Sincerely Emme Kay (20+)

Uzair was sprawled across the vast canopy bed, a man who occupied space with the unthinking confidence of a king. His massive frame claimed at least three-quarters of the mattress, his long legs tangled with hers, effectively pinning her to the sheets. He had long ago decided that Zaara was his personal, plush pillow. His heavy head was resting squarely against the soft rise of her chest, his breathing rhythmic and deep against her collarbone. His arm was draped over her waist like a lead weight, a possessive, subconscious habit he’d developed within weeks of their marriage, ensuring she was exactly where he left her. It was hard to believe this was the same tough, unfeeling man who paced the city streets. Here, in the quiet of the night, he was just a man who needed the heartbeat beneath his cheek to feel complete. 

The silence was broken by a sound so faint it barely registered, a rhythmic, hesitant tap-tap-tap against the thick oak door.

Zaara’s eyes flickered open. She blinked groggily at the shadows dancing on the high ceiling, her brain sluggishly trying to determine if the sound was a remnant of a dream or a reality creeping into her sanctuary. Then, it came again. A soft, persistent, and distinctly frantic knocking.

She shifted, the movement restricted by the giant pinned to her side. She felt the dead weight of his arm tighten instinctively as she moved, his nose brushing against her neck in his sleep. “Uzair,” she whispered, her voice raspy and thick with the haze of sleep.

He didn't even stir. If anything, he let out a low, rumbling groan of annoyance, nuzzling deeper into the soft fabric of her cotton shirt as if trying to hide from the noise. He let out a long, contented sigh, his entire posture softening into a deeper level of hibernation.

“Uzair, uthein!” she tried again, more urgently, nudging his broad shoulder with her chin.  “Dekhein koi darwaze pe hai. Koi knock kar raha hai.”

“Shhh, Zaara,” he grumbled against her skin, his voice a gravelly, incoherent vibration that traveled right through her ribs. “Sapna hoga...sojao.”

Zaara rolled her eyes, a small, exasperated huff of disbelief escaping her. She felt the heavy, immovable warmth of him, a man who could survive a standoff in the alleys of Lyari but couldn't be roused from a mattress by anything less than a direct order from the universe. With a shift of her limbs and a careful shimmy, she managed to wriggle out from under his heavy, dead-weight arm and legs.

“Koi keh sakta hai ke yeh janab gang chalate hain?” she muttered under her breath, watching him settle into the space she had just vacated. Uzair Baloch was a lion of the streets by day, a man whose word could shift the balance of power, but by night, he was a hibernating grizzly who seemed physically incapable of acknowledging the world outside his own REM cycle.

As she slid off the edge of the mattress, Uzair let out a disgruntled, high-pitched moan at the loss of his ‘soft pillow.’ His hand blindly swiped at the empty space beside him, his fingers clawing at the duvet where she had been a moment before. “Zaara! Kahan ja rahi ho?” he mumbled, a protest lost in the fuzziness of his dreams.

“Darwaza kholne, aap apni beauty sleep puri karein,” she whispered sarcastically, leaning back to tuck the blanket around his broad, bare shoulder. The instant, heavy silence that followed told her he was already dragged back into the depths of dreamland, his hand flopping limp onto the mattress.

She turned away, shaking her head at the sheer irony of it all, and began to pad toward the door to answer the call of the night.

As she padded toward the door, a tiny, muffled “Mama…” reached her ears. Zaara’s heart did a soft somersault. She quickly unlocked the heavy door and slid it open.

Standing there, looking impossibly small against the sprawling, shadowy expanse of the grand hallway, was Ghazal. She was a tiny, fragile figure, swallowed by the sheer scale of the Haveli’s architecture. She was barefoot, her little toes curled against the cool marble floor, and her floral-print pajamas were slightly twisted from her fitful sleep. Her two pigtails, which had been so neatly tied for bed, were now a chaotic, adorable bird’s nest of tangles, frizzy strands standing up in protest from hours of restless tossing and turning.

In her arms, she clutched Mimi, her little stuffed bunny, with a white-knuckled grip that spoke of a deep, childhood need for comfort. The bunny’s velvet fur was worn thin in spots, a testament to how many ‘monsters’ it had already warded off on nights like these.

Her tiny face was scrunched up into a deeply serious, miserable frown, her little eyebrows drawn together in a way that made her look like a miniature version of a world-weary traveler. The moment she caught sight of her mother, the brave, stoic front she’d maintained while walking down the hall completely crumbled. Her chin began to wobble, a frantic, rhythmic movement that signalled a storm about to break. Big, fat, crystalline tears welled up in her dark, long-lashed eyes, shimmering under the soft moonlight, before they began their slow, heartbreaking trek down her round, flushed cheeks. She looked like a little lost princess, completely undone by a dream that had felt too real.

Zaara immediately knelt, her cotton pajama pants pooling around her on the cool floor as she gathered the trembling, pajama-clad girl into the warmth of her arms. Ghazal felt so small, her heart hammering against Zaara’s chest like a trapped bird. “Kya hua meri jaan?” Zaara murmured, her hand smoothing down the chaotic tangles of the girl's ‘bird’s nest’ pigtails.

“Mujhe bura sapna aaya, Mama,” Ghazal whispered. Her voice was a broken, fragile thing, interrupted by a sharp, rhythmic hiccup that made her small shoulders jump. A fresh wave of tears leaked out, clinging to her long, dark lashes before spilling over. Her lower lip jutted out in a wobbling, heavy pout, a look of such pure, concentrated misery that it could have brought the toughest man in the Haveli to his knees.

“Aw, meri jaan,” Zaara cooed, her heart aching at the sight of that trembling chin. She leaned down, the scent of lavender and comfort enveloping the toddler, and placed a lingering, tender kiss on Ghazal’s right cheek. She pressed her lips right into the salty, wet path of a tear, literally kissing the sadness away, before moving to the left to repeat the ritual. With every kiss, she felt the tension leave Ghazal’s small frame, the girl’s frantic grip on her neck loosening just a fraction.

Ghazal leaned her heavy, sleepy head on Zaara’s shoulder, her breathing still hitching in little, jagged aftershocks. She smelled like baby powder and the lingering warmth of her own bed. “Main aapke saath reh sakti hoon?” she asked, her voice muffled against Zaara’s neck, the question carrying the weight of a desperate plea for safety.

“Bilkul, meri jaan,” Zaara said softly, her voice a soothing anchor in the dark. She stood up effortlessly, hoisting the girl onto her hip and shielding her from the shadows of the hallway with the warmth of her own body. With her free hand, she pushed the heavy oak door shut, the click of the latch sounding like a final seal against the monsters of the night.

As they moved toward the looming silhouette of the canopy bed, Ghazal pulled back slightly. She looked up, her brows furrowed into that serious V-shape of genuine concern as she hoisted her stuffed rabbit up by its long, flopping ear, presenting him like a silent petitioner. “Aur Mimi bhi?”

Zaara chuckled softly, the sound like a gentle, rhythmic bell echoing in the quiet room. She looked at the tattered rabbit, the same one Uzair had once clutched as a boy, and felt a wave of domestic peace wash over her. “Haan meri jaan,” she whispered, booping the rabbit’s velvet nose, “Mimi bhi. Hum sab saath soyenge.”

Zaara’s gaze lingered on the tattered, well-loved rabbit clutched in Ghazal’s small fist, and for a moment, the weight of the room seemed to shift. That bunny, with its matted velvet and drooping ears, was an extension of Ghazal’s very soul, but its history was a heavy, silent thread that stretched back into the shadows of a much darker past. On the day Ghazal was born, amidst the sterile white lights and the sharp scent of the hospital, Uzair had appeared with a relic in his hands that had made Zaara’s breath catch. He hadn't bought it from a boutique or a toy store, instead, he had gone deep into the forgotten corners of the Haveli’s storeroom, digging through old trunks that hadn't seen the sun in decades.

It had been his own rabbit as a child, one of the few, precious fragments of a childhood that had been fractured and stolen from him. It was a singular, physical legacy left by his parents, a quiet witness to the days before he had to become the man the world feared. By tucking that rabbit into Ghazal’s cot next to her swaddled, sleeping form, Uzair hadn't just been giving her a toy, it was his silent, desperate way of bridging the impossible divide between the dead and the living. He had been performing a silent, sacred handoff. He was offering her the only piece of himself that remained unscarred and soft, wanting the purest part of his history to stand guard over the brightest part of his future. In the quiet of that nursery, he imagined his parents’ hands, once steady and strong, lingering over the bunny, bestowing a blessing upon their granddaughter that he could never truly articulate. It was his way of ensuring that even if they would never see the light in her eyes or hear the chime of her laughter, they would still be the ones watching over her dreams, keeping the darkness at bay long after he was gone.

As the bed dipped under the added weight, the bear finally stirred. Uzair’s eyes cracked open, the heavy fog of his deep hibernation clearing the instant he registered the small, sniffling silhouette in Zaara’s arms. The transition was jarring, one second he was a dead-weight sleeper, and the next, the sharp, jagged edge of his protective instinct had sliced through the haze. He sat up on one elbow, his broad shoulders casting a protective shadow over the mattress.

“Kya hua?” his voice was a low, gravelly rumble, thick with sleep but laced with an immediate, grounded concern.

“Baba...mujhe bura sapna aaya,” Ghazal whimpered, her voice small and trembling as she reached out a tiny hand toward him.

The sight of her tear-streaked face acted like a physical blow to Uzair’s chest. The man who could stare down a barrel without blinking felt his features melt into a look of absolute, unconditional softness. He reached out a large, steady hand and wrapped it around her outstretched wrist, leaning down to press a kiss to her little palm before lifting his arm, using his thumb to tenderly brush a stray, salty tear from her wet cheek.

Zaara moved with a quiet, practiced ease, placing Ghazal right in the centre of the bed. She shifted her own plush pillow toward the centre so the three of them were a huddle of dark hair and soft breathing.

“Chalo, Mama aur Baba ke beech so jao,” Uzair murmured, his voice dropping into that warm, private register he reserved only for the people within the Haveli. He reached down, his large hands guiding her small frame under the heavy duvet, tucking her into the warmth that still smelled of him and Zaara. “Yahan koi bura sapna nahi aayega.”

Ghazal sniffled, her eyes darting toward the dark corners of the ceiling where the shadows of the canopy bed loomed. “Agar phir monster aaya?” she whispered, her grip tightening on Mimi’s ear.

“Toh Baba monster ko dara denge, theek hai?” Zaara promised with a soft smile, leaning over to smooth the chaotic bird’s nest away from Ghazal's forehead. “Baba se toh bade bade log darte hain, monster ki kya majaal?”

Ghazal let out a shaky breath, finally satisfied. The logic was perfectly clear to her, simple and strong: her Baba was the biggest, toughest, and strongest person in the whole wide world, he was stronger than the walls of the Haveli, stronger than the thunder, and way, way stronger than any silly, shadowy nightmare. As long as she was tucked behind his big arm, she was in a secret, invisible fortress. She finally laid her head down, pulling Mimi closer, the tension draining out of her. Uzair leaned over and pulled the duvet right up to her chin, carefully cocooning her in the warmth until only her wide, sleepy eyes and the top of her messy pigtails were visible.

Ghazal immediately rolled over, seeking the ultimate comfort, throwing a small, soft arm over Zaara’s waist and burying her face into her mother’s side. Uzair shifted closer, closing the final sliver of space until his broad chest was a warm wall pressed against Ghazal’s small back. His large arm draped over her, acting like a protective canopy. He began a slow patting rhythm, his palm rising and falling against her shoulder in a hypnotic, steady cadence he had perfected over the years, a heartbeat of comfort that he knew, without fail, would melt away her remaining fears and lull her into a deep, dreamless sleep. It was a wordless, rhythmic promise that as long as her Baba was awake and standing guard, the world, and everything in it, would remain perfectly still and safe. 

A few minutes of thick, comfortable silence passed, the only sound the rhythmic thrum of Uzair’s hand patting Ghazal’s shoulder. Just as Zaara thought the girl had finally surrendered to sleep, a tiny, muffled whisper emerged from the cocoon of the duvet.

“Mama…story?”

Zaara hummed, a soft, vibrating sound that resonated against Ghazal’s cheek. Every single night, without fail, Ghazal insisted on a story. It was a non-negotiable ritual of the Haveli. Depending on who she caught, the tales changed flavours: from Rehman, she got the thunderous, wide-eyed legends of ancient warriors and galloping horses, from Ulfat, it was the gentle, whispered chronicles of butterflies, hidden gardens, and magical flowers, and from her mother, it was always the soaring dreams of princesses.

“Acha, meri jaan,” Zaara whispered, her fingers tracing the delicate line of Ghazal’s ear. “Kaunsi wali?”

Ghazal pondered for a heavy second, her long lashes fluttering as her eyes drifted shut, the weight of the day finally winning. “Princess wali,” she breathed.

Zaara began the familiar, melodic tale, her voice dropping into a storytelling lilt. She spoke of a princess in a faraway land, a place where the air always smelled of blooming gardens and the fountains ran with liquid silver. She described the princess’s courage and the moment she met her brave prince, a man who had traveled through shadows just to find her.

As Zaara reached the end of the short, soft-spoken tale, Ghazal let out a long, shuddering yawn that stretched her tiny frame. The monsters were gone, replaced by images of golden crowns and rose petals.

The story trailed off into the gentle, rhythmic hum of the room, the scent of lavender acting like a sedative on Ghazal’s weary mind. Her hand, which had been fisted in Zaara’s nightshirt, slowly relaxed, her fingers splaying out against the soft cotton.

“Mama…” she murmured, her voice fading into the soft, velvet dark. “Baba aapke prince hain?”

Zaara let out a small, breathless laugh, a sound of pure, maternal indulgence. She shifted slightly to look over Ghazal’s tousled head toward Uzair. He was lying on his side, his large frame tucked neatly toward the centre, his eyes fixed entirely on her. A sleepy, deeply contented smile played on his lips, the kind that never surfaced in public, the kind that was reserved only for the safety of these four walls.

