To anyone stupid enough to not understand this, these stories are obviously based on the fictional portrayal of the characters by the talented (and hot) actors and do not condone any real life individuals (they are absolute assholes).
No part of my story(s) is made using AI. My shit is purely made by my own sleep deprived brain. And I do not need the help of a fucking robot even in my creative space.<3
Urdu and Hindi are not my native languages so bear with me here. The dialogues will be in English because i do not feel like traumatizing yall.
WARNINGS:
canon typical violence, foul language (i think it is an obvious thing), gore(maybe), sexual scenes (prolly not but idk better to add the warning but i don't know SHIT about writing smut)
──────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────
(00)Prologue:
A love story in which the right hand man of the most vicious gangster in Lyari-- Uzair Baloch-- finds himself face-to-face with a bubbly kindergarten teacher, Rooh Ansari in a punishment (or is it?) given by his dear cousin.
Uzair Baloch, though he might look like a ruthless predator, was a hopeless romantic at heart; Fell head first in love at their first interraction.
Rooh Ansari, a soft spoken (not rly) daughter of Hassan Ansari, one of Pakistan's more laid-back businessmen, on the good side of Rehman Dakait, is a preschool teacher who absolutely adores kids. (cannot relate). She is fully determined to suppress her feelings for a man that has absolutely no right to look like a Greek God AND be a walking talking green flag.
Keep reading the following chapters to witness the tooth rotting-ly sweet romance that blooms between the two. Ft. Rehman and co. being wingmen. And a whole lot of teasing from both Rooh's "gang" (a bunch of overly romantic preschool teachers), and Uzair's entourage of buff crackheads.
This is a story where Hamza is not a spy, nobody dies, and the canon is yeeted into the Arabian Sea. There will be absolutely no angst. This is a purely fluffy fic where everyone is happy at all times. (if you don't like this, cry about it.)
──────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────
Avi's Notes:
Soo i FINALLY started smtg... yayy!! anywho, (we are not talking about my vampire x rehman idea) i wrote this as a first fic cus like, the idea just hit the spot for me.
This is my first time writing a fanfiction and i have absolutely no idea what i am doing, so any critique is highly appreciated! That does not mean you can be rude or cross with me. Only positive criticism or you're immediately blocked.
I really hope you like my work and if you do, don't be shy to leave comments. If you have any advice or critique, please tell me in my ask box!
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“Check it, my boy!” When you look over, your mouth drops open to let out a guffaw at the sight.
“Dude. You pierced your nipples?”
Thanos preens at your baffled expression, keeping his shirt pulled up just above his pecs to show off the glimmering metal. “Yup! You like?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t those hurt, like, a lot?” Jutting out his bottom lip, Thanos shakes his head.
“Not even a bit. Thanos can handle anything, bro!” Your roommate flashes a cheesy grin at you as you stand up and make your way over to stand in front of him. You inspect them a little closer, Thanos holds his shirt up a little higher. At the ends of both barbells were little glittery silver stars. You’re surprised he didn’t get them Marvel themed.
You slowly bring a hand up as he pesters you for answers once again. “Look good, yeah?” You answer with a sharp yank to one of the barbells, punching out an airy wheeze from the other man.
“Oh, sorry.” A guilty look overtakes your expression and you quickly pull your hand away from his chest. “They’re probably still pretty sensitive, huh?”
Thanos, cheeks looking a little warmer all of a sudden, nods after a moment. He looks a little dazed when he stammers out, “Uh-huh...” A few blinks later, he’s shoving his shirt back down, piercings poking obviously through the fabric. He clears his throat. “I.. I have work to do.” He’s already scrambled down the hallways before you even have a chance to reply. Weird. Just yesterday he told you he had already finished all his work for the week.
A day later, the two of you are watching some movie on the TV. Well, watching is an overstatement. You’re certainly trying your best to pay attention, but Thanos couldn’t seem to care less. With his phone on the highest volume, he scrolls through social media. He blows a blue raspberry scented cloud of smoke in your direction. At that you scowl.
“Dude, c’mon,” you wave your hand in front of your face to clear the air as you continue, “Pay attention.” Thanos responds by taking another long rip, and blowing it up at the ceiling with a hum.
Your eyes roll seemingly of their own volition. “At least pretend you’re watching the movie.” You give him a playful punch to the chest. He freezes with a gasp, head still tilted back and skin pulled taut along his neck. With a gulp, you see his adam’s apple bob.
You raise an eyebrow. “You alright?” He turns his head away, hiding his face from you. Concerned, you scoot a little closer. “What’s up?”
He slides away, stretching the hem of his hoodie down past his hips. “I’m fine, just- just back up, man.” His voice wavers. You decide it’s best to leave him alone for the time being. You slowly move farther onto your side of the couch and watch the rest of the movie in silence.
It’s been maybe a week since the weird moment the two of you had on the couch, and you still haven’t had a conversation lasting longer than two sentences. Is Thanos mad at you? He’s always getting pissed off about whatever, but you don’t even remember doing anything that could have set him off this time.
Your door opens with a slam, the culprit letting out an exasperated groan as he struts in without permission. Guess he isn’t mad enough to not intrude on your privacy. “Ugh!” He falls face up onto your bed with his eyes closed in a sour expression.
“Can’t you knock at least sometimes?”
He looks at you somewhat incredulously. “No.” He closes his eyes again and lets out another irritating groan.
You stare at him then sigh, defeated. Caving, you give him the attention he’s trying to sap from you. “What. What’s wrong with you.”
“My pecs hurt so much!!” He complains, hands running down his face.
“Yeah, it’s almost as if you put two little metal bars through one of the most sensitive parts of it. Crazy.”
He scrunches his nose at you, grousing, “Don’t sass me, boy. It’s pissing me off!”
“And you expect me to do what about it? You want me to give you a boob massage??” Despite the offer being facetious, you see his face light up.
“Would you?”
“Dude.”
“C’mon, man!”
“They can’t hurt that bad.”
His eyes widen before his hands rush down to the bottom of his shirt. “They do! Look!” Chest exposed, they do seem kind of irritated. He probably isn’t taking care of them right. Or at all.
“… Are you being serious.”
Thanos whines, “Yes!!”
Let’s consider the options here. Either you a) massage this guy’s tits, or b) tell him to get the hell out of your room. You don’t know what possesses you to huff, “Fine.”
Next thing you know, you’re straddling your roommate’s thighs because, “It’s the best position, my boy!” ..When did he get shirtless? Whatever, you’re here now.
As your hands hover over his chest, you notice his focused expression. The way his eyes watch your hands so intensely makes you a little nervous.
You hesitate. “So, like.. Do I just go for it?”
Thanos nods quickly, letting out a hum in response.
Brow slightly furrowed, you slowly let your hands rest on his chest. The hitch in his breath is almost unnoticeable. You wait a moment before kneading the flesh, which earns you a sharp moan. Your hands jolt away, worried you hurt him, but his hands fly up to grab your wrists.
