair and Hamza watched from a few feet away, their faces a mixture of awe and unease. Even these hardened men of Lyari felt a chill run down their spines at the sight of Ulfat’s unflinching precision. When she whispered a command “Pass the needle” they obeyed without hesitation, handing her the next instrument as if they were assistants in a macabre operating theatre.

Ulfat moved on to his eyes. She lifted a tiny, curved blade and, with a whisper of air, sliced the lid of his left eye open. The globe of the eye bulged, a wet, glistening sphere exposed to the harsh light. Shehzad’s scream was a raw, animal howl, his body thrashing as tears of blood streamed down his cheek. Ulfat did not blink, she simply held the eye open, her gaze never leaving his, as she began to peel away the thin membrane, layer by layer, exposing the raw nerve endings beneath.

‘Did you like the way she begged for mercy?’ she asked, her voice a soft murmur that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. She pressed a dab of salt into the exposed cornea, the sting making Shehzad’s entire head jerk back as if trying to escape his own skull. He choked on his own blood, a wet, gurgling sound escaping his lips as the pain radiated through his sinuses.

When the left eye was reduced to a ruined, pulsing mass, Ulfat turned to the right. She repeated the process, cut, expose, salt, stitch, each action performed with the same eerie calm. The room filled with the soft, wet sounds of slicing, the hiss of salt meeting flesh, the faint, wet tug of thread pulling through skin, and the incessant, broken cries of Shehzad, whose voice had devolved into a series of ragged whimpers and broken gasps.

Meanwhile, Uzair and Hamza had moved to the brutal, drawn‑out methods of the streets. They dragged a heavy coil of barbed wire from a corner, its ends frayed and rusted. With a grunt, Uzair wrapped the wire around Shehzad’s left wrist, pulling it tight until the barbs bit into the flesh, drawing thin lines of blood that welled up and trickled down his forearm. Hamza did the same to the right wrist, the wire biting deep, each twist a fresh scream from the captive.

‘Saale madarchod’ Uzair snarled, his voice raw with anger. ‘Kya laga tujhe? Baloch ki beti ke saath ye suluk karega aur bach jayega?’ He yanked the wire harder, the barbs tearing through skin and muscle, exposing the pale tendons beneath. Shehzad’s wrist twisted unnaturally, a sickening crack echoing as the bone gave way under the pressure.

Hamza, meanwhile, produced a set of rusted pliers from his toolbox. He clamped them onto Shehzad’s left pinky finger, the jaws biting down with a crushing force. ‘Let’s see how you like losing what you think makes you a man,’ he growled, twisting the pliers. The finger snapped with a loud, wet pop, the joint dislocating, the nail tearing away from the nail bed. Shehzad’s scream was a high‑pitched shriek that seemed to slice the air.

Uzair moved to the other hand, repeating the process, pliers, twist, snap, each finger broken in turn, the sound of bone breaking and flesh tearing filling the factory. By the time they finished, both hands were a mess of shattered bones, torn ligaments, and exposed marrow, the fingers bent at grotesque angles, useless lumps of meat that twitched involuntarily with each pulse of pain.

They then turned to his feet. A car battery sat nearby, its terminals exposed. Uzair slapped the red clamp onto the sole of Shehzad’s right foot, Hamza attaching the black clamp to the left. A jolt of electricity surged through his body, making his muscles spasm violently. He arched off the chair, a choked scream tearing from his throat as the current coursed through his nerves, setting every fiber alight with fire. The smell of burnt flesh and ozone filled the air.

‘Feel that?’ Uzair yelled, his voice hoarse from exertion. ‘Humari bachhi ke saath ye sab nahi karna chahiye the Shehzad!’ He increased the voltage, the current surging stronger, making Shehzad’s body convulse in a grotesque dance. His eyes rolled back, his tongue lolling out as saliva and blood frothed at the corners of his mouth.

Through it all, Ulfat stood beside Rehman, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. She watched the spectacle with the same detached interest she had shown while suturing his wounds. When Rehman’s gaze drifted to her, searching for an anchor, she met his eyes with that same cold, unblinking stare. The look was enough to rekindle his fury, to steel his resolve against any hint of weakness.

Rehman rose from his chair, his movements slow, deliberate. He walked over to the battered form of Shehzad, who now resembled a broken doll, limbs twisted, face a mask of blood and tears, chest heaving with each ragged, painful breath. Ulfat slipped a small, snub‑nosed revolver from the holster at her hip, its metal cool against her palm. She lifted it, aimed at the center of his ruined face, and pulled the trigger.

The report was deafening in the confined space, a sharp, deafening crack that seemed to split the very air. A blossom of blood and brain matter exploded from Shehzad’s forehead, his head snapping back violently. His body went limp, the ropes slackening as the life drained out of him in a final, shuddering gasp. The smell of gunpowder mingled with the iron tang of blood, thick and suffocating.

Ulfat lowered the weapon, the smoke curling lazily from the barrel. She turned to Rehman, her expression still devoid of emotion. ‘It’s done’ she said, her voice a flat, calm whisper that seemed to echo off the walls.

Rehman nodded, his jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving the corpse. He reached out, took Ulfat’s hand in his, his grip firm, his fingers intertwining with hers as if to draw strength from her icy resolve. Together, they turned and walked away from the factory, the heavy door clanging shut behind them, leaving the broken remains of Shehzad to lie in the dim, blood‑slicked silence, a testament to the ruthless, unrelenting vengeance of a father and a mother who had become judge, jury, and executioner in the heart of Lyari.

SO HERE WE GO! OUR FIRST COLLAB!!!!!! DO TELL US HOW WAS IT SWEETCHEEKS <333

Iqbal stood at the threshold, his boots silent on the anti‑static flooring. The weight of his sidearm, still warm from the night’s discharge, pressed against his thigh. He felt the familiar prickle of heat beneath his skin. He swallowed, the motion tight, and stepped forward, his gaze locking onto Hasan’s unwavering stare.

‘Major Iqbal,’ Hasan’s voice cut through the hum, low and resonant, each syllable measured like the tick of a chronometer. ‘You are aware that you have just removed a key node from our operational network without any formal sanction.’

Iqbal kept his jaw firm, the muscles in his neck tensing as he fought to keep his voice even. ‘General, the asset Tariq was transmitting a hostile signal. The 108‑meter moving dead zone was active, and the encrypted ghost signal indicated a hostile attempt to mask a van’s true identity.’

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Hasan’s mouth, more a baring of teeth than a smile. ‘You speak of phantom signals, Major. Show me the data. Show me the ghost.’

Iqbal lifted a secure tablet from his vest, the screen flickering to life with a cascade of green glyphs. He pointed to a series of timestamps and frequency spikes. ‘Here, at 0213 hours, the dead zone shifted laterally by twelve meters, consistent with a mobile jammer. The ghost signal appeared at 0217, mimicking the telemetry of a legitimate logistics convoy. The decoy van, KAR‑9, was intercepted at the container yard, its cargo manifest falsified.’

Hasan leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his fingers steepled. ‘And yet you chose to execute a billionaire logistics tycoon on the basis of… what? A hunch? A flicker on a screen?’ His tone sharpened, each word a blade. ‘You have turned a calculated intelligence operation into a sloppy act of paranoia. You have destroyed a state asset that funded half of our covert logistics chain.’

Iqbal felt the heat in his chest flare, a sudden surge that made his breath shallow. He forced his voice to remain level, though the words tasted like iron. ‘General, the signal bore the signature of a foreign electronic warfare unit. The ghost was not a glitch, it was a deliberate spoof. If we had allowed the van to proceed, the jammer would have blinded our grid for a critical window, exposing our troop movements to enemy surveillance.’

One of the auditors, a woman with a tight bun and a face carved from stone, spoke for the first time. ‘Major, your report mentions a “decoy van.” Yet the van’s registration shows no ties to any known front. Explain how you concluded it was a decoy without corroborating human intelligence.’

Iqbal’s eyes flicked to the auditor, then back to Hasan. ‘The van’s transponder was spoofed to broadcast a civilian frequency while its actual payload carried encrypted communications equipment. The mismatch between the broadcast and the physical signature was flagged by our SIGINT analysts.’

Hasan laughed, a short, harsh sound that echoed off the walls. ‘You rely on analysts who sit in air‑conditioned rooms, sipping tea while the world burns. You trust their screens over the word of a man who has moved mountains for our work.’ He paused, letting the silence hang thick. ‘Your actions have not only eliminated Tariq, they have severed the financial lifelines that kept our black budgets flowing. Effective immediately, I am freezing all independent financial channels under your command. All expenditures will now route through the newly formed Oversight Committee, headed by Director Salim Rahman.’

The words struck Iqbal like a physical blow. He felt the familiar tightening in his gut, the sensation of a noose cinching around his throat. ‘General, without those funds we cannot sustain the rapid‑response teams that operate beyond the conventional supply chain. Our ability to react to emergent threats will be compromised.’

Hasan’s gaze hardened, the light catching the scar that ran along his jawline, a reminder of a past battle. ‘Compromised? Or perhaps you will learn to operate within the bounds of discipline. Your “initiative” has become a liability. From this moment, you will report daily to the Committee. Any deviation will be met with immediate suspension and a full forensic audit.’

Iqbal’s jaw locked, the muscles in his face standing out like cords. A surge of anger rose, hot and fierce, threatening to burst through the veneer of control he had cultivated over years of service. He saw, in his mind’s eye, the boardroom table shrinking, the pieces being removed one by one until only a few remained, himself, Hasan, and the cold, calculating eyes of the auditors. The realization struck him with crystal clarity, the board just got smaller.

He inhaled sharply, the cold air burning his lungs, and let the breath out slowly, forcing the fury back into a tight coil. ‘Understood, Sir. I will comply with the new directives.’

His voice was flat, devoid of the fire that simmered beneath, but his eyes never left Hasan’s. The general gave a single, curt nod, the motion as precise as a drill sergeant’s command.

‘Good. Dismissed.’

Iqbal turned, his boots clicking against the floor as he walked toward the bunker’s heavy door. The fluorescent lights continued their indifferent buzz, casting long, stark shadows that stretched behind him like the fingers of some unseen hand reaching to pull him back. As the door sealed shut with a pneumatic sigh, the hum seemed to intensify, resonating in his chest as a reminder that the game had changed, the stakes heightened, and the players left on the board were fewer, sharper, and infinitely more dangerous.

He paused just outside the bunker, leaning against the reinforced concrete wall, feeling the vibrations of the facility through his soles. The night’s heat still lingered in his bones, a reminder that beneath the polished veneer of command lay a primal furnace that could not be quelled by paperwork or oversight. He pressed his palm to the cool surface, feeling the faint tremor of the generators below, and whispered to the empty corridor, the words barely audible over the ever‑present hum:

‘The board just got smaller.’

The heavy steel door of Iqbal’s private inner office sighed shut behind him. Fluorescent strips ran along the ceiling in a sterile grid, their light harsh enough to bleach the color from the walls but soft enough to leave a faint, lingering glare on the polished surface of the desk. The room smelled of recycled air, ozone, and the faint metallic tang of the server racks that lined one wall, rows of blinking LEDs like a constellation of wounded eyes.

Lieutenant Farooq followed, his boots muffled on the anti‑static flooring, his face a mask of professional neutrality that barely concealed the flicker of unease behind his eyes. He carried a slim data slate, its screen dark until he tapped it awake, casting a pale blue glow over his clenched jaw.

Iqbal dropped into the ergonomic chair behind the desk, the leather creaking under his weight. He rested his forearms on the cool surface, fingers splayed as if ready to strike. The heat that had been a low furnace in his chest since the night’s execution now flared, a searing pulse that made the skin on his forearms prickle with sweat despite the bunker’s arctic chill.

‘Report,’ he said, voice low, each syllable edged with a steel that threatened to snap.

Farooq swallowed, his throat working. ‘Sir, the proxy accounts Tariq managed are seizing up. The moment the freeze order hit, the automated settlement scripts began to reject inbound transfers. We’re seeing a cascade failure across three jurisdictions, Dubai, Nairobi, and the Cayman front.’ He tapped the slate, a series of red alerts bloomed across the screen, each one a pulsing dot labeled with a codename, OPERATION SABLE, NIGHT HAWK, IRON SHELF.

Iqbal’s gaze flicked to the monitor. The numbers scrolled in real time, balances dropping to zero, transaction logs filling with error codes, INSUFFICIENT FUNDS, ACCOUNT LOCKED, COMPLIANCE HOLD. A cold dread settled in his gut, not for the loss of money, but for what those funds had bought, weapons, safe houses, bribed border guards, the whispered promises that kept militant cells obedient.

‘Show me the safe houses,’ Iqbal commanded, his tone sharpening.

Farooq brought up a map overlay. The satellite imagery of Karachi’s outskirts flickered, then dimmed as red markers began to blink out one by one. Each marker represented a safe house, a concrete bunker tucked behind a textile warehouse, a renovated garage in Lyari, a seemingly abandoned farmhouse near the Indus delta.

As the funding dried up, the lease payments lapsed, the utility cutoffs triggered, and the security systems defaulted to lockdown. The markers turned from solid red to hollow outlines, then vanished entirely, leaving only the faint ghost of their former positions on the map.

‘We lost twelve locations in the last forty minutes,’ Farooq reported, his voice tight. ‘The crews inside are being told to stand down. No extraction, no resupply. They’re going dark.’

A low growl escaped Iqbal’s throat, more felt than heard. He leaned forward, elbows digging into the desk, knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge. The heat in his chest surged, a molten wave that threatened to breach the veneer of control he had cultivated over years of discipline. He could feel the familiar sting of anger rising, a venomous tide that threatened to drown his reason.

‘And the informants?’ he asked, voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of a blade.

Farooq hesitated, then slid a second screen toward him. It displayed a cascade of encrypted messages, each one flashing in bright green against the black background. The sender tags were coded, INFORMANT‑7, SOURCE‑DELTA, GHOST‑9, but the content was raw, unfiltered panic.

‘Sir,’ one message read, ‘The payment for last month’s intel didn’t clear. My family’s safety is at risk. If you don’t send the funds within 48 hours, I will go to the press.’ Another, more urgent, ‘They’re moving troops to the border. I need the uplink codes now or the operation is compromised.’ A third, trembling with fear, ‘They’ve found my drop point. I’m being followed. Please...’

Iqbal’s eyes narrowed. He could almost hear the desperation in each typed line, the raw fear of men and women who had traded their lives for the promise of payment, who now saw that promise evaporating like mist under a scorching sun.

‘The tracking grid,’ he said, voice dropping to a dangerous low. ‘What’s the status on telemetry?’

Farooq’s fingers flew over the slate. A third display sprang to life, showing a sweeping radar sweep of the Arabian Sea and the coastal hinterland. Green pings, representing drones, signal interceptors, and ground sensors, should have been marching across the screen in steady intervals. Instead, the pings were stuttering, fading, then disappearing altogether in large swaths.

‘The grid’s losing juice, Sir,’ Farooq admitted, his gaze flicking to Iqbal’s face. ‘The power draw from the frozen accounts has tripped the auxiliary generators. We’re running on reserve, the signal degradation is about sixty percent in the western sector. Eastern sector’s holding at thirty, but it’s dropping fast.’

Iqbal felt the room tilt, the fluorescent lights seeming to pulse in time with his hammering heart. The realization struck him like a physical blow, by cutting Tariq’s financial lifelines, he had not only punished a suspected traitor but had also severed the very sinews that fed his own intelligence network. The ISI’s covert tendrils, those hidden threads that stretched across borders, into militant camps, into the murky world of proxy warfare, were now withering from lack of nourishment.

He rose abruptly, the chair scraping backward with a harsh screech that echoed off the concrete walls. His movement was sharp, almost violent, as if he were trying to physically shake off the inertia of his own making.

‘You’ve done well, Lieutenant,’ Iqbal said, each word clipped, the edge of his voice razor‑thin. ‘Keep the monitors live. If any account shows a flicker of activity, flag it immediately. I want to know who’s trying to move money through back channels, whether it’s Tariq’s loyalists or someone else trying to fill the vacuum.’

Farooq nodded, his expression grim. ‘Understood, Sir. I’ll set up alerts for any anomalous transactions and keep the grid on low‑power mode to conserve what’s left. I’ll also have the comms team start scrambling for alternative funding routes, hawala, cryptocurrency, anything off the books.’

Iqbal turned to the wall of servers, his palm flat against the cool metal casing. He could feel the faint vibration of the fans, a reminder that even in this artificial chill, machines still breathed, still consumed. He inhaled deeply, the air sharp and sterile, and let it out slowly, attempting to steady the roiling tempest inside him.

‘You understand why I did this,’ he said, not really asking, more stating a fact that hung between them like a taut wire. ‘Tariq was transmitting a hostile signal. He was a node in a foreign electronic warfare grid. If we’d let that van pass, our entire coastal defense would have been blinded for a critical window. The risk was existential.’

Farooq’s eyes flicked to the floor for a heartbeat before meeting Iqbal’s. ‘Sir, the data we have is compelling, but the method… the execution… it’s unprecedented. We’ve never taken out a civilian logistics magnate without judicial oversight. The political fallout could be… catastrophic.’

A humorless smile twisted Iqbal’s lips. ‘Catastrophic is a luxury we can’t afford when the enemy is already inside the wire. Hasan thinks he can rein me in with committees and oversight. He thinks freezing my budgets will make me docile. He’s wrong.’ His voice dropped, the timbre dropping to a near‑growl. ‘He doesn’t see that the board isn’t just shrinking, it’s being reshaped. Every piece I lose forces me to play tighter, to think sharper. He’s cutting off my queen, but I still have my knights, my bishops, and the ability to sacrifice a pawn to expose his king.’

Farooq swallowed again, the sound audible in the quiet room. ‘And if the king falls?’

Iqbal’s gaze hardened, the fire in his eyes reflecting the dull glow of the monitors. ‘Then we all fall. But I’ll make sure the fall is costly enough that whoever replaces him thinks twice before pulling the same stunt.’ He turned back to the desk, his fingers flying over the keyboard. Lines of code scrolled across the screen as he initiated a manual override, attempting to reroute power from non‑essential systems to keep the tracking grid alive for just a few more minutes.

The room filled with the soft clack of keys, the occasional beep of a warning, and the low, incessant hum of the bunker’s life support. Outside, the city of Karachi continued to bake under a sun that showed no mercy, its streets shimmering with heat haze, its people moving like ants beneath a magnifying glass. Inside this subterranean chamber, a different kind of heat burned, one forged of betrayal, ambition, and the cold calculus of war.

Iqbal paused, his breath catching as a new alert flashed: UNIDENTIFIED TRANSFER DETECTED – OFFSHORE WALLET – 40 BTC. A flicker of hope, however ignoble, sparked in his chest. Someone was trying to move value through the shadows, perhaps a loyalist, perhaps an opportunist. He leaned in, eyes narrowing.

‘Trace that,’ he commanded, voice barely a whisper but carrying the weight of a death sentence. ‘Find the source. If it’s one of ours, bring them in.’

Farooq’s hands danced over the slate, initiating a chain of commands that sent packets of data bouncing through encrypted tunnels, seeking the origin of the transaction. The seconds stretched, each one feeling like an eternity as the monitor displayed a traceroute hopping across continents, bouncing from a server in Singapore to a relay in Estonia, then to a node tucked inside a VPN exit in Iceland.

A sudden spike appeared on the screen, a bright green point pulsing in the Arabian Sea, just off the coast of Karachi. The coordinates matched a known anchorage used by small fishing vessels, a place where covert transfers often took place under the guise of legitimate cargo.

‘Got it,’ Farooq said, his voice tight with adrenaline. ‘The wallet’s linked to a satellite phone registered to a front company in Dubai, Al‑Rashid Maritime. The last ping came from a vessel called Al‑Bahar, currently loitering three nautical miles out.’

Iqbal’s lips curled into a feral grin. He stood, the chair scraping back once more, and moved to the small armory locker built into the wall. He pulled out a compact sidearm, checking the magazine with practiced ease, then slipped a combat knife into his belt. The weight of the weapons felt familiar, grounding, a reminder that despite the bureaucratic shackles Hasan had attempted to clamp on him, his teeth were still sharp.

Farooq stood as well, his expression a mixture of respect and apprehension. ‘Sir, should I inform the Oversight Committee of this operation?’ he asked cautiously.

Iqbal’s eyes flashed, a spark of something dangerous lighting them. ‘Inform them? No. Let them wonder why their precious freeze didn’t stop the money from moving. Let them scramble to explain why their oversight missed a satellite phone ping in the middle of the sea. We operate in the shadows, Lieutenant. The committee sees only the light they’re allowed to see. We’ll work in the dark where the real game is played.’

He turned toward the door, his silhouette framed by the harsh fluorescents, the light catching the sweat on his brow and the faint tremor in his hand, a tremor not of fear, but of the raw, unfiltered energy that had always driven him. The bunker’s hum seemed to rise in pitch, as if the very walls were acknowledging the shift in power.