“Haan,” Zaara whispered, her eyes locking with his, the unspoken history of their life together vibrating in the silence between them. “Baba mere prince hain.”

Uzair’s smile deepened, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. He didn't say a word, but the way he looked at her, with a profound, quiet devotion, said everything. He leaned over, his beard grazing Ghazal’s temple as he placed a lingering, soft kiss on her forehead, a silent blessing to keep the nightmares at bay.

He lifted his large, calloused hand from her shoulder to the crown of her head. With a touch that was surprisingly, achingly gentle, he began to pat her hair in a wordless lullaby, his fingers working with the patient, rhythmic grace of a father who knew exactly how to soothe his child’s spirit. His thumb moved in slow, hypnotic circles against her scalp, a grounding motion that mimicked the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. 

Ghazal let out one last, long sigh of absolute security, her breathing deepening into the slow, steady rhythm of true sleep. Uzair watched her, then shifted his gaze back to Zaara, his free hand finding hers under the duvet. He laced their fingers together, pulling her hand close to his chest so she could feel the steady, reassuring thrum of his heartbeat, the only rhythm that had ever truly mattered to either of them. The whirlwind of the Haveli had finally settled, tucked away in the fortress of her parents' arms.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Zaara stood behind her, the silver-backed hairbrush held like a peace offering. Every time she leaned in, Ghazal executed a tiny, coordinated shimmy of her shoulders, her small body twisting with the fluid grace of a willow branch.

“Mama, Baba karein?” Ghazal’s voice was a soft, melodic chirp, but it carried the weight of an imperial decree.

She turned her gaze toward the closet, where Uzair stood. Usually, Uzair was a man of iron and silence, a towering presence who moved with a predator’s calculated stillness. Now, he looked like a man asked to defuse a ticking clock with a pair of chopsticks. He held a tiny, elastic hair tie between his thumb and forefinger, staring at it with profound suspicion. As he stepped closer, his shadow, broad, protective, and immense, fell over the vanity, momentarily dimming the gold of the sun.

“Jaan, Baba ko baal nahi banane aate,” Uzair murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in the quiet room. “Main tumhare baal kharab kar doon ga.” He looked at Zaara, his dark eyes wide with a very real, very comical desperation, begging for an exit strategy.

The pout deepened. Ghazal crossed her arms over her butter-yellow frock, her chin trembling just enough to be soul-crushing. A single tear, fat and crystal-clear, gathered at the corner of her eye. It hung there for a heartbeat, reflecting the morning light, before tracing a slow, shimmering path down the velvet curve of her cheek.

Zaara felt that familiar, liquid ache in her chest. She set the brush down and knelt, the silk of her kurta whispering against the floorboards. “Meri jaan, Mama kar deti hain,” she coaxed, tucking a stray raven lock behind Ghazal’s ear. “Baba ke haath bohat bade hain, woh choti choti clips nahi laga sakte. Mama bilkul waise hi karein gi jaisa aap ko pasand hai.”

But in the eyes of a four-year-old, logic was no match for the heart’s desire.

“Nahi, Mama!” The protest was absolute. In a display of emotion that was remarkably theatrical, Ghazal slid off the stool like a melting scoop of ice cream, her long, spindly limbs tangling as she collapsed into a soft, dejected heap on the plush Persian rug. She buried her face in her arms, her small shoulders shaking with a stifled, rhythmic sob that sounded like the cooing of a mourning dove.

Uzair winced as if the sound had a physical edge. He was on the floor in a second, his knees hitting the wood with a heavy thud that rattled the lotion bottles on the vanity. He reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering uncertainly before settling with feather-light tenderness on her back, his palm nearly covering the entire width of her tiny shoulders.

“Ghazal...meri jaan...” he whispered, his voice cracking with a softness he reserved only for her.

Zaara moved to the other side, forming a protective circle of warmth around their daughter. The air between them was thick with the scent of home, fresh laundry, warm skin, and the quiet magic of a Sunday morning.

“Acha, suno,” Zaara said, her voice dropping into the rhythmic, sing-song lilt she used for bedtime stories. “Agar aaj Mama karein gi, toh main aap ki favourite 'Dutch braids' banaon gi. Aur pata hai kya? Sparkly butterfly clips bhi lagaungi!”

The sobbing hitched. The room went silent, save for the ticking of the bedside clock. Ghazal stayed still for a long moment, then slowly, painfully slowly, she peeled her face away from her arms. She peeked through wet, tangled lashes, her big, watery eyes searching Zaara’s for any hint of a bluff.

“Sparkly wale?” she sniffled, her voice a tiny, hopeful breath, her lower lip still quivering.

“The sparkliest in the whole world,” Zaara promised, her smile blooming like a flower.

Ghazal let out a long, shuddering sigh, a perfect, weary imitation of the way Uzair exhaled after a long day’s work. It was the sound of a hard-won truce. She uncurled her long legs and crawled into Zaara’s lap, settling in with a final, lingering sniffle. But as Zaara’s fingers began to weave the dark silk of her hair, Ghazal kept her eyes locked on Uzair, her small hand reaching out to catch his pinky finger, holding on tight with a silent, possessive strength, ensuring her Baba didn't go anywhere.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The moon had replaced the sun’s honeyed glow with a sharp, silver stillness that pooled on the hardwood floors. The silence in the Baloch mansion was rare, usually filled with the energetic patter of Ghazal’s feet or the heavy, authoritative tread of boots. But at night, it was thick and still. Inside the bedroom, the air was cool and hushed, the only sound the rhythmic skritch-skritch of Zaara’s comb.

She sat at the vanity, her reflection framed by the dim glow of the warm lamps. Methodically, she parted her hair into two dark rivers, draping one over her shoulder. In the mirror’s depth, she could see Uzair. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning against the headboard haphazardly, his large frame silhouetted against the shadows, completely zoned out. He was simply staring into the middle distance, his brow furrowed as if navigating a complex mental map.

Zaara paused, her comb mid-stroke. She caught his reflection's gaze and raised her eyebrows, a silent prompt. “Kya hua?”

Uzair blinked, the intensity of his stare refocusing on her through the glass. He stayed silent for a heartbeat too long, the quiet stretching between them. “Kuch nahi,” he finally muttered, though his eyes never left her.

Zaara narrowed her eyes, a knowing frown tugging at the corner of her lips, but she didn't push. She knew Uzair; he was a man who chewed on his thoughts until they were soft enough to swallow. She moved to the second section of hair, pulling the silken weight over her other shoulder.

“Zaara...”

“Hmm?” she hummed, her eyes closed as she worked through a small tangle.

He hesitated, his voice dropping into that low, vulnerable register he only used behind closed doors. “Tum mujhe baal banana sikhaogi?”

The comb froze. Zaara’s hands stayed suspended in mid-air, one anchoring a section of hair, the other gripping the brush. The silence that followed was thick with her genuine shock. She turned slowly in the velvet chair, looking up at him with a face full of bewildered tenderness.

“Kyun?”

Uzair looked down at her, and for a second, the formidable, cold-eyed man vanished. In his place was someone who looked achingly like a lost puppy. “Taaki agli baar...jab Ghazal mujhe baal banane ko kahe, mujhe usse mana na karna pade.”

The air seemed to leave the room. Zaara’s expression melted, her features softening into a look of such profound love it felt almost sacred. The memory of Ghazal’s dramatic despair on the rug flashed through her mind, and she realized Uzair had been carrying that weight for hours.

“Idhar aayein,” she breathed, her voice a soft caress.

He stood, his massive frame looming over her as he walked to the vanity. Zaara reached out, catching his hand, a hand that felt like a landscape of history, rough with callouses and marked by the faint, jagged lines of old scars. Outside these walls, those hands were symbols of power and peril, met with flinching or forced respect. Outside these walls, they were rarely, if ever, touched for the sake of comfort.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Zaara brought his hand to her face and pressed a lingering, velvet-soft kiss into the center of his palm. She lingered there for a moment, her warmth seeping into the hardened skin, acknowledging the man beneath the myth. It was a gesture of such pure tenderness that Uzair’s breath hitched in the quiet room. She didn't let go, instead, she placed the hairbrush exactly where her lips had been and turned back toward the mirror so they were both facing their reflections.

“Theek hai,” she whispered. “Dekhiye.”

She divided a thick section of her hair into three even strands. With practiced ease, she began to guide him, explaining the rhythmic ‘over-and-under’ of a basic braid. Uzair leaned in, his chest nearly brushing her shoulder, his face a mask of intense concentration.

Watching him in the mirror was like witnessing a quiet miracle. It was a jarring, beautiful contradiction. On the streets, Uzair was a ghost story told in hushed tones, a man of jagged edges and a gaze that could freeze a man’s blood. Out there, he was the law, the enforcer, the one who never bent. It was almost tragic, Zaara thought, that the world outside the high walls of the Haveli would never know this Uzair. They would never see the way his brow furrowed not in anger, but in the desperate pursuit of a perfect braid. They would never witness the hidden softness that lay beneath the layers of scars and silence.

His hands, hands that had gripped weapons with lethal precision and were more accustomed to the cold weight of a gun, were now handling her hair with the kind of delicate care one might use for spun glass. The very same fingers that had caused so much damage were now striving to learn the art of gentleness, all so he could tame his little Jaan’s unruly hair. He fumbled slightly, his thick, calloused fingers looking almost comical against the fine, silken strands, but he didn't give up. He didn't grow frustrated. Instead, he muttered the steps under his breath like a prayer, his eyes darting between her hands and the reflection, determined to master this tiny, domestic craft.

Zaara watched him, her heart swelling until it felt tight. This was the man the world feared, the dreaded gangster, and here he was, hunched over a hairbrush at midnight, learning how to make a braid just to ensure his daughter’s smile remained unbroken.

“Aise?” he asked softly, successfully crossing the left strand over the middle.

“Bilkul waise,” she replied, her eyes meeting his in the mirror.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

She was sitting back on her haunches, her long limbs tucked under her mauve frock. Her brow was furrowed with an intensity that mirrored Uzair’s during a high-stakes meeting, and the tip of her pink tongue was poking out of the corner of her mouth, twitching occasionally in deep concentration as she wrestled with a stubborn bit of kitchen string that had somehow become a leash tangled around the toy's tail.

Every so often, she would blow a stray, dark curl out of her eyes with a sharp puff of air, her cheeks inflating like little balloons before she dove back in. She was a picture of miniature grace and grit, her small hands moving with a frantic, adorable clumsiness.

Donga, leaning back in his chair with a relaxed grin, watched the struggle for a few minutes. “Ghazal, lao main karun?" he called out, his voice softened for the little girl.

Ghazal didn't even blink, she was on a mission after all. She continued to wrangle the string, her tiny fingers working with fierce determination, her little shoulders hunched as she let out a soft, frustrated huff. She was her father's daughter through and through, once she set her mind on a puzzle, the rest of the world simply ceased to exist.

“Ghazal!” Donga called a little louder, trying to pierce through her bubble of concentration.

This time, she paused. She looked up at the group of men, her wide, doe-like eyes blinking against the sunlight. “Huh?”

Donga laughed, gesturing toward the toy. “Ghazal, main madad karun?”

Instead of handing over the toy, Ghazal’s face clouded with a deep, theatrical confusion. Her forehead bunched into lines that were far too dramatic for a three-year-old. She looked at Donga as if he had just started speaking a foreign language.

To her, the word was a foreign sound, a distant echo that rarely reached her ears. Within the protective walls of the Haveli, she wasn't “Ghazal”, she was the very breath of the house. The world spoke to her only in the language of endearment. Her Mama whispered Jaan against her forehead, her beloved Tayi-Ammi smothered her in kisses while murmuring Meri Jaan, and her Taya-Abbu, who spoiled her so thoroughly she seemed to walk on a path of spun sugar, never used any other name. In the simple, unwavering logic of a three-year-old, “Ghazal” was merely a formal title she heard on occasion, a nickname, perhaps, but “Jaan” was her soul. It was who she was, so she couldn't understand why her chachu was calling her anything else.

“Chachu, main Jaan,” she said, her voice small but remarkably firm. “No Ghazal.”

Donga’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of pure bewilderment. “Hain?” He looked at the others, then back at the toddler. “Kya matlab 'No Ghazal’?"

He turned to Uzair, silently asking if he had somehow forgotten the little girl’s name. Uzair, who had been watching the exchange with a growing, private smirk, leaned forward.

"Kya hua, meri jaan?” Uzair asked.

That was all the invitation she needed. Ghazal abandoned the toy and scrambled across the grass. She climbed onto Uzair’s lap and up his broad chest as if he were her own personal jungle gym, her small feet digging into his thighs for purchase. Finally, she reached her summit, planting herself firmly against him so she could grab his face with her pudgy, sun-warmed hands. Her fingers, smelling faintly of the lavender talcum and the sweet grass she’d been rolling in, squished his cheeks inward, forcing his formidable features into a look of startled submission.

Uzair looked into her eyes and felt a familiar, breathless hitch in his chest. It wasn't just the height or the hair he’d given her, it was the way she looked at him. In the curve of her wide, expressive eyes and the way her rose-pink lips were currently set in a firm, stubborn line, he saw Zaara. She had captured the exact essence of her mother’s fierce spirit, that particular brand of gentle defiance that had brought Uzair to his knees years ago. To see those soft, beloved traits reflected in the tiny, porcelain face of his little Jaan was a kind of beautiful torture. It was a reminder that no matter how much steel he carried in his soul, these two women would always be his only weakness.

"Main Jaan, Baba," she insisted, her nose nearly touching his. "No Ghazal."

Uzair’s heart did that familiar, treacherous melt. He looked at her, his expression turning mock-serious to match her own. "Acha? Toh tumhara naam Jaan hai?” he asked, his voice hushed as if he were being let in on a state secret.

Ghazal nodded her head vigorously, her midnight-black pigtails, the ones Uzair had spent half an hour perfecting that morning, bouncing with every movement. Her expression remained grave, her little brow furrowed with the weight of her conviction, as if she were explaining the fundamental laws of physics to a particularly slow student. She was so sure of her place in the world, so rooted in the love that surrounded her, that the idea of being anyone else was simply preposterous.