“No,” he whimpers, yanking your hands back down with his tight grip.
You exhale shakily. “Didn’t think you’d be the type who enjoys being groped,” you laugh quietly in an attempt to alleviate the tension weighing down on you. Instead of laughing along, Thanos’ eyebrows curve upward and he covers his face with his arm. Huh. “Are you.. Are you actually into this?
“No-” he interrupts himself with a little choked up moan as you scoop up as much fat on his chest as possible and squeeze.
You can’t help the smirk growing on your face. You purr, “You like it when I grope your cute li’l titties, huh?” Squishing them one last time, your thumbs begin to slide up towards where the glinting jewelry catches your eye. “So perky for me, too. So well-behaved.”
As your thumbs flick over the peaks he groans, “Please.”
You’re sure the guy doesn’t even entirely know what he’s pleading for, but you indulge him anyway. “Feels too good, huh? For the way you talk yourself up, you’d think you wouldn’t be this sensitive. Just a light brush is enough to have you begging.” Your smug smile grows, thumbs rubbing slow circles around his nipples.
With a whine, his hips below you buck slightly, dick tenting hard against the fly of his jeans. “God,” he moans, head thrown back and mouth dropped open as he pants, “More.”
“So greedy.. Is that how we ask?”
He grunts, displeased, “More, please.”
You bite back a grin. “Please what?”
Biting his bottom lip, he looks away before muttering something.
“Hm? I can’t hear you.” You pull away, to which the man below you nearly mewls at as a result.
“Touch me harder already!” He gripes, “Please.”
You smile, pleased, your hands already making their way back to their places on his chest. “Very good.”
The keen that escapes his throat when your fingers close to pinch the hardened nubs is so loud you’re worried your neighbors might start banging on the walls. But looking back up at Thanos’ flushed face, his needy expression growing by the second, you find yourself not really caring if they do.
His hips continue to helplessly rock up into nothing as you tweak his nipples meanly. “Uhngh,” he slurs. Given the drool beginning to drip down the side of his mouth, you’re pretty sure he’s not gonna be able to hold on for much longer.
“So worked up.. And all over me just feeling you up? That’s dirty.” A pathetic sound slips through his lips as his breathing picks up. “You gonna cum from this? Gonna make a mess of your pants? Do it.” You tug hard on the barbells, a violent cry ripping out of his throat as he thrusts into the air.
“Fuck!-“ His back arches, you watch his cock twitch in his pants once, twice, before he falls limp back onto the bed. A damp spot begins to form in the crotch of his jeans as he heaves, trying to regain his composure.
You blink. Holy shit. “Holy shit.”
“Shut up.” He tries to cover up as much of his face as he can with his arms. “Shut the hell up.”
“I wasn’t saying anything.”
“I don’t-“ He cuts himself off with a broken whimper when you paw at his pecs once more. Swatting your hands away, he whines, “Knock it off, that hurts.”
You pull your hands back. Still seated on his thighs, you look around awkwardly. “So… Did the massage work or what?”
He flings you off of himself like a wild bull. You take it as a maybe.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs)
Characters: Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs)
Additional Tags: Secret Santa, Soukoku, I had a lot of fun with this one, But I usually don't do a lot of fandom works, SO, I'm glad this turned out pretty good
Summary:
Chuuya gets an invitation to the ADA Christmas party, and ponders whether or not to go.
Rehman bhai had sent them to the school for a reason—security, supervision, making sure everything ran smoothly in light of whatever political tension was brewing in Lyari.
It was, by all accounts, a simple task.
Straightforward.
Manageable.
Which was exactly why—
it had gone completely wrong.
Because instead of doing any of that—
four grown men were currently loitering around a primary school corridor,
pretending to “survey the premises.”
“…I just want it on record,” Siyahi muttered, arms folded, gaze fixed very deliberately ahead, “that this is not security.”
“This is surveillance,” Hamza corrected.
“This is stalking,” Donga added.
Uzair said nothing.
Which was the problem.
Because across the corridor—
through the half-open classroom door—
she was there.
Rooh stood at the front of the class, one hand holding a piece of chalk, the other resting lightly against the desk as she looked at the board.
“…and what comes after five?” she asked.
A chorus of tiny, overly enthusiastic voices erupted.
“Six!”
“Seven!”
“Ten!”
“Twenty!”
Rooh paused.
Blinking once.
And then—
she laughed.
Soft.
Unrestrained.
“Okay, not twenty,” she said, smiling as she shook her head. “Let’s try again.”
Uzair forgot where he was.
“Bhai,” Hamza whispered, leaning just enough to peek through the gap, “she’s teaching numbers.”
“I can see that.”
“She’s doing it wrong.”
Uzair’s head turned slowly.
“What?”
“She skipped the dramatic build-up,” Hamza said seriously. “No tension. No stakes.”
“She’s teaching six-year-olds.”
“Exactly. Formative years.”
Donga snorted under his breath.
Inside—
Rooh crouched slightly beside one of the kids, guiding his hand as he tried to write something that vaguely resembled a number.
“No, like this,” she said gently. “See?”
The kid nodded like he had just unlocked enlightenment.
Uzair’s gaze didn’t move.
Didn’t shift.
Didn’t even pretend to.
“…he’s gone,” Siyahi said quietly.
“Gone,” Hamza confirmed.
“Completely,” Donga added.
Uzair ignored all of them.
Because she moved again.
Walking between desks, stopping here and there, adjusting a notebook, fixing a grip, brushing a stray curl away from her face absentmindedly—
like she didn’t even know she was doing it.
Like she wasn’t being watched.
“Ya Allah…” Hamza whispered. “She just fixed that kid’s pencil grip.”
“Groundbreaking,” Siyahi deadpanned.
“You don’t understand,” Hamza shook his head. “That child is going places now.”
“That child was already in school.”
“Now he’s thriving.”
Uzair’s jaw tightened slightly.
But he didn’t look away.
Not once.
—
They shifted positions.
Subtly.
Badly.
Hamza leaned against the wall like he was guarding it.
Donga pretended to check the window grills for structural integrity.
Siyahi crouched near the corridor corner like he was inspecting the flooring.
Uzair—
stood at the door.
Not inside.
Not outside.
Just—
there.
Close enough.
“…we are not subtle,” Donga muttered.
“We are terrifying,” Siyahi corrected.
A kid from another class walked past them—
stopped—
stared at Uzair—
and then ran.
Hamza watched him go. “You scared him.”
“Good,” Uzair replied.
“He was six.”
“Start early.”
—
“Okay, everyone,” Rooh’s voice cut through again. “Books closed.”
A collective groan.
“Nooo—”
“Yes,” she said, amused. “We’re done for now.”
Chairs scraped.
Bags shuffled.
Chaos resumed instantly.
Uzair straightened slightly.
“PE period,” one of the kids announced loudly.
“Play,” another corrected.
