#danny zee

A/N : First chapter of KABEELA, ISHQ AUR ISLAMABAD, LESGOOOO. A FEW OC'S ARE THERE AND A FEW CARACTER DYNAMICS ARE CHANGED CUZ THIS IS MY FIC AND I'M THE ONE TO CONTROL THE CHEMISTRY 💅👩‍🔬🧪⚗️

Dividers by @diviniyae HAD TO APPRECIATE THIS KWEEN 💖👑

Based on

Masterlist

Chapter 1 : Dilkashi

The morning breeze in Islamabad was unusually crisp, carrying the soft scent of pine trees and rain-soaked earth. At the bustling campus of Quaid-i-Azam University, students were gathered around the central cafeteria, their laughter and debates echoing through the courtyard.

Among them sat Sarbuland Khan, the towering, brooding heir to one of the most formidable tribal families in the northern valley. To anyone looking at him, he possessed the intimidating presence of his lineage—broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, and eyes that could make grown men think twice before raising their voice. Yet today, Sarbuland was sitting completely still, staring blankly into his cup of lukewarm chai, a soft, utterly helpless smile playing on his lips.

His best friend, Mudassir, leaned across the wooden table, squinting in deep suspicion. Beside Mudassir sat Rabiya, his sharp-witted girlfriend and Sarbuland’s closest confidante on campus. On the other side were Khaqan, Shahveer, and Hamza—the rest of Sarbuland’s tight-knit college circle—all watching him with varying degrees of utter disbelief.

"Are you seeing this?" Khaqan whispered to Shahveer, gesturing vaguely at Sarbuland’s mesmerized face. "He looks like he’s been hypnotized by a jinnee."

Shahveer snorted, tossing a fried peanut at Sarbuland’s forehead. It bounced right off his hair, but Sarbuland didn't even flinch. He just blinked, sighed softly, and took another slow sip of chai.

"Yeh bilkul pagal ho chuka hai," Hamza declared, shaking his head. "Totally gone."

Rabiya rolled her eyes at the boys, leaning forward on her elbows to look directly into Sarbuland’s eyes.

"Sarbuland," Rabiya said, raising her voice slightly. "Assalam-o-Alaikum! Earth to Sarbuland Khan! Are you in Islamabad or have you mentally ascended to your kabeela?"

Sarbuland shook his head, snap-refocusing his dark eyes as a subtle blush flushed across his high cheekbones.

"Walaikum Assalam, Rabiya," Sarbuland muttered, adjusting the collar of his simple kurta. "Kuch nahi hua. Main bas... soch raha tha."

"Soch rahe the?" Mudassir scoffed loudly, slapping the table. "Bhai, tum pichle tees din se sirf ek hi cheez 'soch' rahe ho! Aur jab bhi woh soch chalti hai, tumhare chehre pe yeh ajeeb si, sharmila si muskaan aa jati hai. It is creepy, Sarbuland! You are an heir to a massive warlord dynasty, not a hero in a low-budget romantic drama!"

"Bakwas mat karo, Mudassir," Sarbuland muttered defensively, though the reddish hue on his ears betrayed him completely.

Rabiya leaned in closer, a mischievous smirk spreading across her face. "Laila ke peeche Majnu kyu bane, Sarbuland? Woh hi kyu? Koi aur kyu nahi? Matlab... itni saari ladkiyaan hain university mein. Half the social sciences department spends their day trying to catch your eye, yet you are obsessing over the girl who looks like she’d break a brick over someone’s head for breathing wrong."

Sarbuland’s expression softened instantly at the mention of Laila’s name. A quiet, reverent sigh escaped his lips as he leaned back against his chair, looking up at the gray sky above the Margalla Hills.

"Tum nahi samajhogi, Rabiya," Sarbuland said softly, his voice dropping into a rich tone. "Woh aam ladkiyon jaisi nahi hai. Woh ek aag hai."

"Ek aag jo tumhara dimaag jala chuki hai," Mudassir deadpanned.

Sarbuland ignored him, turning to look at Rabiya. "Did you see what happened in Professor Qadri's lecture last month? You weren't there that day."

"Professor Qadri? That old dinosaur from the Sociology department?" Rabiya asked, raising an eyebrow. "What did he do this time?"