As they stepped into the corridor, the heavy door sealed shut behind them with a final, resonant clang. The fluorescent lights continued their indifferent buzz, casting long, stark shadows that stretched ahead like the fingers of some unseen entity waiting to grasp at their heels. Iqbal felt the weight of those shadows, not as a burden, but as a cloak, one that allowed him to move unseen, to strike where the enemy least expected.

The door of the Clifton mansion sighed shut behind Iqbal, the latch clicking with a sound that seemed to echo through the marrow of his bones. The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit by sconces that threw a wan, amber glow onto the polished marble floor. Each step he took sent a faint tremor through the soles of his boots, the vibrations traveling up his legs and into the molten core that had been building since the bunker’s fluorescent glare.

Mallika stood waiting near the grand staircase, her silhouette framed by the soft light spilling from the chandelier above. Her fell in a smooth cascade over her back till her hips, catching the light and throwing tiny highlights that seemed to dance like fireflies in a night‑less sky. She was dressed in a simple maroon silk robe.

She moved forward with a grace that belied the tension coiled in her shoulders, her eyes locking onto his with a mixture of concern and calculation. Without a word, she reached for the heavy buckles of his ISI gear, her fingers deft and sure as they worked the clasps that had held his armor together through countless operations. The weight of the vest, the plates, the holster, each piece seemed to sigh as it was released, clinking softly against the marble as it fell to the floor.

'Let me help you with that,' she murmured, her voice low, a velvety contrast to the harshness that had followed him from the bunker.

Iqbal allowed his arms to drop, the tension in his shoulders easing fractionally as the weight lifted. Mallika guided him to a plush chaise near the window, where a small silver tray waited, condensation beading on the surface of a tall glass filled with a clear, amber liquid, scotch, neat, with a single large ice cube that cracked faintly as it settled.

She poured the drink with a practiced hand, the liquid glinting as it caught the light, then placed the glass in his palm. Her fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, the coolness of her skin seeping into his, a fleeting whisper of the abyss that lived within her.

'Here,' she said, her tone soft but edged with something sharper, something that had been honed in the quiet rooms of power where sentiment was a liability and realism a weapon. 'Drink. It’ll help to calm you.'

Iqbal lifted the glass, the ice clinking against the glass as he brought it to his lips. The scotch burned a trail down his throat, a familiar sting that seemed, for a heartbeat, to mirror the internal inferno that had been stoked by Hasan’s petty machinations. He swallowed, feeling the liquid spread warmth through his chest, a counterpoint to the icy draft that slipped through the cracks of the mansion’s ancient stones.

'Hasan thinks he can choke me with paperwork,' he began, his voice low, each word edged with a steel that threatened to snap. 'He’s freezing my accounts, locking my cells in a cage of compliance. He thinks a budget cut will make me docile. He’s wrong.'

Mallika watched him, her expression unreadable, her eyes reflecting the faint glow of the chandelier. She took a step closer, the silk of her robe whispering against the floor, and when she spoke, her voice was devoid of poetry, stripped to its bare, calculating essence.

'Look at me,' she said, her tone flat, almost clinical. 'Army Chiefs come and go every three years, Iqbal. The ISI stays. Hasan is terrified of you because he knows you operate in a room he doesn’t have the clearance to enter. He’s squeezing your budget today to prove a point to the defense committee. Let him have his little bureaucratic victory this week. Play the loyal soldier, file the paperwork, and wait. The moment one of your planted cells goes rogue across the border because of his budget cuts, the Prime Minister will be begging you to fix it. Let the crisis he’s creating force his hand.'

Her words landed like a precise strike, each syllable a scalpel cutting through the fog of his fury. Iqbal felt the edges of his mask begin to settle, the raw, snarling beast inside him forced back into the shadows beneath a veneer of composure. He forced his features into a smooth, practiced smile, let his shoulders drop, and took another sip of his drink, the scotch now warm against his tongue.

'You’re right,' he said, the words flowing out with an eerie ease, as if they had been rehearsed a thousand times in the quiet of his mind. 'It’s just politics. I’ll have Farooq file the compliance paperwork in the morning. Let Hasan enjoy his night.'

Mallika nodded, a faint smile touching the corners of her mouth, and turned to retreat toward the kitchen, her steps light on the marble. As she moved away, the soft rustle of her robe faded, and the room seemed to hold its breath.

The moment her silhouette disappeared behind the swinging door of the pantry, the façade Iqbal had so carefully constructed shattered like thin ice under a sudden weight. Inside his chest, the liquid mercury of his rage surged, no longer contained by the fragile dam of civility. It was no longer a fire, it was a searing, pressurized stream of molten metal, each beat of his heart hammering it faster, hotter, more insistent.

The insult from the bunker, the sterile, condescending gaze of General Yusuf Hasan, the way his words had clipped Iqbal’s wings, had mutated. It was no longer a simple affront, it had become a catalyst, a chemical reaction that transformed raw anger into a cold, laser‑focused intent. The heat that had been a diffuse, burning fever now coalesced into a pinpoint of pure, glacial determination. He could feel the edges of his thoughts sharpening, each one honed to a razor’s edge, each plan forming with the clarity of a blade drawn from its sheath.

He would not wait three weeks. He would not allow a bureaucrat to breathe the same air that had once been his to command. The rage that had been a roaring inferno was now a glacier moving inexorably forward, silent, unstoppable, crushing everything in its path.

His eyes, dark and unfathomable, fixed on the empty space where Mallika had stood. A silent vow formed in the depths of his mind, a promise written not in words but in the cold calculus of survival, Hasan would learn, in the most visceral way possible, that the ISI’s reach extended far beyond the confines of his office, that the shadows Iqbal inhabited were not subject to the whims of men who wore stars on their shoulders.

The night had deepened over the secure military cantonment, a sprawling enclave of high walls, concertina wire, and patrols that moved like specters beneath the moon’s pale gaze. General Yusuf Hasan’s residence sat at the heart of this fortified enclave, an austere yet imposing villa of reinforced concrete and bullet‑proof glass, its façade softened only by the meticulously trimmed hedges that lined the driveway. Inside, the air conditioning hummed a steady, low‑frequency thrum, a mechanical lullaby designed to keep the interior at a precise, sterile twenty‑two degrees Celsius, a stark contrast to the blistering heat that besieged the city beyond the walls.

Hasan’s bedroom was a study in austere luxury, a king‑size bed draped in crisp, white Egyptian cotton sheets, a polished mahogany nightstand holding a digital clock that glowed a soft, reassuring green, and a wall‑mounted safe that whispered of classified documents and sidearms. The room was sealed, the heavy wooden door bolted from the inside, a habit born of years of paranoia and the ever‑present knowledge that enemies could wear the uniform of friends.

He had retired early, exhausted from the day’s endless meetings, the weight of his new rank pressing upon his shoulders like a leaden vest. Sleep came quickly, or so he thought, as he drifted into the shallow embrace of unconsciousness, his mind still replaying the day’s exchanges with Iqbal, the veiled threats, the subtle challenges to his authority, the quiet confidence that seemed to radiate from the ISI officer like a low‑grade radiation.

It was in the deepest part of that sleep, when the world had narrowed to the rhythm of his breathing and the faint hiss of the ventilation system, that the first anomaly struck.

The digital clock on his nightstand flickered, its green numbers stuttering as if caught in a sudden gust of wind. The plastic casing, usually inert and unyielding, began to soften at the edges, a faint, almost imperceptible warp spreading across its surface like a heat‑induced mirage. A low, almost subsonic whine emanated from the device, a sound felt more than heard, vibrating through the nightstand and into the floorboards.

Hasan’s eyes snapped open, the sudden jolt of adrenaline flooding his system. He inhaled sharply, and the air that filled his lungs felt not like oxygen but like a searing filament, each breath a rasp of scorched tissue. The temperature in the room, which had been a comfortable twenty‑two degrees, began to climb at a rate that defied physics, degrees per second, then tens, then hundreds.

A wave of heat washed over him, invisible yet palpable, as if the very air had been set ablaze from within. The sheets beneath him began to smoke, the fine fibers of the Egyptian cotton blackening and curling at the edges before disintegrating into a fine, gray ash that drifted upward like the remnants of a burnt prayer. The mattress, a layered construct of foam and springs, gave a soft, protesting creak as the heat penetrated its core, the polyurethane beginning to melt and release a acrid, chemical odor that burned his nostrils.

His skin, still covered by the thin cotton of his pajamas, erupted in a violent cascade of blisters. The heat was not a uniform blaze, it was localized, intense, as if a miniature sun had been ignited at a single point just above his sternum and was radiating outward in concentric waves. Each pulse of heat sent a fresh wave of agony through his nerves, the sensation akin to having his flesh brushed with a branding iron that never cooled.

He tried to cry out, but the oxygen in his throat seemed to boil away, the moisture in his mucous membranes vaporizing instantaneously, leaving his vocal cords raw and useless. A strangled, wheezing gasp escaped his lips, the sound more a rupture of air than a voice. His hands, trembling and slick with sweat, flew to the nightstand, fingers scrabbling for the familiar weight of his sidearm, the Beretta 92FS that had been his constant companion through countless operations.

His grasp closed around the cold metal, but before he could lift it, the sheets beneath his elbows ignited, the fabric catching fire in an instant, the flames licking upward with a hungry, orange‑red tongue. The fire spread with terrifying speed, consuming the pillow, the blanket, the very air around him, turning the bedroom into a furnace of light and heat.

The heat was not merely external, it seemed to emanate from within his own body, a furnace stoked by some unseen force. His vision swam, the world reducing to a blur of incandescent hues, reds, oranges, blinding whites, while the edges of his sight began to darken, the periphery narrowing as if the room itself were collapsing into a singular point of incandescence.

And then, at the foot of his bed, where the darkness should have been absolute, a shape began to coalesce.

It was not a shadow, nor a trick of the heat‑haze. It was a towering distortion, a column of pure, shimmering heat that rose from the floor like a pillar of molten glass. The air around it rippled, the light bending and fracturing as if looking through a lens forged from superheated plasma. The figure was amorphous, lacking discernible features, yet its presence was undeniable, a manifestation of raw thermal energy, a living embodiment of the inferno that had seized the room.

Hasan’s bulging eyes, wide and bloodshot, locked onto the apparition. The heat radiating from it was enough to make the sweat on his forehead evaporate before it could form droplets, leaving his skin tight and gleaming. He could feel the intensity of the heat pressing against his retinas, a searing brilliance that threatened to burn the very cells of his vision.

The only certainty that cut through the fog of agony was the terrifying realization that something, or someone, had turned his private sanctuary into a crucible, and the figure at the foot of his bed was its herald.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

DON'T FORGET TO LIKE AND REBLOG BABIES CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM IS ALWAYS WELCOME <3 I HOPE YOU ALL LIKE IT 😭

A/n: it's been a long long time!! This was in our drafts since may end- please thank @obsessedwidskincare because this fic was 80% her and 20% me and then a whole lot her again! Proff read three times atleast by both of us because we kept adding and adding to it. Also big bog thanks to @twinblueflamee because I don't think y'all know how much she contributed to fleshing out the personalities of the kids and even their future partners; hence this chapter is dedicated to her!! Anyways enjoy this 5.5k hot mess because idk how y'all are gonna feel about it! Much lovee💖

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. IT IN NO WAY OR FORM ROMANTICIZES, PROPOGATES OR JUSTIFIES THE ACTS OF CHARACTERS OR ANY REAL LIFE PERSONALITY. IT IS SOLELY WRITTEN IN CONTEXT OF THE CHARACTERS OF THE MOVIE.

Uzair's surprise for you had ended up surprising him more. Once the initial shock ebbed, making way for the warm fuzzy happiness to settle in, you and Uzair decided that the first two people to know about this should be your kids. For the better part of the night, you both discussed how to break this news to the two of them, especially to Bahaar as her five year old mind might not comprehend it completely.

The next morning Uzair and you took Ayaan and Bahaar to the beach. To make it more special you had Bahaar and Ayaan's favorite food spread out while Uzair fetched kulfi for the four of you. Just as you were feeding Bahaar her kulfi, Uzair cleared his voice, signaling Bahaar to come to him. She sat on his lap while Ayaan leaned against him.

“Ayaan, Bahaar- Ammi Abbu ko aapse ek khaas baat karni hai.”

Uzair looked at you for assistance.

“Tum dono ko pata hai na ki Yalina mami ke ghar ek baby aaya hai? Toh agar waise ek chota baby humare paas ho toh?”

“Baby?”

Bahaar asks confused.They both look at you and Uzair and then turn to each other. Uzair clears his throat.

“Bahaar jaise Zayan ke ghar chota baby Saahil aaya hai humare paas bhi ek chotta baby aane wala hai.”

You look towards Ayaan and say

“Tum logo ka chota bhai ya behen aane wala hai.”

Ayaan looks at you with trepidation in his eyes while Bahaar's small brain is processing the information overload.

“Chota baby? Abbu, Zayan ki tarah mera bhi chota baby hoga?!”

Bahaar's eyes crinkled with excitement. Uzair groaned at Zayan’s name but answered reluctantly

“Haan Jaan, Zayan ki tarah tumhara bhi ek bhai ya behen aayega.”

Suddenly Bahaar's excitement vanished, a frown replacing the wonder that graced her face a few minutes ago.

She looks at you seriously and asks,

“Baby mere saath ghar ghar and tic tac toe khelega?”

You smile at her innocence, pulling her in your lap.

“Haan meri jaan, pehle woh bohot chota hoga par jaisi hi baby toda bada ho jayega toh woh apni Bahaar aapi ke saath khelega”

Still not satisfied, Bahaar asked in a low unsure voice

“Abbu aur aap roz story time karenge na, school chodne aayenge na?”

Your heart aches at her words- your sunshine feeling unsure of her place owing to the new dynamics. Before you could reply, Uzair turned Bahaar to him. Holding Ayaan's hand, he finds simple words to explain their young minds on how much they are loved and cherished.

“Tum dono humari Jaan ho. Tum dono ki wajah se hum Ammi Abbu bane hai. Aur sabse badi baat, tumhari Ammi aur main lucky hai ke tum dono ne hume apne Ammi Abbu banne ke liye chuna. Yeh baby bhi tum dono se bohot pyar karega, jaise tum humse aur hum dono tumse karte hai.”

Ayaan hugged Uzair, squeezing Bahaar in between. You couldn't help but tear up at the sight in front of you.

Bahaar looks at you and jumps into your arms.

“Ammi! Baby aur main cycling karenge and main uski cute choti bhi banungi”

You engulf her in a tight hug while Uzair moves forward to hold her back.

“Aaraam se meri jaan! Abhi baby chotta hai aur Ammi ke pet mein bada ho raha hai. Toh usse chot na lage isilye hume Ammi ka khayal rakhna hai. Bolo rakhogi na Ammi ka khayal?”

he asks her in a gentle voice.

Bahaar's ears perk up at this, noting Uzair's words with utmost seriousness.

“Baby ko no boo boo. Ammi Tummy Baby safe!”

She responds, responsibly. You gesture Ayaan to come to you and he reluctantly settles on your lap and places his tiny hand on your stomach.

“Ayaan khush ho na?”

You ask but subconsciously you are already aware of the doubts clouding his mind.

“Ji Ammi”

Ayaan responds in a rehearsed relaxed tone, attempting to mask his anxiety. You decide to give him some time to process.

“Par ek baat. Yeh baby wali baat hum charon ka secret hai. Abhi hum kisiko nahi batayenge. Okay?”

You try your best to convince the kids to keep the news under wraps as Uzair and you were still unsure of how to break this news to the family.

“Secret? Game khel rahe hai?”

Bahaar asked excitedly.

“Ha jaan”

Replied Uzair.

Ayaan looks at you and whispers

“Ammi yeh ek din ke liye bhi secret nahi rakh payegi.”

You nod at him, hugging him tighter and praying almighty to give Bahaar self control to keep playing the secret game.

And God did smile upon you, as Bahaar kept holding on to the secret for nearly a week, albeit small slips that were masterfully covered up by Ayaan and Uzair. Although you suspected that the secret will be out in the open soon, as you started experiencing one of the most common yet dreadful symptoms of pregnancy- morning sickness. Uzair was by your side, holding your hair back, helping you clean up and fetching you ginger biscuits to help with the sickness. He started chaperoning you to work and back, puzzling Donga on why he was suddenly relieved from his duty.

Ulfat too noticed the change in your dietary habits and insisted on making your favourite dishes, hoping to indulge you in eating a full meal. Hence on a lazy Sunday morning, as the entire family was seated for a late breakfast, Ulfat commented how you have been avoiding breakfast, forgetting lunch and skipping dinner every alternate day.

This caught Uzair’s attention and he was about to reprimand you but was beaten to it by Bahaar who nonchalantly said,

“Ammi ko boo boo hua hai toh Ammi no milk, no eggs, no gosht.”

Ayaan quickly stuffed half boiled egg in Bahaar's open mouth.

Just when Ulfat started reprimanding you for being careless with your health, Ayaan, bless his soul, asks you to pass him juice. You were about to fetch the jug, when your leg got caught at the edge of the chair and you almost fell on your face but Uzair was quick to react, his arms tight around you, holding you still. “Khayal rakho. Bacchi nahi ho tum, thoda sambhalo warna tumhe bed rest pe daal dunga.”

Ulfat and Rehman looked at each other and back at you two, trying to figure out what was going on.

“Abbu haath hatao, baby ko lag jayegi”

Screeches Bahaar as she sees red when Uzair's hands wound tight around your waist.

Cutlery clatters, conversations stop and all turn to look at you and Uzair. Oblivious to the growing tension, Bahaar continues.

“Ammi ki Tummy mein baby Safe, hai na Abbu!?”

Uzair and you looked like deers caught in the headlights while Ayaan put his head down on the table.

“Chachu, yeh sab-”

Naieem is interrupted by Ulfat who walks over to you and eyes landing on Uzair's hand on your lower abdomen.

“Bhabhi…. SURPRISE!”

You say in mock excitement, laughing awkwardly. Ayaan and Naieem look so done with your feeble attempt to placate the situation while Faisal, just like Uzair laughs awkwardly with you, joining your attempt to diffuse the tension.

“Woh Uzair aur main aap sab ko…” Your voice trails off.

Rehman, who has been quiet all this while, folds his newspaper and sits back, relaxed in his chair.

“Ulfat, inse puchne ki koi zaroorat nahi”

He says as a matter of fact.

He turns to Bahaar.

“Bade abbu ki jaan, idhar mere pass baitho.”

Bahaar gives him a toothy smile, making her way to sit in her Bade Abbu's lap. Rehman feeds her a piece of apple and asks,

“Beta yeh baby wali kya baat hai?”

“Secret hai bade abbu”

Bahaar speaks with her mouth full.

“Haan par bade abbu toh aapke best friend hai na? Aur doston mein to no secret! Aap toh bade abbu se sab baat karti hain!”

That did the trick and the Ammi Tummy Baby secret was out.

The reactions ranged from anger to jubilation, confusing you even further.

Ulfat, upset at not being the first one to know, decided that since you were pregnant, you were spared from her wrath.

But the same courtesy wasn’t extended to Uzair as he was now in charge of not only chaperoning the kids but dressing them up for school, packing their lunches and getting groceries for the house.

On day 4 Faisal decided to go on a hunger strike as Uzair again handed him Rs 50 for lunch.

Naieem was indifferent but secretly was excited to see Faisal getting tortured by young cousins.

Faisal on the other hand was as excited as Bahaar as he now had a fifth gang member joining his Faisal Bhai Football Club.

You thought Rehman was happy but then he brought home a baby swaddle chair, beaming with excitement.

The most surprising reaction came from Hamza as his first reaction was to get mad at Yalina for not telling him. But when Uzair came back the next day with Saahil’s infant clothes and his cot adorned with the dreamcatcher you had so lovingly attached when you had gotten the cot for Saahil yourself, you knew that your co-wife was excited to be Mama again and already in love with the baby.

___________________

Somehow you made it through the awful first trimester, thanks to your husband and family and ‘get well soon kissies’ from Bahaar. Well, Bahaar believed that since she spoke to the baby in tummy to not boo boo Ammi, your morning sickness ceased as the baby always listens to its Bahaar aapi.

Your second trimester was going smoothly with a few hiccups. However, the only bummer was that you were insatiable for your husband who was busy with the upcoming election campaign. He tried his best to be there for you, your appointments, spend time with kids but sometimes it became impossible for him to juggle all at once. By the 20th week you had taken an early maternity leave because you felt extremely exhausted after a minor six hour shift too.

Hence today Ulfat and Yalina decided to accompany you for your checkup.

After a very stressful day, one filled with political meetings and brain-storming for the election campaign, the men returned tired to a house bustling with unusual energy.

Ulfat stood right in the centre of the living area, shooting orders. The new cook was asked to make sheer kurma and halwa, while another helper was asked to fetch chocolates and Rasgullas, your favorite.

Ulfat then requested Vahida khala to make iced lemonade for her as she was feeling hot and tired. She turned around, eyes sparkling with excitement as she saw the men approach, followed by Naieem and Faisal.

“Mubarak ho Rehman! Ghar mein do-do naye mehman aane wale hai”

Rehman is taken aback for a moment, while Hamza and Uzair look at him, unable to believe what they just heard.