“Same thing,” a third argued.
Rooh clapped her hands lightly. “Line banaao.”
And somehow—
they listened.
Not perfectly.
Not neatly.
But they tried.
Which, apparently, was enough.
“…she has authority,” Siyahi said.
“She has power,” Hamza corrected.
“She has patience,” Donga added.
Uzair said nothing.
But he watched—
as she led them out.
—
The courtyard came alive again.
Children running in every direction.
Balls rolling.
Voices overlapping into chaos.
And her—
in the middle of it.
“Careful—don’t push—no running near the steps—”
No one listened.
Everyone listened.
Somehow both.
Uzair stood at the edge this time.
Watching.
A group of kids dragged Rooh toward something that looked like a very serious game.
“Miss, you have to play!”
“I don’t even know the rules—”
“We’ll teach you!”
“That sounds dangerous,” she said.
They ignored that completely.
Pulled her in anyway.
And just like that—
she was running.
Laughing.
Arguing over rules she didn’t understand.
Pointing accusingly at a six-year-old who had clearly cheated.
“You moved that!”
“I didn’t!”
“You did!”
“Miss, he’s lying!”
“I am not—”
“This is corruption,” she said dramatically.
The kids gasped.
Uzair—
stared.
Because this—
this was different.
Not the wedding.
Not a moment.
Not something fleeting.
This was—
real.
Easy.
Unforced.
Like this was where she belonged.
“…he’s gone again,” Hamza whispered.
“I think he never came back,” Donga replied.
“Check his pulse,” Siyahi added.
“I’m fine,” Uzair said flatly.
“You’re watching her play with children,” Hamza said.
“And?”
“You don’t even like people.”
“I don’t.”
“Then explain this.”
Uzair didn’t.
Because he couldn’t.
Because there wasn’t an explanation that made sense.
—
A ball rolled toward him.
Stopped at his feet.
A small boy ran up, looking up at him cautiously.
“…ball,” he said.
Uzair looked down at it.
Then at the kid.
Then back at the ball.
A pause.
Then—
he kicked it.
Lightly.
Accurately.
Straight back.
The kid blinked.
Grinned.
Ran off.
Hamza stared at him. “…did you just—”
“Don’t.”
“You’re bonding.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I will end you.”
“Not in front of the children,” Siyahi said automatically.
—
Time moved again.
Faster this time.
Until—
“Okay, that’s enough!” Rooh called out. “Everyone, water break.”
Groans.
Complaints.
Obedience.
Uzair watched as she guided them again—
checking on them, making sure they didn’t trip, didn’t fight, didn’t disappear.
Like she was used to this.
Like she cared.
And that—
that stayed.
—
By the time lunch rolled around—
Uzair had made exactly zero progress on anything remotely related to “security.”
Which was fine.
Because neither had the others.
“Alright,” Hamza said, clapping his hands together quietly. “We’ve observed enough.”
“We have not observed anything useful,” Siyahi replied.
“We have observed bhabhi.”
“That is not useful for security.”
“It is useful for life.”
Donga nodded. “Agreed.”
Uzair turned slightly. “If any of you say—”
“Relax,” Hamza cut in. “We’re helping you.”
“I don’t need help.”
“You clearly do.”
Before Uzair could step away—
they moved.
Again.
Too fast.
Too coordinated.
Suspicious.
“Excuse me—” Hamza started.
Rooh turned.
Uzair immediately forgot how to exist.
Up close—
again—
worse.
“Hi, I’m—” he started.
Good.
Good start.
“…do you need kids—”
Silence.
Absolute.
Catastrophic.
Hamza closed his eyes.
Donga physically turned away.
Siyahi looked at the ceiling.
Rooh blinked.
Once.
Twice.
And Uzair—
realized—
this was not going well.
A pause.
One second too long.
Two.
Rooh blinked—clearly trying to process whatever had just come out of his mouth.
“…I’m sorry?” she said, a little confused—but not uncomfortable. Just… puzzled.
Uzair stood there.
Absolutely still.
Regretting every decision he had ever made.
Hamza stepped in instantly.
“Security,” he said smoothly, like nothing had just happened. “He meant security. Rehman bhai sent us—we’re just checking if everything’s running fine.”
A beat.
Rooh’s expression shifted.
Understanding.
“Oh,” she nodded. “Right—yes, everything’s fine.”
A small pause.
And then—
that same soft huff.
That almost-laugh.
Like she was holding it back.
“I figured,” she added lightly.
Uzair combusted.
Again.
Internally.
“Good,” Hamza nodded, already backing away. “That’s all we needed.”
“Okay,” she said, still smiling faintly before turning back toward the kids. “No running—hey, careful—”
And just like that—
she was gone.
Again.
A pause.
Silence.
And then—
“…do you need kids?” Hamza repeated quietly.
Uzair turned.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
“I will kill you.”
Donga lost it.
Siyahi looked away, shoulders shaking.
“You walked up to her,” Hamza continued, barely holding it together, “and offered to supply children—”
“I didn’t—”
“YOU DID.”
“I misspoke.”
“You collapsed.”
“It was a minor error.”
“That was a system failure.”
Uzair exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.
“Are you done?”
“No,” Hamza said immediately.
“Not even close.” Siyahi added.
Uzair started walking.
Fast.
“Come back,” Donga called out, laughing. “Explain what you meant—”
“I meant nothing.”
“Exactly,” Siyahi muttered.
Hamza grinned, falling into step beside him.
“…bhabhi really said ‘I figured.’”
Uzair stopped.
Closed his eyes.
“…I hate all of you.”
“Liar,” Hamza said.
And that—
somehow—
made it worse.
──────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────
Dismissal was chaos.
Pure, unfiltered chaos.
Children running in every direction, bags half-zipped, water bottles swinging dangerously, voices overlapping into one loud, unstoppable wave of noise.
“Bye miss!”
“Miss tomorrow no homework!”
“Miss he pushed me—”
“I DID NOT—”
And in the middle of it—
her.
Rooh stood near the gate now, making sure each child left safely, stopping every few seconds to fix something—hair, straps, collars—sending them off like it was routine.
Like it mattered.
Uzair stood a little distance away.
Not too close.
Not too far.
Just—
there.
Watching.
Again.
“…he’s positioned himself at the exit,” Hamza muttered.
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Uzair Baloch did not attend flashy family functions.
Not because he was anti-social or anything—he simply didn’t belong in places like this.
He was a man of the streets, raised in the shadow of one of the most lethal names in the country. Steel in his bones, ruthlessness in his hands—
Which was exactly why his current situation made no sense.
Uzair Baloch was a man of the streets, raised in the shadow of one of the most lethal names in the country. Steel in his bones, ruthlessness in his hands—
which was exactly why his current situation made no sense.
Because somehow,
he was driving Rehman’s car.
That, in itself, was not the problem.
It was the fact that he was being forced to attend the marriage of some random burger baccha, when he was supposed to be negotiating a deal with a buyer.