"He was giving his usual lecture on traditional family roles," Sarbuland recalled, a proud, fond grin spreading across his face. "He stopped in the middle of his slide, looked directly at the front row, and had the audacity to say, 'Aaj kal ki ladkiyoon ko ghar ke kaam se zyada, bahar ki azaadi ka shauk hai. Lekin mard ka muqam hamesha oochar rehta hai, chahe aurat kitni bhi padh-likh jaye.'"

Mudassir winced. "Oof. He said that out loud?"

"In a hall full of two hundred students," Sarbuland said, his eyes glittering with admiration. "Everyone was quiet. Half the girls were uncomfortable, the boys were smirking or looking away. But then... she stood up."

"Laila?" Rabiya smiled.

"Laila," Sarbuland repeated, his voice filled with wonder. "She stood right up in the middle of the lecture hall, slowly unclipped her pen, and looked Professor Qadri straight in the eye. She didn't raise her voice. She was completely calm, completely deadly."

Sarbuland mimicked her calm demeanor, leaning forward. "She looked at him and said, 'Sir, agar mard ka muqam itna hi oocha, toh aapko apna muqam saabit karne ke liye aurat ko chota dikhane ki zaroorat kyu padti hai? Kya aapki shakhsiyat itni kamzor hai ke ek padhi-likhi aurat ki azaadi se aapka wajood khatre mein aa jata hai?'"

Hamza let out a dramatic gasp. "Bhai! In front of everyone?!"

"In front of two hundred people!" Sarbuland laughed, a rare, bright sound. "Professor Qadri turned redder than a pomegranate. He sputtered and said, 'Yeh badtameezi hai, Miss Laila! Main aapka uprofessor hoon!' And do you know what she replied?"

"What?" Rabiya asked, completely hooked.

"She smiled—that razor-sharp smile of hers—and said, 'Aap professor hain, Sir, isliye professor ki tarah baat kariye. Jahalat padhana hamaari syllabus ka hissa nahi hai.' Then she packed her bag, picked up her books, and walked out of the hall while half the class was trying not to burst into applause."

Sarbuland rested his chin on his palm, staring off into the distance, thoroughly smitten. "That day, Rabiya... I realized that I didn't just admire her. I was completely, helplessly sold. She has a rebellious spirit. A savage heart. A tight slap on every misogynist who thinks women should sit quietly in the dark."

Mudassir clapped his hands together slowly. "Mashaallah, Mashaallah! Sarbuland Khan, the terrifying prince of the northern mountains, reduced to a poet by a girl who roasted a sixty-year-old professor."

"Main koi poet ya shayar nahi hoon," Sarbuland mumbled, suddenly defensive again.

"Pata hai, pata hai," Shahveer chimed in with a grin. "Tum toh bas 'Gumnam Aashiq' ho! The guy who is too terrified to walk up to her and say hello, so he sneaks around like a ninja dropping handmade parchment notes on her hostel porch every single night!"

"It's romantic!" Rabiya defended, hitting Shahveer's arm. "Although... Sarbuland, seriously. It’s been a full month. Thirty days of secret letters and Urdu shayris. How long are you going to hide behind the trees?"

Sarbuland looked down at his leather messenger bag, where a neatly folded piece of cream-colored paper lay hidden beneath his textbooks. "Main bas... dar lagta hai. What if she hates me? What if she finds out who I am and walks away? My family name carries blood and legacy, Rabiya. But in front of her... I am just a man who doesn't know how to speak without stuttering."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the campus, inside the courtyard of the Women's Hostel, a completely different storm was brewing.

"LAILA!"

A loud shout echoed down the third-floor corridor. Jasmeet came skidding into Room 304, nearly tripping over a pair of stray sneakers. Behind her walked Shama, looking exasperated, holding two cups of hot chai, while Qais Bhat—Laila’s flamboyant, perpetually dramatic friend who spent way too much time hanging out near the hostel gates— stood at the door, leaning casually against the frame.

"Aapki chai thandi ho rahi hai, aur aap yahan abhi tak apna rumaal set kar rahi hain!" Jasmeet huffed, dropping onto the unmade bed.