“Kya hua? Aap khush nahi hain kya? Ek nahi par do nanhi jaan aane wale hai”

Ulfat says excitedly.

Rehman quickly composes himself, happiness breaking out on his face.

“Main bohot khush hoon Jaan! Par aise aab ke saamne? Akele mein pehle batati toh behtar hota”

He says, his voice still straining with confusion.

Uzair smirks while Hamza mumbles mubarakbad to Rehman and Ulfat. Naieem looks embarrassed and flustered while Faisal is at his wit's end.

Rehman whispers to Ulfat,

“Bohot khush hu main par achanak kaise? Matlab pata hai kaise....”

Horrified, Uzair and Naieem wanted to throw up. Faisal elbows Naieem

“Bhai, ek aur batvara property mein!”

Ulfat replies, “Achanak kaha, aapko toh pata hai na? Sabko pata toh hai yeh hua hai bas aaj dugni khushi mili hai”

Hamza turns back at Uzair while Naieem covers Faisal's ears. Flustered, Rehman gestures to Ulfat to sit down.

“Ulfat pehle baith jao pehle, thakk gayi hogi. Aisi haalat aur iss umar mein bohot khayal rakhna hoga tumhe’’

Offended, Ulfat asks, ‘‘Umar? Main abhi bhi 30 ke upar nahi dikhti.... Hai na?’’

She looks at Naieem and Faisal for approval.

‘’Ji Ammi par aap baith jaiye warna bacche pe asar padega’’

Replies Naieem.

“Bacchon pe’’ corrects Ulfat. ‘‘Aur mere kaam karne se Y/n Uzair ke bacchon pe kyu asar padega?’’

‘‘KYA!!??’’

Uzair and Naieem ask in unison.

‘’Haan toh?! Aap log kya samjhe?’’

The men and boys looked embarrassed. Rehman looked a little disappointed but slightly relieved.

Ulfat looks at their faces as realization dawns on her.

‘’Ya Allah!!... Kaise itna badi gang and party chalate hai, sabka IQ milke toh Bahaar jitna bhi nahi hai. Aaj Y/n, Yalina aur main hospital gaye the check-up ke liye aur aaj hi sonography mein pata chala ke Uzair aur Y/n ko judwaa bacche hone wale hai’’

To say that Uzair was shocked would be an understatement. Uzair looked like a man who had just been told that Unicorns were real and that the earth was flat. He took 4 business days (5 minutes) to finally react.

‘’Bhabhi, aap sure hain? Matlab kahi koi galti toh nahin hui?’’

Hamza literally facepalms at this while Rehman starts laughing.

‘’Uzair mujhe nahi pata tha ki tum meri bacche paida karne wale baat Hamza aur tum kuch zyada hi sanjeedgi se le loge!’’

Uzair would have blushed but he was still reeling from the shock of the double surprise.

‘‘Uzair, upar tumhare kamre mein reports aur tumhari biwi dono hai. Jaake khud check kar lo. Aur haan thoda pyar se baat karna, woh pehle se hi thodi emotional hai’’ Ulfat warns Uzair.

Uzair makes his way to your room, preparing himself for your hormonal outburst. Though he was patient and kind, your incessant crying post a nasty bolt of morning sickness often made him feel helpless. Bracing himself, he opened the door to see you lying on the bed with an arm on your head.

‘‘Y/n?”

You open your eyes to look at him, anger seething beneath your calm exterior. Uzair takes a step back, sensing danger but it's too late for him.

‘’Kaha jaa rahe ho, ruko!! Main soch soch ke pagal ho gayi ke itni buri morning sickness kyu hai. Kyunki ek nahi par do bacche hai! DO BACCHE!’’ you screech at him, getting up to throw a pillow at him.

The first pillow hits him right in the face. ‘‘Pagal ho gayi ho kya?’’

Your eyes widen, as if he just called you by a slur. You pick up another pillow to hit him.

‘‘Pagal? Main pagal?! Ha main hi pagal hoon!! Par tum bhi kuch kum nahi. Ek kaam theek se nahi hota tumse. Pata nahi konse waqt mein maine tumse Nikkah kar liya!”

He dodges the pillow just in time “Ek minute!! Bacchi thi kya tum? Uss din mujhpe chadh gayi thi tab yaad nahi aaya kisse Nikkah kiya hai?! Kya gaa rahi thi uss din- Inko aata hi nahi hai, Inko pata hi nahi hai, Inse hota hi nahi hai. Toh dekho- pata bhi hai, aata bhi hai aur hota toh bohot acche se hai. Isiliye ek ki jagah do hue hain!” he finishes with a teasing glint.

As a doctor, you knew this was not an anomaly. But the woman in you just wanted to be angry rather than feeling scared.

Tears pool your eyes just as the adrenaline leaves your system making you slump on the bed.

Uzair moves close to you, taking you in his arms.

“Uzair, 4 bacche under 10, matlab 3 bacche under 6….Kaise hoga humse?”

“Mujhe bhi nahi pata jaan par tum saath ho toh sab ho jayega. Aur ghar wale bhi toh hai”

“Pata hai Ulfat bhabhi ne mujhse kya kaha? ‘Y/n ek playgroup idhar haveli mein khol dete hai, aadhe se zyada bacche tumhare hi honge’!”

Uzair laughs at this.

‘Haso mat! Uzair, main itni choti aur pyari. Konse angle se char-char bacchon ki Amma lagti hoon? Matlab tumhara toh theek hai, tum lagte ho Abba jaise par main toh Ayaan ki badi behen lagti hoon”

Uzair rolls his eyes at this, taking offence to the comment made on him while ignoring everything else.

“Tumhe main kya school college jane wale 4-7 bacchon ka Abba lagta hoon?”

You laugh at this, knowing what would tick him off too easily.

“Nahi nahi par mujhe daddy zaroor lagte ho-”

“Bas inhi baaton ki wajah se aaj hum yaha hain” He says in mock anger but completely turned on.

“Khush ho tum?’” you ask him a bit hesitant.

“Bohot khush hu. Har din apni kismat ko shukriyadaa kata hoon ke accha hua uss din tumhara phone utha liya” He murmurs, looking down at your lips.

What started as an innocent kiss, turned into much more, hands wandering under clothes and before it could get any further, you heard small footsteps running towards your door. You quickly push Uzair away while adjusting your clothes, just as Bahaar makes her way into the room.

“Abbu aaj badi Ammi ne mujhe chocolates di aur rasgulla bhi diya. Woh bhi two-two”

She grins at you two, holding her arms out for Uzair to lift her.

Surprised at the fact that her strict badi ammi gave her sweets made you feel warm and fuzzy as this meant that she was very happy about the twins.

“Pata hai badi ammi ne bola ke 2-2 new babies aayenge. Bade abbu ne kaha ek mera baby hoga aur ek Ayaan bhai ka.”

“Ha meri jaan, aap dono ke babies hai yeh” Uzair murmurs, kissing Bahaar's hair. Giggling, Bahaar opens her drawing book.

“Dekho maine drawing banayi hai. Bade Abbu ne colouring mein help ki!”

She presents to you the most beautiful drawing you have ever seen. Your 5 year old had made a stick drawing of the four of you, outside a small house with the sun shining between two blue clouds.

“Bohot pyara hai meri jaan but Ammi ke baal chote kyu hai?”

You ask her teasingly, eager to know how her 5 year old mind worked.

She laughs at this, smacking her head imitating the ‘silly you’ gesture often made by Ulfat bhabhi.

“Ammi yeh aap nahi, Yeh main hoon! Yeh two chotte babies hai aur yeh Ayaan bhai hai. Jab babies thode bade ho jayenge tab main aur bhai inko school, beach aur park le jayenge jaise aap, Abbu, Naie bhai aur Faizi bhai mujhe aur Bhai ko le jaate hain. Aur main apni lollipop aur ice cream bhi share karungi!”

Bahaar adds proudly.

Was it possible for a heart filled with love to love even deeper. Yes! Just like Bahaar who loved her family. Her already full heart expanded a bit more, bursting with love for her future siblings.

You look at Uzair who looks at you with the same wonder and awe. How did you two get so lucky?

Without a word you two smother Bahaar with kisses and hugs, making her giggle in joy.

At night, Uzair pins the drawing above the study desk in your bedroom. Bahaar had Ayaan help her name the drawing- A & B & babies. But here as she clarified- A & B didn't mean Ayaan and Bahaar, it meant Aapi & Bhai & Babies❤️

—--------

Ayaan sat alone in his room, sorting his books out to pack his bag for tomorrow. Usually you helped him with it and if you had a night shift then Ulfat would. Today despite you being at home, he did not ask you for help because you had just laid down on the bed to relax and he didn't want to ruin it.

Naieem, like his everyday routine, would wish all of his siblings a good night before going to bed. Bahaar did not have a designated sleeping place. She would sleep in Rehman and Ulfat's room, or sometimes in your and Uzair's, usually however she slept in the room her and Ayaan shared. Today she had chosen to sleep with bade abbu and badi ammi. Naieem was just walking back from his parents’ room towards Ayaan's. Watching the little boy, barely just starting third grade- alone in his room, packing his bag, being responsible.

Naieem had seen the longing look in Ayaan's eyes when his mother had rather unconventionally announced the twins. He wasn't blind, or naive. He saw the same longing there was when Ayaan first came at the haveli. The longing for acceptance and love- he had seen it fade away as well and completely vanish after he heard Ayaan call y/n Ammi. It was as if a switch flipped- he was laughing more, talking more, it was as if he started acting like a kid again.

“Ayaan?”

Naieem called him out as he entered the room.

“Kya hua naie bhai?”

Ayaan who was just zipping his bag, turned towards Naieem.

“Main madad kare doon?”

“Nahi Bhai maine kar liya! Dekhein.”

He lifted up his bag as if to show how well he did.

“Haan! Ab toh teen teen chote bhai behen ke bade bhai ho!”

“Haan…”

Naieem sat beside him on the bed, he caressed Ayaan’s head.

“Pata hai jab ammi abbu ne bataya ki Faizal ammi ke pet mein hai tab main bohot hi khush tha ki mera bhai aane wala hai. Maine sabko bata diya tha- poori school ko pata chal gaya tha ki Naieem Baloch ka bhai aane wala hai. Abbu ne bohot daanta tha! Lekin jab woh aa gaya na tab mujhe bilkul accha nahi laga tha.”

“Kyun? Aap toh Faizal bhai se bohot pyaare karte hain na?”

Naieem pulls him closer in a semi-hug.

“Karta toh hoon lekin kyunki woh chota tha toh ammi abbu bas ussi par tavajjo dete the. Mere saath nahi khelte the. Mujhe laga woh mujhse ab mohobbat nahi karte. Main naraaz rehne laga, akele rehne laga, sab khud se karne laga. Lekin phir mujhe kya pata chala jaante ho?”

“Kya?”

“Ye ki chotte bacche bilkul buddhu hote hain! Unhe kuch nahi aata! Khud hi cheekte hain aur khud hi darr jate hain. Unko thodi zyada tavajjo chahiye hoti hai. Ammi bhi thak jaati thi iss liye shayad mere saath nahi khel paati thi. Lekin jaise hi Faizal thoda sa bada hua- mujhe maza aane laga! Har cheez mein woh meri nakal karta- main school jaata toh rota, mere jaise khaana khane ki koshish karta lekin uske daant bhi nahi the”

Ayaan giggles.

“Faizal bhai bilkul buddhu the!”

“Haina! Wohi toh main kehta hoon hamesha se! Lekin Faizal ke aane ka matlab ye nahi ki ammi abbu ya chachu mujhse kam mohobbat karne lage. Woh mujhse itni hi mohobbat karte hain. Bilkul waise jaise Chachi aur Chachu tumhare chote bhai behen aane ke baad karenge.”

Ayaan did not say anything for a while. He fiddled with his fingers.

“Lekin aap toh adopted nahi ho na.”

He said in a voice so small that Naieem almost felt his heart break.

“Usse koi fark nahi padta. Jaise Allah ne mujhe mere ammi abbu ke liye chuna, waise unhone tumhe unke liye chuna- tabhi toh itne saare bacchon mein tum unse mile! Chachi kitni khush thi ki tum unhe mile phir tumhare saath Bahaar mili. Unko itna khush maine unke nikaah ke din dekha tha.”

Ayaan's eyes filled to the brim with a thin sheen of tears. 

“Sacchi?”

“Main jooth bolta hoon kabhi?”

Ayaan shook his head and hugged Naieem, which Naieem reciprocated. 

“Aisa kabhi mat samajna ki woh tumse mohabbat nahi karte- waise bhi tumhe nahi lagta ki inn sab mein hum dono hi samajdar hain. Thode se sabke screw dheele hain.”

Ayaan giggles again.

“Accha waise ek aur baat- woh khaa lein na, uske baad thoda door hi rehna kyunki ya toh woh tum pe ulti kar denge ya toh potty.”

“Kya?!”

“Haan, phir tumhe phir se nahana padega.”

“Ye toh acchi baat nahi hai. Main woh potti kar lein uske baad hi khelunga.”

—---------------------------------

The next few days were interesting to say the least. If your first trimester was testing, your second trimester was proving to be a whirlwind of emotions. Your current mood board oscillated between being tired and hungry or being horny and hungry. Some days you craved weird food combos like Jalebi with kheema parathas, anda curry with hazelnut milkshake. The result of the junk food binge often had you throwing up. During these times Bahaar and Ayaan kept you company with Bahaar kissing her babies (your tummy) while Ayaan patted your hair to soothe your pain. Faisal often joined them, making you laugh with updates on his antics at school.

Ulfat and Uzair had sort of formed a mutiny against your junk food escapades. Whatever you desired was being made at home but it wasn't what satiated your craving. In times like these Hamza and Naieem came to the rescue with the former getting the food while the latter smuggled it in the house, safe from the everlooming presence of Ulfat. Yalina admitted feeling sort of FOMO but little Saahil demanded her full attention and rightly so.

There was one craving your husband gladly looked forward to- You craving for him!

Whether it was hormones or monsoon or the fact your husband was oh so sexy, you just couldn't seem to keep your hands off him. He was a willing participant though. One afternoon when Naieem, Faisal and Ayaan were at football practice and Bahaar was out on a drive with her Bade Abbu and Badi Ammi, Uzair faked a headache only to come home to drive you crazy with his body. Were you complaining? No. Were you secretly glad you were already pregnant so you could be reckless? Yes.

But today you craved kulfi falooda more than anything. It was past 11 pm, too late to call Hamza or Naieem and too risky to step outside alone. Uzair was getting ready for the bed when he saw you restless. He immediately understood and he honestly felt he was being too strict. You are pregnant, that too with twins and with the doctor already levying restrictions on you due to your petite frame and complications on carrying twins, a late night craving should not be the cause of sadness for you.

“Kya khana hai batao, main le aaunga”

Your face immediately lights up

“Hakim chacha ke yaha ka Kulfi Falooda with extra malai, please!”

Uzair chuckles at your excitement, shaking his head in disbelief. Just a few seconds ago you looked like a woman whose puppy got lost and now you were practically bursting with excitement. Suddenly you stopped Uzair as your mood became serious.

“Suno! Ayaan ko saath leke jaana please?”

“Are abhi uske sone ka wakt hai”

“Pata hai par jabse pregnancy ki baat pata chali hai, mera beta thoda zyada samjahdar ho gaya hai. Tum pe gaya hai. Harr cheez andar rakhta hai. Mujhe darr hai ke kahin uska dil na tod de hum. Usse wakt kam naa dene lagein.”

“Sahi keh rahi ho. Woh bolta nahi par hum sab samajhte toh hai. Usse apne saath le jaata hoon aur raaste mein jaane ki koshish karunga ke uske mann mein kya chal raha hai”

Saying so, Uzair kisses your head and walks to Ayaan and Bahaar's room only to find Ayaan, trying to climb a chair. 

“Ayaan yeh kya kar rahe ho?”

“Abbu mujhe meri yeh bag chahiye. Aap utaar denge, please?”

Uzair nods and fetches the small suitcase. The same suitcase Ayaan and Bahaar carried from the orphanage, along with their belongings and clothes. Ayaan refused to let anyone help with it so you and Uzair figured it must be something important to him and hence never pushed him to unpack it.

“Abbu, Ammi so gayi hain?”

“Nahi toh. Tum aur main bahar jaa rahi Ammi aur sabke liye kulfi falooda laane.”

“Kya pehle hum Ammi ke paas jaa sakte hai?”

“Haan kyu nahi!”

_______________________

You were about to doze off again when the bedroom door opened with Ayaan holding his blue superhero solid suitcase. Uzair helps him up on the bed, the suitcase lying between the three of you.

Ayaan opens the suitcase, fetching a photo and handing it to you. You look at the photo and your heart breaks for your little boy. It was a picture of little Ayaan, with his Ammi Abbu and 1 year old Bahaar on what looked like her first birthday. The woman in the photo had this calm aura and kind eyes, eyes that looked exactly like Ayaan's. The man held Bahaar in a tight embrace, his short curly hair matching Bahaar's prominent curls. But most importantly, Ayaan looked happy. Comfortable in his mother's lap, he looked radiant, naughty and up for a mischief. Just as a 4 year old child should be. He looked so happy and content.

“Yeh mere Ammi Abbu the. Mujhe  ab inki shakal bas thodi thodi yaad hai. Aur yeh mera blanket tha jo Bahaar ko maine diya tha jab usko lene hospital gaya tha Abbu ke saath.”

You look up to see Uzair's eyes misting up. Your baby had grown up quickly and if anyone deserved any kind of happiness, it was your Ayaan.

He pulls you out from your thoughts as he fetches a soft worn green blanket with sunshine and rainbows on it, along with an elephant soft toy.

“Yeh elephant Bahaar ne mujhe gift diya tha jab woh iss ghar aayi thi. Mujhe pata hai yeh Abbu leke aaye the, lekin..” he chuckles.

“Toh yeh meri aur Bahaar ki taraf se babies ke liye. Jab bhi mujhe aur Bahaar ko darr lagta tha, ya bimaar hote ya ghar ki yaad aati, hum inn ke saath so jaate the. Main hoon babies ke liye par phir bhi…” he lets the sentence go unfinished. 

This was truly the greatest act of love. Little Ayaan was giving away the only things that were truly his so that his unborn siblings could feel the same love and security he felt with these. This gesture spoke louder than any words could- Ayaan trusted you and Uzair and truly loved the babies. Tears roll down your face, causing Ayaan's forehead to frown in worry.

“Aapko accha nahi laga? Main wapas rakh deta hoon” he said in a small voice.

“Nahi” you and Uzair speak at the same time.

“Ayaan meri baat dhyan se suno. Yeh babies ke liye sabse best gift hai. Aisa pyara gift koi bhi nahi de sakta. Aur jab tak Ayaan and Bahaar saath hai, inn babies ko darr aur udaasi choo bhi nahi sakte”

You pull him in your arms while Uzair strokes his back.

“Ayaan tumhare Ammi Abbu ko hum kabhi nahi bhulenge. Ab hum saath mein unhein yaad karenge aur sunke liye har roz dua karenge.” Uzair assures him.

You three stay like this, cuddled and close, for a long time. 

“Naieem bhai ne mujhe kuch kaha.”

Ayaan said, looking up at you.

“Naieem ne tumhe daanta?”

Uzair asked, surprised.

“Nahi nahi! acchi batein kahin unhone.”

“Phir?”

You ask, caressing his hair.

“Woh unhone kaha ki aap dono mujhse bohot pyaar karte hain aur aapke babies aane ke baad aap phir bhi mujhse mohobbat karenge.”

You looked at Uzair in concern. Was he thinking that you both will not love him anymore after the birth of twins? Had you failed in reassuring him that?

“Sahi kaha Naieem ne. Hum dono tumse bohot mohobbat karte hain aur aage aur mohobbat karenge. Lekin beta sirf ye bachhe hi humare nahi hai- tum aur Bahaar bhi humare hi bacche ho. Main jaanta hoon ki tum apne waalidon ko yaad karte hoge. Mujhe bhi apne waalidon ki yaad aati hai, lekin iska matlab ye toh nahi ki bade abbu aur badi ammi mujhse mohobbat nahi karte? Humari mohobbat kabhi kam nahi hogi. Lekin agar tumhe kabhi aisa lage, toh bas aise hi humare paas aa jana. Hum bhi abhi seekh rahe hain ki ammi abbu kaise banna hai.”

Uzair said, caressing his hair.

“Ammi promise karti hai beta ki woh kabhi tumse kam mohobbat nahi karegi. Magar humse koi galti ho toh haq se batana, hum kuch nahi kahenge.”

Uzair held Ayaan's hands in his and wiped his tears, Ayaan was sniffing.

Uzair clears his throat to change the mood.

“Maa bete ka pyaar phirse shuru ho gaya! Oh, ammi ke chamche- Abbu ko kuch nahi? Ayaan ko ammi aur Bahaar ko bade abbu hi pasand hai- main kisi ka azeez hoon hi nahi.”

You pull Uzair's cheek at the dramatics.

“Ho na! Faizal ke! Bilkul tumhari xerox copy!”