And the person forcing him was none other than Rehman Dakait—the Sher-e-Baloch himself.
The blue Chevy Nova cut through the evening traffic, its engine steadily thrumming beneath Uzair’s hands.
The air was thick—humid, heavy, the kind that clung to your skin and made patience run thinner than usual.
Behind them, a jeep followed close—
Hamza at the front, Siyahi and Donga in the back, gossipping like teenage girls with him, laughter carrying even through the distance.
Lucky bastards.
Uzair sat at the wheel, posture straight, one hand resting against the steering wheel while the other tapped lightly against it—an unconscious habit, the only sign of his irritation.
Beside him, Rehman sat in the passenger seat, calm as ever, one arm resting against the window, gaze unreadable.
In the backseat—
chaos.
Ulfat sat in the middle, already regretting her existence, while Naieem and Faisal occupied either side of her, fully committed to ruining the drive.
“I told you not to wear that,” Naieem said, looking Faisal up and down with visible disappointment.
“What is wrong with what I’m wearing?” Faisal shot back.
“Everything.”
“At least I don’t look like a rejected wedding guest from 2005.”
“At least I look like I belong at a wedding.”
“Oh, so you admit you dress like this daily?”
“I will throw you out of this car—”
“Try it.”
Uzair exhaled slowly.
“Enough.”
They didn’t stop.
“You literally asked me for this kurta—”
“Because mine was better—”
“You copied me—”
“I improved it—”
The car slowed slightly.
“If either of you speak again,” Uzair said, voice low, controlled, “I will leave you both on the road.”
Silence.
Immediate.
For exactly three seconds.
“He started it,” Faisal muttered.
Uzair’s jaw ticked.
He didn’t turn this time.
“Why are you making me go?” he asked instead, eyes still on the road.
A pause.
“It’s a wedding,” Rehman replied.
Uzair let out a quiet scoff.
“I can see that.”
“Because you don’t leave work,” Ulfat cut in before Rehman could say anything else.
Uzair’s gaze flickered to the rearview mirror. “What?”
“You are always at that factory,” she said firmly. “Always working. It’s not normal.”
“It’s called doing my job.”
“It’s called having no life,” Faisal added.
Uzair’s grip tightened. “Stay out of it.”
“No, seriously,” Faisal leaned forward slightly, grinning, “when was the last time you touched grass?”
Naieem snorted. “Grass would reject him.”
“At this point, even sunlight is unfamiliar.”
“You both are very close to getting dropped off,” Uzair said flatly.
“See?” Faisal leaned back again. “Violence. That’s his only hobby.”
“Bas!” Ulfat snapped. “All of you, just—”
“You agreed to this?” Uzair cut in, glancing at Rehman.
Uzair looked ahead again, something in his expression going still.
Behind him—
“I still don’t understand how that kurta even fits you—”
“Say that again—”
“It’s tight—”
“It’s tailored—”
“It’s struggling—”
The car came to a sharp stop.
This time, no warning.
Everyone lurched forward.
Silence fell instantly.
Uzair unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the door, and stepped out.
“What are you doing?” Ulfat called out.
Uzair didn’t answer.
The jeep slowed behind them, coming to a stop as he walked back, expression unreadable.
Hamza leaned out immediately, already grinning. “Finally.”
Uzair glanced at Siyahi.
“You’re driving,” he said simply.
Siyahi blinked. “What?”
“The car,” Uzair jerked his head toward the Nova. “Take it.”
Donga laughed under his breath. “He’s had enough.”
Uzair ignored him, already moving toward the jeep.
“I’m not dealing with that,” he muttered, pulling the door open and getting in.
Hamza shifted to make space, still amused. “Took you long enough.”
Uzair shut the door.
“Drive.”
Behind them, chaos resumed—just slightly more distant now.
And for the first time since the drive began—
Uzair felt the tension ease.
Only slightly.
──────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────
The function hall was impossible to miss.
Lights spilled out onto the street, bright and excessive, the entire entrance wrapped in gold drapes and artificial flowers that tried a little too hard to look expensive.
Right at the front—
a massive billboard.
The bride and groom stared down at everyone, frozen in a heavily edited smile, their skin unnaturally smooth, features sharpened beyond recognition.
Uzair glanced at it once.
Looked away immediately.
“Unbelievable.”
The cars slowed to a stop.
Rehman’s Chevy Nova came to a halt first.
The jeep pulled in right behind it.
Doors opened—
Rehman stepped out first, presence alone enough to command attention.
Then Ulfat.
Then Naieem and Faisal, already mid-argument.
A second later—
the jeep door swung open.
Hamza stepped out, stretching like he’d just come from a picnic instead of a formal event.
Donga followed.
Siyahi right after him.
And then—
Uzair.
The shift was instant.
It didn’t silence the hall—
it changed it.
Conversations dipped.
Heads turned.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
“That’s him…”
“Sher-e-Baloch…”
“Rehman Dakait…”
“And that’s Uzair…”
Uzair ignored it.
He was used to it.
What he wasn’t used to—
was the attention.
Not from the men.
From the women.
Girls watching him openly now, whispering, nudging each other.
One smiled.
Another winked.
Someone actually started twirling her hair like she was in a film.
Uzair looked away, expression flattening.
“You attract problems,” Hamza muttered beside him.
“Not my fault,” Uzair replied.
“It is exactly your fault.”
Before he could respond—
“Uzair.”
Rehman didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t need to.
Uzair exhaled quietly and stepped forward, falling into place beside him.
And just like that—
he was pulled into it.
Handshakes.
Nods.
Names he wouldn’t remember.
Men trying too hard.
Smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.
“It’s an honor—”
“We’ve heard so much—”
“You must visit sometime—”
Uzair said what he had to.
Nothing more.
It happened a few minutes later.
They came face to face with another family—
and from the first second,
Uzair knew.
These people thought they had aura.
They did not.
The man stepped forward quickly, smile too wide, voice overly eager.
“Rehman sahab! What an honor—what a surprise—”
Uzair’s gaze shifted slightly.
Trying too hard.
“We didn’t expect you to come personally,” the man continued, almost glowing.
Rehman nodded once. “It’s a wedding.”
The man laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
Uzair looked away.
Behind him, Hamza leaned slightly toward Siyahi.
“If he praises him one more time, I’m leaving.”
“You won’t,” Siyahi muttered.
“Watch me.”
“You said that in the car too.”
Meanwhile—
the real problem had begun.
“Oh my God,” the woman said, eyes lighting up as she looked at Uzair. “Is that Uzair?”
Ulfat smiled politely. “Yes.”
“He is so handsome,” she continued without hesitation. “Mashallah. Is he single?”
Uzair closed his eyes for a second.
Of course.
“Yes,” Ulfat replied, a little more carefully this time.
Too late.
“Oh my God!” the woman gasped. “My daughter is single too!”
Behind them—
Hamza choked.
Donga looked down immediately.