Laila was standing in front of a small, gilded mirror hanging on the wall. She adjusted her stole over her shoulders, her dark eyes flashing with amusement as she turned to face her friends. Laila was striking—not just in her beauty, but in her unyielding, electric posture. She didn't walk; she paced like a panther. She didn't speak; she declared.

"Sukoon rakho, Jasmeet," Laila said, taking a cup of tea from Shama with a soft smile. "Shukriya, Shama."

"Shukriya ko chodo," Qais Bhat interrupted, stepping into the room with a dramatically tragic sigh. "Laila, mere bhai! Pehle yeh batao... aaj ka paigaam kahan hai? Where is today's masterpiece from your mysterious Romeo?"

Laila’s eyes softened slightly, a small, knowing smile twitching at the corner of her lips. She slowly walked over to her study desk and pointed at a small wooden tray. Rested on top of it was a series of carefully folded papers, each tied with a simple piece of rustic brown twine.

"Raha aaj ka khat," Laila said calmly.

Jasmeet practically gasped, darting across the room to look at it. "Arey! Pehle kyu nahi bataya?! Read it! Read it out loud!"

"Main kyu parhoon?" Laila chuckled, leaning against the desk and sipping her tea. "Tum log toh waise bhi bina ijazat ke parh hi lete ho."

"Main parhta hoon!" Qais volunteered instantly, striking a poetic pose in the middle of the room. He dramatically picked up the latest letter, untied the string, and unfolded the heavy paper.

"Ahem, ahem," Qais cleared his throat, adopting a deep, theatrical voice:

Suno, Aapki aawaaz mein jo ghooror hai, woh kisi taaj se kam nahi, Aapki khamoshi mein jo aag hai, woh kisi shole se kam nahi. Log kehte hain ke chand ko dekhna ibadat hai, Par humne toh chand ko zameen par chaltay dekha hai...

Shama placed a hand over her heart, letting out a dramatic groan. "Haiii! Kitna pyaara hai! Who writes like this in 2026?! Girls are getting texts like 'u up?' and Laila is receiving pure classical Urdu poetry dropped on her doorstep like a royal decree!"

"Banda jo koi bhi hai, shair zabardast hai," Jasmeet admitted, leaning against Laila’s shoulder. "Lekin Laila... sach batao. Are you not getting annoyed? It’s been thirty whole days! A month of these letters appearing every single morning on the hostel porch. Aren't you curious?"

Laila took another slow sip of her tea, her gaze drifting toward the window that overlooked the main campus paths.

"Curious?" Laila mused softly. "Pehle mujhe laga koi mazaak hai. Someone trying to play a silly game. But... look at the handwriting. Look at the respect in every line. He hasn't said a single inappropriate thing in thirty letters. He doesn't ask for my phone number. He doesn't demand anything. He just... admires."

"Toh phir?" Qais asked, leaning in, his sharp eyes glinting with intrigue. "Kya iraada hai tera? Is the great, untouchable Laila actually soft on her Ajnabi Aashiq?"

Laila turned back to them, her eyes sparkling with a dangerous, mischievous glint.

"Soft? Nahi, Qais," Laila smirked, tapping her fingers against her tea cup. "Lekin main kisi ko itni azaadi nahi deti ke woh mujhe door se beth kar sataye. If he has the courage to write such heavy words, he should have the courage to stand in front of me."

"Wait..." Shama stared at her, her eyes widening. "Laila... what did you do?"

Laila calmly pointed her chin toward the edge of the desk. There, lying separate from the stack, was an open bottle of dark blue fountain pen ink and a single sheet of ivory paper.

Jasmeet gasped, rushing to pick it up. "No way! You wrote back?!"

"Read it!" Qais shrieked, totally dropping his nonchalant persona and crowding around Jasmeet. "Read what she wrote!"

Jasmeet cleared her throat, reading Laila’s crisp, elegant handwriting aloud:

Mere Ajnabi Aashiq, Kab tak is tarah mujhe satate rahoge? Ab toh samne aa jao. Ya meri khoobsurti rubaroo sehen nahi kar paoge? Aapki shayari achhi hai, par mujhe kaagaz ke phool pasand nahi. Agar dum hai, toh parda girao aur samne aao. — Laila

Qais burst into a fit of dramatic applause. "Savage! Absolute peak behavior! 'Ya meri khoobsurti rubaroo sehen nahi kar paoge?' AAH! I am dying! The guy is going to have a heart attack when he reads this!"