Ayaan covers his mouth in shock.

“Haw ammi! Aapne abbu ko buddhu kaha!?”

“Aisa maine kab kaha?!”

“Naieem bhai keh rahe the ki Faizal bhai thode se buddhu hain!”

“Baat toh sahi hai, woh hai bhi toh tumhare abbu jaisa hi-”

“Tum dono ko toh main- rehne do! Ab mujh bechare ko akela hi Hamid bhai ke yaha jaana padega.”

“Nahi nahi Abbu, main aaunga na aapke saath! Sacchi- aap hi best ho!”

Saying this, Ayaan jumps out of bed to find his shoes. Uzair looks at you lovingly while you carefully place the blanket and toy on bed and look at the photo again.

“Hum acche Ammi Abbu bane ya na banein par hume sabse acche bacche mile hain.” He says.

“Aur ab inn bacchon ke liye hum sabse acche Ammi Abbu aur yeh babies sabse acche bhai-behen bannenge” 

You say softly, making a silent promise to the two people in the photo.

Tags (Dm to be Added or removed from the taglist!):

​“Yeh yaha nehi reh sakta. Katey nehi! Mei ese ajhi wohi chor ke aunga jaha sei mene laya tha,” Uzair huffed, slamming the door of the room shut behind him.

​He was at it again. It was barely seven in the morning, and his voice was already echoing through the haveli. This time, though, he actually had proof of the crime. He was holding up a white, freshly ironed linen kurta by the shoulders—or at least, it had been clean until a certain furry terrorist decided it was the perfect place to pee.

​Down on the rug of dalan, Lio was casually licking his paw. He didn't even look up at the grown man yelling at him. Honestly, just like you, Lio had learned that Uzair’s morning rants were completely empty threats, even when they involved ruined clothes.

​"Yeh dekho zara!" Uzair gestured wildly at the damp spot on the fabric, his jaw tight. "Sirf paanch minute ke liye maine isse bed par rakha tha. LITERALLY paanch minute. Isne jaanbujh kar kiya hai yeh, I swear."

​The irony of the whole thing was that Uzair was the one who brought Lio home in the first place. Back at the factory, Lio had been a master manipulator. He used to butter Uzair up, rub against his ankles, and completely steal his heart. Uzair had fallen for it completely and brought him to the haveli.

​But the second Lio stepped inside, Uzair faced the ultimate betrayal.

​Lio took one look at you, decided you were the real boss of the house, and immediately became your shadow. He stole all your attention, took over your lap, and didn't give a single duck about Uzair anymore. And apparently, hurting Uzair's pride wasn't enough—now he was actively sabotaging his wardrobe.

​"Pehle yeh chup-chap mere kadmo ke paas baitha rehta tha," Uzair muttered, glaring at the cat before tossing the kurta toward the laundry basket. "Ab toh yeh billa mujhe aise dekhta hai jaise mai tum dono ke beech kabab mein haddi hu, aur isiliye mujhe hi raste se hatane ki koshish kar raha hai.”

​You hid your smile behind your tea mug, trying your hardest not to laugh out loud. Uzair’s little heart was just bruised. Deep down, he still loved the cat—he’d literally named him Lio after Lionel Messi, his favorite footballer. But now, it was a matter of pride. It just felt like two boys in your life competing for your attention, and Lio had definitely won this round.

​"Toh jao na, chor ao isse wapas factory," you teased softly, taking a sip of your tea.

​Uzair glanced at you, then at the smug-looking cat, and cleared his throat as he reached into the wardrobe for a backup shirt. ​"Jaunga... bas nashte ke baad. Fir thora kaam hain, usse niptane ke baad isse bhi niptunga.”

​— — — 🐾 — — —

Two weeks later, once again, the war began between the two men in your life.

​It was late evening, and the haveli was finally quiet after a long day. Everyone was chilling lazily around the house. You were curled up on the corner of the living room sofa, reading a book, while Lio was stretched out right next to you, purring like a generator.

​Uzair walked into the room right after Rehman bhai, unbuttoning his cuffs and looking completely exhausted from the factory. He took one look at the couch, then at Lio, and stopped dead in his tracks. His face twitched, looking as annoyed as ever.

​"Tum phir shuru ho gaye?" Uzair grumbled, crossing his arms.

​Lio didn't even blink. He just opened one green eye, let out a tiny, lazy meow, and stretched his paws out further, occupying the exact spot where Uzair usually sat.

​"Hato yahan se. Yeh meri jagah hai," Uzair commanded, stepping closer and snapping his fingers. "Chalo, shabaash. Factory wale din bhool gaye kya jab mere bache hue biscuit par palte the? Chalo utho!"

​You suppressed a giggle, not looking up from your book. "Uzair, thak gaya hai woh. Sone do usse."

​"Aur mai? Mai jo din bhar dhoop mein kaam karke aya hu, mai zameen par baithu?" Uzair huffed, staring at the cat like he was looking at his worst business rival. "Maine pehle hi kaha tha isse chor ke aata hu factory mein, yeh yahan nahi reh sakta. Isne sofa bhi harap liya, ab toh mai isse phek aunga!"

​"Arey Uzair, yeh kaisi bacchon ki tarah harkat kar raha hai? Chup chap dusri jagah baith, ek billa hi toh hai, tera sautan nahi," Rehman bhai said with a smirk, clearly enjoying the whole scene.

​"Rehman, baccha gussa hai, usse itna bhi tang mat kariye," Ulfat bhabi said, walking in with a tray holding two glasses of Rooh Afza for the grumpy men. "Lo Uzair, thanda thanda sharbat pio aur thoda cool ho jao," she added, her tone purely teasing.

​Uzair let out a defeated sigh, walked over, and awkwardly sat down at your feet while holding the glass, leaning back against your legs.

​"Sabne bola isiliye is bille ko chhod raha hu," Uzair muttered, his voice dropping so only you could hear. "Warna isse toh mai abhi phek aata."

​Right on cue, Lio shifted, stretching his front paws forward until he rested his head directly against Uzair’s shoulder, seeking out his body heat. Uzair froze, his whole body going rigid. He glared sideways at the cat, but despite all his big talk, he didn't move away.

​— — — 🐾 — — —

A month later, the kitchen became the new battleground.

​The haveli was filled with the mouth-watering aroma of freshly frying chicken. You were standing by the stove under the strict supervision of Ulfat bhabi, who was making sure the spices were just right. Nearby, sitting on the kitchen slab at a safe distance from the popping oil, was Lio. He was watching your every move with laser-sharp focus.

​Uzair walked in, following his nose straight to the stove. His mouth was watering, and he looked completely starved.

​"Ek piece chakhne ke liye do na, please," Uzair pleaded, giving you his best puppy-dog eyes.

​"Abhi nahi Uzair, thoda toh sabar kariye," you muttered softly, turning a piece over in the oil.

​"Bhabiiii..." he whined, pleading to Ulfat bhabi and trying his luck once again.

​Ulfat bhabi laughed, nodding at you to let it go. You sighed playfully, fishing out a perfectly golden, crispy piece of chicken and placing it on a small plate for him.

​Uzair grinned victoriously. But instead of just eating it, he looked over at Lio, who was staring intently at the plate. Uzair just couldn't resist pulling the cat's leg. He picked up the plate, leaned slightly toward Lio, and smirked.

​"Yeh dekh, kya mila mujhe," Uzair taunted in a teasing voice. "Tujhe nahi milne wala yeh. Kisi ko tujhse pyaar nahi hai yahan, samjh aya? Sirf mai hi is haveli ka asli hero hu."

​Lio just blinked, his tail twitching lazily as if he was calculating his next move.

​Uzair turned around and set the plate down on the kitchen table, sitting on a chair and blowing on the hot chicken to cool it down. He was just about to take a bite when his phone suddenly rang. He pulled it out, saw the caller ID, and groaned. It was Hamza.

​Muttering a curse, Uzair wandered out of the kitchen toward the courtyard to get better reception, leaving the chicken completely lonely and unguarded on the table.

​It took Lio—the absolute ninja of a cat—exactly three seconds.

​Before you or Ulfat bhabi could even open your mouths, Lio leaped from the slab to the chair, and then straight onto the table. He snatched the piece of chicken right off the plate and bolted out of the kitchen door.

​When Uzair walked back in two minutes later, pocketing his phone, he was totally ready to finally eat. He reached for the table—and froze. The plate was completely empty, except for a tiny drop of oil.

​Uzair blinked, looking at the empty plate, then at you, and finally at the open door.

​"Mera chicken kahan gaya?" Uzair asked, his voice cracking in pure disbelief.

​Ulfat bhabi was already wiping tears of laughter, leaning against the counter. "Maine kaha tha na Uzair, usse tang mat karo. Woh apna badla lena jaanta hai."

​Uzair’s face went completely red as he realized he had just been outsmarted by a cat. He marched straight to the kitchen door and shouted out into the courtyard, "Tu sach mein ek chor he, Lio! Mai tujhe sach mein wapas factory chhod kar aunga! I swear!"

​From somewhere behind the rose bushes in the courtyard, a faint, muffled crunching sound was the only reply.

​— — — 🐾 — — —

​It was a beautiful, pleasant morning. Since it was a day off for everyone, the entire haveli was in a completely relaxed mood.

​Everyone was sitting out on a massive mat in the courtyard, having breakfast like a little family picnic. Ulfat bhabi was busy serving food and juice, occasionally calling out to her two boys—her elder son, Naieem, and the younger one, Faizal—to come eat. They were in the middle of a heated football match in the yard, with Hamza acting as the referee. Nearby, Rehman bhai was completely absorbed in his morning newspaper.

​Meanwhile, the newlywed couple was busy in their own little world. For the first time in weeks, Uzair was in a state of pure contentment. The reason? That annoying santhra billa was nowhere to be seen. 

Uzair was happily resting his head right in your lap, closing his eyes as your hand softly stroked through his hair. You were casually reading a book, occasionally smiling down at him. Everything felt perfect.

​Suddenly, Hamza's phone rang. He stepped out of the courtyard to answer it, leaving the boys to their game.

​But just two minutes later, Hamza came sprinting back into the courtyard, literally screaming like a girl.

​"Bhai! Uzair dekh isse!" Hamza yelled, his voice hitting a ridiculous high pitch as he stormed toward the mat.

​He was holding a very annoyed Lio by the scruff of his neck. Lio’s paws were dangling in the air, and he looked completely unfazed by Hamza's meltdown.

​"Is bille ne meri bike ki seat par apne nakhun maare hain! Poori seat kharab kar di isne!" Hamza cried, holding the cat up like a piece of evidence. "Mai bata raha hu, aaj mai is bille ki dum kaat dunga!”

Hamza raised his hand dramatically, pretending he was actually going to swat the cat.

​Before you or Rehman bhai could even react, Uzair’s eyes snapped open. He sat up in your lap so fast he almost knocked your book away. Standing up instantly, he stepped between Hamza and the cat, his face completely serious.

​"Arey, neeche utar usse!" Uzair commanded sharply, swatting Hamza’s hand away. "Neeche rakh mere... I mean, neeche rakh isse! Jaan nikale ga kya bacche ki!”

​Hamza blinked in absolute shock, slowly letting Lio drop to the grass. The orange cat immediately trotted over to your side of the mat, completely safe.

​"Uzair ? Tu bhi iske side le raha hain?" Hamza asked, looking betrayed. "Isne mera bike ki vaat laga di!"

​Uzair cleared his throat, suddenly realizing the whole family—including Rehman bhai over the top of his newspaper—was staring at him with amused smiles, while you and Ulfat bhabi exchanged teasing glances. His face went a little red, and he quickly crossed his arms to recover his pride.

​​"Mai koi side nahi le raha," Uzair muttered, looking away stubbornly. "Mai toh bas... insaniyat ke naate bol raha tha. Aur waise bhi, teri bike ki seat pehle hi kharab thi." He paused, trailing off half-heartedly as he glanced back at the said billa. "Aur waise bhi, yeh kuch hi dino ka mehman hai... isse mai jald hi chhod aunga."

​— — — 🐾 — — —

One afternoon, Uzair came home from work and went straight to the bathroom to freshen up. When he walked back out into the bedroom, wiping his face and damp hair with a towel, he stopped.

​There on the bed was Lio, completely engrossed in playing with a ball of bunched-up socks that Uzair had just discarded. The orange cat was kicking it, pouncing on it, and tossing it around like a maniac. Seeing the silly cat playing so mindlessly did something to Uzair. For a split second, a sudden warmth hit his heart, and a small, involuntary smile tugged at his lips.

​Stepping closer, he decided to playfully pick a fight, leaning down toward the bed.

​"Wah beta, tujhe sirf meri cheezen hi dikhti hain badmashi karne ke liye?" Uzair muttered, his voice dropping into that familiar, mock-stern tone. "Pehle toh tune meri biwi ko chura liya. Phir woh perfume ki bottle jo tune apne pair se gira ke todi, phir mera kurta barbad kiya, phir tune meri jagah le li, mera khana churaliya, mere dost ki bike ka kabada kar diya... aur ab tune meri socks bhi le li? Kya chahta hai tu? Mera sukoon?"

​Lio paused mid-pounce, looking up at Uzair with his lazy, unblinking green eyes as if he was completely bored, casually holding the sock ball between his paws. He let out a sharp meow right at him, sounding exactly like he was mocking him—as if to say, 'Haan, lunga sukoon. Kya karega? Kisi ke baap se nahi darta.'

​"Bhool mat kisne tujhe ghar diya hai," Uzair warned, pointing a finger at him, though there was zero real anger left in his eyes. "Zyada uchal mat, nahi toh factory mein hi chhod kar aaunga. Pada rahega kisi kone mein."

​You were just walking up to the bedroom door holding a tray with his afternoon chai when you witnessed the whole thing. You stood there frozen in the doorway, a huge smile blooming on your face as you watched your tough, grumpy husband having a full-blown conversation with a cat

​— — — 🐾 — — —

One day, Lio was not feeling okay. At the crack of dawn, you and Uzair were jolted awake by that sickening, rhythmic gagging noise—the absolute universal nightmare of every single pet parent.

​Both of you jumped out of bed instantly. There on the foot of the bed was Lio, hunched over and vomiting. Normally, a cat ruining the bedding would have been the ultimate topic of Uzair’s annoyance, but this morning, there was no room for anger. Lio looked incredibly small, his little body shivering as he let out a pathetic, low meow.

​Uzair completely panicked.

​He didn't even care about work. He cancelled all his meetings for the day, summoned his private vet to the haveli, and fiercely told him that he wasn't allowed to leave the premises until Lio was completely back to normal. And honestly, who would dare deny The Uzair Baloch?

​Even though the vet repeatedly checked Lio and assured him it was just a minor issue, Uzair wasn't having it.

​"Suniye Uzair bhai, Lio ko kuch nahi hua," the vet tried to explain, packing up his stethoscope to calm him down. "Yeh sab thoda bloating ke wajah se hua hai jo bohot normal hai. Do-teen din medicines khayega aur rest karega toh thik ho jayega."

​"Medicine aur rest thik hai! Bas koi saline-phaline nahi chadhoge isse! Dekho toh kitna bimaar lag raha hai baccha!" Uzair interrupted, his voice laced with uncharacteristic worry as he paced back and forth with his arms crossed."Mujhe koi risk nahi chahiye. Aap yahin rukenge. Jab tak yeh khud uth kar apni shararatain shuru nahi karta, aap is haveli se ek qadam bahar nahi nikalenge. Samjh aya?" he demanded sharply.

​The poor vet could only nod quickly, completely intimidated. Uzair spent the rest of the afternoon hovering in the corridors, checking on Lio every ten minutes like a hawk.

​Late that night, after making sure the kitchen was clean and checking on the rest of the house, you finally walked back into your bedroom.

​The door was slightly ajar, and when you peeked inside, your heart completely melted.

​There on the bed was your six-foot-one, giant alpha husband, fast asleep. And curled up right on his chest—completely safe, warm, and content—was the very same orange cat Uzair had spent months claiming he would throw back into the factory. Lio was breathing softly, his tiny motor purring so loudly you could hear it from the doorway, completely synced with the steady rise and fall of Uzair's chest. One of Uzair’s large hands was loosely draped over Lio’s back, protectively holding him close even in his sleep.

​You walked in softly, setting your phone on the nightstand, and whispered down to the sleeping duo.

​"Factory chhod kar aunga... hmmm?" you teased in a barely audible whisper, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from Uzair's forehead.

​As if hearing you, Uzair let out a low, sleepy grunt and pulled Lio just a tiny bit closer to his chest. Lio didn't even open his eyes; he just let out a sleepy, satisfied purr.

​You leaned against the pillows beside them with a soft smile on your face, finally knowing for a fact that the santhra billa wasn't going anywhere. He was officially a Baloch.

‘Signal’s locked, sir,’ Farooq whispered, his voice barely more than a breath against the wind. ‘They’re holding steady at 20 km/h, heading for the old berth three. No deviation.’

Iqbal gave a single, curt nod. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck corded as he fought the urge to let the internal blaze flare outward. ‘Move,’ he said, the word low and edged with steel. ‘Two armored vehicles on the flanks, strike team cutting the maritime exit. We box them in, no escape, no surprises.’

The command rippled through the comms like a silent pulse. Two black‑armored APCs, their surfaces dulled to absorb any stray light, rolled forward from the shadows, their engines a muted growl that vibrated through the ground. They took positions on either side of the van’s projected path, forming a living wall of steel.

Simultaneously, a squad of six operators, faces obscured by balaclavas, weapons cradled low, slipped between the towering containers, their boots silent on the oily concrete. They moved like wraiths, each step calculated, each breath held, the hum of their comms the only sound besides the distant lapping of water against rusted hulls.

The strike team fanned out, sealing off the narrow channels that led to the water’s edge. They planted themselves behind stacks of corrugated metal, their rifles trained on the gaps where a speedboat might dart out. The air grew heavier, the humidity pressing down like a wet blanket, making every inhalation feel like drawing warm, saline soup into the lungs. The scent of rust grew stronger as they neared the waterline, where the sea had long since reclaimed the land, leaving behind a graveyard of twisted girders and barnacle‑encrusted pilings.

Iqbal advanced with the precision of a predator, his sidearm, a compact, matte‑black 9mm, held at low ready, finger resting lightly on the trigger guard. His eyes scanned the van’s approach, noting the way the driver’s hands gripped the wheel, the slight tension in the shoulders, the way the vehicle’s suspension groaned over the uneven pavement. He could feel his own pulse hammering in his ears, a deafening thrum that matched the distant thrum of the port’s generators.

‘Three… two… one… now,’ Farooq’s voice crackled in his ear, a quiet countdown that seemed to sync with the beating of Iqbal’s heart.

The armored vehicles surged forward simultaneously, their brakes hissing as they halted just shy of the van’s flank, forming a tight, impenetrable cage. The strike team erupted from their cover, weapons rising in unison, the muzzle flashes swallowed by the night’s darkness.

For a heartbeat, the world was a tableau of steel and shadow, the van trapped like a beetle in a jar.

Iqbal broke from the line, his boots splashing through a puddle of oily water as he raced to the rear of the van. The driver’s side door was still shut, the windows fogged with condensation. He planted his back against the cold steel, feeling the vibration of the engine through the soles of his feet, and drew a compact breaching charge from his belt, a small, cylindrical device designed to shear hinges without detonating the cargo.

He pressed the charge against the seam where the rear doors met the frame, the adhesive hiss barely audible over the port’s ambient groan. A soft, controlled pop followed, and the bolts screamed as they gave way. The doors shuddered inward, hanging for a moment on their hinges before Iqbal kicked them fully open with a boot‑heel thrust, the metal groaning in protest.

His sidearm snapped up, the barrel sweeping the interior in a smooth arc. He expected to see the glow of consoles, the flicker of antenna arrays, the cold, focused faces of enemy operators hunched over screens that pulsed with illicit signals.

Instead, the van’s interior was a cavern of emptiness.

The floor was bare metal, stripped of any paneling or wiring. No racks, no consoles, no coils of cable, just the hollow echo of his own breath bouncing off the walls. The only illumination came from the weak spill of the port’s distant lights, casting long, wavering shadows that made the void seem even larger. The air inside smelled of oil and old rubber, a stark contrast to the salt‑laden breath outside.

Iqbal’s mind raced, the internal fire flaring hotter as confusion and suspicion coiled together. He lowered his weapon just enough to see the driver, a figure hunched behind the wheel, shoulders trembling, hands white‑knuckled on the rim.

The man’s face was slick with sweat, his eyes wide and darting, reflecting the faint light like trapped prey. Recognition struck Iqbal like a physical blow.

‘Tariq?’ he said, the word a low, incredulous growl that seemed to vibrate in the steel walls.

The underground chamber was a tomb of concrete, its walls poured thick and unyielding, the air inside stagnant and heavy as molten lead. No ventilation hissed, no light flickered save the single, sickly bulb dangling from the ceiling, a filament that sputtered like a dying heart, casting a jaundiced glow that made the sweat on the walls look like beads of oil.