Siyahi turned away.
“She is so pretty,” the woman continued, unstoppable. “And so well-mannered—such a good girl—”
Uzair stared straight ahead, jaw tight.
“Your Uzair will fall in love with her at first sight,” she added confidently.
“Ya Allah—” Hamza muttered under his breath.
Uzair shot him a look.
Silence.
Immediate.
“Where is she?” Ulfat asked, still polite.
“Oh, she’s here! One second, I’ll call her—”
And just like that—
the woman walked away.
A pause fell over the group.
Uzair didn’t move.
“If any of you laugh,” he said quietly, “I’m leaving.”
“I’m not laughing,” Hamza said immediately.
“You’re shaking,” Siyahi added.
“I’m emotional.”
Donga had already turned his back completely.
Uzair dragged a hand down his face.
This was a mistake.
A complete, irreversible mistake.
──────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────
Uzair lasted exactly twelve minutes.
Twelve minutes of noise, of people talking over each other, of smiles that meant nothing and conversations that went nowhere.
That was his limit.
He didn’t say anything.
Just stepped away.
Past the crowd.
Past the lights.
Past the suffocating weight of it all—until the music dulled and the air felt lighter.
For a moment, he just stood there.
Breathing.
Trying to shake off the irritation crawling under his skin.
This was a mistake.
The entire night—
a mistake.
And then—
he heard it.
Laughter.
Soft.
Unrestrained.
Real.
It didn’t belong here.
His head turned—almost unconsciously—
and that was it.
Everything else stopped.
Not faded.
Not dimmed.
Stopped.
The noise—gone.
The crowd—irrelevant.
The entire world seemed to tilt, like it had shifted off its axis—
just enough for him to notice.
She sat a little away from the chaos, near the edge where the lights softened into something gentler.
Surrounded by children.
Laughing.
And somehow—
she was the only thing in motion.
The soft lavender of her outfit caught the light with every small movement, shimmering faintly like it had borrowed pieces of the evening sky.
The fabric draped effortlessly, delicate, almost weightless—
like it didn’t belong to a place this loud, this heavy.
One of the children tugged at her arm, saying something with far too much seriousness for their size.
She leaned in—
listening.
Actually listening.
And then she laughed again.
It wasn’t loud.
It didn’t demand attention.
But it took it anyway.
Uzair didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe—
not properly.
He had seen beautiful women before.
That wasn’t new.
This—
wasn’t that.
This felt like something had shifted under his feet—
like the ground he stood on wasn’t as steady as it had been a second ago.
His fingers curled slightly at his side.
He didn’t know her.
Didn’t know her name.
Didn’t know why she was here.
But suddenly—
none of that felt optional.
Because for the first time in a long time—
Uzair Baloch was not in control.
And he didn’t even realize it yet.
──────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────
Uzair didn’t realize how long he’d been staring.
Time didn’t feel like it was moving.
Or maybe it was—
just not for him.
She laughed again, softer this time, one of the children holding onto her hand like she was something to be kept.
And Uzair—
stood there like he’d forgotten how to exist outside of that moment.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t look away.
Didn’t even think to.
Everything else had faded into something distant, something unimportant—
like the world had moved on without him,
and he hadn’t noticed.
“Uzair.”
Nothing.
“Uzair.”
Still nothing.
A pause.
Then—
“Oye—”
A hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him—hard.
Uzair blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The world rushed back in all at once—the noise, the lights, the heat—
and he turned sharply.
“What—”
“I’ve been calling you for the past two minutes,” Hamza said, narrowing his eyes. “Where are you—”
He stopped.
Followed Uzair’s gaze.
And then—
silence.
Hamza’s expression changed.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
“…oh.”
Uzair didn’t respond.
Hamza looked back at him.
Then at her.
Then at him again.
“…oh.”
Uzair exhaled sharply, dragging his gaze away like it had taken actual effort.
“What do you want?” he muttered.
Hamza ignored the question completely.
“Bhabhi?”
Uzair froze.
Turned his head slowly.
“Shut up.”
Hamza grinned, absolutely unbothered. “No, I’m serious—who is she?”
Uzair didn’t answer.
“You’ve been staring at her like you’ve seen God,” Hamza continued, leaning slightly to get another look. “Should I go ask her name or—”
“Don’t.”
Immediate.
Hamza raised his hands. “Relax.”
A beat.
“You don’t even know her,” he added, amused.
Uzair’s jaw tightened.
“I know.”
It came out quieter than expected.
Hamza blinked.
That—
was new.
“Right,” he said slowly. “So… what’s the plan?”
Uzair didn’t answer immediately.
Instead—
he turned back.
Just for a second.
And stilled.
The space where she had been—
empty.
The children were still there.
The noise was still there.
The lights—
everything—
still there.
Except her.
Uzair frowned slightly, eyes scanning the area once—twice—
nothing.
“Where—”
He stopped.
Hamza followed his gaze again, then looked back at him, already knowing.
“…she’s gone?”
Uzair didn’t answer.
But the shift in his expression said enough.
Something had just slipped out of his reach—
before he’d even realized he wanted to hold onto it.
“Damn,” Hamza muttered.
A pause.
Then—
very carefully—
“…bhabhi really said bye.”
──────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────
Uzair didn’t move.
For a second—
maybe two—
he just stood there, staring at the empty space like she might reappear if he waited long enough.
She didn’t.
His gaze sharpened, scanning the area again—this time properly.
Left.
Right.
The edge of the hall.
The crowd.
Nothing.
His jaw tightened.
“Where did she go?”
“…you’re asking me?”
Uzair shot Hamza a look.
“You distracted me.”
Hamza blinked. “I—what?”
“If you hadn’t—”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hamza cut in, incredulous. “Next time I’ll let you stand there staring at a girl for the rest of your life—”
Uzair didn’t respond.
He was already moving.
Pushing through the crowd, ignoring greetings, brushing past people without a second glance—his eyes scanning, searching, sharp in a way that didn’t match the situation.
She couldn’t have gone far.
The hall wasn’t that big.
“Uzair—”
“Not now.”
Hamza followed anyway, watching him with poorly hidden amusement.
“You don’t even know her name,” he pointed out.
Uzair stopped.
Just for a second.
That—
was a problem.
His gaze shifted again, slower now.
Thinking.
She wasn’t like the others.
Not dressed like them.
Not part of this noise.
So why was she here?
His eyes flickered, briefly, to where the rest of the family stood—still surrounded, still talking.
Ulfat.
She would know.
Uzair frowned slightly.
He could just walk up.
Ask.
Simple.
…
No.
Absolutely not.
He straightened immediately, like the thought itself offended him.
“You’re thinking of asking someone,” Hamza said, watching him closely.
“I’m not.”
“You literally looked at Ulfat—”
“I said I’m not.”
A beat.
Uzair looked back at the crowd one last time.
Nothing.
The irritation settled again—heavier now. Sharper.
Fine.