"Laila, you didn't!" Shama giggled, covering her face. "Where did you put it?!"

"Last night, before I went to sleep," Laila said, a faint, rare flush creeping onto her cheeks, though her posture remained imperious. "I stepped out onto the porch and left my letter right under the small flower pot where he always leaves his. He usually comes before dawn to drop his notes. So... he must have found it this morning."

Jasmeet grabbed Laila’s hands, bouncing on her heels. "So he has it! He actually has your letter right now!"

Laila looked out the window again, the soft smile returning to her lips. "Haan. Ab dekhte hain ke mera 'Ajnabi Aashiq' sirf kaagaz ka sher hai... ya waqai koi mard hai."

Back at the boys' hostel room, the chaos was reaching an absolute peak.

Sarbuland’s room was a chaotic mix of heavy wooden furniture, stacks of thick law and history books, and traditional hand-woven tribal rugs sent from his village. Sarbuland was sitting on his bed, laptop open, caught in the middle of a mandatory group video call with his massive, loud family back in the mountain valley.

Gathered around the screen on his end were Mudassir and Shahveer, who had forced their way into the frame just to witness the madness. On the laptop screen, the whole kabeela was present in full force.

At the center of the camera sat Bijaan, the formidable matriarch of the clan, draped in a heavy velvet shawl, sitting grandly on her charpai. Beside her stood Sherdil lala, Sarbuland’s fierce elder brother, alongside his sweet wife, Gul Bhabhi, who was holding their young daughter, Laiba. On the other side was Sohrab lala, Sarbuland’s second brother, looking stern as always, flanked by his wife Noor Bhabhi and their energetic little son, Umar Daraaz. Sitting on the rug near Bijaan’s feet was Bano, Sarbuland’s beloved younger sister, who was currently staring intensely at her brother through the camera.

"Sarbuland!" Bijaan’s booming, authoritative voice echoed through the laptop speakers. "Tumhare chehre ko kya hua hai? Laal kyu ho rahe ho tum? Islamabad mein garmi badh gayi hai kya?!"

Sarbuland choked on his air, quickly coughing into his fist. "N-Nahi, Bijaan! Yahan mausam bilkul theek hai. Main... main bas abhi dhoop se andar aaya hoon."

"Dhoop se aaye ho ya kisi ke khayaalon se?" Bano piped up instantly on the screen, a evil grin spreading across her face. "Bijaan, main aapko bata rahi hoon! Jab bhi Sarbuland lala video call karte hain, yeh ajeeb tarah se muskurate rehte hain. Bilkul aashiq lagte hain!"

"Bano!" Sarbuland warned, narrowing his eyes at his sister. "Aapni padhai pe dhyan do, faltu baatein mat karo."

"Arey, chote ko tang mat karo!" Gul Bhabhi said gently on the call, adjusting little Laiba in her arms. "Sarbuland beta, tum khana waqt pe kha rahe ho na? Yeh Mudassir tumko tang toh nahi karta?"

"Bhabhi!" Mudassir leaned right into the camera frame, waving enthusiastically. "Assalam-o-Alaikum Bhabhi! Main kyun tang karoon? Aapka dewar khud hi din raat khayaalon ki dunya mein rehta hai! Isko khane ka hosh hi nahi hai!"

"Mudassir beta, Walaikum Assalam," Noor Bhabhi smiled from the back. "Iska khayal rakho. Umar Daraaz bhi apne chacha ko bohot yaad karta hai."

On cue, five-year-old Umar Daraaz popped his head directly in front of the camera, holding up a plastic toy sword. "Chacha! Aap kab aayenge?! Humne pahadon pe shikaar pe jana hai!"

Sarbuland’s heart warmed, a real, genuine smile replacing his nervous posture. "Main jald aaoonga, Umar. Tum apna khayal rakho aur Sohrab lala ko tang mat karo."