Uzair turned toward Donga, his voice dropping into a dramatic, booming tone for her benefit. “Donga chachu, aap ko pata nahi ke yeh sabki Jaan hai? Ghazal nahi?!” He gestured toward her with a flourish of his large, scarred hand, officially “siding” with the toddler’s logic.

Ghazal immediately turned her head to look at Donga, her chin tilted up. Her gaze was incredibly serious, a silent confirmation of her father’s words. See? Baba knows.

Donga threw his hands up in defeat, chuckling. “Arre, maafi, maafi! Mujhe pata hi nahi tha ke main 'Jaan' se baat kar raha hoon.”

Content that the world had been set right, the adrenaline finally left Ghazal’s small frame. The warmth of the sun and the steady, rhythmic beat of her father’s heart acted like a sedative. With a soft, contented mumble, she plopped her head against the broad expanse of his chest. She began to slide down, melting into a horizontal position across his lap. Her long, spindly legs dangled over his arm, her tiny toes peeking out from under her frock, wiggling one last time before going still. Uzair shifted instinctively, his body molding itself to accommodate her smallness. His large, scarred palm settled across the centre of her back, the warmth of his hand seeping into her skin like a blanket, while his other hand began a rhythmic, feather-light pat on her head.

The men continued their conversation, their voices a low, rumbling soundtrack that Ghazal had been hearing since the day she was born. To anyone else, it was the talk of dreaded men, but to her, it was just the sound of safety. The deep vibrations of her father’s voice, felt through his ribcage against her ear, was the very definition of safety.

Within minutes, Uzair looked down, his own gaze softening into something unrecognizable to the men sitting beside him. His little Jaan was fast asleep. Her face was the picture of angelic calm, her rose-bud lips parted just slightly as her breathing became deep and even. Her thick, ink-black lashes fluttered occasionally, casting long shadows on her rosy cheeks as she drifted into the land of dreams. Even in the depths of her slumber, her small, soft palms remained tightly clutched to the fabric of Uzair’s kurta, her knuckles white as she held onto her favourite person. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The humidity of Lyari felt like a burial shroud, sticking to the skin and filling the lungs with the metallic tang of salt, old gunpowder, and the dying embers of an empire.

Uzair Baloch, the man whose name made the streets of Karachi tremble, the man who had looked into the eyes of his brother’s killer and beheaded him without a flicker of hesitation, now looked at a set of mismatched suitcases as if they were the heaviest burdens he had ever lifted. His movements were jagged, mechanical, his large, scarred hands fumbling with the leather handles. Every suitcase he hoisted into the cavernous trunk of the SUV was a nail in the coffin of his life as a father, as a husband. When he finally slammed the trunk shut, the sound didn’t just echo against the ancient, sun-baked stone walls of the Haveli, it ripped through the oppressive silence like a gunshot, a finality that signalled the execution of their shared life.

Zaara stood paralyzed by the passenger door, her fingers white-knuckled as she gripped her sleeves of her kurta in her palms. Her eyes weren't on the car, but on the Haveli itself. Every archway, every chipped piece of plaster, every stain of moss on the courtyard walls was a memory screaming to be heard, a ghost begging not to be forgotten.

She saw the spectral image of herself as a bride, her feet heavy with the scent of fresh henna, stepping over this very threshold for the first time with a heart full of terrifying hope. She heard the hollow, rhythmic echoes of Naieem and Faisal, boys who should have been men by now, shouting over a football match in the dusty courtyard, their laughter still vibrating in the heat. She could almost smell the phantom scent of cardamom chai she used to share with Ulfat on the verandah, their voices hushed in sisterly gossip until the sun dipped below the horizon and the war outside resumed. Most painfully, the shadows seemed to take the shape of Rehman. His presence governed this soil more than the living ever could. It was his death that had fuelled Uzair’s rage, and it was that rage that had finally burned their world to the ground.

Then, her gaze drifted down to a specific patch of yellowed grass near the fountain. There, the ghosts were the cruelest. She saw a younger, smaller Ghazal, barely a year old, learning to balance on unsteady legs. She remembered the way Uzair’s massive, calloused fingers, hands that knew only how to hold a weapon or a grudge, had reached out with such agonizing tenderness to steady his little jaan.

The realization hit Zaara with the force of a physical blow, knocking the wind from her lungs: I am never coming home again. These stones will crumble, and I will be oceans away, and the only version of us that exists will be the one I carry in my head.

The Haveli wasn't just a house anymore, it was a tomb for the woman she used to be.

Finally, she forced her gaze away from the stones and turned to face Uzair.

He was standing perfectly still, a pillar of salt against the backdrop of a crumbling dynasty. The man who had commanded the streets of Lyari with an iron fist now looked brittle, as if the slightest breeze might scatter his remains across the courtyard. His face, usually a fortress of stoic defiance, was a raw mask of grief, a devastation so naked and so jagged that no amount of concealing could shield it. The scars on his skin seemed to deepen in the fading light, mapping out a life of violence that had led them to this very precipice.

They stared at one another, paralyzed. The twenty feet of gravel between them had transformed into a vast, echoing canyon, a chasm carved by blood, law, and the cruel reality of their fate. Neither was ready to take the first step across it, because they both knew the physics of this moment: the second they bridged that gap, the second they touched, the countdown to the final goodbye would accelerate. To cross the space was to accept the end, to stay apart was to pretend, for just one more heartbeat, that the SUV wasn't waiting and the world wasn't hunting them.

The silence between them screamed with everything they couldn't say, the apologies for the blood spilt, the gratitude for the years of hidden peace, and the terror of a tomorrow where they would no longer share the same horizon.

“Ghazal,” Zaara’s voice broke, a jagged, wet sound that seemed to physically fracture the heavy air. She crouched down, her knees hitting the gravel with a sharp, unforgiving crunch, her hands trembling so violently she could barely smooth her daughter’s hair. “Meri jaan...Baba ko Khuda Hafiz bolo.”

Ghazal, possessing the terrifying, fragile innocence of a six-year-old, didn't understand that her universe was collapsing. To her, this was just another trip, a temporary absence before the sun rose on their life again. She skipped toward Uzair, her little sandals clicking against the pavement, a sound of pure, untainted life in a place of death.

“Khuda Hafiz, Baba! Aap mere liye doll lekar aayenge jab main wapis aungi?” she chirped, her eyes bright with the expectation of a return that would never happen.

The question was a serrated knife to Uzair’s throat. The “when I come back” was a promise he could never fulfill, a future he had already traded for her safety. He collapsed to his knees, his heavy, muscular frame hitting the ground with a thud that felt like a final surrender of his soul. He hauled Ghazal into his arms, his grip so fierce it was almost desperate, as if he could physically graft her onto his own skin. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his broad shoulders shaking with the tectonic force of a man trying to swallow a scream that would surely level the Haveli if he let it out.

As he held her, a tidal wave of ‘nevers’ crashed over him.

He realized with a sickening clarity that he would never again walk her to the school gates, never see her face light up as she learned to read, and never be the one to chase away the monsters under her bed. He would never again feel her small, warm weight crawling into his bed when a thunderstorm scared her, he wouldn't be there to tell her the thunder was just the sky's way of laughing. He mourned the wedding he would never attend, the blessing he would never get to place upon her head as he handed her over to a man he would never meet. He was mourning a ghost, the woman she would become, whom he would never know.

But the sharpest agony was the terror of being forgotten. He looked at her and felt the crushing weight of time. Hhe knew that in a few years, the lines of his face would blur in her mind. His voice would become a hollow echo, then a silence. He would eventually be nothing but a shadow in the corner of her memories, a faded photograph in a drawer, a name she spoke with a stranger’s curiosity.

“I will hold you in my heart,”he choked out, his voice thick with the fluid of his own heartbreak, vibrating against her small chest. “I will hold you there until the stars go dark, Ghazal. I will be the wind in your hair, the sun on your face...just don't forget me, meri jaan. Please, don't forget your Baba."

He pulled back, his eyes bloodshot and streaming, his vision blurring as he tried to drink in every detail, the curve of her nose, the way her eyelashes caught the light, trying to store enough of her to survive the desert of his future. He kissed her cheeks, then her eyelids, tasting the salt of his own despair. Finally, he pressed a long, trembling kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering for an eternity that was still too short, trying to transfer his entire soul, his protection, and his love into her mind through that single point of contact.

“Khuda Hafiz, Baba,” she whispered, her smile finally faltering as she felt the heat of his tears dampening her skin, her tiny hands reaching up to touch his trembling beard.

“Khuda Hafiz meri jaan,” he whispered back, his breath hitching in a jagged sob that finally broke through his iron-clad control, shattering the last of the gangster and leaving only a broken father in the dust.

He forced himself to stand, his legs swaying with the sickening instability of a wounded animal trying to find its footing one last time before the end. The earth beneath him felt like water, treacherous and shifting. He turned his gaze to Zaara, and in that moment, the air between them didn't just feel empty, it felt like a vacuum, sucking the very life from his lungs.

Zaara drifted towards him, her movements a slow-motion descent into a mourning that would last a lifetime. Every step was a heavy, rhythmic thud against the soul of their marriage. When she finally reached him, the restraint snapped. She collided with him, a devastating wreck of a woman slamming her body against his as if the sheer force of the impact could fuse their skin together, making them inseparable by law or geography.

Her arms locked around his back, her fingers clawing into the thick cotton of his Kurta with a frantic, primitive strength. She wasn't just holding a man, she was clutching the foundations of the only home she had ever truly known. For years, the Haveli had been stone and mortar, but Uzair had been her shelter, her hearth, her heartbeat. Now, she felt the walls of that internal home crumbling, leaving her exposed to a world that suddenly felt freezing.

Uzair wrapped his arms around her waist, his grip so fierce it bordered on violent, while his other hand clamped onto the back of her head, forcing her into the hollow of his chest, the one place in the world where she was safe. He held her with a terrifying ferocity, a silent, guttural plea to the universe to stop the clocks, to freeze the sun in the sky, to let them exist in this pocket of shared air until the end of time.

“Uzair,” she sobbed, the sound muffled by the fabric of his shirt and the frantic thrumming of his heart. It was a sound of absolute ruin. “How am I supposed to breathe in a place where you don't exist?”

They were two halves of a single existence, forged in the fires of Lyari’s wars and tempered by the quiet nights of their love. To pull apart now wasn't a separation, it was an amputation. They were losing their homes within each other, evicted from the only sanctuary they had ever found in a life of blood.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, though the effort felt like tearing muscle from bone. His hands framed her face, his large, rough palms cupping her cheeks as his thumbs frantically, hopelessly tried to wipe away the deluge of tears that wouldn't stop falling. Her hands flew up to his wrists, her nails digging into his skin, drawing blood as if she could tether him to her by physical pain alone.

He forced her chin up, his eyes burning into hers with a searing, desperate light, the look of a man trying to imprint his entire being into her retinas so she would never see another face clearly again.

“Zaara,” he commanded, his voice a jagged, gravelly wreck. “Main tumhe phir milunga. Agar iss zindagi mein nahi...toh kissi aur zindagi mein. I will find you. I will crawl through the dirt of a thousand lifetimes to find you. I will always find you.”

The promise hung in the air, a beautiful, tragic lie they both needed to believe to survive the next ten minutes, even as the cold realization settled in that they were looking at the only heaven they would ever know.

Ghazal stood beside them, her small brow furrowed as she looked up at the two giants of her world as they crumbled into dust before her eyes.

“Mama, why are you crying?” she asked, her voice a small, frightened silver thread in the heavy fabric of their grief.

Uzair reached down, his large, scarred hands trembling with a vulnerability that would have horrified his enemies, and hoisted her up. He tucked her into the suffocatingly narrow space between his chest and Zaara’s. For one final, agonizing minute, the laws of the world were suspended. They were a single, frantic heartbeat. Ghazal reached out her tiny, soft palms, her small fingers grazing the rough salt of her father’s beard and the wet heat of her mother’s cheeks, a bridge of pure innocence stretched over a river of absolute sorrow.

“Jao,” Uzair whispered, the word sounding less like a command and more like a death rattle, the final gasp of a man being executed.

He handed Ghazal to Zaara. The moment their skin lost contact, the air between them turned to ice, sharp and jagged, cutting into their lungs. Uzair took a shaky step back, then another, his hands dropping to his sides, heavy and useless, as if the very purpose of his limbs had vanished the moment they stopped holding his family.

Zaara turned toward the SUV, her legs feeling like leaden weights dragged through deep water. Every step was a betrayal of her heart. She stopped at the car door, the cold bite of the metal handle against her palm acting as a cruel reminder of the reality waiting for them.

She turned one last time.

She didn't just look at him, she devoured him. She anchored her eyes to Uzair Baloch, the formidable lion, now standing small and hollow against the backdrop of the empty, echoing Haveli. He was a king of nothing, a man left behind in a palace of ghosts by the souls who made him human.

She began the frantic, silent work of a woman who knew she was going blind. She memorized the specific, jagged way the wind caught the hem of his dark Kurta. She memorized the exact shade of his eyes, fixed on hers with a searing, desperate loyalty, and the way the setting sun cast long, distorted shadows behind him, making his silhouette look like a ghost already fading into the stone. She memorized the tension in his jaw and the slant of his shoulders, cementing every line, every scar, and every sorrow into the bedrock of her mind. She breathed him in, desperate to store enough of his essence to last her through decades of hollow nights and an ocean of distance.

She took one last, searing look, a gaze meant to last a lifetime, before she finally forced herself into the car.

Thud. The door clicked shut, a final, absolute sound that signalled the end of their era.

As the car began to move, Zaara didn't look forward toward the freedom of the coast or the safety of the West. She twisted around, looking through the rear window as the SUV rolled away. She watched Uzair grow smaller and smaller, a lone figure in the dust, until the heavy iron gates of the Haveli swung shut with a mournful groan, swallowing him whole and leaving only the silence of the Lyari night.