They had shoved Tariq onto the cold floor the moment the heavy door clanged shut. The man’s crisp, tailored shirt was already darkened with sweat, the expensive fabric clinging to his torso like a second skin. His polished shoes lay abandoned near the door, scuffed from the frantic sprint across the port’s oily concrete.

He was a man Iqbal had known for years, a portly, impeccably dressed logistics tycoon whose smile could close deals and whose wallets funded half of Iqbal’s off‑the‑books operations. He had moved weapons, intel, and men across borders with the ease of a merchant moving silk. To see him here, was a betrayal for Iqbal that cut deeper than any blade.

Now he lay on his side, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around his midsection as if trying to hold himself together. Blood had begun to seep from the split knuckles of his right hand, where Iqbal’s first punch had landed, and a thin line of crimson traced the curve of his lower lip, the result of a backhand that had split the flesh when he tried to speak.

Iqbal stood over him, the weight of his tactical vest pressing against his chest, the plates cold against his skin despite the inferno raging inside. His eyes, usually sharp as a hawk’s, were narrowed to slits, the pupils dilated not from darkness but from the fury that burned like a forge in his gut. The scent of cordite still clung to his forearms, a metallic tang that mixed with the iron smell of blood beginning to pool around Tariq’s wrists.

‘You know why you’re here,’ Iqbal said, his voice low, each word a blade dragged across stone. ‘You moved that van. You knew what was inside. You fed the lie to our screens.’

Tariq’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving against the floor. Tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, leaving pale tracks that shone dully in the bulb’s light. He lifted his head just enough to meet Iqbal’s gaze, his eyes wide, raw, pleading.

‘I don’t know anything, Iqbal!’ he choked out, the words cracking like thin ice. ‘I swear on my life, I don’t know anything! Why are you doing this to me?’

The question hung in the air, a raw nerve exposed. To Iqbal’s paranoid mind, the sincerity in Tariq’s voice was not a sign of innocence but the hallmark of a deep‑cover operative trained to withstand interrogation, to mask terror with a veneer of helplessness. He had seen it before in the eyes of men who had endured years of psychological conditioning, those who could lie with the calm of a saint while their hearts hammered like war drums.

Iqbal’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck standing out like taut cables. The heat inside him surged, a searing pressure that made his vision swim at the edges. He could feel the familiar, almost supernatural fire licking his veins, a reminder of the anomaly that had marked him since childhood, a blood that seemed to boil when anger flared.

The sensation was both a weapon and a curse, it gave him strength, but it also threatened to consume him from within.

He stepped closer, the sole of his boot scraping against the concrete, sending a small shower of dust into the stale air. His hand, still slick with the remnants of cordite and the fresh blood from Tariq’s split lip, hovered over the man’s throat. He could feel the rapid flutter of the pulse beneath the skin, a frantic bird trying to escape its cage.

‘You think I don’t see the game?’ Iqbal whispered, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. ‘You think I don’t know that someone fed you a false manifest, that they used you as a puppet to draw us out? You think I’m blind to the strings?’ Tariq shuddered, a sob breaking free from his throat. ‘I… I was told it was a routine move. A shipment of textiles. I swear...’

‘Lies,’ Iqbal snapped, the word exploding like a gunshot. He lifted his hand and brought it down with a force that made Tariq’s head snap back against the concrete. A dull thud echoed, followed by a wet crack as the man’s nose gave way. Blood spurted, dark and hot, staining the floor in a widening pool.

Tariq’s hands flew to his face, fingers splaying over the broken cartilage, his screams muffled by the blood that filled his mouth. Iqbal did not relent. He drove his knee into the man’s ribs, feeling the give of bone under the pressure, hearing the soft, sickening crack of a fracture. Each strike was deliberate, each blow a punctuation in the sentence of betrayal he was trying to read.

‘You move assets for me,’ Iqbal growled, leaning in so his lips brushed Tariq’s ear, the heat of his breath scorching the skin. ‘You know the weight of what we carry. You know the cost of a mistake. Explain why a van marked KAR‑9, supposed to be carrying a mobile jammer, was empty, and why you were behind the wheel.’

Tariq’s eyes rolled back, the pain pulling him toward unconsciousness. He gasped, ‘I… I don’t know… I was set up… a voice… distorted… they promised…’

The words were a slurry of agony and confusion. Iqbal’s mind, already a furnace of suspicion, latched onto the fragment of a distorted voice. It fit the pattern he had been chasing, the phantom signal, the fabricated data, the ghost coordinate that had led them to this very spot. In his mind, the pieces clicked together like the tumblers of a lock, a foreign hand had manipulated Tariq, using his wealth and his access to move a decoy, all while the real threat slipped through the cracks.

A chuckle, harsh and devoid of humor, escaped Iqbal’s lips. It sounded more like a snarl than anything human. ‘You think I don’t know the games being played? You think I don’t see the strings? Someone’s using you as a pawn, Tariq. And they’ve just handed us a gift wrapped in lies.’

He stepped back, the adrenaline still pumping, and reached for the sidearm at his hip. The pistol was a compact, matte‑black 9mm, its weight familiar, its grip worn smooth from countless draws. He lifted it, the barrel catching the weak light from the bulb, a thin line of silver that seemed to pulse with his own heartbeat.

Tariq’s eyes widened, terror flooding them as he realized the inevitable. He tried to scramble backward, his elbows scraping against the concrete, leaving faint grooves in the dust. ‘Please… I… I’ll tell you everything… just don’t...’

Iqbal’s finger tightened on the trigger. The report was sharp, a crack that split the stale air like a whip. The bullet struck Tariq just above the sternum, driving through flesh and bone with a sickening, wet thud. The man’s body jerked, a spasm that sent a spray of blood arcing across the wall, painting the concrete in a grotesque, abstract pattern. For a heartbeat, Tariq’s eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling, the light catching the tears that still clung to his lashes. Then his head lolled to the side, the life draining out of him in a slow, inexorable tide.

Silence fell, broken only by the ragged hiss of the bulb and the steady drip of blood from Tariq’s wound onto the floor. Iqbal stood over the corpse, his chest heaving. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead, the salt of it mixing with the metallic tang of blood on his lips. His hands trembled, not from fatigue, but from the raw, uncontrolled surge of power and rage that had just been unleashed.

He lowered the weapon, the barrel still smoking faintly, and let it hang at his side. The weight of the act settled in his gut like a stone. He had just executed a man who had been his confidant, his financier, the silent partner who moved the shadows that allowed his off‑the‑books operations to flourish. In doing so, he had severed a lifeline, destroyed a pipeline of resources that had funded countless covert missions. The realization was a cold shock that cut through the heat, a moment of stark clarity amidst the fury.

‘What have I done?’ he whispered, the words barely audible over the drip of blood. The question was not one of remorse, but of calculation, what would the loss of Tariq mean for the network he had built? How many operations would now stall? How many enemies would sense the weakness and strike?

He turned away from the body, the concrete cold against his boots as he stepped toward the door. The heavy slab groaned as he pushed it open, a rush of cooler, night‑laden air spilling into the chamber, carrying with it the faint scent of salt and distant diesel from the port. The heat inside the room seemed to pulse, reluctant to relinquish its hold, but the outside night offered a brief respite.

Iqbal paused at the threshold, looking back at the lifeless form of Tariq. The man’s face was a mask of agony and disbelief, his mouth slightly open as if caught mid‑sentence. A dark pool of blood spread beneath him, seeping into the porous concrete, staining it forever. Iqbal felt a strange, almost detached curiosity, was this the end of a loyal asset, or the beginning of a deeper, more dangerous game? The thought lingered, a cold ember in the furnace of his mind.

The drive back to the Clifton mansion was a blur of streetlights and shadow. The city’s arteries pulsed with the low hum of generators and the occasional distant siren, but the streets near his home were quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes after a storm has passed and before the next one gathers. The heat that had been his constant companion seemed to ebb slightly as the night deepened, the temperature dropping a few degrees, enough to make the air feel less like a blanket and more like a veil.

He pulled the car into the private drive of the mansion, the gravel crunching under the tires in a rhythm that matched his own heartbeat. The engine died, and silence settled, broken only by the soft hiss of the cooling radiator. Iqbal sat for a moment, his forehead resting against the cool rim of the steering wheel, eyes closed. The image of Tariq’s broken face flickered behind his lids, superimposed with the sensation of his own blood‑hot veins, the fire that had driven him to pull the trigger.

When he finally opened the door, the night air rushed in, carrying with it the faint perfume of jasmine that clung to the garden walls, a scent that usually meant peace, now feeling like a cruel irony. His boots hit the stone path, each step sending a small spray of dust into the air. He moved toward the massive oak doors of the mansion, the weight of his exhaustion making each movement feel like wading through syrup.

The doors swung open inward, revealing the dim foyer where a single chandelier cast a soft, amber glow. The marble floor was cool underfoot, a stark contrast to the heat that still radiated from his core. He could feel the eyes of the house, silent, watchful, though no one was visible. The mansion breathed with a quiet dignity, its walls holding centuries of secrets, its halls echoing with the footsteps of generations.

He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. The sound was swallowed by the plush rug that lined the hallway, a deep burgundy that absorbed sound as well as it did light. He moved toward the living room, the space where he and Mallika often retreated after long days, where the scent of sandalwood and incense usually lingered in the air.

There, framed by the soft glow of a floor lamp, stood Mallika. She was a vision of restrained elegance, her midnight‑black hair cascading in loose waves over her shoulders, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She wore a simple, silk nightgown in a deep shade of emerald that caught the light and gave her an almost ethereal appearance. Her eyes, wide and luminous, were fixed on him, filled with a mixture of concern and something deeper, a quiet, unwavering devotion that had been the bedrock of their life together.

She did not rush to him with words, she knew better than to ask about the blood on his hands, the acrid scent of cordite that clung to his skin, the darkness that had settled in his gaze. Instead, she opened her arms, a silent invitation that spoke of safety and solace.

Iqbal stumbled into her embrace, the heat of his body meeting the coolness of hers like two opposing forces colliding. Her arms wrapped around his torso, her palms pressing firmly against his back, her fingers splaying over the ridges of his spine. The contact was instantaneous, a shockwave of cold that seemed to travel straight into his core.

For a breathless moment, the world fell away. The raging fire inside him, this internal furnace that had burned since childhood, that had flared with every surge of anger, every flash of suspicion, met the chill of her touch and sputtered, like a flame doused with a bucket of ice. The sensation was not merely physical, it was mental, emotional. His thoughts, which had been a jagged torrent of images, Tariq’s broken face, the echo of the gunshot, the weight of betrayal, suddenly went still, as if a hand had clamped over the mouth of a screaming crowd.

He could feel her heartbeat against his chest, steady and calm, a quiet drum that seemed to synchronize with his own, slowing the frantic pace of his pulse. Her breath brushed his neck, warm and soft, carrying the faint scent of jasmine and sandalwood that always clung to her skin. It was a scent that grounded him, that reminded him of mornings spent in the garden, of evenings where they had shared silent cups of tea while the city slept below.

Iqbal could not find words. The storm within him had been quelled, not by reason or logic, but by the simple, profound act of her presence. He lowered his forehead to rest against her shoulder, feeling the soft fabric of her nightgown absorb the heat that still radiated from him. His hands, still trembling, found their way to her waist, gripping gently, as if afraid that if he held too tightly he might shatter the delicate balance she had created.

The mansion seemed to hold its breath with them. The chandelier above cast a soft, golden halo around their intertwined forms, the light catching the tears that had not yet fallen from Iqbal’s eyes, tears born not of sorrow, but of the overwhelming relief of being seen, of being held, of being reminded that even in the darkest of his own making, there was a place where the fire could be cooled.

He inhaled deeply, drawing in her scent, the cool night air that slipped through the open windows, and the faint, lingering trace of gunpowder that still clung to his skin. The mixture was strange, almost alien, violence and peace, heat and cold, rage and repose, all woven together in the space between two hearts.

Mallika’s hands moved slowly, tracing lazy circles on his back, her fingertips pressing just enough to stimulate the nerves without causing pain. Each pass was a reminder that she was there, that she was real, that she was his anchor. The tension in his shoulders began to ease, the knots that had been wound tight by hours of interrogation and the subsequent execution slowly unraveling under her ministrations.

He could feel the heat inside him wane, not extinguished but tempered, like a forge that had been allowed to cool after a day of hammering. The fire was still there, a core of strength that would always burn within him, but it no longer threatened to consume him from the inside out. It was now a steady glow, a banked ember that could be called upon when needed, but would not devour everything in its path.

Minutes passed, or perhaps it was only moments, they had lost track of time in the quiet sanctuary of her embrace. The world outside continued its indifferent march, the distant hum of the city, the occasional rustle of leaves in the garden, the far‑off call of a night bird. Inside the mansion, however, time seemed to stretch, each second a gift, each breath a renewal.

When at last Iqbal pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, he saw reflected there not just concern, but a fierce, quiet determination. She understood, without him having to speak, that he carried burdens that no one else could see, that he walked a path lined with shadows and blood. And yet, she stood beside him, unwavering, ready to share the weight, to offer the coolness that could temper his flame.

‘Thank you,’ he managed, his voice hoarse from the exertion and the raw emotion that had torn through him. The words were simple, but they carried the weight of all that had passed, the betrayal, the violence, the loss, and the fragile peace he had found in her arms.

Mallika smiled, a soft, genuine curve of her lips that seemed to light up the room even more than the chandelier. ‘Always,’ she replied, her voice a warm whisper that settled over him like a blanket. ‘Now rest. But first, clean yourself and change into better clothes’

He nodded, the motion small but sincere. He stepped back, allowing her to guide him toward the staircase that led to their private chambers. Each step was a grounding, a reminder that he was returning to a place where he could be more than a weapon, more than a commander of shadows, he could be a husband, a man who was loved, a man who loved.

Reaching the bedroom, Iqbal went to the bathroom while Mallika handed him clean clothes. After few minutes, he returned to the room. Mallika pulled back the covers on bed, gesturing for him to lie down. He did so, the mattress yielding slightly under his weight, the sensation grounding him further.

She slipped beside him, her body pressing against his side, her arm draped over his chest. Her hand found his, fingers intertwining, the contact sending a fresh wave of coolness up his arm, a gentle reminder that she was there, that she was real.

Iqbal closed his eyes, the darkness behind his lids soft and welcoming. The images of the interrogation room, the gunshot, Tariq’s broken face, they flickered at the edges of his consciousness, but each time they surfaced, Mallika’s presence was a counterpoint, a soft, steady hum that pushed them back into the shadows.

He felt his breathing slow, the rise and fall of his chest matching the rhythm of hers. The heat within him was now a low, steady warmth, like a hearth that had been banked for the night. It was no longer a blaze threatening to consume, it was a source of comfort, a reminder of the strength that lived inside him, tempered by the love that lived beside him.

In the quiet of the room, with the night outside holding its breath and the mansion’s ancient walls keeping watch, Iqbal finally allowed himself to drift. The world of espionage, of betrayals and covert wars, faded into a distant murmur. All that remained was the feel of her hand in his, the coolness of her skin against his fevered flesh, and the quiet promise that, no matter how dark the night became, there would always be a place where the fire could be cooled, where the soul could find rest.

And so, wrapped in the embrace of his wife, the heat that had defined him for so long found its equilibrium, not extinguished, but balanced, as the night deepened and the first pale fingers of dawn began to stretch across the horizon, heralding a new day that they would face, together.

Dawn slipped through the heavy drapes of the Clifton mansion like a thin blade of pale gold, slicing the night’s suffocating gloom into narrow shafts that fell across the marble floor.]

Iqbal lay still for a moment, eyes open to the ceiling, the plaster cracked in a spiderweb pattern that reminded him of the fissures spreading through the ISI’s internal security after last night’s events. The memory of Tariq’s broken face, the wet crack of bone under his boot, the metallic tang of blood on his lips, played behind his lids like a silent film. Each frame was accompanied by the echo of the gunshot, a sharp report that had shattered the concrete silence of the interrogation room and, in doing so, fractured something far more delicate, the web of favors, funds, and silent alliances that Tariq had woven for him over years of covert operations.

A soft chime from the secure terminal on his bedside table cut through the reverie. The device, a black slab of encrypted steel, pulsed once with a faint blue light before displaying a series of alphanumeric strings that scrolled too fast for the untrained eye. He entered his personal cipher. The screen flashed, then settled into a clean, urgent message:

‘EMERGENCY SUMMONS: INTERNAL SECURITY GRID AT CODE RED. ALL UNITS TO AWAIT DIRECTIVE FROM COAS. CONFIRM RECEIPT.’

Below it, a secondary line flickered, marked with the insignia of the ISI’s internal affairs division:

‘TARIQ, M. – ASSET DESIGNATION: OPERATIONAL LIQUIDATION. IMPACT ASSESSMENT PENDING.’

Iqbal’s jaw tightened. The words “operational liquidation” struck him like a cold slap, clinical, detached, a euphemism for the brutal act he had committed in the heat of paranoia and fury. The consequences unfurled before him like a map of minefields, the loss of Tariq’s logistical network meant the sudden drying up of funds for off‑the‑books operations, the exposure of several safe houses that relied on his financial cover, and the inevitable scrutiny from those who had benefited from Tariq’s largesse.

The internal security grid, usually a well‑oiled machine of silent watchers and whispered alerts, was now trembling, officers exchanging glances in secure corridors, junior analysts double‑checking encryption keys, senior commanders pausing mid‑briefing to glance at their terminals.

A soft rustle at the doorway announced Mallika’s arrival. She stood barefoot on the cool marble, her hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, a silk nightgown the color of deep emerald clinging to her form. Her eyes, usually warm and inviting, were now narrowed with concern, the faint lines at the corners of her mouth betraying a sleepless night spent listening to the distant hum of the city and the occasional, inexplicable chill that seemed to seep from the walls themselves.

‘You’re up early,’ she said, her voice a low murmur that seemed to absorb the ambient heat.

Iqbal pushed himself to a sitting position, the muscles in his back protesting slightly as the night’s tension ebbed, leaving behind a dull ache. He glanced at her, noting the way her presence seemed to draw a fraction of the heat from his skin, a subtle cooling that was almost imperceptible but undeniably there.

‘Tariq is gone,’ he said, the words flat, each syllable landing like a stone on still water. ‘Executed. No trial. No paperwork. Just… a bullet and a concrete floor.’

Mallika’s gaze flickered, not with shock but with a deep, unsettling understanding. She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the stone, and placed a cool palm against his forearm. The contact was instantaneous, a wave of chill that traveled up his arm, settling in the hollow of his chest where the fire burned brightest.

‘You did what you thought was necessary,’ she whispered, her breath warm against his ear, carrying the faint scent of jasmine and sandalwood that always clung to her.

He turned his head to meet her eyes, seeing in them a reflection of his own turmoil, tempered by her unwavering steadiness. ‘The board just got smaller,’ he murmured, the phrase forming in his mind as much as his lips. ‘Yusuf Hasan has taken the reins.’

Mallika’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. ‘The new COAS? He’s… ambitious. Rumor says he trusts no one, not even his own shadow.’

Iqbal nodded, the motion slow, deliberate. ‘He controls the purse strings, the deployment grid, the very breath of the army. And he looks at me… as if I’m a variable he needs to eliminate before the equation balances.’

A sudden, sharp beep from the terminal drew his attention back. The encrypted line had opened a direct channel, and a voice, low, distorted through layers of security, spoke:

‘Major Iqbal, this is General Yusuf Hasan. Confirm receipt of the summons. You are to report to the ISI command bunker at 0600 hours. Bring full operational briefings. Your assets are now under my direct command.’

The voice cut off, leaving a lingering echo that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of his bones. Iqbal felt the heat within him flare again, not with anger but with a cold, calculating fire. He glanced at the portrait that now dominated the screen, a stark, imposing image of General Yusuf Hasan in his newly minted four‑star uniform. The general’s eyes were steely, his jaw set in a line that brooked no dissent. Behind him, the faint outline of the ISI emblem was etched into the marble of the background, a silent testament to the power he now wielded.

Iqbal’s lips curled into a humorless smile. He lifted his hand, tracing a finger along the edge of the screen, feeling the cool glass beneath his fingertip. The gesture was almost reverent, a silent acknowledgment of the shift in power that had just occurred.

‘The board just got smaller,’ he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, the words hanging in the air like a promise and a threat intertwined. He let the sentence linger, feeling the weight of each syllable settle onto his chest, onto his wrists, onto the very core of his being.

The first true rays of sun broke over the horizon, spilling across the marble floor and casting long, sharp shadows that seemed to reach out like fingers. The mansion, with its freezing chill and its hidden warmth, held its breath as Iqbal prepared to step into a day where the only certainty was that the game had changed, and the players left on the board were fewer, sharper, and infinitely more dangerous.

He rose and moved toward the door, the weight of his decisions pressing upon him like a mantle of lead. The terminal blinked once more, awaiting his confirmation. He placed his palm flat upon the screen, feeling the faint pulse of encrypted data beneath his skin, and whispered the final affirmation,

‘Received.’