“Forget it,” he muttered.
“Yeah,” Hamza hummed. “sure.”
Uzair shot him a look.
But he didn’t argue.
He just—
stopped searching.
He didn’t find her again.
Not that night.
By the time the function began to wind down, Uzair had said less than ten words in total.
He stood where he was told to stand.
Nodded when required.
Left when it was time.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
Ulfat noticed.
She always did.
“What’s wrong with him?” she murmured under her breath as they walked out.
“Nothing,” Hamza said immediately.
“Everything,” Faisal and Naieem corrected.
Ulfat frowned slightly, glancing back at Uzair—who hadn’t said a word since they left the hall, gaze distant, like he wasn’t entirely there.
Suspicious.
Very suspicious.
Behind them—
Hamza leaned toward Siyahi and Donga, barely containing himself.
“He’s gone,” he whispered.
“Gone where?” Donga asked.
“Gone,” Hamza repeated dramatically. “Finished. Over. Bhabhi aa gayi.”
Siyahi blinked. “What?”
“There was a girl—”
“Hamza.”
He froze.
Turned.
Ulfat stood behind him.
Smiling.
Not sweetly.
“What girl?” she asked.
Hamza opened his mouth—
and immediately got smacked upside the head.
“Drive,” she said calmly.
“Yes.”
Immediate obedience.
The matter was dropped.
For now.
The ride back was quieter.
Not silent—Naieem and Faisal still argued, because of course they did—but distant.
Like it didn’t quite reach him.
Uzair stared out the window, the city passing by in blurred lights and shadows.
And for the first time in a long time—
his mind wasn’t on work.
Not on deals.
Not on numbers.
Not on anything that usually mattered.
Just—
her.
The way she had laughed.
The way she had looked at those kids like they mattered.
The way she didn’t belong in that place—
and yet—
somehow did.
Uzair frowned slightly, shifting in his seat.
He didn’t even know her name.
The thought lingered.
Stayed.
And refused to leave.
By the time they reached home—
he still hadn’t forgotten.
And something told him—
he wasn’t going to.
──────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────
Avi's Notes:
Soooo how was it? Please give me any feedback or critique if you have any!
I am absolutely in love with how whipped Uzair is about Rooh!!!
Thank you so much for reading!!!
──────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────
Taglist:
If you want to be added or removed, pls just dm me!
No gunshots in the distance. No shouting downstairs. No urgent knocks at doors.
Just sunlight.
Warm and golden through the haveli windows, spilling across old tiled floors and half-open curtains while the city outside slowly dragged itself awake.
Lyari mornings always carried noise eventually—vendors calling out, motorcycles rattling past, someone’s radio playing old songs too loudly—but right now—
Everything still felt slow. Sleepy. Peaceful.
Uzair woke before everyone else out of habit.
Not because he had to. His body just—didn’t know how not to.
For a few quiet seconds, he stayed where he was.
One arm over his eyes. The ceiling fan hummed lazily overhead.
And somewhere in the back of his mind—still lingering from yesterday—soft laughter.
“…thoda.”
Uzair opened his eyes immediately.
Annoyed with himself already.
This was getting ridiculous.
He sat up with a quiet exhale, running a hand through his hair before getting out of bed.
Routine took over after that.
Quick shower. Dark kurta. Watch.
Holster checked automatically even though today was supposed to be quiet.
Normal. Everything normal.
Which was exactly why—twenty minutes later—he walked downstairs fully ready for school.
The dining room fell silent.
Completely silent.
Uzair paused slightly at the entrance.
“…kya hua?”
No answer.
Just—everyone was staring at him.
Hamza sat frozen mid-bite. Siyahi slowly lowered his tea cup. Donga looked like he was about to explode.
Faizal physically looked at the clock on the wall. Then back at Uzair. Then at the clock again.
Even Ulfat stopped pouring chai.
“…Uzair.”
“Hm?”
A pause.
Then—
“School band hai.”
Silence.
Uzair blinked once. Slowly.
“…kya?”
“It’s Saturday,” Siyahi informed him calmly.
Hamza made a choking noise into his tea.
Dead silence.
Uzair stood there for exactly three seconds. Fully dressed. Ready to leave.
Having completely forgotten weekends existed.
And then—
Faizal burst.
“OH MY GOD.”
Hamza folded over the table instantly. Donga disappeared into silent laughter. Even Naeem nearly dropped his paratha.
Uzair closed his eyes briefly.
“…Allah.”
“Miss Rooh Sir was eager today,” Hamza wheezed.
“Shut up.”
“You were dressed!”
“I can see that.”
“For SCHOOL.”
“I know where schools are, Hamza.”
Siyahi leaned back slightly, watching him with suspicious calm.
“…interesting.”
“There’s nothing interesting about this.”
“Hm.”
Which meant: there absolutely was.
Uzair turned immediately.
“I’m changing.”
Before he could leave—Rehman spoke from the head of the table without looking up from the newspaper in his hand.
“Waise bhi tayyar ho.”
Uzair paused.
“…ji?”
“Dopehar mein market jana hai.”
That got everyone’s attention properly.
Even Hamza sat up again.
“The political thing?” Donga asked.
Rehman nodded once.
“Haan.”
The annual community event.
Public appearance. Local leaders. Speeches. Meetings. Crowds.
A headache.
Uzair exhaled quietly.
“…theek hai.”
And just like that—he sat down instead.
Which immediately restarted Hamza.
“This is unbelievable,” he muttered dramatically while wiping tears from his eyes. “Love has destroyed a soldier.”
“There is no love,” Uzair replied flatly, reaching for the chai.
“Then why were you ready at eight in the morning?”
Silence.
“…routine,” Uzair said finally.
Nobody believed him. Not even slightly.
Breakfast settled after that.
Slowly.
Warm parathas stacked in the center. Omelette. Chai.
The comfortable kind of family silence that only existed between people used to each other’s chaos.
Sunlight spilled across the dining table now, catching against glasses and steel cutlery while the ceiling fan pushed warm morning air lazily around the room.
Faizal poked at his food thoughtfully.
Then—
“Waise…”
Dangerous words.
“…Bhabhi actually dikhti kaisi hai?”
Immediate silence.
Again.
Because suddenly—everyone realized something.
None of them knew.
Not really.
The boys had met her. Worked with her. Spent days at the school with her.
But the family? Ulfat? The kids?
They’d only heard stories.
Only knew: the football chaos, the flowers, the teasing, “Miss Rooh Sir.”
Slowly—all eyes turned toward Rehman.
Because technically—he was the only one who had seen her before.
Years ago.
Rehman lowered the newspaper slightly.
Looked mildly confused by the attention.
“…kya?”
“Aapne dekha hai na unko?” Naeem asked immediately. “Hassan bhai ki beti ko?”
“Haan.”
“TOH BATAEIN.”
Faizal nodded seriously.
“Visual reference chahiye.”
Ulfat smiled faintly into her tea.