Zaara pulled Ghazal into her side with a terrifying, crushing grip, burying her face in her daughter’s hair. She held onto the girl as if she were a life raft, clutching the last living piece of Uzair she had left in a world that had, in the span of a heartbeat, gone completely and utterly dark.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Thak gaya aaj, bohaut hi lamba din tha,” he muttered, reaching up to rub the back of his neck, his eyes already half-closing in anticipation of sleep.

When the only response he received was the violent, rhythmic thud-slide of wood on wood, his eyes snapped open. He looked over toward the wardrobe. Zaara wasn't just folding laundry, she was wrestling it. She was shoving piles of dupattas and kurtas into the cupboards with an aggression that bordered on a personal vendetta, her movements sharp and jagged. Every time she slammed a drawer, the sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Uzair narrowed his eyes in confusion. He knew that look. That was the ‘I’m-fuming-but-I’m-going-to-act-busy’ look. He cleared his throat, offering a cautious olive branch.

“Zarda tumne banaya tha? Aaj toh bohaut hi lazeez tha,” he tried, his voice cautious. “Sab tareef kar rahe thay."

She didn't turn around. She just snatched a folded towel and jammed it into a space that was clearly too small for it. “Kyun? Baaki din main zeher dalti hun usmein?” 

Uzair’s shoulders stiffened instantly. His eyes widened, that familiar, primal husband-in-danger instinct screaming in his ears. He sat up straighter, his mind racing at a hundred miles an hour.

"Kya kiya maine?" he asked, his voice a mix of bewilderment and genuine concern.

He scrambled through the day's mental archives with the desperation of a man trying to find a misplaced key. Okay, think. I came home on time. I wore the charcoal grey kurta she set out. I didn't get into a spat with her uncle. I even complimented her hair twice before the guests arrived. He came up entirely short. To him, the day had been a soaring success.

Zaara finally finished her assault on the cupboard, slamming the door shut with a finality that made the perfume bottles on her vanity rattle. She marched over to the mirror, her hands flying to her ears. She ripped off her heavy gold earrings with enough force to make Uzair wince, tossing them onto the marble surface with a loud clink. The dozen bangles on her wrists clattered together like a frantic warning bell.

“Aapko nahi pata?” she bit out, her reflection glaring at him through the glass.

“Nahi,” he said, sounding genuinely, pathetically lost. 

She scoffed, a sound so sharp and dismissive it practically cut the air. She began scrubbing at her kohl-lined eyes with a cotton pad, her movements furious. “Toh phir kuch nahi hua. Aap araam karein, Janab thak gaye honge.”

“Zaara,” he groaned, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Agar bataogi nahi toh main maafi kaise mangunga? Kam se kam jurm toh bata do.” 

She spun around then, the cotton pad clenched in her fist. Her eyes were narrowed into lethal slits, her jaw tight as she fought to maintain her sass while her vulnerability threatened to leak through.

“Uss Sharmeen ke saath itni khikhi kyun kar rahe the?” she demanded, her voice rising in pitch. “Mujhe bhi batayein itna kya mazedaar bataya aapne ki uski hasi hi band nahi ho rahi thi?”

A soft, realization-filled ‘oh’ formed on Uzair’s lips. The tension suddenly bled out of his frame, replaced by a slow, teasing heat. He realized he wasn't actually in trouble for a mistake, he was being targeted by a very jealous, very beautiful wife. He leaned back on his elbows, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched her chest heave with indignation.

“Astagfirullah Zaara, majaal hai ke main kissi aur ko hasaun,” he teased, his voice dropping into that low, rumbling register he knew she couldn't resist. “Ab uss pagal ko har cheez pe hassi aati hai toh isme main kya karun?” 

“Aap mazak udha rahe hain mera?” she snapped, taking a threatening step toward the bed.

He held his hands up in mock defense, his eyes sparkling with a dark, liquid mischief that signaled he was enjoying her fire far too much.

“Meri itni himmat ke apni Begum ka mazak udhaun?” he asked, his voice dropping into a mock-offended lilt. To drive the point home, he reached up with his right hand to pinch his earlobe, then quickly swapped to the left, a theatrical, boyish gesture of Tauba, tauba that looked utterly ridiculous on a man of his lethal stature.

The sight of the gangster performing such a domestic, humble act of penance was almost enough to make Zaara laugh, but she stiffened her lip, refusing to let the sass crumble just yet.

“Tauba, tauba,” he repeated, his head tilting as he watched her, his fingers lingering on his ear for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “Maafi de dein, Huzoor. Agli baar agar Sharmeen ne baat ki, toh main waheen sab chod kar bhaag jaunga. Khush?”

He saw her remain unamused, her chest heaving with a sharp, rhythmic indignation that made the gold pendant around her neck catch the amber light. Her fury was a living thing, vibrant and beautiful, and it made the air in the room feel thick with static. Uzair’s face softened, the teasing glint in his eyes melting into a low, smouldering heat. His voice dropped an octave, vibrating with a gravity that usually commanded entire rooms of men, but here, it was a plea.

“Zaara...idhar aao.” 

He beckoned her with a slow flick of his fingers, his gaze anchored to hers. She rolled her eyes, a final, defiant act of resistance, but the invisible tether that always pulled her toward him was too strong to break. She marched forward until she stood directly between his knees, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She stared pointedly at the wall over his head, her jaw set, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an easy win.

It wasn't nearly close enough for him.

Uzair’s hands shot out like a predator’s, his large palms hooking around her narrow waist. With one powerful, effortless tug, he hauled her firmly into his lap. Zaara let out a small gasp as she collided with his chest, her silk kameez rustling against the rough cotton of his kurta. He didn't let her pull away, instead, he hooked two fingers under her chin, tilting her face up until she was forced to look into the dark, honeyed depths of his eyes.

“Tumhe sach mein lagta hai main kissi aur ko hasaunga?” he murmured, his thumb tracing the soft curve of her lower lip. “Pagal ho tum. Mere paas tumhare nakhre uthane se fursat ho toh kisi aur ko dekhun na?” 

In an instant, the power dynamic shifted, snapping like a taut wire. Zaara’s eyes flashed, the molten gold of her irritation cooling into a dark, predatory intent that Uzair had never seen directed at him quite like this. She didn't wait for him to finish his teasing defence; she simply reached out, her palms flat against the hard, expansive planes of his chest, and gave him a sharp, sudden shove.

Uzair, the man who commanded the streets of Lyari with a single glance, was so caught off guard by her boldness that he fell back flat against the mattress with a muffled thump, his breath hitching in surprise.

She didn't give him a single second to recover his dignity. Zaara crawled over him with a feline, calculated grace, her movements so slow they felt like a deliberate provocation. She pinned his hips beneath the weight of her own, her knees settling firmly on either side of his waist. As she leaned forward, her emerald dupatta slid from her shoulder, pooling on the bedsheets like a discarded skin and revealing the sharp, elegant line of her shoulders in the amber lamplight.

Her hands moved to his collar. Her fingers were nimble and cool, a stark, agonizing contrast to the feverish heat radiating from his skin. She didn't rush. She popped the top button with an excruciatingly slow twist, then the second, her eyes locked onto his with a searing intensity that made his lungs seize. Every time her knuckles brushed the hollow of his throat, Uzair’s Adam’s apple bobbed in a hard, desperate swallow.

As she peeled the fabric back, slowly exposing the broad, rugged expanse of his chest, the silver chain he wore glinted against the dark hair of his torso. It rose and fell with his ragged, uneven breathing, clicking softly against his skin. Zaara watched the way his muscles jumped under her touch, a small, triumphant smirk playing on her lips.

Then, she shifted. It wasn't a sudden move, but a slow, agonizingly intentional grind of her hips against his. The friction was a lightning strike through his nervous system. Uzair let out a sharp, jagged jolt of air, his back arching off the bed instinctively as he tried to bridge the gap she was so cruelly maintaining. His hands flew up, his fingers twitching to grasp her waist and end the torment, but she leaned back just enough to stay out of reach, her eyes mocking his lack of control.

“Zaara…" he rasped, his voice a broken, gravelly plea. 

“Shh,” she retorted, her voice like silk over a blade. She shifted again, even slower this time, savouring the way his eyes blew out until the pupils swallowed the honeyed brown.

This was a reverse of every night they had ever shared. Usually, he was the storm, the overwhelming force of nature she had to weather. But tonight, she was the one holding the leash, and the sight of the Sardar reduced to a heaving, trembling mess beneath her was the most intoxicating thing she had ever felt. She was dragging out every second, stretching his desire until it was a thin, vibrating wire, enjoying the way his fingers curled into the bedsheets until the fabric threatened to tear.

She wanted him to feel every ounce of the frustration she’d felt watching that girl laugh at his words. She wanted him to know exactly who owned the air in his lungs.

She leaned down, her heavy tresses falling like a silken, obsidian curtain around their faces, sequestering them into a private world of amber light and frantic heartbeats. The scent of her that intoxicating blend of bergamot and the jasmine became the only air Uzair could breathe. She stopped when her lips were a mere hair’s breadth from his, so close he could feel the frantic, humid heat of her breath against his mouth.

“Agli baar zyada khi-khi kari,” she whispered, her voice a low, lethal promise that vibrated against his lips, “toh aapke zarde mein sach mein zeher mila dungi.”

To seal the threat, she didn't kiss him. Instead, she tilted her head with a predator’s precision and sank her teeth into his bottom lip. It was a deliberate, bruising claim. She clamped down on the sensitive, plush pink flesh and tugged, drawing his lip outward with a slow, agonizing pressure.

Uzair’s world fractured. The sharp sting of her teeth against the soft membrane of his mouth sent a lightning bolt of white-hot desire straight to his gut, making his vision blur and his head swim. A guttural, pained groan ripped from his chest, a sound of a man who was being unmade. Driven by a primal reflex to close the distance, his large hand flew up, fingers splayed to catch the back of her neck and crush her mouth against his in a proper, desperate kiss.

But Zaara was faster. She swatted his hand away with a sharp, stinging crack against his wrist that echoed in the quiet room.

“Haath neeche,” she whispered sternly against his mouth, her eyes darkening until they were almost black, swirling with a possessive fire that demanded total submission. “Main abhi bhi gussa hun. Aur gussa nikaalne ka haq sirf mera hai.”

Uzair’s arm fell back to the mattress, his muscles twitching with the effort of restraint. He was a man who moved mountains, who commanded respect with a mere tilt of his head, yet here he was, reduced to a heaving, helpless wreck beneath her. His knuckles turned a ghostly white as he gripped the bedsheets, his fingers bunching the expensive fabric until it threatened to tear.

“Zaara yaar...khuda ke liye...chune do,” he pleaded, his voice thick, strained, and broken in a way it never was outside this room. He was begging, his chest heaving so violently that the silver chain on his torso rattled against his skin.

“No,” she breathed, her gaze dropping to his reddened, swollen bottom lip, savouring the evidence of her mark. She leaned back just an inch, just enough to let the cool air hit his heated skin, a tormenting reminder of the distance she was choosing to keep. “Jab tak mera dil nahi karega, aap sirf dekhenge.”

She reached for the hem of his dark navy kurta, her fingers intentionally grazing the light dusting of hair on his lower stomach. The contact was feather-light, yet it made his abdominal muscles ripple and contract in a sharp, involuntary spasm. She began to slowly peel the heavy silk upward, the fabric dragging against his skin with an agonizing friction that Uzair felt in every nerve ending.

He didn't wait to be asked, his body was acting on a desperate, singular instinct. He raised his back just enough to let the garment slide out from under him, his movements jerky with the effort of holding back. As the kurta was discarded, falling somewhere into the shadows of the floor, Uzair dropped back down against the pillows. The sudden motion made his dark hair flutter at the top of his forehead, damp with a fine sheen of sweat. He looked raw, his broad shoulders filling the width of the bed, his chest exposed and rising in frantic, shallow heaves, entirely, beautifully at her mercy.

Zaara didn't rush to fill the space. She stayed perched above him, her eyes tracking the way his pectoral muscles tensed and jumped as she hovered. Then, without warning, she leaned down and bit, hard, into the swell of his left pec.

“Bohaut zaalim ho tum, Zaara!” he yelped, a sharp, ragged sound that was half-protest and half-shattered plea. His back arched off the bed in a violent reflex of pleasure and pain, his heels digging into the mattress as he fought the urge to flip her over then and there.

“Pata hai,” she smiled sweetly, the curve of her lips looking almost angelic if not for the dark, possessive fire burning in her eyes.

She didn't pull away. Instead, she began to suck at the angry red bite mark she’d just branded him with. Her tongue swirled over the stinging skin in slow, rhythmic circles, soothing the hurt only to replace it with a heat that made his toes curl. She moved her path upwards, her hips continuing that torturous, agonizingly slow grind against him, ensuring he felt every inch of the friction through their clothes. She lingered at the hollow of his throat, kissing the frantic pulse point there, leaving a trail of fire in her wake that seemed to turn his blood to molten lead.

She could feel him shaking beneath her, a fine, tremor-some vibration that spoke of a restraint fraying like a sun-bleached rope. Every time she nipped at the sensitive skin of his ribs or let the ends of her silken hair brush across his stomach, he let out a low, animalistic sound, a guttural rumble that vibrated against her own chest. It was the sound of a lion finally admitting defeat, a broken note of submission that told her exactly who had won this round.

Uzair’s restraint detonated. The fine, tremor-some vibration in his limbs escalated into a violent shudder as the last thread of his patience snapped like a dry branch in a storm. With a low, animalistic growl that seemed to vibrate the very frame of the mahogany bed, his hands finally ignored her command. They shot out, his large, calloused palms clamping around her thighs with a bruising intensity, and in one blurred, lung-wrenching motion, he flipped them.

The world tilted for Zaara, the amber light of the room spinning until she felt the soft give of the mattress beneath her back. But as Uzair loomed over her, his chest heaving and his dark hair falling in wild, shadowed spikes over his eyes, she didn't flinch.