The line went dead, the screen returning to its dormant black. Iqbal turned back to Mallika, his eyes meeting hers one last time before he stepped into the corridor that led toward the command bunker. The dawn outside was bright, but the shadows within the mansion stretched long and deep, promising that the day ahead would be fought not only in the glare of sunlight but also in the cold, hidden recesses of power where trust was a commodity as rare as it was deadly.

He paused at the threshold, the weight of his action settling like a stone in his gut, and then, without looking back, he stepped forward into the waiting light.

The board just got smaller.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

HONESTLY MY FAVORITE LINE IN THIS WHOLE CHAPTER WAS 'the temperature dropping a few degrees, enough to make the air feel less like a blanket and more like a veil' CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM IS ALWAYS WELCOME <3 I HOPE YOU ALL LIKE IT 😭

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the hallway,

A moment later, Laiba burst into the room.

"Ammi!"

Fourteen years old, wild curls, one sock missing, and enough energy to power an entire city.

Y/N smiled immediately.

"There you are."

"I can't find my blue notebook."

"The one on your desk?"

"No."

"The one under your pillow?"

"No."

"The one you're holding?"

Laiba froze.

Looked down.

Then stared at the notebook in her hands.

"Oh."

Y/N laughed.

A real laugh, soft and warm.

Laiba immediately grinned.

There was something about her daughter that made even difficult days easier to survive.

Perhaps because Laiba loved so openly.

So completely.

She didn't understand pretending, didn't understand social masks.

When she was happy, everyone knew.

When she was sad, everyone knew that too.

And when she loved someone, she loved them with her entire heart.

Especially her father.

The front gates opened downstairs.

Instantly, Laiba straightened.

The change was immediate.

Like a sunflower turning toward sunlight.

"Baba!"

Without another word, she ran from the room.

Y/N followed at a much slower pace.

She found them in the foyer.

Iqbal had barely stepped through the front door before Laiba collided with him.

He caught her automatically and effortlessly, like he'd done it a thousand times before. Which to be fair he has.

"You promised you'd be home yesterday."

"I know."

"You missed movie night."

"I know."

"You always know."

Iqbal actually smiled, a genuine smile.

One that almost never appeared anymore.

Not for colleagues, not for guests and specially not for Y/N.

Only for Laiba.

"What punishment am I getting this time?" he asked.

Laiba crossed her arms.

"No dessert."

"That's harsh."

"You deserve it."

"I agree."

That earned a giggle.

Within seconds, all annoyance vanished.

Just like that.

Y/N stood quietly near the staircase watching them.

And despite everything,

despite the loneliness, despite the distance, despite the marriage that seemed to be fading a little more every year, she smiled.

Because if there was one thing nobody could ever accuse Iqbal of, it was being a bad father.

He adored Laiba. Not tolerated. Not cared for. Adored.

He attended every meeting with her therapists, memorized every medication, learned every trigger, every routine, every fear.

When relatives made insensitive comments about her condition, Iqbal stopped inviting those relatives.

When teachers underestimated her, he hired better ones.

When Laiba cried, he sat beside her until she stopped.

Sometimes until sunrise if necessary.

The entire world knew Major Iqbal as a feared man.

Laiba knew him as the man who cut fruit into heart shapes because she claimed it tasted better that way.

It was almost enough to make Y/N forget how different he became around her.

Almost.

His eyes found hers briefly.

"Morning."

"Morning."

That was all.

No smile. No warmth. No kiss on the forehead. Nothing.

Just a greeting. Polite. Distant.

The kind exchanged between acquaintances. Not husband and wife.

And yet Y/N still moved automatically toward the dining room.

Still poured his tea exactly the way he liked it, still remembered he preferred less sugar and extra milk.

Because eleven years of loving someone became habit eventually, even when the love stopped being returned.

The three of them sat together for breakfast afterward.

Laiba talking enough for all three, Iqbal listening patiently, Y/N quietly refilling cups and passing plates.

From a distance, they probably looked like a happy family.

Maybe they even were.

Just not in the way families were supposed to be.

Because somewhere over the years, husband and wife had become strangers connected only by the child they both loved more than themselves.

And neither of them seemed brave enough to say it aloud.

---

The days blurred together much like all the days before it.

Life inside the Iqbal residence moved according to routines.

Laiba's tutors arrived at nine.

Lunch was served at one.

Tea appeared at four.

Dinner was prepared regardless of whether Major Iqbal actually came home to eat it.

The house ran smoothly because Y/N made sure it did.

She remembered appointments, Birthdays, medicine schedules,the gardener's daughter's wedding, the cook's son's examinations, everything.

She carried the entire household on her shoulders so naturally that most people never realized how much work went into keeping a home feeling alive.

And perhaps that was why nobody noticed the little things.

Not when Y/N paused halfway up the staircase because she suddenly felt winded, not when a dry cough occasionally interrupted conversations, not when she found herself sitting down more often after finishing chores, exhausted.

She noticed them, of course, but only vaguely, The way people noticed a new creak in the floorboards.

Something mildly irritating but nothing worth worrying about.

After all, she was thirty six. Not eighty.

So she ignored it.

The same way she ignored everything else, the loneliness, the distance, the unanswered questions, the untouched side of the bed.

Especially the untouched side of the bed.

By now, she had memorized the pattern of Iqbal's absences.

He usually returned around two or three in the morning, sometimes later, sometimes not at all.

When he did come home, he moved quietly through the bedroom. Careful and polite, like a guest trying not to disturb another guest.

Gone were the days when he used to pull her closer in his sleep.

Gone were the nights spent talking until sunrise.

Gone were the random kisses pressed against her temple while she read books in bed.

Sometimes Y/N wondered when exactly it had happened.

When had affection turned into courtesy?

When had love become obligation?

She never found an answer.

One afternoon, she was helping Bashir chacha organize some documents in Iqbal's study when she noticed his wallet lying on the desk.

Nothing unusual about that.

He forgot things everywhere.

Keys, files, wallets, his reading glasses.

The entire household had become accustomed to finding and returning his belongings.

Without thinking much of it, Y/N picked up the wallet.

She intended to hand it to Bashir chacha.

Nothing more, but then it slipped open.

And a photograph slid halfway out.

For a moment, she almost ignored it.

Then she froze, a woman smiled back at her. Young, probably in her mid twenties or younger, beautiful...with auburn hair and greenish hazel eyes.

The photograph was tucked neatly behind another picture. Laiba's picture.

Y/N stared at it for a long moment, something cold settled into her stomach.

Years ago, there had been another photograph there.

Her photograph.

A small passport sized picture taken shortly after their wedding.

She remembered because Iqbal used to joke about it constantly.

Said he needed proof his wife existed, and he wasn't dreaming whenever he traveled.

She remembered laughing.

Remembered stealing the wallet and hiding it for an entire day just to annoy him,

back then, he had searched the entire house for it.

Now her picture was gone.

In its place sat another woman.

Y/N carefully slid the photograph back exactly where she found it.

Then closed the wallet and placed it precisely where it had been.

And continued sorting papers.

Her hands never trembled, not once.

Years of being Major Iqbal's wife had taught her many things, one of them was how to remain composed even when her heart was breaking.

The photograph stayed with her though.

She thought about it while watering plants.

While helping Laiba with homework.

While supervising dinner.

While folding laundry.

A friend, perhaps? A colleague?

A relative?

She repeated those possibilities so many times they almost sounded believable.

Almost.

But somewhere deep inside, she already knew, women always do.

The evidence merely arrived later.

After that, the signs became impossible to ignore.

Phone calls taken outside, messages answered with faint smiles, longer absences, new clothes, new cologne.

Tiny things that would mean nothing individually.

Together, however...

Together they painted a picture Y/N desperately wished she couldn't see.

Still, she said nothing.

Perhaps because she was afraid of the answer.

Or perhaps because she already had it.

The actual confirmation arrived three weeks later.

Ironically, on the most ordinary day imaginable.

Y/N had gone grocery shopping not because she needed to, the staff could have done it.

But she enjoyed choosing produce herself.

Always had.

The market was crowded that afternoon.

Vendors shouting, children running between stalls, cars honking impatiently from nearby roads.

Y/N stood near a fruit seller, comparing mangoes, when movement across the street caught her attention.

She almost looked away, but then her gaze stopped on a familiar figure.

Iqbal.

The world seemed to pause.

He stood outside a café, dressed casually.

Smiling, actually smiling. She hasn't seen him smile like that in years...

The young woman from the photograph stood beside him.

And then leaned down and kissed her.

Not a friendly gesture, not something that could be misunderstood.

A kiss shared by people who belonged to one another.

For several seconds, Y/N couldn't move.

Couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

She just stood there, frozen with the fruits still in her hand.

Eleven years of marriage unraveling in front of her eyes.

The strange thing was that she didn't cry. She dropped the fruit on the vendor's cart,

turned around and walked back to the car.

And told Bashir chacha she wanted to go home.

The entire drive passed in silence.

When they arrived, she walked straight upstairs, ignored concerned greetings, ignored questions, ignored everything.

The bedroom door clicked shut behind her.

Finally. Alone. The room felt suffocating.

The same room where she had spent eleven years loving him.

Waiting for him, missing him, excusing him, defending him in silence.

The same room where she had convinced herself distance didn't necessarily mean betrayal.

A laugh escaped her. Small. Broken.

Then suddenly it became difficult to breathe.

Her chest tightened painfully.

The room tilted, she tried reaching the bed.

Didn't make it.

The last thing Y/N remembered was the carpet rushing toward her.

Then darkness swallowed everything.

And downstairs, life inside the Iqbal residence continued exactly as it always had.

Completely unaware that something inside its heart had finally cracked.

---

When Y/N opened her eyes again, sunlight was spilling through the curtains.

For a brief, disoriented moment, she couldn't remember why she was lying on the floor.

Then she remembered the photograph, the café, the kiss, Iqbal's hand resting against another woman's face with a familiarity that had once belonged to her.

The memory returned all at once.

Y/N closed her eyes again.

The pain surprised her, not because it existed but because of how much of it remained.

After all these years of distance, after all these years of sleeping alone and eating alone and raising their daughter while her husband slowly drifted further and further away, she had genuinely believed there wasn't enough left between them to hurt anymore.

Apparently she had been wrong.

The floor beneath her felt cold.

Her neck ached from sleeping in an awkward position and her chest still felt strangely tight.

As though someone had wrapped invisible rope around her lungs, she ignored that part.

Focused instead on getting up.

The house would be awake by now.

People would be looking for her, Laiba would definitely be looking for her.

That thought alone forced Y/N to stand,

the moment she opened the bedroom door, she found Ruksana pacing anxiously outside.

"Allah!" the help nearly shouted. "Begum sahiba!"

Y/N blinked.

"What happened?"

"What happened?!" Ruksana repeated. "You locked yourself inside your room all day yesterday!"

Yesterday.

The realization hit immediately.

An entire day had passed.

Ruksana's expression softened with concern.

"You didn't answer anybody."

Y/N attempted a smile.

"I wasn't feeling well."

That much, at least, wasn't a lie, the explanation seemed sufficient for everyone else too.

By evening, the household had accepted that Begum Sahiba had simply been under the weather.

Only Laiba remained unconvinced.

She followed Y/N around the house like an anxious shadow.

"Are you sick?"

"No."

"You look sick."

"I just need rest."

"You hate resting."

That earned the smallest laugh.

"Maybe I'm growing wiser with age."

Laiba narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

Then promptly attached herself to Y/N's side for the rest of the day.

As though proximity alone could prevent anything bad from happening to her ammi.

The guilt nearly crushed Y/N.

Because all she could think about was the café, the woman, the kiss and the fact that Laiba still adored the man responsible.

That night, Y/N sat alone in the dark long after everyone else had gone to sleep.

Including Iqbal.

He had returned home unusually early.

Asked whether she felt better, accepted her short answer and moved on.

That should have angered her.

Instead, she found herself staring at him while he slept, perhaps for the first time in years.

The faint lines near his eyes, the streaks of silver beginning to appear in his hair, the familiar face she had once known better than her own.

The face belonging to the man she had ever loved.

One question repeated endlessly inside her mind.

Why? Why her? Why now? Why after eleven years?

The urge to wake him was overwhelming, to demand answers, to throw the photograph onto his chest, to ask whether he had ever loved her at all.

The words sat at the back of her throat, burning and ready.

Then she heard soft footsteps in the hallway,the bedroom door opened slightly.

Laiba peeked inside, hslf asleep and hair messy, holding her stuffed rabbit.

Without a word, she shuffled toward the bed before climbing between them, like she had done during thunderstorms since childhood.

Laiba immediately curled against Y/N's side, safe and comfortable.

And just like that the confrontation died in Y/N's mind.

Because all Y/N could see was her daughter. Their daughter.

The one beautiful thing they had managed to create together.

How could she risk destroying that?

What would happen if the marriage ended?

Would courts become involved?

Would custody battles begin?

Would Laiba be forced to choose?

The thought alone made her feel sick.

No.

No matter how badly her heart hurt, she couldn't do that to her daughter.

Not Laiba. Never Laiba.

So she swallowed the questions, every single one of them nd buried them somewhere deep inside herself.

---

Meanwhile, the coughing worsened.

A little more each week.

Sometimes Y/N woke at night struggling to catch her breath, sometimes climbing stairs left her strangely exhausted, sometimes her chest felt heavy for reasons she couldn't explain.

She blamed stress, the weather, poor sleep, even Iqbal.

Until one morning, rhe day began normally enough, she was flowing along the daily chores. Breakfast, laundry, laiba's tutors.

Then she stood up from the living room sofa and the world suddenly tilted hard.

The room spun, a sharp wave of dizziness swept through her.

For one terrifying moment, her lungs seemed to forget how to work, she grabbed the edge of a nearby table before anyone noticed, the feeling passed after several seconds. Just enough for her to hide it.

"Ammi?"

Laiba looked up from her colouring book.

"You okay?"

Y/N smiled, the same smile mothers had been using to lie to their children for generations.

"Just stood up too fast."

Laiba accepted the explanation immediately.

Y/N hated herself a little for being relieved.

That evening, after ensuring Laiba was occupied with her evening tutors and the household had settled into its usual rhythm, she quietly asked Bashir chacha to drop her at a clinic.

"Should I inform Major sahab?"

"No."

The answer came faster than intended.

Bashir chacha looked surprised, Y/N softened immediately.

"It's probably nothing."

And she genuinely believed that, at least at first.

The first doctor ordered tests, the tests led to more tests, blood work, scans, sppointments.

Weeks passed that way.

Y/N attended every appointment alone now, making excuses to Bashir chacha who insisted on dropping her off to whereever she was going every Thursday evening.

Y/N made an excuse everytime.

Each visit to the clinic chipped away at her certainty that everything was fine.

Until finally, one rainy afternoon she sat across from a pulmonologist whose expression told her the truth before he ever spoke.

People wore that expression when delivering bad news and the words that followed felt strangely distant.

Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis, scarring of the lungs. Progressive. Irreversible.

Terminal.

Only management, only time, and only waiting until death eventually took her.

The doctor's voice continued, telling her about possible treatment options, lifestyle changes, expected progression.

Y/N heard very little after that.

The room suddenly felt too small.

Too quiet. Too unreal.

Because moments ago she had been worried about a cheating husband.

Now she was being told she was dying.

And somehow,

the betrayal no longer felt like the worst thing that had happened to her.

When she finally stepped inside the Iqbal residence, dinner preparations were already underway.

Voices drifted from the kitchen, the smell of spices filled the air.

Laiba's laughter echoed somewhere upstairs.

Y/N paused briefly near the front door.

Then carefully wiped her face, straightened her dupatta, locked the medical reports inside her handbag.

And walked inside smiling.

Nobody noticed anything unusual and for the first time in her life, Y/N carried something entirely alone.

By the time she lay down that night, one truth had become painfully clear.

She had spent years mourning a marriage.

Years mourning a husband who no longer loved her.

But standing face to face with death had a way of rearranging priorities.

Suddenly, she found she no longer cared about being chosen, no longer cared about being loved, no longer cared about winning her husband back.

All that mattered now was one thing.

Laiba.

Whatever time she had left,

every second of it would belong to her light, her daughter.

---

For the first few weeks after her diagnosis, nothing appeared different.

At least not from the outside.

The house still woke to the smell of tea and fresh rotis, the staff still came to her with problems that somehow only Begum Sahiba could solve, Laiba still forgot where she left her notebooks, and Iqbal still came and went like a visitor instead of a husband.

Life carried on and nobody knew of Y/N's life leaving with each breath she took.

That was the remarkable thing, nobody knew, not Laiba, not the staff, not her friends, not even Iqbal.

The knowledge belonged solely to her.

And perhaps that was why she found herself becoming oddly calm.

The affair no longer haunted her the way it once had.

It still hurt sometimes terribly, there were nights when she stared at the ceiling and remembered the image of Iqbal kissing another woman, there were mornings when she caught herself wondering whether he had ever loved that woman the way he once loved her.

But those thoughts never lasted very long anymore because there was always a more pressing one waiting.

Laiba.

Everything came back to Laiba, every fear, every prayer, every plan.

Who would remind her to take breaks when she became obsessed with astronomy?

Who would know that thunderstorms overwhelmed her?

Who would understand that certain fabrics made her uncomfortable?

Who would sit beside her through meltdowns?

Who would love her enough?

The question followed Y/N everywhere.

And eventually, without realizing it, she began preparing.

The first thing to go was her jewelry.

Not all at once, gradually one piece at a time.

One afternoon, she was helping Ruksana fold clothes when the younger woman paused.

"These are beautiful, begum sahiba."

Y/N glanced up.

Ruksana was admiring an old pair of gold jhumkas that were a wedding gift from her mother.

She hadn't worn them in years.

Without hesitation, Y/N removed them from the box.

"Take them."

Ruksana blinked.

"What?"

"Take them."

The help immediately looked horrified.

"No, absolutely not."

"They'll look better on you."

"Begum sahiba!"

"I'm serious."

The argument continued for nearly ten minutes. And In the end, Ruksana left the room carrying the earrings and looking deeply uncomfortable about it.

Y/N watched her go with a small smile.

The smile faded almost immediately, not because she regretted giving them away.

Because she remembered why she was doing it.

After that, it became a habit.

A shawl to one person, a handbag to another, books she had collected over years, designer scarves, expnsive perfumes, inported tea sets, decorations.

Anything and everything.

God help the poor soul who casually mentioned liking something.

Because there was a frighteningly high chance they would leave the house carrying it.

"Bhabhi, your bracelet is gorgeous."

"Keep it."

"No, no, I was only saying—"

"Then say thank you."

People laughed, people protested, people eventually accepted it.

Nobody questioned it for very long because generosity had always been part of Y/N's nature, this simply seemed like an extension of that.

Only Y/N understood the truth.

Every object leaving the house was one less thing she would leave behind to collect dust.

One less memory for somebody else to sort through after she was gone.

Meanwhile, Laiba remained blissfully unaware, perhaps because Y/N worked very hard to keep it that way.

Movie nights became more frequent.

Astronomy discussions became longer.

Afternoons were spent baking together despite the fact that neither of them was particularly good at it.

The kitchen staff had learned to expect disaster whenever mother and daughter decided to cook.

Still, nobody complained.

The laughter was worth cleaning up afterward.

One evening, Y/N sat beside Laiba in the garden while the girl enthusiastically pointed toward the sky.

"There."

Y/N squinted.

"I don't see anything."

"The star, sirius!."

"There are millions of stars."

"No, that one, the shiny one."

"Laiba, that doesn't help, all of them are shiny."

The teenager groaned dramatically.

"You're impossible."

"And yet you love me."

Laiba immediately leaned sideways until her head rested against Y/N's shoulder.

"Obviously."

The answer came so quickly that tears nearly formed in Y/N's eyes.

She looked away before her daughter could notice.

Because how did one prepare for leaving behind someone who loved you so easily?

How did one prepare them?

That question haunted her more than death ever could.

So she began introducing the idea carefully.

"What would you do if I went somewhere for a while?"

Laiba looked genuinely alarmed.

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"Then don't go."

Y/N laughed softly.

"Life doesn't work like that."

"Then life is stupid."

The answer was immediate.

Y/N kissed the top of her head.

And later that night cried alone in the bathroom.

Because every attempt ended like this.

Every attempt hurt.

Yet she continued, because she had to.

Because there would come a day when Laiba woke up and Y/N wouldn't be there.

And that reality terrified her more than her own death ever would.

---

A month passed and then another.

The coughing worsened, the breathlessness worsened, some days climbing stairs felt like running a marathon.

Still she told no one.

Still she smiled.

Still she carried on.

Until one evening, Iqbal came home early.

So early, in fact, that several members of the staff looked surprised to see him.

The sun hadn't even fully set.

Laiba was upstairs with her tutor.

The house was unusually quiet.

And Y/N sat alone in the library speaking on the phone.

"...I'm serious."

Her friend's voice crackled through the speaker,

"You need to leave him."

Y/N sighed. The conversation had become familiar lately, ever since she admitted she had seen Iqbal with another woman, ever since she finally stopped pretending everything was fine.

"He has a girlfriend, Y/N."

"I know."

"Then why are you still there?"

Y/N looked out the window.

The gardens stretched peacefully below.