Sohrab lala crossed his arms, looking down at the camera with a stern, paternal expression. "Padhai kaisi chal rahi hai, Sarbuland? Kabeela ke maamlaat abhi shant hain, par tumhein jald wapas aana hoga. Tum iss ghar ke waaris ho."

Sherdil lala nodded in agreement, his voice deep and resonant. "Haan, Sarbuland. Islamabad ka maahaul tumhe narm na bana de. Hamaare dushman abhi bhi sar uthane ki koshish kar rahe hain. Apni hifazat ka khayal rakhna."

The mention of the blood feud instantly brought a heavy silence over the room. Sarbuland’s jaw tightened slightly. The ancient rivalry between his clan and their bitter enemies in the valley was a shadow that followed him everywhere, even in the bustling streets of Islamabad.

"Mujhe sab yaad hai, Sherdil lala," Sarbuland said, his voice instantly turning firm and serious. "Main apna farz nahi bhoola."

"Acha acha, abhi inn baaton ko chhodo!" Bijaan barked, waving her hand dismissively at her eldest sons. "Mera bacha parhai kar raha hai. Sarbuland, tum bas apna khayal rakho. Aur agar koi pasand aa gayi hai, toh chupane ki zaroorat nahi hai! Main khud rishta le kar aaoongi!"

"BIJAAN!" Sarbuland squeaked, his voice cracking slightly, causing Shahveer and Mudassir to burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter beside him.

"Acha, Allah Hafiz!" Bano giggled, blowing a kiss to the screen before quickly ending the video call, leaving Sarbuland burying his face in his hands while his friends rolled on the floor laughing.

"Bhai, tumhari family toh next level hai!" Shahveer wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "Bijaan literally offered to roll up to Islamabad with a whole caravan for your rishta!"

"Tum dono abhi ke abhi yahan se dafa ho jao," Sarbuland groaned, throwing a pillow at them.

Just as Mudassir was about to throw the pillow back, Khaqan came bursting through the door, out of breath and holding a folded piece of paper in his hand.

"Sarbuland!" Khaqan panted, catching his breath against the doorframe. "Bhai... main abhi tumhare hostel waale raste se aa raha tha..."

Sarbuland sat up straight, his entire posture locking up. "Kya hua?"

"I passed by the girls' hostel porch... where you usually leave your notes," Khaqan said, holding up the paper. "There was no note under the pot. Instead... there was this."

The room went dead silent.

Sarbuland stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floorboards. He walked over to Khaqan with slow, disbelieving steps, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. He stretched out his hand, taking the ivory paper.

It wasn't his paper. It was fine, smooth stationery, scented faint of jasmine.

"Is that..." Mudassir whispered, his eyes wide. "...a reply?"

Sarbuland didn't hear him. His hands were trembling slightly as he slowly unfolded the sheet. The dark blue fountain pen ink stood out boldly against the ivory background. The handwriting was elegant, sharp, and confident—just like her.

He read the words silently at first, his eyes scanning the lines:

Mere Ajnabi Aashiq, Kab tak is tarah mujhe satate rahoge? Ab toh samne aa jao. Ya meri khoobsurti rubaroo sehen nahi kar paoge? Aapki shayari achhi hai, par mujhe kaagaz ke phool pasand nahi. Agar dum hai, toh parda girao aur samne aao. — Laila

Sarbuland’s breath hitched in his throat. He read it once. He read it twice. He read it three times.

A deep, fiery flush spread across his face, creeping up to his ears, down to his neck. His chest rose and fell rapidly.

"Kya likha hai?!" Shahveer demanded, trying to peer over his shoulder. "Bhai, parh ke sunao! Did she call the police?! Did she roast you?!"

Sarbuland slowly collapsed back onto his bed, staring at the paper in absolute awe.

"She... she wrote back," Sarbuland whispered, his voice barely audible.

"PADH KE SUNAO!" Mudassir yelled, snatching the paper out of his hand before Sarbuland could stop him.

Mudassir, Khaqan, and Shahveer crowded together, reading the text out loud in unison:

"KAB TAK IS TARAH MUJHE SATATE RAHOGE?! AB TOH SAMNE AA JAO! YA MERI KHOOBSURTI RUBAROO SEHEN NAHI KAR PAOGE?!"