Instead, she arched a single, perfectly groomed brow, a slow, triumphant smirk spreading across her lips. She didn't look like a woman who had lost her position, she looked like a nymph who had successfully provoked the beast into showing his teeth.

“Bohaut jaldi sabr khatam ho gaya aapka,” she whispered, her voice a cool, silken taunt even as he pinned her wrists above her head.

Uzair’s grip was firm, his fingers digging into the bedding on either side of her hands, his body a heavy, suffocating weight that pressed her into the pillows. Even pinned beneath him, she was the one in control of the rhythm of his heart. She shifted her hips beneath him, a deliberate, provocative movement that made Uzair’s jaw lock so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek.

He didn't wait for another word. He crashed his mouth onto hers, the kiss no longer a negotiation but a desperate, starving reclamation. He tasted of the salt of his own frustration and the heat of the night. He kissed her with a ferocity that bordered on frantic, his tongue demanding entry, claiming her mouth with a possessive urgency that made her head swim.

His free hand didn't have her patience. He bunched the silk of her shirt in his fist, stripping it away with a reckless, frantic energy that left her exposed to his burning gaze. He looked at her then, really looked at her, his eyes devouring the sight of her pale skin against the dark sheets, marked by the faint, flushed evidence of their struggle.

Uzair let out a wrecked, breathless sigh against the sensitive hollow of her shoulder, a sound of total, devastating surrender. It was the sound of a man who had realized that no matter how many territories he controlled in Lyari, he would always be a subject in this room. He shifted his weight, his heavy, muscular frame sliding down her body with an agonizingly slow pressure, his chest dragging against hers until he settled into the cradle of her hips.

The friction was electric. His rough, hair-dusted skin was a delicious, sparking contrast against the velvet softness of her inner thighs as he nudged them wider. He lingered there for a heartbeat, his forehead pressed against hers, both of them gasping for the same thin air. His eyes were dark, blown out with a primal need that made the honeyed brown of his irises vanish into black.

He didn't ease into her. Driven by the of teasing and the lingering sting of her teeth on his skin, he entered her with a single, powerful thrust. The impact was total. It tore a high, sharp cry from Zaara’s throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated release that echoed against the high ceilings of the Haveli. Her back arched off the mattress, her fingers scrambling for purchase until they locked onto the corded muscles of his forearms, her nails digging in as she anchored herself to the storm.

The rhythm that followed was primal and punishing, fuelled by the lingering electricity of their power play. Uzair moved with a relentless, driving urgency, each strike a heavy, rhythmic thud that made the mahogany headboard groan. It was a reminder of his strength, of the sheer physical force of the man she had provoked, but every time Zaara wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, locking her ankles behind his back to pull him even deeper, she reminded him exactly who he belonged to.

She met every downward surge with an upward tilt of her hips, her body a perfect, fluid counterpoint to his raw aggression. Uzair was mesmerized. He stayed braced on his elbows, looming over her so he could watch the wreckage he was causing. He watched the way her kohl had smudged into beautiful, dark shadows around her eyes, making her look like a fallen angel. He watched the way her lips parted in a silent, breathless plea, her head tossing from side to side against the silk pillows as the pleasure became too much to contain.

Every time he hit that specific, deep point that made her sob his name, he felt a surge of possessive triumph so sharp it was almost painful. He was conquering her, yes, but as he felt her internal muscles tighten around him, drawing him into the white-hot centre of her fire, he knew he was the one truly lost. He was drowning in her, and he never wanted to reach the surface.

The air in the room grew heavy and humid, thick with the scent of their combined heat and the fading traces of jasmine clinging to the damp sheets. The pace accelerated into something all-consuming, the friction turning into a searing, blinding burn that threatened to incinerate the last of their restraint.

As the first tremors of Zaara’s climax began to ripple through her, Uzair didn't pull away. Instead, he reached up, his large hand wrapping firmly around the column of her throat. His thumb and forefingers played across the sharp, delicate line of her jaw with a possessive pressure, forcing her to stay present, to stay with him in the eye of the storm. With a low, guttural sound, he angled her face upward, guiding her until she was forced to look directly into the dark, sweltering depths of his eyes. He leaned down, his forehead falling against hers with a heavy, desperate thud. Their lashes were a mere breath away, tangling in the shadows as he stared into her blown-out pupils, wanting to be the only thing she saw as her world came apart.

“Zaara…” he groaned, the word vibrating against her lips, his voice muffled and wrecked with a devotion that bordered on worship.

He held her gaze with a terrifying, beautiful intensity, refusing to let her blink, refusing to let her look away. He watched the exact moment her focus shattered, the way her eyes glazed over and her breath hitched into a broken sob, just before he followed her into the dark, losing himself entirely in the woman who had spent the night proving he was hers.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

But her real pride and joy, the detail that made her feel truly ‘grown up’, were the teeny-tiny gold jhumkas dangling from her lobes. They were a precious first-birthday gift from her Taya-Abbu and Tayi-Ammi, crafted with delicate filigree that mirrored her mother’s own jewelry. Every time she had caught her reflection that evening, in the polished wardrobe wood, the windowpane, or the grand vanity, she had stopped dead in her tracks. She would tilt her head sharply to the left, then the right, listening with pure, unadulterated giddiness to the faint, melodic jingle of the gold. Her eyes would go wide, a secret, proud smile spreading across her face as she admired the way they swayed, convincing herself that she looked exactly like the elegant woman sitting across the room.

Currently, she was deep in concentration, her small fingers struggling to braid her doll’s hair so the doll would be ‘Walima-ready’ too. Uzair sat leaned back against the headboard next to her, one arm draped lazily behind his head as he watched the news on the TV, though his eyes kept drifting down to the top of Ghazal’s head.

Across the room, Zaara was a vision of focused elegance at her vanity. Ghazal’s gaze, which had been fitfully occupied with her doll's messy pigtails, kept snapping away, drawn like a magnet to her mother’s reflection in the expansive, gold-rimmed mirror. She was utterly mesmerized by the ritual unfolding before her: the soft clink of glass jars, the flurry of fluffy brushes that looked like magic wands, and the way the shimmering powders seemed to transform under the warm vanity lights.

When Zaara finally picked up her mascara wand, Ghazal went completely still, her doll forgotten in her lap. She leaned forward, her mouth slightly agape and her breath held in her throat, watching with wide-eyed intensity as the wand darkened and lengthened her mother’s lashes, stroke by careful stroke. To Ghazal, it wasn't just makeup, it was alchemy.

Uzair, who had been half-watching a news anchor drone on about the city's latest developments, felt the sudden cessation of movement next to him. The rustle of silk had gone silent. He looked down, finding Ghazal frozen in a state of pure, unadulterated adoration, her neck craned toward the vanity as if she were witnessing a miracle. He followed her line of sight to the mirror and felt a familiar, sharp tug of affection in his chest. 

He leaned down, his voice dropping into a low, warm whisper that tickled the shell of Ghazal’s ear. “Mama sundar lag rahi hai na?”

Ghazal nodded slowly, her loose silken hair swishing against the dusty pink fabric of her back in a rhythmic, hypnotic motion. Her eyes remained locked on the mirror, reflecting the gold and rose-gold hues of the room, wide with a newfound sense of awe. “Baba…”

“Hmm, meri jaan?” Uzair murmured, his gaze lingering on the delicate curve of her cheek and the way the light caught those tiny, jingling gold jhumkas. He reached out, his large hand resting protectively on the small of her back, waiting for whatever profound toddler-thought was about to emerge.

“Main bhi Mama jitni sundar lagungi...badi ho kar?” she asked quietly, her voice trembling with the weight of the question.

Uzair’s expression softened into something profoundly tender, a rare, unguarded warmth bleeding into his features that he only ever allowed within these four walls. He shifted his gaze from his little Jaan to his first Jaan sitting at the vanity, and for a moment, he found himself falling into the same trance as his daughter.

He watched Zaara through the mirror, the way the soft vanity lights caught the curve of her throat and the elegant, practiced arch of her hand. It was a sight that had haunted him since the very first day he had laid eyes on her, the same magnetic, breathless pull that had levelled him then was still just as potent now. He understood exactly why Ghazal was so mesmerized, he had spent years trying to decode the same magic himself. To the world, he was a man of steel and shadow, but in the reflection of that mirror, he was just a man who had never quite recovered from the beauty of the woman he married.

“Tum toh ab bhi itni pyaari ho, meri jaan,” he answered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a fierce, quiet pride that vibrated in the air between them. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of Ghazal's jaw, before his eyes flickered back to Zaara’s reflection. “Aur badi ho kar? Bilkul Mama jaisi lagogi.” 

A radiant, wide smile broke across Ghazal’s face, her small teeth peeking out in a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. To her four-year-old heart, being told she would grow up to be as beautiful as the woman currently painting her lashes was better than any toy or sweet in the world. It was a promise of future magic.

Suddenly, she gasped, the sound sharp and urgent. She spun around on the silk duvet to face Uzair, her little gold jhumkas dancing frantically against her ears, struck by a thought so important it couldn't possibly wait another second.

“Baba! Main bhi makeup kar sakti hoon?”

Uzair let out a short, rhythmic laugh and reached out, booping her nose with his index finger. “Mama se pucho,” he said, nodding toward the vanity.

Ghazal didn't need to be told twice. She gathered the skirts of her pink pishwas in her fists and bounced off the bed, her little feet pattering across the rug. She came to a halt beside Zaara, standing as tall as her four-year-old frame would allow, looking up at her mother through the mirror with a shy, hopeful expression.

“Mama…"

Zaara paused, her lipstick mid-air, and looked down. “Haan, meri jaan? Kya hua?”

“Main bhi makeup kar sakti hoon?” Ghazal asked, her voice small but determined. “Mujhe bhi aapke jaisa lagna hai.”

Zaara’s heart effectively melted. The sight of her daughter in those tiny jhumkas, asking to be ‘just like her,' was too much to resist. She dropped her lipstick and scooped Ghazal into her lap, planting a loud, lingering kiss on her plump cheek.

“Theek hai,” Zaara whispered, her voice thick with an indulgent, maternal ache. She tucked a loose strand of Ghazal’s hair behind one of the gold earrings, her eyes soft as she looked at her miniature twin. “Lekin sirf thoda sa.” Ghazal let out a tiny shriek of delight and twisted around to give her Baba a wide, toothy grin. Uzair, watching from the bed, grinned right back.

Zaara pulled out a compact of soft rose blush and a fluffy brush. She turned Ghazal toward her, and the toddler immediately straightened her spine, closing her eyes and holding her breath as if she were preparing for a very solemn ritual. Zaara gently dusted the light pink powder onto Ghazal’s cheeks, adding a soft glow to her already flushed face. Then, she took a sheer pink tint and dabbed it lightly onto Ghazal’s lips.

“Ab aise karo,” Zaara said, dabbing her own lips together.

Ghazal mimicked her mother with an intensity that was almost comical, her tiny brows knitting together in a mask of absolute focus. She pressed her rose-bud lips together, tapping them with a rhythmic pop-pop-pop sound, her head tilting side to side as she ensured the colour reached every corner. It was a mirror image of the woman she adored, the same tilt of the chin, the same dainty concentration.

Uzair watched the two of them from the bed, his broad frame framed by the dark mahogany of the headboard. His entire world was condensed into that single, gold-rimmed vanity mirror: the woman who had redefined his soul and the little girl who had stolen what was left of it. For a man who lived by the book of violence, the sight of Zaara’s slender hand guiding Ghazal’s tiny chin was an almost unbearable kind of beauty. His eyes misted, a rare and quiet softness blurring the sharp edges of his gaze as he committed the scene to memory, a treasure far more valuable than any territory he held.

Ghazal stared at her reflection, her breath hitching in her throat. She saw the soft, dusty pink glow on her plump cheeks, like the petals of a fresh carnation, and the subtle, shimmering sheen on her lips that caught the amber vanity lights. For a moment, she was breathless, convinced that the magic had truly begun. A massive, self-assured smile broke across her face, the look of a girl who knew she was cherished.

She spun around in Zaara's lap, her pink silk pishwas rustling like a field of flowers, and threw her small, soft arms around Zaara’s neck. She squeezed with all the strength her four-year-old body could muster, burying her face in the crook of her mother’s jasmine-scented neck.

“Thank you, Mama!” she chirped, the gold earrings jingling a happy, frantic rhythm against Zaara's skin. Before Zaara could even respond, Ghazal was off, racing back to the bed. She scrambled into Uzair’s lap, pointing at her face. Uzair performed a dramatic, theatrical gasp, his hands coming up to his chest.

“Masha’Allah! Meri jaan kitni sundar lag rahi hai!”

Ghazal leaned in, her tiny chest heaving with the importance of the moment. Her dark, wide eyes searched his with a desperate, hopeful intensity, looking for the one final confirmation that would make her entire world align.

“Mama jaisi?” she whispered, her voice a fragile thread of expectation.

Uzair’s gaze flickered upward, past the pink silk of Ghazal, to catch Zaara’s eyes in the vanity mirror. Zaara was leaning against the table, her hands tucked under her chin, watching the two of them with a soft smile that made her look more ethereal than any amount of makeup ever could.

The man who had spent his life in the shadows felt a sudden, fierce rush of gratitude that this warmth, this light, these two women, were his reality. He looked back down at the miniature version of his heart and the woman he loved and tucked her firmly under his chin, his beard grazing her soft forehead. He squeezed her close, the gold jhumkas cold against his neck, and made the most solemn vow of his life.

“Bilkul Mama jaisi,” he promised, his voice thick with a fierce, quiet certainty.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The words hung heavy in the air. The gun clattered onto the table with a sharp, dissonant ring, the heavy steel spinning once before falling silent. Uzair’s back went rigid, his shoulders locking into a hard, immobile line. He stayed frozen for a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, the silence in the room suddenly so thick it was suffocating.

Slowly, almost mechanically, he turned his chair around. The lethal, quick-witted gangster looked like he’d been struck by lightning. His eyes were wide, unblinking, his brain clearly short-circuiting as the image of a child, their child, tore through his mind.