Somewhere upstairs, Laiba's voice drifted faintly through the floorboards.

The sound softened something inside her.

"I have Laiba."

"You can fight for custody."

The suggestion almost made her laugh.

Fight Major Iqbal? For a child he adored perhaps more than anthing and anyone here?

No.

That wasn't a battle she would ever win.

Nor was it one she wanted Laiba caught in.

"I'll leave."

Her friend immediately sounded relieved.

"Good."

Y/N smiled a sad little smile, the kind nobody could see through a phone.

"Just...a few more months."

Outside the library, footsteps stopped.

Iqbal had just entered the hallway quietly moving towards their bedroom, but the words caught his attention immediately.

A few more months?

His frown deepened.

Inside the room, Y/N continued speaking quietly.

"I just need enough time."

Enough time.

The phrase lingered strangely.

Enough time for what?

To gather courage? To arrange a separation? To finally leave?

Iqbal wasn't sure.

And ultimately, he didn't care enough to ask.

After a moment, he simply continued walking.

The conversation forgotten almost immediately.

Meanwhile, Y/N remained seated by the window long after the call ended.

One hand resting lightly against her chest.

The familiar ache was there.

A few more months.

Nobody knew what those words truly meant, nobody knew she had already begun measuring her life in months instead of years.

---

The next week, Y/N was in the main living room with Ruksana and Bashir chacha, arguing over something pointless as they always did on lazy evenings.

The sound of the front gates opening barely registered in their minds,

Cars came and went constantly from the mansion, deliveries, visitors, business associates.

Nobody paid much attention, it was normal.

Until the front door opened, Y/N looked up and so did everyone else.

And suddenly the laughter died.

Iqbal stood in the foyer, beside him stood a woman.

Dressed head to toe in a bridal attire.

For a second, nobody moved, nobody breathed.

The entire room seemed frozen.

Y/N's gaze shifted from the woman to Iqbal.

Then to their joined hands.

And finally to the wedding ring glittering on the woman's finger.

Understanding settled over the room all at once.

Ruksana went white, one of the younger help dropped the tray she was carrying.

The crash echoed through the silence.

Nobody even looked at it.

Everyone was staring at Iqbal, and at the woman beside him.

At the audacity of bringing her here, into this house, into their begum sahiba's house, into Y/N's house.

Iqbal's expression remained unreadable.

Calm and cntrolled as always.

Finally, he spoke.

"This is Ayesha."

His voice cut cleanly through the silence.

No one answered, no one greeted her, no one even blinked.

Iqbal continued.

"She is my wife."

The words landed like a slap.

Around the room, several faces visibly hardened.

Bashir chacha's jaw tightened, Ruksana looked one sentence away from unemployment or death.

The younger helpers stared at Ayesha as though she had personally committed a crime. In their mind they had.

Nobody in the house was unaware of what Major Iqbal was capable of, they knew exactly what happened to people who crossed him.

Yet for one dangerous moment, several of them looked ready to do it anyway.

All because of Y/N.

Because everybody in this house loved her.

And everybody knew she deserved better than this.

The silence stretched.

Iqbal's eyes eventually found Y/N.

Perhaps he expected tears or anger or even humiliation.

Instead, Y/N simply stepped forward.

The movement startled everyone.

Including him.

She stopped in front of Ayesha.

The younger woman looked terrified, like someone awaiting judgment.

Y/N offered a small smile, the same smile she offered guests and strangers.

"Assalamualaikum."

Ayesha blinked and then quickly returned it.

"Walaikum assalam."

Y/N nodded.

Then turned toward the staff.

"Why is everyone standing around?"

Nobody moved.

"Tea should be prepared."

Still nobody moved.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, and immediately the room exploded back into motion.

People scattered, though several looked deeply unhappy about it.

Only then did she look back at Ayesha.

"Come."

The younger woman hesitated before following her.

Y/N led her upstairs.

Neither woman spoke.

Behind them, the house remained eerily quiet.

Word had already begun spreading.

By the time they reached the second floor, every staff in the residence probably knew what had happened.

Y/N stopped outside the master bedroom.

Her bedroom Or what used to be her bedroom even the night before. For eleven years.

She pushed the door open,

Sunlight spilled across polished floors.

The large bed sat exactly where it always had.

Ayesha stared at the room.

Y/N stepped aside.

"You'll stay here."

The younger woman's eyes widened.

"What?"

"You'll stay here."

Y/N continued,

"The staff will move my belongings to one of the guest rooms. They'll also bring your things upstairs."

The younger woman looked moments away from crying.

Y/N felt oddly detached from it all.

As though she were watching somebody else's life unfold.

Maybe because, in a way, she was.

The life she had built with Iqbal had ended long before today.

Today was simply the first day everyone else could see it.

She turned toward the door.

Then paused.

Without looking back, she spoke softly.

"If you need anything, ask Ruksana."

Ayesha swallowed.

"Why are you being kind to me?"

For the first time, Y/N's smile faltered.

Just slightly.

Because the answer was complicated.

Because anger required energy she no longer possessed.

Because she had bigger things to worry about than a husband who stopped loving her.

Because every day she woke up knowing she had fewer of them left.

Instead she simply said,

"Get settled."

Then she walked away.

Leaving the room.

Leaving her marriage.

And, though nobody knew it yet,

slowly beginning to leave everything else behind too.

---

The first few days after Ayesha's arrival were awkward for everyone, except Y/N.

The staff took it personally.

Ruksana refused to make eye contact with Iqbal unless absolutely necessary,

Bashir chacha's replies became painfully short, the kitchen staff lowered their voices whenever Major Sahab or choti begum shiba entered a room.

Nobody openly disrespected them, nobody was foolish enough for that.

But the warmth that once existed was gone.

And everyone knew why.

The strange thing was that Ayesha seemed just as uncomfortable.

She kept trying to help, trying to fit in, trying to speak to the staff.

Most attempts ended with polite responses and quick exits.

Not because they hated her, because loving Y/N made loyalty feel complicated.

Ayesha seemed to understand that, she never complained, never demanded respect, never acted entitled.

Instead she quietly endured the discomfort.

Which made disliking her increasingly difficult, for Y/N especially.

Because she watched.

And the more she watched, the harder it became to blame the girl.

Ayesha was not cruel, not arrogant, not malicious.

She looked guilty more often than happy.

Like someone who had gotten everything she wanted and somehow still felt bad about it.

The apology finally came a week later.

Y/N was sitting in the garden sorting through old books.

The pile beside her had grown considerably over the last month.

Some were destined for charity.

Some for the staff.

Some for Laiba.

All of them were part of a future Y/N no longer expected to see.

She heard footsteps approaching.

Y/N didn't look up but she could recognise the nervous footsteps pretty easily now, Ayesha.

The younger woman stopped nearby.

Neither spoke immediately, and the silence stretched.

Then, "I'm sorry."

The words were so quiet they almost disappeared into the wind.

Y/N closed her book.

Ayesha looked miserable, eyes red, hands twisting together in her dupatta.

For a moment, Y/N saw not the woman who married her husband.

Just a girl, A frightened girl carrying far more guilt than she knew what to do with.

"For taking him from you."

There it was.

The thing everyone had been avoiding.

The thing hanging over the house like a storm cloud.

Y/N studied her for several seconds.

Then smiled.

"He was never mine to begin with."

Ayesha's eyes immediately filled.

"No."

"Yes."

Y/N looked away.

Toward the flower beds.

Toward the afternoon sun.

Toward anything except the pity on Ayesha's face.

"I lost him years ago."

The words felt strangely easy to say.

Because they were true.

People thought marriages ended dramatically with explosions, arguments, betrayals.

But most didn't.

Most ended quietly in missed dinners, unasked questions, empty beds and forgotten anniversaries.

By the time another woman appeared, the marriage was often already dead.

Ayesha began crying.

Which honestly felt unfair.

Y/N should have been the one crying.

Yet somehow she found herself comforting the woman who married her husband.

Life was absurd sometimes.

After that conversation, things changed grafually.

Almost without anyone noticing.

Ayesha started joining Y/N during afternoon tea, sometimes they spoke.

Sometimes they didn't.

Neither seemed to mind.

The younger woman listened more than she talked.

Y/N appreciated that.

One afternoon she learned Ayesha liked astronomy.

The information lodged itself somewhere in her mind.

Two days later, she casually mentioned it during dinner.

"Laiba."

The teenager looked up.

"Hm?"

"Ayesha likes astronomy too."

Laiba immediately narrowed her eyes.

Suspicious.

Protective.

Very fourteen years old.

"No she doesn't."

Ayesha looked startled.

"I do."

"No you don't."

"I do."

"Name three planets."

Ayesha blinked then obediently named five.

Laiba looked genuinely offended.

Y/N nearly laughed into her tea.

That was the beginning.

After that came small things.

Tiny moments.

Little bridges built one day at a time.

"Show Ayesha your telescope."

"Tell Ayesha about your project."

"Ayesha knows how to make kheer."

"Ayesha likes documentaries too."

At first Laiba resisted every attempt, not aggressively. She wasnt capable of aggresion. Just stubbornly.

The way special needs children resisted change.

But Ayesha never forced anything, never demanded affection, never tried replacing anyone, She simply showed up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Patient. Consistent. Kind.

Eventually Laiba responded.

The first time Y/N heard laughter coming from the study and discovered Ayesha and Laiba sitting together over an astronomy documentary, she quietly backed out before either noticed her.

Then stood in the hallway crying.

Not because it hurt, because it didn't.

That was the shocking part.

It felt like relief. Pure relief.

For months she had been terrified.

Terrified of leaving Laiba alone.

Terrified of what would happen afterward.

Terrified that nobody would understand her daughter the way she did.

Now, for the first time, she could imagine a future where Laiba might be okay.

The realization settled something restless inside her.

And once it did,

Y/N began withdrawing.

She started excusing herself when Laiba asked to spend time with her and instead directed her to Ayesha.

Soon it became normal.

Laiba watched documentaries with Ayesha, had tea with Ayesha, went shopping with Ayesha.

And Y/N found herself watching from a distance.

Like someone slowly fading from a photograph.

One evening, she took things a step further.

Dinner had just ended.

Laiba and Ayesha were arguing over something involving Jupiter.

The debate sounded absurd.

Y/N smiled.

Then looked directly at her daughter.

"Stop calling her Choti Ammi."

The room immediately fell silent.

Laiba blinked.

Ayesha froze.

Even Iqbal looked up.

"What?"

Y/N's smile remained gentle.

"Call her Ammi."

Ayesha looked horrified.

"No—"

"There is enough room."

The younger woman's eyes immediately filled.

Laiba looked confused.

"But you're Ammi."

The words nearly shattered Y/N.

Still, she smiled.

Always smiling.

"Yes."

"Then she's Choti Ammi."

Y/N reached over and tucked a curl behind her daughter's ear.

After that evening she started easing the idea gently into Laiba's life.

Enough that when the truth finally came out, it would hurt them a little less.

Or at least that was what she hoped.

Unfortunately, fate had never cared much about her plans.

And somewhere inside the house, hidden beneath neatly folded clothes in a wardrobe nobody ever opened, a brown medical file was waiting patiently to be found.

---

Winter settled over the Iqbal residence quietly, the gardens were still beautiful, the staff still bustled through the halls.

Laiba still filled every room she entered with noise.

Life continued.

At least on the surface.

Beneath it, however, something was changing,

Y/N was disappearing, little pieces at a time.

She spent more time in her room or the garden, more afternoons resting,

More evenings sitting alone by the window watching the stars above.

Nobody questioned it much.

After all, everyone believed they understood why.

A woman whose husband had married again would naturally become quieter.

More withdrawn, more distant.

Even Iqbal assumed as much.

Whenever he noticed her absence from dinner, he attributed it to resentment.

Whenever he noticed her exhaustion, he blamed sadness.

Whenever he heard her coughing behind closed doors, he barely thought about it at all.

The truth never crossed his mind.

Because it never occurred to him that Y/N might be carrying something far heavier than heartbreak.

And Y/N never corrected him.

The discovery happened on an ordinary afternoon, Iqbal had been looking for some property documents.

Nothing important or memorable.

One of his associates needed copies of paperwork and Bashir chacha had informed him the files might have been moved during a recent reorganization.

So Iqbal searched his study first, then his office, then several cupboards upstairs.

Eventually he entered the guest room,

Y/N's room, the room she had moved into after Ayesha arrived.

The room he rarely entered, the room he had absolutely no reason to enter.

Until today.

The wardrobe was neatly arranged.

Of course it was.

Everything belonging to Y/N was always neat,

Iqbal moved a stack of folded shawls aside.

A brown file slipped free and hit the floor.

Papers spilled everywhere.

Annoyed, he bent to gather them.

Then froze, at first he didn't understand what he was looking at.

Hospital documents, medical reports, prescriptions, scan results, appointment records.

His frown deepened,

Slowly, he began reading.

One page. Then another. Then another.

The room became very quiet.

'Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis.'

The unfamiliar medical term appeared repeatedly. Progressive. Irreversible.

Terminal. The words blurred.

For a moment, Iqbal genuinely thought he was misunderstanding something.

This had to belong to somebody else.

Some mistake. Some error.

Because Y/N couldn't possibly—

No. Impossible.

His eyes jumped to the dates.

The earliest report was 9 months old.

9 Months.

His hands began trembling.

The realization arrived slowly and cruelly, like a knife being pushed deeper and deeper.

The coughing, the fainting spells, the exhaustion, the sudden extreme generosity, the way she kept giving her most prized possessions away, the way she encouraged Ayesha and Laiba to grow closer, the way she kept talking about the future without ever including herself in it.

The conversation he overheard.

'Just a few more months.'

The sentence slammed into him with horrifying clarity.

She hadn't been talking about leaving him.

She had been talking about dying, the file slipped from his hands.

This time he didn't pick it up.

He found her in the garden.

It was where she always went lately, the winter sunlight painted everything gold.

The flowers swayed gently in the breeze.

And Y/N sat beneath them looking strangely small.

For the first time, Iqbal noticed it.

The weight loss, the paleness, the exhaustion hidden beneath her smile.

How had he never noticed?

Or worse...Had he noticed and simply chosen not to look?

Y/N lifted her head.

Saw the look in his eyes and immediately understood that he knows.

A tiny smile touched her lips, not surprised, not frightened just resigned.

"You found it."

Four simple words.

Iqbal felt something inside his chest crack.

The pain unfolded, layer by layer, mistake by mistake, year by year.

"How long?"

His voice sounded wrong.

Hoarse and unsteady.

Y/N looked down at her hands.

"A while."

"A while?"

The words escaped harsher than intended.

She nodded.

Silently.

And suddenly Iqbal understood something awful.

She had gone through all of it alone.

Every appointment. Every test. Every diagnosis. Every terrifying conversation.

Alone.

While he was busy building another life.

While he was busy falling in love with someone else.

While he was busy convincing himself Y/N simply didn't care anymore.

A sickness spread through him.

Not grief, not yet but guilt.

The kind that clawed at your ribs, the kind that made breathing difficult, the kind that arrived when it was already too late.

"You should've told me."

Y/N laughed softly, a tired sound.

Almost affectionate.

"What would've changed, Iqbal?"

He opened his mouth, nothing came out.

Because he didn't know.

Maybe everything, maybe nothing.

Maybe he would've stayed, maybe he would've loved her properly again, maybe he would've spent her final months beside her instead of somebody else.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

The word was useless now.

The future had already happened, and there was no undoing it.

For the first time in years, Major Iqbal cried that night.

And for the first time in years, he understood exactly what he had lost.

Not his wife, not yet.

Something much worse.

The chance to love her.

And by the time he finally realized it,

there wasn't enough time left to try.

---

Major Iqbal did not sleep that night.

The reports remained spread across his desk long after midnight.

Every page felt like punishment.

Every date another reminder that while Y/N had been learning how little time she had left, he had been somewhere else.

By dawn, his eyes burned from exhaustion.

For the first time in years, his path seemed clear. No more distance,no more coldness, no more excuses.

Whatever time she had left, he would spend it beside her.

He would love her the way she deserved to be loved.

Not because she was dying, because he should have done it years ago.

The realization came far too late.

But it had come and he intended to spend every remaining day proving it.

As the first rays of sunlight spilled through the windows, Iqbal made his way toward Y/N's room.

For once, he wasn't carrying work, wasn't thinking about leaving, wasn't thinking about anything except her.

He would apologize, he would sit with her, maybe have breakfast together, maybe talk. Really talk.

Perhaps for the first time in years.

A small smile touched his face as he pushed the door open.

"Y/N—"

The word died in his throat.

The room was quiet, too quiet.

Y/N lay exactly where she had gone to sleep the night before, blankets neatly tucked around her.

One hand resting atop them, A faint smile still lingering on her lips.

As though she had fallen asleep thinking of something beautiful.

For one foolish second, he thought she was still sleeping.

Then he noticed she wasn't breathing.

The world stopped for him.

"No."

The whisper escaped before he realized it.

His feet carried him forward.

His hand found hers.

Cold enough to tell him the truth he was having a hard time believing.

Somewhere during the night, while he sat downstairs in his study, making promises to a future he thought they still had,

Y/N had slipped away peacefully.

Without waking anyone.

Iqbal sank beside the bed, his fingers wrapped around hers, his forehead pressed against her hand.

And for the first time, he understood the true weight of regret.

Because after years of not choosing her,

he finally had.

And she hadn't lived long enough to see it.

Outside, the sun continued rising.

Inside, the heart of the Iqbal residence had stopped beating.

And this time, there would be no second chance.

The tranquility of the lazy Sunday afternoon at Baloch Haveli was rudely interrupted by an angry yet firm voice. You were stopped at the gate by two men, one who looked like a Sumo wrestler on diet while the other looked as if he overdid the fake freckles trend. 

‘Mujhe Uzair Baloch se milna hai’ you repeated,  your tone as calm and indifferent as it could be when dealing with henchmen of dreaded gangsters.

‘Are par aap hai kon?’ the bald man asked, looking unimpressed

‘Aap mujhe andar jaane de warna main chillaungi’ you threaten only for him and the other guy to snicker at you.

‘Dekhe bibi aap andar aise nahi jaa sakti’ he says, speaking to you as if you were a child with questionable comprehension skills. 

‘Waise bhi nahi jaa sakti bhai, aapka 4×4 mini truck jaisa badan beech mein jo khada hai’ you spit out

‘Agar aapne mujhe andar jaane se roka toh main yaha Jamali sahab ko bulaungi’

‘Mere mamu hai woh’ you say as a matter-of-fact, even though the statement is a lie. They look at you. Dressed in your most expensive lawn suit, with black spherical frame nestled on your equally round face, you made an extra effort to look dignified and posh considering you were going to confront a member of the Baloch family.

The name Jamali does the trick and the fake freckles guy leads you to the porch where Rehman Dakait is sitting with his wife Ulfat Baloch. They were watching their sons play football while enjoying a cup of chai. You stood in front of them, sweat beading at your forehead. You reminded yourself why you were here and you were not leaving till you got what you wanted. 

You clear your throat and address the man who was now looking at you with curiosity. 

‘Rehman bhai ab aap hi meri kuch madad kar sakte hai. Uzair miyan se koi rabata nahi ho raha.’

Rehman stands up and addresses you ‘Kya baat hai? Batao’

‘Mujhe insaaf chahiye. Hone wale bacchon ke liye’

Rehman and Ulfat blurt in unison ‘Kya?’

‘Ji. Aise iss halat mein akela kaise chod sakte hai woh? Kal main factory gayi toh woh waha nahi the. Aaj unhe cheel chowk pe uss tanker jaise aadmi ke saath dekha. Maine awaaz bhi di toh bhi unhone ne suna hai. Aise kon karta hai bhala?’

Ulfat, the angel that she is, walked towards you ‘Tum pehle baith jao. Pani piyogi?’

You were taken aback by her warm and gentle nature.

‘Shukriya’ you gulp the glass of water handed to you by a househelp. The kids saw the serious exchange and stood near the cars to eavesdrop.

You continue ‘Aapko toh aaj kal ke haalat ka pata hi hai. Iss mehengai mein main akeli kaise yeh zimmedari uthau. Kya unka koi farz nahi banta?’

Rehman looks at Ulfat, who in turn is glaring at him. ‘Baat toh sahi keh rahi ho par humara Uzair itna laaparwah nahi. Pata nahi kya ho gaya?’

‘Unhe zimmedari ka bojh nahi uthana shayad’ you reply

As if on clue, the devil makes an appearance. Dressed in navy blue kurta and jeans, he looked more like a vintage movie star than the feared gangster that Lyari spoke of in hushed tones.

‘Tum yaha kya kar rahi ho?’ he asks, irritation evident in his voice. 

‘Aapse milne aayi thi par aap hai ki mujhe taal rahe hai’

Uzair notices Ulfat looking at him in anger while Rehman has disappointment written all over his face

‘Uzair yeh sab kya hai?’

Uzair lets out a choppy breath, the forced air ruffling hair falling on his forehead.

‘Bhai yeh ladki pagal hai!’