The room exploded into utter chaos.

"OHHH MY GOD!" Khaqan screamed, falling backward onto the rug. "SHE CHALLENGED HIM! SHE LITERALLY CALLED HIM OUT!"

"YA MERI KHOOBSURTI RUBAROO SEHEN NAHI KAR PAOGE?!" Shahveer mimicked in a high-pitched voice, clapping his hands hysterically. "Bhai, she just called herself breathtaking and told you that you don't have the guts!"

"Agar dum hai, toh parda girao aur samne aao!" Mudassir yelled, shaking Sarbuland by his shoulders. "Sarbuland! Your savage queen just threw down the gauntlet! What are you going to do now?!"

Sarbuland sat motionless, holding his head in his hands, though a massive, unstoppable grin was spreading across his face.

She wasn't angry. She wasn't creeped out. She was intrigued. She was challenging him.

"Main..." Sarbuland swallowed hard, looking up at his friends with dark, determined eyes. "Main usse milunga."

"WHAT?!" all three boys shouted together.

"You're actually going to reveal yourself?!" Khaqan asked, wide-eyed. "The guy who turns into a statue whenever she walks past the library?!"

Sarbuland stood up, snatching the letter back from Mudassir and carefully folding it, placing it right next to his heart in his inner pocket. He walked over to his desk, pulling out his finest sheet of parchment paper and unscrewing his fountain pen.

"She asked if I have the courage," Sarbuland said, his voice dropping into a low, firm register, the pride of his valley rising within him. "Main Sarbuland Khan hoon. Main kisi dawat se peeche nahi hat’ta."

Rabiya walked into the open doorway of the hostel room right at that moment, holding a bag of snacks. She took one look at Sarbuland’s intense face, the open parchment on the desk, and the three boys sweating in excitement.

"Okay, what did I miss?" Rabiya asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Laila left a note!" Shahveer grinned wildly. "And now Prince Sarbuland is writing his final response!"

Rabiya’s jaw dropped. "She replied?! What did she say?!"

"She basically called him a coward and challenged him to show his face!" Mudassir chuckled.

Rabiya turned to Sarbuland, her eyes shining with pride. "So... what are you writing back, Romeo?"

Sarbuland dipped his pen into the dark ink, leaning over the paper. The tip of the pen glided smoothly across the surface, writing with absolute precision and unmatched grace:

Aapki khwahish humaare liye hukam hai, Laila. Agar aapko lagta hai ke hum aapki khoobsurti ka samna nahi kar sakte, toh aaj raat yeh ghalat-fehmi bhi door ho jaye gi. Aaj raat, theek baarah baje, university ki purani imarat ki chath (terrace) par mera intezar kijiyega. Parda girne wala hai. — Aapka Ajnabi Aashiq

Sarbuland blew gently on the wet ink, watching it dry under the desk lamp. He carefully folded the letter, sealing it inside a crisp white envelope.

He turned to look at his friends, his heart pounding a fierce, rhythmic beat against his chest. The playfulness of the past month was about to end. The secret games, the anonymous notes, the blushing from afar—it was all culminating tonight.

Tonight, Laila would finally look into his eyes. And tonight, before the inevitable shadows of their families' ancient blood feud could ever reach them in this mountain valley city, two worlds were about to collide.

"Khaqan," Sarbuland said, handing him the sealed envelope with steady hands. "Deliver this to her porch before she comes back from her evening lecture."

Khaqan took the envelope, saluting dramatically. "Consider it done, boss."

Sarbuland walked over to the balcony of his room, looking out toward the distant Margalla Hills wrapped in the cool evening mist. A quiet, confident smile touched his lips.

"Aaj raat, Laila... tumse mulaqat hogi."

Comment if you want to be added/removed from the taglist

@maladaptive-anxiety

@gehra-hua

@scarletpresentoldprofilename

@willowsgoldenhour

@lessthanalove

@twinblueflamee

@cherryyelixir

@spinebreaker101

@wolfcutgyu

@sahaar

@niteshkysx

@rutvii

@precioussophia

@gulaabjamun08

@heavenlit-34

LIKES, COMMENTS AND REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED.