“Huh?” was all he managed, his voice a low, disbelieving rasp.

Zaara began to ramble, the words spilling out in a nervous, hurried rush. “Main bas soch rahi thi... uss din Ghazal ne bhi kaha aur uske liye acha hoga, aur...par agar aap taiyaar nahi hain toh koi baat-”

Uzair didn't wait for her to finish. He stood up with a sudden, predatory grace that made her breath hitch. He abandoned the weapon on the desk, his gaze fixed on her with a charcoal intensity that seemed to strip the clothes right off her body. He walked toward her, each heavy step echoing the thrum of his pulse. He sat on the bed, his knees boxing hers in, trapping her in the small, heated space between his thighs.

His eyes had darkened until the honey-brown irises were swallowed by black, a raw, starving desire overtaking every cell of his body. He lunged forward, his large, calloused hands planting fiercely around her face, his thumbs digging into the soft skin of her jaw to tilt her head back.

He kissed her with a hungry, primitive reclamation that stole the very air from her lungs. It wasn't a gentle response, it was a desperate, consuming heat. His tongue entered her mouth, exploring every corner and crevice with a frantic urgency, as if he were trying to taste the future she had just offered him. Zaara remained frozen in shock for a split second before her hands flew to his wrists, feeling the thrumming, violent pulse of his excitement beneath his skin.

He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against hers, both of them panting. His eyes raked over her face, her swollen lips, her dazed expression, before they dropped to her stomach, his hand sliding down from her jaw to flatten against her womb with a heavy, possessive weight. The heat of his palm burned through her silk kameez.

“You have no idea,” he growled, his voice a jagged, low vibration that made her toes curl. “You have no idea what you’ve just done to me, Zaara.”

A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at his lips, his thumb tracing a slow, circular pattern over her navel. “Abhi shuru karein?”

Zaara’s lips formed a shy, breathless smile, her heart soaring at the pure, unadulterated hunger in his gaze. She didn't answer with words. She reached out, her fingers hooking firmly into his collar, and coaxed him back down into the heat, her legs already parting to welcome him home.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Trial #1

Zaara stood by the vanity, the hum of the house settling into a lull. The phone sat against her ear, her shoulder propped against it while her hands moved mechanically to fold the small piles of laundry she hadn't finished.

“Ji Janab, kaise yaad kiya?” she asked, her voice light, hiding the way her heart had leaped at his name on the screen.

Uzair’s laugh came through, low and melodic, vibrating against her cheek. “Kya kar rahi ho?”

“Laundry,” she replied, her eyes drifting toward the window, catching the way the afternoon light hit the courtyard.

“Hmm,” he hummed, the sound intimate and focused, as if he were standing right behind her. "Ghazal kya kar rahi hai?"

Zaara frowned slightly, a playful spark in her eyes. “Woh Bhabhi ke saath market gayi hai.”

There was a pause on the line, a deliberate, heavy silence where she could almost hear him processing the information.

“Abhi gayein hain?” Uzair asked, his tone deceptively nonchalant, the kind of casual curiosity that usually hid a very specific intent.

“Hmm,” she replied, her free hand smoothing out a wrinkle in his kurta, not realizing the trap.

He didn't say much more, just teased her about the laundry for a few minutes before hanging up. Zaara didn't think twice about it, setting the phone down on the counter. The afternoon sun was high when the familiar, heavy thud of boots echoed down the hallway. Zaara, standing at the stove, didn't turn around, she simply smiled as the scent of tobacco preceded him.

A pair of strong arms snaked around her waist, and Uzair’s hard, solid chest settled firmly against her back. He nestled his face against the side of her neck, his beard grazing her skin.

“Aap toh factory mein nahi thay abhi?” she asked nonchalantly, stirring the chai.

“Tha,” he answered, his voice a husky, low vibration against her ear. “Par phir tumne bataya tum akeli ho. Ab main kaisa shohar hota agar apni begum ko ghar akela chorr deta?”

His hands trailed lower, moving past her waist to the flare of her hips with a possessive weight.

“Uzair…” she warned, though her voice lacked any real bite.

He pulled back suddenly, his hands flying up in mock innocence. “Kya? Tumhe Ghazal ki farmaish nahi puri karni?”

Zaara narrowed her eyes, turning to face him. “Ghazal se zyada mujhe isme aapka faida nazar aa raha hai.”

Uzair stepped back, clutching his chest as if wounded. “Tauba Zaara! Main toh bas ek ache baba hone ka farz ada kar raha tha...theek hai, main chala jata hoon.”

She shook her head in sheer amusement at his drama, the corners of her eyes crinkling with a warmth only he ever saw. “Zyaada drama na karein, idhar aayein,” she murmured, her voice a low challenge that cut through the quiet hum of the kitchen. She reached out, her fingers hooking firmly into the cold silver chain dangling against his chest, and yanked him forward with a sharp, possessive tug.

Uzair didn't resist, he let himself be pulled, a boyish, triumphant grin breaking across his face, the look of a man who had successfully baited a trap and was delighted to be caught in it.

But as he closed the distance, the playfulness evaporated, replaced by a stifling, carnal gravity. The tension in the kitchen was thick enough to choke on, the air heavy with the scent of roasted spices, the sharp tang of ginger, and the impending storm of their own making. Uzair had her pinned against the edge of the marble counter in an instant, his large, calloused palms flattening against the stone on either side of her hips, effectively caging her.

His dark eyes bored into hers with a predatory, unyielding focus, the amber flecks in his irises turning to molten gold in the afternoon sun. He didn't touch her yet, but the sheer proximity of his radiator-like heat made her skin prickle and her knees go weak. He leaned in until their noses brushed, his gaze dropping to her lips and then back to her eyes, dragging out the anticipation until it felt like a physical ache. The gangster was gone, replaced by something far hungrier, his breathing already starting to hitch in a jagged, rhythmic tempo that promised no mercy and absolute devotion.

Without a word, Uzair’s large hand slid beneath the emerald silk of her kameez, his calloused palm a searing, heavy brand against the soft skin of her inner thigh. The heat of him was instantaneous, a shock that made her breath hitch before his thick, blunt digits found their mark, parting her with a terrifyingly casual ease.

He entered her with a slow, agonizingly rhythmic stroke, his fingers curling with a ruthless, surgical precision to find that specific, sensitive peak buried deep inside her. He was mapping her, his movements steady and unrelenting. Each deep, upward curve of his fingers sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core, a raw, grounding pressure that made white-hot sparks dance and shatter behind her closed eyelids. Zaara’s head fell back against the cold tile behind her, her spine arching as her breath fractured into a broken, rhythmic sob. He increased the pace, his thumb beginning a heavy, rhythmic grind against her that made her entire world narrow down to the singular, throbbing point where he touched her.

She was drowning in him, her hips beginning to stutter against his hand in a desperate, instinctive search for friction. But just as the world began to tilt on its axis, just as her internal muscles tightened in those first frantic, breathless tremors of an impending release, Uzair abruptly withdrew.

The sudden void was a physical ache, a hollow, thrumming vacuum that made her entire body whimper in protest. Zaara’s eyes snapped open, her vision clouded with a dazed, agonizing want that bordered on pain. She let out a high, fractured whine, her fingers clutching at his forearms with a strength born of pure desperation, trying to pull him back.

Uzair didn’t flinch. He stood his ground, his chest heaving with a controlled, heavy rasp. With a slow, maddening deliberation that made her blood boil, he brought his damp fingers to his own lips. He sucked them clean, one by one, his gaze never leaving hers, dark, hooded, and filled with a terrifyingly calm, predatory hunger. The sheer, primal shamelessness of the act, the way he tasted her right in front of her while she was still reeling from the cliffside of her own climax, made the blood roar in her ears like a physical storm.

“Uzair!” she gasped, her voice a wrecked, desperate plea.

“Sabr, Zaara,” he rasped, his voice a dark, guttural rumble that vibrated in her very marrow.

In one fluid, powerful motion, Uzair caught her waist and spun her around, his strength making the transition feel like a sudden, breathless eclipse. He bent her forward over the cool granite counter, the impact of the stone against her palms a sharp, jarring jolt that knocked the remaining air from her lungs.

His large, heavy hands splayed across the flare of her hips, his palms wide enough to envelop them completely, his fingers digging into the soft, yielding give of her flesh with a possessive bruising. He claimed her, his knuckles white as he dragged her hips back with a relentless force until she was crushed flush against his own rigid, unyielding frame.

The contrast was a violent, sensory overload, the icy, unforgiving bite of the marble beneath her and the scorched-earth heat of Uzair’s chest pressing into her spine. He was a solid wall of muscle, his heart hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm that she felt vibrating through her own ribs. He leaned over her, his large frame casting a shadow that swallowed her whole, his breath hot and ragged as he buried his face in the sensitive crook of her neck.

Every time he shifted, the silver chain around his neck rattled against his skin, a sharp, rhythmic metallic clicking that timed the frantic pace of their breathing. He was a man obsessed, his body a relentless force of nature. He reached down to rid them of the final barriers, his hands trembling with a rare, frantic urgency. When he entered her from behind, it was a powerful, single surge of absolute reclamation. The impact was so sudden and deep that it tore a muffled, shattered cry from Zaara’s throat. She buried her face in her arm, her spine arching as he filled her completely.

The rhythm that followed was punishing and entirely unyielding. Every heavy, driving thrust made the silver chain around his neck rattle against his skin, a frantic, metallic clicking that timed the pace of their shared undoing. He was a man obsessed, and the fear of being caught only sharpened his edge, making every movement more desperate, more intense.

He leaned down further, his mouth finding the spot where her shoulder met her neck, branding her with a stinging, possessive bite even as he drove them both toward the edge. As the climax finally took them, a blinding explosion that turned the golden kitchen into a blur of sensation, Uzair buried his face in her hair, his voice a broken, jagged whisper of her name until they both shattered together in the fading afternoon light.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Trail #2

The roar of the Arabian Sea was a low, rhythmic thrum against the Jeep, a stark contrast to the thick, electrified silence building inside the cabin. Since that night in their bedroom when the gun had clattered onto the desk, their world had shifted on its axis. The decision to try for a baby had turned their shared air into something heavy and flammable. Every touch was no longer just a desire, it was a desperate, focused mission that had them both constantly worked up, existing in a permanent state of high-tension hunger. Uzair had parked on a secluded stretch of the coastal road after dropping Ghazal off at school, but even the ocean breeze couldn't cool the heat radiating between them.

He was currently deep into a call with Donga, his voice low and dangerous as they discussed a delayed weapons shipment. Zaara sat in the passenger seat, her knee bouncing with a restless, frantic energy. She watched his side profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the effortless authority in his tone. The call seemed to have no end, and the more he ignored her, the more the heat in her blood began to simmer. She was tired of waiting for the ‘perfect’ moment at home. The biological clock and the raw obsession with his touch were making her reckless.

Finally, she’d had enough.

She leaned over the centre console and gear shift, plopping herself directly into his lap, her knees framing his thighs, her silk kameez bunching as she pressed her body fully against his. Uzair’s eyes widened, a rare look of genuine shock crossing his face. His brain seemed to stall, caught between the tactical details Donga was barking into his ear and the sudden, soft weight of his wife pressing into his chest. Before he could react, Zaara reached up, snatched the phone from his ear, and held it to her own.

“Salaam Donga bhai, woh baad mein call karte hai,” she said smoothly, cutting the call while the man was mid-sentence.

Uzair raised his brows at her, a stunned silence hanging between them. She didn't give him a chance to protest, she tossed the phone onto the empty passenger seat behind her. Because she was perched higher, her face was a few inches above his, her breath ghosting over his lips, looking down at him with hooded, molten eyes.

His brows shot up even higher. “Yahan?” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave.

Zaara smirked, her fingers trailing playfully along the collar of his kurta. “Kyun? Aapko dar lagta hai?”

He didn't need a second invitation. A dark, predatory light flickered in his eyes. Beneath her, she could feel the rigid, unyielding heat of him, and when he shifted to accommodate her weight, a low, jagged sound escaped her throat.

Uzair’s hand came up, his thumb tracing the sharp, elegant curve of her jaw with a possessive deliberation before trailing, painfully slowly, down the sensitive column of her neck. His finger hooked into the edge of her emerald dupatta, dragging the weighted silk down the slope of her shoulder until it pooled, forgotten and discarded, in her lap. He watched her the entire time, his gaze heavy, dark, and predatory, locking her in place with a silent command that made her breath stall.

He leaned in, his eyes fluttering shut only at the very last second as his lips brushed the delicate, paper-thin skin of her sternum, right above the lace neckline of her shirt. The contact was electric, a searing jolt that hummed through her nerves. Zaara’s breath hitched into a broken gasp, her fingers digging blindly into the leather of the headrest behind him as a molten wave of heat pooled low in her stomach, making her ache for more of his weight.

His other hand found the zipper at the nape of her neck. The sharp, metallic sound was startlingly loud in the cramped, humid space of the Jeep, a slow, deliberate descent that mirrored the way his gaze raked over her. As the fabric loosened around her shoulders, he ran his hand back up the newly opened trail of her spine, his calloused palm a searing brand against her bare, chilled skin. He eased the fabric off one shoulder, then the other, exposing the ivory slope of her neck and chest while never breaking the bruising intensity of their eye contact.

Zaara looked utterly vulnerable, her expression fractured with a raw, aching desire that made Uzair’s pulse thunder in his ears like a physical blow. He began to plant slow, lingering kisses along her collarbone, his thick, dark beard grazing her sensitive skin with a rough friction that made her whimper. He moved lower and lower toward the swell of her chest, his breath hot and ragged against her. Her kameez was now held up only by the friction of their tangled bodies, resting precariously against her, exposing enough to drive him feral but hiding just enough to be scandalous in the open air of the coast.

Finally, Zaara moved, her own hunger overcoming her shock. Her hands, trembling with a frantic energy, found the buttons of his dark kurta. She undid them one by one, her knuckles brushing the scorching, radiator-like heat of his skin until the fabric fell open. Her fingers buried themselves deep into the soft tufts of hair on his chest, her palms flattening against the hard, granite-like slab of his pec. She could feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart, a violent, rhythmic beat that told he was just as undone as she was.