‘Ha ha main hi pagal hu! Aapse kitne baar kaha tha maine ke yeh sab galat hai par aapne meri ek na suni’ you reprimand him, reminding him of all the times you asked him to mind his lane.

‘Aur toh aur jab kaha ke aise kisi ke ghar ki deewar kudke aana acchi baat nahi toh kehte the yeh sab toh fitrat hai, tum apni khidki theek se bandh rakho’

‘Ab dekho kya ho gaya. Ab bacchon ki zimmedari kon uthayega?’

Uzair is perplexed while Rehman and Ulfat are shocked. 

‘Bacche? Kitne hai?’ Ulfat asks in a gentle tone

‘Pata nahi par 2 toh hai hi. 3 ya chaar bho ho sakte hai’ you reply

Rehman was embarrassed while Ulfat was taken aback ‘Kaise?’

‘Aap toh aise bol rahi hai jaise yeh koi anokhi baat hai’ you look at the three of them who are wearing shock, surprise and embarrassment as facial accessories. Behind, you hear the Sumo wrestler whisper something to the tanker, both giggling like school kids

You turn to them ‘Yaha kya comedy circus chal raha hai? Itni hassi kyu aa rahi? Serious baat chal rahi yaha!’

You turn to look at Uzair but Rehman clears his throat ‘Kya chahiye tumhe?’

Finally! Someone asking the real question

‘Muafza aur dekh bhaal. Aur bacche hone pe equal zimmedari’

He immediately replies ‘Theek hai. Par tumhe bhi toh dhyan rakhna chahiye tha’

‘Rehman bhai, main akeli kitna khayal rakhu. Inhe toh parwah hi nahi. “Jo hoga dekha jayega” yeh attitude hai inka’ you huff in annoyance.

‘Isse toh main baad mein dekhta hoon par tum chahti ho toh bacche hone tak yaha ruk sakti ho. Uske baad bhi yaha reh sakti ho.’

You interrupt him, horrified at the suggestion ‘Nahi warna inka billa meri billi ko aur tang karega’

Rehman and Ulfat are confused. It is the tanker who asks ‘Billa? Billi?’

You turn around to look at him. ‘Ha. Yeh dekhiye’ saying so you fetch your beautiful, green eyed indie cat from the wicker basket.

‘Meri pyari Razia Sultan. Kya haalat kar di inke Pele ne’

Rehman turns to Uzair ‘Abbe, yeh Pele kon hai?’

Before Uzair could reply, you fill him in. ‘Are inka woh mota billa. Factory mein rehta hai. Loafer saala chindi aashiq. Fenke hue chicken se meri Raziya ko behla fusla ke maa bana diya.’

‘Naam bhi kitna behuda ashleel hai’ you say under your breath. 

‘Aye ladki woh bohot bade footballer ka naam hai. Tameez se’ Uzair charges at you, as if you had just called him a slur.

‘Par aapka billa toh badtameez hai. Jahil, playboy!’ you throw the unsolicited character certificate at him.

Everybody breaks out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, leaving Uzair and you confused and irritated.

Ulfat finally calms a bit, speaking in between her laughing fit, ‘Are tum fikar mat karo. Tumhari billi… Raziya ki dawai ka kharcha aur bacchon ki dekh rekh Uzair dekhega’

‘Ji pura nahi par aadha hissa. Baki meri Raziya ke liye aadha kharcha main uthaungi’ you say with pride of being a self made woman.

‘Bohot pyari ho tum. Kya naam hai aur kaha rehti ho?’ asks Ulfat.

‘Main Y/n Gillani. Yehi paas mein rehti hoon’

You notice before anyone else how Ulfat’s expression changes from one of amusement to that of sympathy and maybe a bit of pity. ‘Tum Harris Gillani ki beti ho na?’

‘Ji. Mujhe der ho rahi hai, main chalti hoon Baji. Salaam Rehman bhai’

Not wanting to engage in a conversation that could potentially make you uneasy, you decide to bolt from there. 

All this is noticed by Uzair who is now intrigued more than irritated. You had first entered his workspace over two months ago to complain about his stray cat harassing her pet.

Ever since then, he has seen you arguing, fighting, giving it back without any fear or inhibitions. But today, at the mention of your father, he saw vulnerability. The sadness that crept into your eyes, disturbed him as he had always seen them lit with a vivacious spark. Seeing the sudden change in your mood unsettled him, making him wonder whether the teasing and the arguments were a way for him to keep you in his life a bit longer. He looks at your retreating form, determined to solve this mystery.

Next morning you open your door to cat food and neonatal supplies. These would cover at least two months of the pregnancy.

You settle your fur baby in her new comfortable nesting box and coo ‘Meri Raziya. Billa aur Bille ka baap bhale jahil ho par khaandan accha hai’

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ────── ────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

‘Uzair mere saath chaloge?’ Ulfat asks Uzair on a Saturday, dressed up to step out.

‘Kaha bhabhi?’

‘Woh bazaar mein kaam hai aur saath Y/n ko milke bhi aayenge. Aakhir samdhan hai tumhari!’ she laughs. 

His family and friends had made it a point to tease him mercilessly, reminding him of the eventful Sunday evening and the consequences.

‘Bhabhi aap bhi!’ Uzair mutters, the blush painting his cheeks red as he later understood how everyone had assumed it was you two who were the expecting parents.

Ulfat’s eyes softened seeing Uzair blush. ‘Mazzak tha. Bechari itna pyari bacchi aur itna dukh’ she sighed, the words feeling heavy.

‘Uski ammi ka inteqal hue barson beet gaye. 6 mahine pehle abbu bhi chal base. Bhai Islamabad mein hai par koi rabata nahi. Iske abbu ke janaze pe bhi nahi aaya.’

Uzair’s heart broke for you. The realisation of the pain you silently carried, the strong persona you were forced to project at all times made him see you in a different light.

‘Akeli hai bechari. Mrs Faraz ke yaha kaam karti hai. Bohot tareef karti hai woh iske designs ki’

Hearing someone praise you brought in a sense of pride, making him smile. He always wondered how one woman could be so indifferent to others yet turn into a gentle kind soul for the helpless. It is then that he realized what he felt for you was more than admiration. 

Ulfat and Uzair arrive at Mrs Faraz's boutique, surprising you and the other staff members. Ulfat specifically asks for your assistance. You begin showing her around while painfully aware of the six foot two inch guy shamelessly staring at you.

You pick out a black sharara and hand it Ulfat. ‘Baji, yeh aape bohot accha lagega’

Ulfat looks at the material and smiles at you. 

‘Pack kar do. Aur baki ke 4 suit bhi pack kar dena’

‘Zaroor!’ you beam at her, making your way to the billing desk. You pack the stuff and hand it to Ulfat.

‘Yeh lijiye’

Uzair steps forward, taking the bags and brushing your hands in process. You look at him expecting this touch to be an accident. Instead, you see him grinning at you. 

Ulfat sees this and soon bids you goodbye, leaving Uzair to settle the bill. 

He hands you the money and bends down to whisper ‘Tumpe yeh peela rang bohot accha lagta hai. Par laal rang zyada jachega.’

His voice makes your little heart flutter. You turn away quickly, not noticing the way his eyes were mapping your curves. 

Ever since that day he started becoming more and more obvious, not hiding his intentions and definitely not letting you escape him.

He was invariably near your workplace before and after your shift. Your colleagues had now started teasing you, making you cringe hard. It got so bad that you literally felt like hitting them on their heads with a bat to restructure their brain.

By day four you had had enough. You make your way to his jeep to give him an earful.

‘Aapko ladies wear mein dilchaspi abhi hui hai ya yeh shaukh pehle se hi hai’ you ask him, only for the tanker aka Hamza to laugh and disappear into the crowd.

Uzair straightens up and leans towards you. ‘Mujhe kapadon mein nahi par inhein banane wali mein dilchaspi hai’

Was he flirting with you? 

‘Toh main kal Rumana khala ko aapse milwa dungi. Wohi silai karti hai. 70 saal ki hai par jodi theek lagegi’ you reply with no emotion. However, his flirty smile was making your head spin.

‘Tumhare kehne pe toh main goli bhi kha lu meri jaan, yeh khaala ko patana toh bohot choti baat hai’

Flustered, you begin reprimanding him

‘Dekhiye..’

‘Dekh raha hoon’ he says, staring at you, specifically your lips.

You huff ‘Zyada free hone ki zaroorat nahi. Main aapke type ki ladki nahi hu’

He sighs, ‘Pata hai! Isiliye puch raha ke main tumhare type ka kaise banu?’

‘Jahannam jaake. Ajeeb aafat hai!’ You turn back irritated. He honks his car horn making you turn back to look at him. You glare at him to which he puts his hand on his heart, falling back on the car.

Such a drama queen!

He became more obvious, emboldened by the fact that you did nothing to push him away. He made sure to turn up at the tea stall you frequented, never letting you have your favorite chai in peace.

‘Lyari mein aur koi chai ki dukaan nahi ke idhar aa jaate hai baar baar’ you say as soon as he slides next to you, painfully close.

‘Hai par yaha jitni meethi chai kahi nahi’ he says, too close for your comfort.

You shift a bit farther, ‘Itna meetha khayenge toh diabetes ho jayegi’

‘Tum kaho toh aaj se meetha kya sab chod du’

‘Mera peecha chod de’ you reply

‘Are ab toh hamara rishta hai. Ha par mujhe kuch khaas pasand nahi woh. Raziya ki ammi, kaisa rahe agar main Raziya ka abbu ban jau?’

You cough your chai, taken aback by his shameless proposal. ‘Jaisa billa waisa baap. Jahil! Besharam! Behaya!’

‘Kitna pyaara bolti ho. Aur bolo, accha lag raha’

‘Joota naya hai warna fek ke maarti’

‘Apne haathon se maar do, yuhi marr jaunga’

You leave from there, running, making sure that no one sees the crimson tint on your flushed cheeks.

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ────── ────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

Today was rather a somber day where you didn't feel like interacting with anyone. 

Strangely enough, Uzair somehow understood your emotional state just by looking at your face.

‘Aaj please mujhe pareshan mat karna’ you pleaded as you stood in front of him post your shift.

‘Ghar chod du?’

‘Ha’

He drives you to your home quietly. You look out of the window to will the tears away. It was your brother's birthday and you had called him thrice to wish him. However, to no surprise, he did not receive the call, nor did he attempt to call you back. Sometimes you wonder if it was your destiny to be alone. Otherwise, how could you explain why your brother, your only living relative in this world, wouldn't want to keep in touch with you. Why was life so mean to you?

Uzair stops the car outside your small house. ‘Andar aau?’ he asks

‘Theek hai’ you reply as you wanted him to be close to you. His presence made you feel warm and protected. Something you stopped feeling since your father's death. 

You both enter the house to see Pele sleeping next to Raziya. You sigh looking at the two cats. 

‘Chai piyoge?’ you ask Uzair, unable to meet his gaze. 

‘Ha’

You hand him a steaming cup of tea, while you take yours and turn towards the window to wrestle with your feelings in peace. 

His voice pulls you out from your gloomy thoughts. 

‘Mere abbu bohot acche the. Imaandar the. Transportation ka business tha. Ammi bohot pyari thi par usoolon ki pakki thi. Khush the hum. Par phir jo hua woh toh puri Lyari janti hai.’

You turn to look at him as he continues ‘Rehman bhai ne mujhe apnaya aur bhabhi ne apne dil mein jagah di. Naieem aur Faisal bhi bohot pyaar karte hai mujhse. Ammi Abbu ki kami aaj bhi hai par pyaar ki kami nahi’

He walks towards you taking the teacup from your hand and placing it on the side table. He takes your hands in his, forcing you to look at him. 

‘Yeh sab main isiliye keh raha hoon taki tum apne aap ko ijazat do. Agar khudko aur dusron ko mauka nahi dogi toh tumhe tumhare hisse ka pyaar kaise milega?’

The gentleness in his voice and the impact of his words are enough to break you down completely. Before you know, tears start rolling down your face as your carefully built guard comes down. You crumple in his arms, tears straining his jacket. You keep crying and crying, the little girl in you tired and exhausted at being strong. For the first time in months, someone acknowledged your fears, assuring you that you're not alone.

After a while Uzair whispers teasingly ‘Rona bandh karo warna Raziya mujhe nakhun maregi ke “Mere ghar mein ghuske, meri ammi ko rulayega, himmat kaise hui iski”’

Unable to help yourself, you giggle into his chest, ‘Meri Raziya shareef hai’

‘Ha bilkul tumhari tarah’ his voice comes out gruff as you take in the way your body melts against his. You look up at him, his brown eyes turning obsidian with desire.

His eyes move down to your lips. 

‘Can I?’ he asks, only for you to move forward and plant your lips on his. 

And thus began your life with Uzair Baloch. If he was irritating before, he is insufferable now. Despite telling him not to treat you like his girlfriend, the man showed up everyday at your doorstep to drop you to work and returned home with you every evening for ‘Chai’ which would invariably lead to you two making out on the couch. Sundays were spent with him, Naieem and Faisal at the bowling alleys or games zone. They had started calling you Chachi! You pretend to cringe at it but secretly love it too much. 

Tanker aka Hamza addressed you as bhabhi, while his other gang members averted their gazes as soon as you were in their line of sight. 

Uzair as a boyfriend was 100/10. He was calm and patient with you during the initial days of your ‘Relationship.’ You tried to put your worst behavior forward, wanting him to ditch you before things got serious. You indulged in petty things like getting mad at him at every occasion, not answering his calls, leaving messages at seen, making him wait for hours on a chai date, unbothered and nonchalant about it. He was not only composed but had a flirty retort for everything. 

But this facade broke the day you heard there was a shoot involving Uzair and rival gang members. You ran to the hospital expecting the worst. Instead you found him outside the hospital, smoking as if everything was normal. Relieved, you hugged him tight and let your tears flow freely. That day you decided to give up the act and admit to yourself that you were indeed truly, madly in love with Uzair Baloch!

Still, you had your days where you tried to get on his nerves. Like today. Leaning against his car, you saw him carrying the beautiful vibrant red rose bouquet in his hands. Your heart did a merry little dance but you quickly composed yourself. 

‘Mujhe phool nahi pasand. Khaas karke gulaab toh bilkul bhi pasand nahi’

Instead of irritation, his eyes had a knowing glint. ‘Pata hai. Mujhe pasand hai so main le aaya. Ab phoolwale ko toh bol nahi sakta na ke yeh ajeeb shaukh hai mere!’

You couldn't help but laugh at this. He looks at you lovingly, noticing you wearing red kurti and beige palazzo.

‘Maine kaha tha na…Laal tumpe zyada jachta hai’ 

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ────── ────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

Weeks went by and finally Raziya gave birth to 5 kittens.

‘Mubarak ho 5 bacche hue hai’ you wish Uzair  as soon as he enters your home, with Pele in his arms. Naieem and Faisal had also tagged along to see the fur babies. The litter had 2 females and 3 males. You ask Faisal to name them, which in hindsight was a mistake as boys got named after footballers- Zizou, Bex and Ibra. One kitten was named after his favorite dessert Rabdi while the other one got a sane name- Fiza. Wait, wasn't Faisal's classmate named Fiza?

A week went by in a wink. The kittens were growing stronger and louder. Pele had ditched the dusty factory and taken up residence at your home becoming your ‘Ghar Jamai’. The family of 7 lay fast asleep after an uneventful day.

As Uzair lay sprawling on the couch with you in his arms, he started stroking your bare arms, whispering in a low voice, ‘Accha suno. Woh main soch raha tha- Pele bhi idhar rehta hai. Bacche bhi chotte hai. Tumhe bhi roz kaam pe jaana hota hai..’

Clueless to where this was going, you lift your head from his chest and look at him, ‘Toh?’

He continues, albeit nervously, ‘Toh kyu na Raziya aur bacche aur tum mere ghar aa jao’

You start laughing, considering he is kidding.

‘Pagal ho gaye hai kya’ you say in a merry tone but your laughter quickly vanishes when you see him staring at you with dead serious intensity. He isn't joking!

You think about his statement for a few seconds and finally reply, ‘Hmmm soch sakte hai.’

He smiles at your reply.

‘Socho aur jawab haa mein hona chahiye’ saying so he kisses your head as you both fall asleep in each other's arms.

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ────── ────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

Karachi rains were notorious. It would start with a drizzle and a few hours later the entire city would get flooded by gushing rain water.

During one such downpour, Uzair lands up at your door to check on you. With no electricity and very heavy rains, he wanted to whisk you to the lively comfort of theBaloch Haveli where you would be at ease. Why? Because he remembered your statement about being scared of thunder and darkness!

You open the door to a completely drenched Uzair, relieved at having some company in this scary weather. It was good that Faisal and Naieem had fetched the felines this morning to look after them over the weekend. Poor babies would have been scared here. You drag Uzair inside and fetch a towel to dry his hair. But he has a different plan as he pulls you on his lap, kissing you senseless.

You break the kiss- hot, bothered and gasping for air. 

‘Aap mera fayda uthana chahte hai?’

His hands grip your waist tighter, pulling you closer, your body plastered against his.

‘Nahi! Main toh keh raha hu tum mera fayda uthao’ he breathes in your face to carry on worshiping you with his hands, body and lips.

Ever since then, Uzair and you became borderline shameless. He would turn up at home during wee hours, knocking at your door in the afternoon on your days off, taking you out for long drives that had very little to do with the driving part of it. Hell, he even dropped Pele Raziya and their litter at Hamza's one day as you insisted that ‘Bacchon ke hote hue koi ashleel harkatein nahi hogi’

But as all good things ran their course, your happy bliss with Uzair was now at the dead end. It seemed so to you atleast. You started throwing up, turning repulsive to food and fragrance, tired and irritated all the time. You even lashed out on poor Zizou l, making him curl at your feet for forgiveness. The sight of the kitten staring at you with sorry eyes made you cry like a baby. Your fur babies were too kind so they behaved well for a day at least. Even Pele didn't bother you.

In the meantime, you stopped answering Uzair's calls, turning blind eye to his messages and ceased going to work for a few days. You made a quick trip to the doctor to confirm your doubt. 

As you made your way back home, you saw Uzair sitting at your doorstep, looking angry and restless. But the moment he saw your slumped tired form, his protective instincts took over. You opened the door, slumping on the couch with him following you.

‘Kya baat hai Y/n. Na mera phone utha rahi ho, na mere messages ka jawab diya aur na kaam pe bhi nahi jaa rahi ho. Ghar ka darwaza bhi nahi khol rahi thi mere liye. Hua kya hai?’

The gentleness in his voice got to you and you burst out crying. He sits beside you, lifting you from the couch to place you in his lap. His hands start soothing your back as you ugly cry into the crook of his neck. After a while your tears slow down, as you realise you needed to come clean now.

‘Maine kuch kaha? Kuch kiya maine? Bolo naa’

You try speaking in between sobs, ‘Uzair, main…aap… main’

‘Kya hua jaan?’

Unable to speak, you fetch the medical file and hand it to him, expecting him to get mad at you.

‘Sach?’ he asks, his voice laced with wonder. You just nod in affirmation. 

‘Toh ismein rone wali kya baat hai?’

‘Mujhe laga aap gussa honge. Darr lag raha tha kahi aapne isse…’ you start crying again.

‘Meri jaan rona bandh karo pehle. Please.’

‘Main bohot khush hoon. Maine toh bhai bhabhi se humare Nikkah ki baat bhi kar li hai. Woh iss itwar aane wale the. Khair ab hum itwar ko Walima rakhenge. Agar tum chaho toh’

You look up at him to see him happy and hopeful about the future. Nikkah? Walima? Your head started spinning 

‘Uzair’

He beats you to it by asking you a very important question.

‘Nikkah karogi mujhse, Raziya aur mere hone wale bacche ki Ammi?’

Overwhelmed at the series events that transpired in last 1 hour, the emotional roller coaster and the cuteness of his proposal, your wacky hormones make you kiss him before you say ‘Haa’

‘I love you meri jaan’

‘I don't hate you Uzair’

He laughs at this, the joy in his voice and the spark in his eyes warming your heart

‘I love you Uzair’ you whisper, finally saying the words out loud.

‘Finally!’ he says with a mock sigh.

You laugh as you settle in his arms. 

You quip at him ‘Billa meri beti pata le gaya aur Baap mujhe’

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ────── ────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

Bonus

Rehman and Ulfat are staring at you two while Naieem and Faisal are busy dragging the kittens and their belongings.

Ulfat finally addresses you ‘Yeh sab kya hai Y/n? Aur iss baar Muafza aur dekh bhaal chahiye ya Uzair se kaam chala logi?’

Embarrassed at her teasing tone, you plead her to stop.

‘Bhabhi please’

Rehman puts his hand around Ulfat.

‘Rehne do Ulfat. Bas Allah se dua karo ke humare yaha ek saath 5 bacche na aaye. Ek ek karke aaye, chalega’

You are too embarrassed to speak while Uzair looks smug at the suggestion.

Oh how he looked like a cat that got the desired cream!

PS- using @mainyahaankyunhoon ka taglist as I didn't know who to tag. Dotn't worry about me bothering you all with unnecessary tags in future as I might not post a Fic again