“Haan, mujhe bhi curiosity ho rahi hai ab.”
Uzair immediately focused very hard on his breakfast.
Dangerously hard.
Rehman stayed quiet for a second.
Thinking.
Not about Rooh now—but little Rooh.
Years ago.
“Choti si thi,” he said finally.
Simple. Soft.
“Hamesha Hassan ke saath rehti thi.”
Something about the way he said it quieted the table slightly.
“Quiet thi?” Ulfat asked.
Rehman nodded once.
“Bahut.”
A small pause.
“Jab naye log milte thay toh Hassan ke peeche chup jati thi.”
Hamza physically grabbed the table.
“No way.”
“That was her?”
“The same person?” Faizal added. “Miss Rooh Sir wali?”
Uzair threw a napkin at him instantly.
Rehman ignored all of them calmly.
“She was always carrying books,” he continued. “Ya drawing notebook. Hassan school aata tha meetings ke liye. Woh bhi saath hoti thi.”
Ulfat’s expression softened slightly.
“Achi bachi lagti hai.”
“Haan,” Rehman replied simply.
Certain. Like that had never been in question.
“Ab toh bilkul different hai,” Hamza said.
“Ab toh football coach lagti hain.”
“She threatened me with extra homework once,” Donga added.
“That was deserved,” Siyahi said.
A faint smile pulled at Rehman’s mouth briefly.
Tiny. Rare.
“Log badalte hain.”
Then—after a second—
“She still listens before speaking.”
That made Uzair glance up slightly.
Because—that was true.
Rooh always listened first. Observed first.
“She notices things,” Rehman added absentmindedly, folding the newspaper properly now. “Bilkul Hassan ki tarah.”
The table quieted again.
Not awkwardly.
Just—listening.
“Hassan bhai teacher thay na pehle?” Ulfat asked.
“Haan,” Rehman replied. “Government school.”
Faizal blinked.
“Then how are they rich now?”
“Business.”
“One business?” Hamza asked skeptically.
Rehman looked at him once.
“…multiple.”
That answered that.
Donga whistled quietly.
“Teacher se businessman.”
“Hassan intelligent aadmi hai,” Rehman said simply. Respectfully.
“Community ka kaam kabhi nahi chora.”
Which explained Rooh immediately.
Again.
Ulfat rested her chin lightly against her hand.
Thoughtful now.
“And she still works at the school.”
Not judgment. Just observation.
Because girls from families like that usually didn’t.
Not like this.
“Hassan apni beti ko kabhi roka nahi,” Rehman said.
A small pause.
“Woh jo karna chahti hai karne deta hai.”
Something about that sentence lingered for a second.
Warmly.
Then—of course—Hamza ruined it.
“So basically,” he announced dramatically, “Uzair bhai ka taste elite nikla.”
“Allah ke liye chup hoja.”
“Rich bhi. Educated bhi. Nice bhi.”
“Hamza.”
“Pretty bhi probably,” Faizal added.
Uzair looked genuinely exhausted now.
“We haven’t even reached the market yet and I already regret waking up.”
Faizal grinned immediately.
“Abhi toh aap ready bhi bohot jaldi ho gaye thay.”
“School band tha,” Naeem added helpfully.
“Still dressed up,” Hamza nodded. “Interesting.”
Uzair stared at all of them for one long second.
Then calmly picked up another paratha.
“…main akela rehna shuru kar raha hoon.”
“Miss Rooh Sir ghar chor ke ja rahe hain,” Faizal announced dramatically.
And just like that—the entire table lost control again.
───────────────────✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:───────────────────
The afternoon sun sat warm over Lyari by the time they left the haveli.
Not unbearable. Just bright enough to turn the streets gold and make the chrome of Rehman’s blue Chevy Nova gleam under the light.
The entire house had shifted into that familiar pre-event chaos hours earlier.
Phones ringing. Shoes disappearing. Someone yelling for Faizal to stop running indoors.
Normal.
Uzair adjusted the cuffs of his black kurta one last time before stepping out into the courtyard.
The boys were already near the jeep.
Hamza leaning against the hood dramatically like he belonged in a film poster.
Donga checking his phone.
Siyahi reloading a handgun with the emotional investment of a bored accountant.
Hamza looked up immediately.
Then grinned.
“Dekho.”
Uzair already knew.
“…kya.”
“Ready ho gaya school jaane ke liye.”
“Allah kasam ek aur lafz bola na—”
“Miss Rooh Sir angry ho jayenge,” Donga added helpfully.
Uzair pointed at him.
“You too.”
Behind them—Rehman emerged from the haveli entrance, fixing the cuff of his waistcoat calmly.
Instant shift.
The joking softened immediately.
Not disappeared.
Just—focused.
The Chevy Nova rolled out first.
Dark blue. Old-school.
Clean enough to reflect the sunlight along the doors.
Rehman drove it himself most days despite everyone insisting he shouldn’t.
Ulfat sat beside him, already fixing Naeem’s collar before the car had even started.
Faizal was in the back complaining about the heat.
The jeep followed behind.
Hamza driving this time because apparently Uzair “looked emotionally compromised.”
Which was a sentence he would pay for later.
The streets got busier the closer they moved toward the market district.
Banners stretched between buildings. Political posters pasted across walls.
Shopkeepers standing outside their stores watching the roads fill slowly.
People recognized Rehman’s car almost immediately.
Heads turning. Small nods.
Respect. Fear.
Both.
By the time they reached the market—the place was alive.
Absolute chaos.
Crowds packed shoulder to shoulder through the main road.
Vendors yelling over each other.
Children weaving between people with trays of chai.
Music echoing faintly from somewhere deeper in the bazaar.
And above all of it—the heavy afternoon heat carrying the smell of grilled meat, spices, dust, and smoke through the air.
Lyari.
Loud. Breathing. Alive.
Security moved first.
Quick. Efficient.
Uzair and the others stepped out before the Chevy had fully stopped.
Scanning automatically.
Entrances. Roofs. Movement.
Habit.
Rehman exited the car a second later.
And immediately—the crowd shifted toward him.
People greeting him from every direction at once.
“Rehman bhai!”
“Assalamualaikum!”
“Idhar—idhar!”
He handled it easily.
Calm. Steady.
Like he belonged to the city as much as the streets themselves.
The political stage had been set up near the center square of the market.
Large speakers. Rows of chairs.
Men moving around with wires and banners while volunteers tried—and failed—to organize people.
“Hum yahan rahenge,” Siyahi muttered quietly to Uzair once they reached the side of the stage.
Uzair nodded once.
Eyes still moving through the crowd.
Always working. Always aware.
Ulfat gathered the boys afterward.
“Chalo,” she said, steering Faizal away from the stage before he could climb something dangerous.
“There’s shade near the family tents.”
“Can I get falooda?” Naeem asked instantly.
“No.”
“Cruel.”
Hamza watched them leave dramatically.
“Family life.”