“Uzair,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“Shh,” he growled, his voice a dark, guttural vibration. He reached down, his hand sliding under the loosened fabric of her dress to cup her waist, his fingers bruising the soft flesh.

The Jeep felt too small, a pressurized steel box struggling to contain a hunger that had been building since that first lightning-strike conversation in their bedroom. Uzair reclaimed her mouth with a kiss that tasted of salt air and raw desperation, his tongue demanding and deep, as if he were trying to pull the very soul out of her. He shifted her weight again, his large hands sliding down to the small of her back to haul her flush against him, crushing her breasts against his bare chest until there wasn't a single atom of air, or doubt, left between them. The leather seats creaked and groaned under the frantic weight of their movements, the windows beginning to fog into a thick, opaque white from the sheer, radiator-like heat radiating off their slicked skin.

He broke the kiss with a jagged gasp, trailing his mouth down the sensitive column of her throat to the aching swell of her breast. His breath was a scorching wind against her skin before he took her into his mouth through the thin, damp lace of her bra. Zaara let out a sharp, shattered cry that echoed off the glass, her head falling back against the tinted window with a dull thud. Her fingers tangled so tightly in the dark, thick hair at the nape of his neck that she was practically pulling at the roots, her spine arching in a violent, beautiful curve as he used his teeth to mark her as his.

The rhythm that followed was frantic and jagged, limited by the cramped confines of the steering wheel and the gear shift, but intensified tenfold by the illicit thrill of the open road and the desperate, heavy hope of the life they were trying to create. Uzair reached for the fastening of her trousers, his fingers fumbling with a rare, staggering lack of composure that betrayed how much she had truly undone him. He rid them of the final barriers, his hands trembling as he cleared the way.

He entered her with a single, devastating thrust of absolute reclamation, a surge so powerful it made the entire Jeep rock on its suspension. Zaara let out a shattered, breathless sob into the crook of his neck, her legs locking like a vice around his thighs to anchor herself against the force of him. Her entire world narrowed down to a single, pulsing point - the feeling of him filling her completely, stretching her, grounding her. Uzair gripped her hips, his thumbs digging into her hipbones with a bruising, possessive force as he set a pace that was primal and punishing.

Every heavy, driving strike was a silent, rhythmic vow of possession. He didn't close his eyes. He watched her face in the dim, filtered light, the way her eyes rolled back, the way her lips parted in a silent, broken plea for more, and he felt a surge of triumph that eclipsed the power of his own name. He wasn't just her husband, he was her partner in this creation, his body working in a violent, perfect harmony with hers.

As the climax built, a mounting tidal wave that threatened to pull them both into the deep, Uzair buried his face in the silk of her hair, his voice a wrecked, jagged whisper of her name, over and over. They shattered together as the sea crashed just yards away, held in a trembling, breathless embrace that turned the cramped cabin into the only sanctuary left in the world.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Trail #3

The evening had settled over the Haveli, the house quiet and draped in the soft glow of lamps. Zaara entered their bedroom, the air smelling faintly of the jasmine incense she’d lit earlier. Moving with the practiced ease of their nightly ritual, she headed straight for the bathroom to begin her skincare routine, unfazed by the steady, rhythmic hiss of the shower already echoing against the marble.

The room was a blur of thick, white steam, the mirrors completely blinded by a heavy grey fog. Through the translucent glass of the shower stall, Uzair was a dark, commanding silhouette moving beneath the deluge. Zaara stood at the marble vanity, her fingers moving mechanically to unpin her hair and line up her serums, but her focus was entirely elsewhere.

Her eyes kept darting to the glass, tracing the way the water hit the broad expanse of his shoulders and shattered into a thousand shimmering beads. The spray cascaded down the deep, V-taper of his back, highlighting the hard, corded muscles that rippled with every movement of his arms. Rivulets of water chased each other down the dip of his spine, disappearing into the low-slung shadows of his waist. Every time he turned, the light caught the slick, wet bronze of his skin, making him look less like a man and more like a statue carved from dark stone.

She watched a single heavy droplet track its way from the nape of his neck, over the scarred tissue of his shoulder, and down his chest, the sight of it making a familiar, low heat stir in her gut. The ‘mission’ they had embarked on had turned even these mundane moments into a slow-burn torture.

“Zaara…” Uzair’s voice broke through the roar of the water, low and vibrating with a rough edge. “I can feel your eyes on me.”

Zaara didn't stop her movements, reaching for a cotton pad, though her hand trembled slightly. She caught his shadowed gaze through the glass, a coy, playful smirk tugging at her lips. “Main toh bas dekh rahi hoon ke kahin aapko madad toh nahi chahiye,” she responded, her tone dripping with a mock innocence that she knew would goad him.

Uzair let out a sharp huff of a laugh, the sound muffled by the steam but unmistakable. “Badi madadgar ho gayi ho aaj kal,” he remarked sarcastically, though the underlying rasp in his voice betrayed how much her ‘help’ actually affected him.

Zaara hummed, leaning closer to the mirror to wipe away a small circle of fog, her gaze locked on his wet, powerful form. The silence stretched, charged with the shared memory of the kitchen counter and the coastal road, the desperation of their shared goal huming between them like a live wire.

“Aa rahi ho ya nahi?” Uzair called out casually, though there was a sudden, sharp edge of command to it.

Zaara smiled, biting her lip in a quiet victory. She shed her clothes with deliberate slowness, her eyes never leaving his silhouette, before pushing open the glass door and stepping into the deluge.

The heat inside the glass enclosure was absolute, a stifling shroud of sandalwood and steam that felt like a physical weight. As Zaara stepped into the deluge, the water hammered against her skin, instantly slicking her hair down her back. Uzair didn't wait for her to find her footing, he reached out, his large, scorched-earth hands snaring her waist and pulling her into the hard, wet furnace of his chest.

The contrast was a violent jolt to her senses, the rushing, lukewarm water from the showerhead and the blistering, localized heat of his skin. Every inch of them was fused by a layer of moving water, creating a suction of wet, sliding friction that made every touch feel ten times more intense. Rivulets of silver trapped themselves between their chests, tracing the frantic, synchronized thud of their hearts.

Uzair’s eyes were dark, blown-out pools of charcoal heat as he looked down at her. He moved with a sudden, desperate surge of dominance, turning them until Zaara’s back was pressed flat against the cold, weeping tile of the shower wall. The shock of the icy stone against her spine made her gasp, but the weight of him crushing her breasts and hips into the wall made the chill vanish in a heartbeat.

He was a wall of corded, wet muscle. His hand hiked upward, his fingers entangling deep in her sodden hair to tilt her head back, exposing the line of her throat to the direct spray. With a low, guttural growl, he reached up and snared both of her wrists in one hand, pinning them firmly above her head against the tile. His fingers locked around her bone with a grip that spoke of a man who refused to let his legacy slip through his fingers.

His other arm remained hooked beneath her knee, hoisting her leg high and tight around his waist, anchoring her to him so completely that her toes dangled inches off the floor.

“Zaara…” he groaned, the name vibrating through her entire frame like a prayer of ruin.

He began to rut against her with a heavy, rhythmic desperation, the sound of their wet skin slapping together lost beneath the roar of the shower. A broken, high-pitched gasp escaped Zaara’s throat, her head falling back against the tile as the friction of his thighs against her inner hip sent a blinding, white-hot heat through her lower belly.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing her wet skin as he inhaled her scent, trying to drown out the world beyond the steam. The silver chain around his neck bit into her skin, a cold, sharp reminder of the man she had claimed.

He entered her with a low, jagged exhale that sounded like a sob caught in his throat. It was a powerful, grounding surge of absolute reclamation. This was primal, a drowning man reaching for the only thing that could keep his head above water. Every heavy, driving thrust was a silent plea for her to hold him, to stay with him, to build the life they had whispered about in the dark.

Zaara’s fingers twitched in his iron grip above her head, her breath hitching in time with his punishing, desperate rhythm. She could feel every ridge of his muscles, the slick slide of his stomach against hers, and the way his weight pinned her so effectively she felt like she was part of the very foundation of the Haveli.

The climax came like a flood, overwhelming and absolute. Uzair’s grip on her wrists tightened until his knuckles were ghostly white, his body bowing as he shuddered into her, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. He stayed there for a long time, the shower pelting them both, his breath coming in ragged, broken heaves as the steam swirled around them, leaving them both breathless, hopeful, and entirely consumed by the promise they had just sealed in the water.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

1.

Uzair had seen her for the first time at the gala Rehman and Ulfat had organized to celebrate the birth of Faizal, their second son. She was dressed in a delicate piece of silk sharara set, the colour of which matched that of her cheeks, the prettiest blush pink shade he’d ever come across. Her short hair was left open, reaching up to her shoulders framing her glowing face. A few strands also flew over her face as the gentle air blew from the fans around. She was a manifestation of the angels found up in the heavens, albeit in a human form. It was as if even the darkest corners of his mundane life had lit up with a sudden burst of sunshine flowing through them upon seeing her laugh without any care for the world with her cousins, probably on some silly comment an aunt had made. Saba was her name, he learned when Ulfat introduced her as one of her cousins to him. When she smiled shyly at him, he could have died right there, his heart beating so fast, if not for his nephew Naieem running up to him for a chocolate, while Ulfat continued speaking about how they could bond well considering they were almost the same age. He could not stop looking at her, constantly turning to catch a glimpse of her as Naieem pulled him away from the center of living room towards the corner where chocolates and other sweet goodies were stacked up for the children. Uzair, who had always been unknown to the idea of romance, the only exposure being the movies and his own brother and sister-in-law, felt his cheeks heating up and turning red at the mere thought of her.

He was definitely crushing on his bhabhi’s cousin, he concluded.

She remained busy for the rest of the evening, laughing around with her cousins, playing with little kids, having animated conversations with her aunts but not even once she glanced at him again after that introduction. He helped around with snacks and drinks, moved through the parts of the room where she would be sitting, hoping she would notice him and exchange a few words maybe but to no avail. Uzair could not interact with her that night no matter how hard he tried.

Despite the excitement of a newfound attraction, his heart broke a little at the lack of attention from her.

2.

After the gala, Saba had become a regular visitor at the haveli, casually dropping by for a few minutes, sometimes for a few hours as she loved spending time with her cousin and the kids. This time, it was during the noon, and Ulfat had managed to convince her to stay back for the lunch at least. So, she accepted her defeat in front of the sweet yet authoritative pleadings of her cousin but only on the condition that she could help with the preparations to which Ulfat agreed. While Saba prepared the food with Akhlaaq, Ulfat moved aside for a bit to call Rehman and asked him to come over for lunch as well.

Rehman soon arrived with Uzair in tow, which was expected since the younger was literally his shadow especially since the day he had joined the factory three years ago. However, Uzair was in for a surprise when he walked in to see his bhabhi’s cousin crush from the jashn that day setting the table. To him, she looked like a goddess in that moment, wearing a simple purple suit with her hair tied up and her skin glowing despite of all the work in the kitchen. He felt like a sixteen-year-old teenager all over again, internally trying to decide whether to run away or to continue moving towards the table. Before he could figure out, she was already looking up at them. She muttered a quick salaam to Rehman and gave a small nod to Uzair and got back to the task at her hand. Uzair was dumbfounded for a while but then moved to wash his hands and settled down on one of the chairs. Rehman was seated at the head of the table with Uzair to his left and Ulfat to his right who also made Naieem sit by her side. This left Saba with the option to either sit at the other corner of the table or beside Uzair and she chose the latter. Undoubtedly, her choice flickered a ray of hope in him and he was beaming on the inside.

Though his happiness was rather short lived when she cheerfully chatted away with the couple, ignoring him as if he was invisible to her eyes. He made attempts to join in a couple of times, adding something here and there but she did not bother to acknowledge him. Soon enough, everyone finished up with the food and he had to leave for the factory again. His heart had been crushed once again by her ignorance.

3. 

Eight months had passed since the gala and Saba had been faced with Uzair numerous times during her visits to the haveli but everytime she moved away quickly, not staying in his vicinity for more than five minutes. He kept trying to strike up a conversation with her, to know more about her likes, dislikes, interests and anything that concerned her. But she always dodged him, avoiding him like a plague, leaving the room before he could even open his mouth to say anything to her.

However, that day it was only Uzair, Saba and Naieem at home, while Rehman and Ulfat along with the baby Faizal were out to attend a relative's walima. Naieem was also to accompany them but he had an important exam the next day, which Ulfat did not want him to miss, staying stern even when the kid tried to convince her with puppy eyes. Instead, she called up Saba to look after him till they returned. Thus, Uzair also offered to stay behind citing that he had some paperwork and that someone should be present in case the two of them needed something. Three hours had passed since the couple had set out for their destination and Saba had spent the entire time in Naieem's room helping him revise his literature lessons while Uzair worked on the accounts of the business, his focus entirely on the complicated transactions yet discreetly checking up on the duo frequently. As the vintage wall clock hung on the wall struck seven p.m., he decided to wrap up for the day and knocked at the gate of Naieem's room. Both of the inhabitants of the room looked at him with curiosity when he began hesitantly,

“kaafi der ho gayi hai aap dono ko padhte hue… agar aap chahein to hum bahar jaa sakte hain kuch der ke liye, dinner bhi kar lenge...”

“par akhlaaq chacha ne khaana banaya hua hai”

“koi baat nahi, kuch zaaya nahi hoga aap chinta na karein... I was just thinking that going out will be good for a change of air for all of us”

She didn’t reply further, only gave a small nod in response and got up to get Naieem ready for the evening. Skip to twenty minutes later, Uzair was standing outside leaning on his newly bought jeep when he saw her walk out with the kid holding her hand. She looked so beautiful in that moment, a gentle domesticity settling into his veins as she kept answering Naieem’s innocent questions while leading him to the jeep. His imagination quickly fuelled up, bringing in front of his eyes a visual where she was not holding Naieem’s hand but their- her and Uzair’s child – and walking up to him. But he quickly shook his head and rushed to open the door of the passenger seat for her when he realised that the two were just a couple of metres away. She closed down the distance with a few more steps and then lifted Naieem and made him sit there and stood face to face with him, their eyes locked with each other.

He was struck by a thunderbolt at what she had just done and was still processing her actions while she looked at him like he had grown two heads, her brows furrowing due to confusion, with none of them moving to close the door. When five minutes had passed with them in the stuck in the same motion like someone had hit the pause button on a video, Naieem lightly nudged her from inside the car which made her regain her senses. She gently patted Uzair’s arm to bring him out of the daze and dashed away to the back seat. The pat jolted him out of his reverie and he hastily closed the door and scrambled over to get into the driver’s seat. Settling in, he turned on the ignition finally pulling out of the gates of the haveli, both of them still silent from the entire ordeal. During the dinner too, Naieem kept her engaged with himself, the seven-year-old fascinated by the shiny lights and intricate paintings which decorated the space where they were dining. The only interaction that happened between them was while ordering the food, that too the kid’s favourite.

Later that night, laying on his bed, sleep miles away from his eyes, Uzair comprehended that her refusal to sit in the front with him was not incidental, rather a physical expression of her sheer disinterest in him.

Yet again, his heart was in shambles courtesy to the girl who marked her presence in his dreams every night.

4.  

In the subsequent months, Saba had become even more involved with the Baloch family affairs and spent most of her time after college at the haveli leaving after dinner or when she had something important to do. She had even started to stay over for the night occasionally, whenever Ulfat needed a hand in some work or two felt women felt like it.

It was after another one of those sleepovers the two of them had. Ulfat came in early in the morning to wake Uzair up saying that he needed to drop Saba to the college. He was still in a haze from the sleep and realized who it was only when he reached the living room.

After that incident a few months ago, he had resolved that he would forget Saba. But when was moving on this easy. She had hijacked his thoughts from the very day he had seen for the first time and now it drove him crazy every single day to be so close to her and yet so far. He tried to avoid going to home, spending the day only in the factory and during the night he would just be there for the dinner, retiring to his room as soon as he could. He did not want to impose his presence on her more than that was necessary. Moreover, looking at her moving around the house with such an ease but her blatant dismissal towards him led his heart to ache in ways more than he could imagine.

Uzair snapped out of his thoughts when he heard a melodic tinkling of glass bangles and looked up to only to see her descending the stairs with the poised grace of an angel. In spite of all the pain she had unknowingly put him through, he felt his heart skip a beat or two looking at her divine being. Dressed in a short kurti and a straight jeans, she showcased a blend of both modern and traditional beauty at the same time. Their eyes locked with each other for a brief second before she walked further towards the main gate with Uzair catching up from behind, the keys of his jeep dangling in his hand. He was unsure of what to expect this time, since the last time she made Naieem sit in the front but now it was only the two of them. This was going to be their first ride alone. He moved behind her coming forward only when they had reached his jeep and unlocked it. However, this time Uzair did not open the door for her and instead chose to watch what she does from the sidelines. She opened the door to the passenger seat and settled in. This relieved Uzair a bit and he too sat inside and they left for her college.

The biggest torture in romantic attractions is the hope-the sick hope to be embraced even after rejection. Uzair had experienced it first-hand. Even after she had always ignored his feelings like an expert, rushing out as soon as she spotted him even in her peripheral vision, her decision to sit on the passenger seat gave rise to a wistful feeling in his soul- maybe she finally saw him, maybe she too reciprocated his feelings. But what was love if not some pain. He felt his spirit being trampled when he saw her pressed into the corner against the door like being in his proximity burned her. She was looking out of the window, fidgeting with the hem of her kurta and then pulled out one of her textbooks from her bag and immersed herself in some theories of business management. Uzair understood her detachment as a signal which clearly said that she was not interested in any kind of small talk with him.

The ride to the college felt even longer, with an awkward silence looming over in the cabin of the jeep. As soon as the building came into view, she just leaped out of the jeep but not before muttering a small thank you. He would be lying if his heart didn’t flutter at that

Oh! what sort of cruelty is this, first he gets his heart broken into innumerable pieces but still continues to accept anything that comes his way, insignificant or not, like a starved man lover. 

5.

Uzair was still reeling from the effects of whatever unfolded the day he had dropped off her to her college a few weeks ago. Recently she had reduced her antics of running away from him whenever he stepped into the same room as her. He, however, did not feel relieved but rather was confused by her changed behaviour, for he could not understand what she wanted. He had always respected her boundaries, maintaining a safe distance from her, careful not to invade her personal space. Then why she had subjected him to such a harsh treatment like he was a leech, someone she hated from the core of her being, trying to escape the very moment she laid her eyes on him for an entire year. The dilemma had him questioning his own sanity. Yet he could feel that twisted hope threatening to claw its way back into his bones. Somewhere, deep inside he had a feeling that this is not going to take him anywhere but towards another heartbreak. But the sickly feeling to desperately hold onto something overpowered the sense of rationality his mind was trying to put into him. His body, mind and soul- nothing actually felt like his own- she owned him through and through, his heart refusing to see anything beyond the haze of her.

The inevitable doom arrived sooner than he had anticipated. Her visits to the haveli had been less frequent and though he avoided coming in front of her, he loved to secretly admire her from the window of his room which overlooked the courtyard where she would spend evenings with Ulfat, drinking tea and fawning over the baby Faisal. He missed her sweet laugh, the soft jingle of her anklets when she moved through the corridors of the haveli.

During dinner that night, Rehman ended up asking the question the answer to which he had been dying to know for a week now.

“Saba nahi dikh rahi aaj kal, roz toh raat ka khaana uska hamare sath hi hota hai.. sab khairiyat hai na”

“Ji sab khairiyat se hai, bas uske ammi- abbu uske liye rishte khoj rahe hain.. isliye voh aajkal kuch vaqt unke saath bhi bita rahi hai”

“Ye to badi khushi ki baat hai.. bacchi badi ho rahi hai... koi rishta mila abhi tak?”

“Kuch jagah baatcheet chal rahi hai.. aap ko Ansari Sahab yaad hain? Vo Karachi wale.. unka beta dubai me naukri karta hai.. mujhe toh lagta hai vahi par nikaah baat pakki ho jayegi”

All this while, Uzair was a silent spectator of the ongoing discussion between the couple, each sentence ripping his core to shreds. The rest of the dinner and the retreat to his room went in a blur for him, his mind constantly replaying the words from the dinner. At that moment, his entire world revolved around those words, everything else forgotten. He spent a sleepless night, lost in the abyss. The next morning, getting down from the bed felt like a herculean task, his limbs so heavy as if they were made of lead. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him, the ghost of the person that was left behind after an emotionally tormenting night. His eyes, did not hold that usual spark, glowing with mischief that was secretly being formed in his brain, rather they were hollow pits that had nothing but lifelessness etched in them. He spent the entire day buried in the never-ending paperwork, taking care of the deliveries, running errands. He barely touched the food, giving the excuse of a stomach bug and refused to meet anyone's eyes. He kept up with the same routine for two days and by the third night, he forced himself to accept the truth as it was. He had come to terms with the fact that all of that was not for him, they were never meant to be together. He concluded, with a laboured ease, it was only fitting for her if she didn't step into his world. For what he had been living in so far was just a castle in the air, bound to break apart sooner or later. His world was full of blood and violence, and he didn't want her to be tainted by that. Rehman might have kept him sheltered from the unpleasant reality of their business for almost four years since he had joined him, but this couldn't continue for long. Some day or the other, he would have to step in, embrace the reality of his dark world and it was for the best if she got married to some boy who did not have blood staining his hands, someone who could give her a life full of certainty, who didn't have death breathing down on his neck every second, who was truly deserving of her purity. He stopped indulging whenever the topic would be her, turning a deaf ear. He did not want to know which boy she had said yes to, Ansari's son or some Malik's nephew. He did not want to know, did not need to know, anymore.

+1.

Months had passed since the dreadful day which was still engraved in Uzair's soul no matter how hard he tried to erase the memories. Saba still stopped by, but only occasionally, buried under the weight of her final exams and meetings with potential suitors. On the other hand, Uzair had become a shadow of his past self, the months weighing down on him. He had finally joined the gruesome side of things and had become a feared name in the streets of Lyari in just a few months, his ferocity driven by the pent-up feelings suppressed inside him for such a long time. He killed without remorse, for there were not many emotions left inside him after the draining experience of unreciprocated love. What was left in him was sheer loyalty and respect for his brother and bhabhi who had practically raised him and affection reserved only for the little kids, who were the lone bright part of his day. He knew he would move on, it would take time, but it will happen someday. He was strong, more so he had been forced to be, ever since he was a child of ten. His parents had been murdered, leaving him orphaned, aimless, until Rehman took him under his wings. They had a tough time navigating through life, with Rehman still establishing his name in the streets. When he married Ulfat, things became much better but for Uzair, the inner turmoil always existed, just tucked beneath the layers of the fun, easy- going persona. Saba had triggered a lot in him, the desire of having someone who was truly his, topping everything else. He would bounce back, he knew, but what he also knew was that he had lost a part of his soul with her which he could never get back.

If only he knew how wrong he was to think that.

The time went by slowly that particular day, which was a strange occurrence in the ever-bustling streets of Lyari. There had been a slight disturbance from the rival Pathan gang and Uzair had taken up to himself to handle the situation, assuring Rehman to stop worrying and stay back in the factory. Despite Uzair’s reluctance, Rehman sent a few of his trusted men with him, with silent instructions to ensure that Uzair remained safe. However, what started as a minor skirmish, converted into a full-blown fight by the end of which Uzair had a bullet lodged in his shoulder. He was brought home in a slightly dizzy state which had Rehman anxious and Ulfat panicking. While the doctor patched the wound up, the news had somehow reached Saba who barged into the haveli in a disheveled state- her hair messily left open and her suit creased. Uzair felt the dizziness from the blood loss disappearing when he felt her scent filling the air and looked up to see her standing at the threshold of his room. Their eyes sought each other and the time stopped there. Uzair felt the months sway before his eyes as he continued gazing into her dark brown orbs which were glossy with tears pooling in them. Ulfat and Rehman sensed the silent shift in the air and left the room with the doctor who had just finished up with the stitches, leaving behind Uzair and Saba alone.

She took slow steps towards him, still holding the eye contact. She reached near him, stopping only when she was just two footsteps away from him. Her arms twitched, wanting to engulf him in a hug but hesitation crept through her, not knowing if he would appreciate it or not. He perceived her hesitance and an inaudible consent passed through his eyes before she put her arms around his neck wary of his fresh injury on the shoulder and a dam broke through her. His unscathed arm came up to rest lightly on her shoulder as he held her through the sobs that racked her body. She calmed down after long fifteen minutes, pulling back a little to look at his face. In that moment, they realized, they had a lot to talk about. Hours went by in the same position, with her apologizing to him for all the pain she had caused to him. She knew her apologies were simply not going to heal his wounds, but she was ready to spend her entire lifetime making up for the all the agony she had ever caused him. In the dim lights of the room, she confessed to him, that she too had feelings for him, since the beginning. However, her parents did not approve of the life he and Rehman had chosen, marred with constant blood and violence. They were fine with her spending time with Ulfat, at the haveli, but had indirectly conveyed the message to keep any ideas of romance with the younger Baloch prince, away from her mind. She expressed how much pain she felt every time she ran away from him, but she could not give him and to herself, the false hope of future they could only imagine but not live.

However, the unsaid love between them withered her too, and when she heard the news of him being shot, her father himself accompanied her to the haveli, not able to see his daughter losing her shine a bit by but every day.

“Jaanti hu bohot dard diya hai aapko, jise sirf maafi se mitaya nahi jaa sakta… par main aapko yeh ehsaas dilana chahti hu ki main bhi aapse bohot mohabbat karti hu, chahe uske liye meri puri zindagi hi kyu na nikal jaye… agar aap mujhe mauka dein to…”

Uzair stayed silent, still processing everything he had been through, and all that happened in the past few hours- her confession of love, her fears. He could not fathom how suddenly in a few hours he had been handed over everything he had ever wanted- that too when he had lost all the hope. Taking his silence as a rejection, she slowly whispered,

“agar aap naa kahenge toh bhi samajh sakti hu, bohot gehri chot pohochayi hai maine aapko aur aapke jazbaato ko… maine aapko bohot intezaar karaya... ab meri baari hai.."

She was cut short when he pulled her into his chest, his arms enveloping around her, the injury that he had just suffered forgotten. He buried his nose in her hair, dropping a small kiss on her crown. She was taken by surprise at his sudden affection until she heard his muffled voice through her hair,

“ Mujhe bhi tumse beintaha pyaar hai Saba, main bas hairan ho gaya tha ki ek din itna kuch kaise badal gaya… kaha tum jo meri taraf dekhti bhi nahi thi achanak aake mujhse lipat gayi” A small chuckle escaping his mouth at the end.

She lightly slapped his chest that while he continued,

“Sach bolu toh haan bohot dard diya hai tumne mujhe, itni aasaani se sab kuch bhula toh nahi sakta, par ab tumse door bhi nahi reh sakta..”

 “Aap mujhe jo saza dein vo manzur hai mujhe, bas ek mauka de dijiye” She murmured, her face still buried in his chest.

“Acha toh saza chahiye, mohotarma ko… hmm.. saza ye hai ki ab tum ek pal bhi mujhse door nahi jaogi... manzur hai”, he said with a hint of mock scolding while pulling back to look into her eyes.

Saba giggled at his tone, and happily nodded. The two of them stayed in each other’s arms for the rest of the night, talking to their heart’s content, making up for the time lost. The world outside the room could wait, the only thing mattered right now was that they were finally together. This was not the end but rather just the beginning but this time they were together to fight through it all.

~fin.

A/n - If you made till here, thankyou so much for giving me a chance... Honestly the last part was the most difficult to write with all the angst I had penned down earlier, but I did it and I am glad about it😊