“Shut up,” Uzair replied automatically.
The speech itself blurred together after a while.
At least for the boys.
Rehman spoke. The crowd listened. People clapped.
Questions were shouted. Promises were made.
Someone almost started an argument near the back before security shut it down immediately.
Normal political event.
Normal Lyari afternoon.
Eventually—it ended.
The crowd loosened slightly afterward, people spilling back into the market streets now that the formal part was over.
And for the first time all afternoon—everyone relaxed a little.
Just a little.
Rehman reunited with Ulfat and the kids near one of the food stalls.
Faizal already holding sugarcane juice somehow despite being told not to wander.
Naeem carrying three snacks at once.
Ulfat looked one second away from giving up entirely.
Hamza was midway through explaining something dramatic involving a vendor trying to overcharge him—
“…wallah woh mujhe tourist samajh raha tha—”
“When you dress like that, understandable,” Siyahi replied.
“This is fashion.”
“This is suffering.”
Uzair was only half listening.
Leaning slightly against the side railing near the market lane.
Eyes moving absently through the crowd.
People passing. Color everywhere. Noise everywhere.
And then—he stopped.
Mid-breath. Mid-thought.
Frozen.
“…phir maine usko bola—” Hamza cut himself off immediately.
Because Uzair wasn’t listening anymore.
Wasn’t blinking either.
Siyahi noticed first.
Then Donga.
Then slowly—everyone followed his line of sight.
Down the crowded market lane—past the hanging fabrics and fruit carts and strings of lights swaying overhead—
she was there.
Rooh moved slowly through the crowd beside another girl around her age.
Completely unaware.
Dilly-dallying through the market like she had nowhere important to be.
Stopping at random stalls. Picking things up. Putting them back.
Laughing softly at something her friend said.
No school today.
No flowerbeds. No football chaos.
Just—her.
In a soft ivory kurta with pale blue embroidery catching the sunlight every time she moved.
Dupatta slipping off one shoulder every five seconds because she clearly wasn’t paying attention to it.
Silver bangles clinking lightly against her wrist as she reached for something at a jewelry stall.
Relaxed. Easy. Alive.
And beside her—the new girl.
Sunglasses pushed up into her hair.
Bright teal kurta.
Talking with her hands dramatically enough that even from a distance—she already looked dangerous.
Hamza whispered immediately:
“…oh no.”
Ulfat followed their gaze.
Paused.
And then—very slowly—smiled.
Faizal looked between Uzair and Rooh once.
Then gasped like he’d uncovered state secrets.
“No way.”
Meanwhile—Rooh still hadn’t noticed them.
Not even slightly.
Because she was too busy holding up a pair of earrings toward her friend while the two of them debated something very seriously.
Completely unaware—that an entire mob family had just gone silent watching her like she’d walked out of a painting.
───────────────────✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*───────────────────
A few shops down—Rooh was walking through the market slowly, sunlight catching against the embroidery of her pale blue kurta as she moved between the crowded stalls.
Not rushing.
Just wandering.
Stopping every few seconds to look at something before her friend dragged her somewhere else again.
And her friend—was chaos.
Immediate chaos.
Talking with her hands.
Holding up bangles dramatically like she was presenting crown jewels.
Currently trying to convince Rooh to buy something while Rooh laughed and shook her head.
“…gone,” Hamza whispered softly.
“Finished,” Donga agreed.
“Spiritually deceased,” Siyahi added.
Uzair ignored all of them.
Or tried to.
Because unfortunately—he was still staring.
Rooh smiled at something her friend said, ducking her head slightly when she laughed.
Easy. Comfortable.
Nothing like the careful politeness she’d had during her first days at the school.
This was different.
Lighter.
Ulfat noticed immediately.
Of course she did.
And unlike the idiots beside her—she noticed something else too.
The way Uzair looked at her.
Quietly.
Like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
A small smile appeared on Ulfat’s face.
“She’s beautiful,” she said softly.
Dead silence.
Hamza physically clutched his chest.
“Ulfat bhabhi bhi start ho gayin.”
Rehman glanced over calmly.
Saw Rooh.
Paused briefly.
Then—
“Hassan ki beti hai.”
Simple. Certain.
Like that explained everything.
Which somehow—it did.
Faizal looked deeply betrayed.
“ABBU YOU RECOGNIZED HER FROM THIS FAR?”
“She looks like him,” Rehman replied simply.
“She really does, they have the same eyes.” Ulfat murmured.
Uzair finally blinked.
Once. Slowly.
Like he’d returned to Earth unwillingly.
“…aap log chup reh sakte hain?”
“No,” Hamza answered immediately.
“Bilkul nahi,” Donga added.
“Not after this,” Siyahi concluded.
Meanwhile—Rooh had absolutely no idea she was being observed like a rare phenomenon.
She was too busy trying to stop her friend from buying earrings from the fifth stall in ten minutes.
“You do not need those,” Rooh laughed.
“I absolutely do,” her friend argued dramatically. “They’re emotionally important.”
“They’re identical to the ones you bought last month.”
“They’re spiritually different.”
Hamza wiped fake tears from his eyes.
“…I like this one already.”
“Yalina will slap you” Siyahi muttered.
“Not slap, murder,” Donga added.
Rooh turned slightly while talking—and for one dangerous second—Uzair thought she’d seen them.
But she didn’t.
Just kept walking slowly through the crowd.
Oblivious.
Ulfat suddenly handed her shopping bag to Hamza.
“Hold this.”
Hamza blinked.
“Why?”
And then—before anyone could stop her—Ulfat started walking toward Rooh.
Confidently.
Like she’d already decided this was happening.
Absolute panic.
“Bhabhi—” Uzair started immediately.
Too late.
Very too late.
Rehman looked deeply unbothered.
“Jaao.”
That was somehow worse.
“WHY ARE WE MOVING,” Hamza whispered aggressively as everyone got dragged along behind Ulfat like unwilling hostages.
“Because your bhabhi has chosen violence,” Donga muttered.
Siyahi looked at Uzair once.
“…you look nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You look like you’re about to testify in court.”
Up ahead—Ulfat reached them first.
Rooh looked up politely at the approaching group—then froze slightly in surprise.
Recognition hit almost immediately after.
“Oh—”
And beside her—her friend looked between all of them with immediate curiosity.
Dangerous curiosity.
Ulfat smiled warmly.
“Assalamualaikum beta.”
Rooh recovered quickly.
“Waalaikumsalam.”
Soft. Polite.
Then her eyes flicked briefly toward Uzair—just for a second—before returning to Ulfat.
Behind them—Hamza witnessed the glance and nearly ascended spiritually.
“You’re Rooh, right?” Ulfat asked gently.
A tiny pause.
Then—
“…ji.”
“You work at the school.”
“Haan.”
Rooh looked slightly confused now.
Which was fair.
Because one minute she’d been shopping peacefully and now an entire politically influential family was standing in front of her like a delegation.