Chapter 2 : Uns

The midnight clock on the central library tower struck twelve, its heavy iron chimes reverberating through the misty air of the campus.

The terrace of the old humanities block was completely deserted. Overhead, a half-moon peeked through thick, drifting clouds, casting long, silver shadows across the cracked concrete floor. A cold breeze swept down from the Margalla Hills, rustling the overgrown wild creepers that stretched over the iron railings.

Laila stood near the edge of the rooftop, her hands tucked deep into the pockets of her dark coat, a soft woolen stole wrapped loosely around her neck. Her dark hair swayed softly in the wind.

She checked her watch.

12:05 AM.

She tapped her boot impatiently against the ground, a light breath of white mist rising into the crisp air.

"Barah baje ka waqt diya tha," Laila muttered under her breath, turning her head left and right, scanning the empty corners of the dark terrace. "Aur khud abhi tak ghaib hai. Agar koi mazaak hua na, toh kal poore campus ke samne iska mazaak banaoongi."

She paced back and forth across the roof, her footfalls rhythmic against the cold stone. Another five minutes passed.

12:10 AM.

Laila stopped walking. Her lips thinned into a fine, unimpressed line. She turned her head toward the narrow stairwell door.

"Bohat ho gaya," she said aloud to the empty night, pulling her stole tighter around her shoulders. "Main kisi ka intezar nahi karti. Khas tor par aise bande ka jo baatein bari bari kare aur mauqay par pichay hat jaye."

She took two decisive steps toward the exit, fully intent on walking down the stairs, going back to Room 304, and completely ignoring whatever absurd note appeared on her porch the next morning.

Laila lifted her foot to step onto the top stair, but just as her heel touched the threshold, a deep, rich voice echoed out from the darkness near the far side of the rooftop.

The voice was low, smooth, and resonant, carrying the natural weight of the northern mountains:

Teri ada mein sarkashi, chehre pe noor hai, haakim ki har hadon se tu kitni door hai. Jhukna tere mazaaj ki fitrat mein hi nahi, tere baasar ghuroor pe duniya ko naaz hai.

Laila froze instantly.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up, not from fear, but from the sudden, magnetic pull of those spoken words. The poetry hit her directly—it wasn't just sweet romantic drivel, it was a precise, acute description of her very essence.

She slowly turned around, her sharp dark eyes cutting through the darkness toward the shadow behind the water tank.

There was no one in sight. Only the rustling of the creepers against the concrete wall.

A small, dangerous, highly amused smirk spread across Laila’s lips. She crossed her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow at the empty air.

"Ohhh," Laila said playfully, her voice laced with pure, teasing confidence. "Toh yeh baat hai? Sachme meri khoobsurti sehen nahi kar paye? Parde ke piche chupan-chupai khelne ka irada hai kya?"

A soft, low chuckle sounded from the shadows.

Slowly, stepping out from the darkest corner of the terrace into the full glow of the moonlight, came a tall, broad-shouldered figure.

Sarbuland Khan stepped forward.

He was wearing a dark charcoal shawl draped across his broad shoulders, his jet-black hair slightly windswept, his sharp, aristocratic jawline highlighted by the pale moonlight. But what held Laila completely motionless were his eyes—deep, dark, and filled with an overwhelming, almost terrifying devotion.

Laila’s breath hitched slightly in her throat. She recognized him instantly.

Sarbuland Khan. The quiet, terrifying prince of the Law Department. The towering student from the north whom everyone in the university spoke of with a mixture of immense respect and subtle fear. The guy who usually sat quietly in the back of the campus, glowing with an aura of raw, untouchable authority.

"Aap..." Laila blinked, her sharp composure faltering for a rare, split second before she caught herself. "Sarbuland Khan?"

Sarbuland stopped a few feet away from her, keeping a respectful distance. He looked down at her, his usual terrifying presence completely absent, replaced by a soft, almost shy warmth.

"Assalam-o-Alaikum, Laila," Sarbuland said softly, his voice trembling ever so slightly with genuine nervousness.

Laila stared at him, taking in his towering height, the dark shawl, and the shy, reddish tint on his cheeks that completely contradicted his formidable reputation.

"Walaikum Assalam," Laila said slowly, the amused smirk returning to her face as she took a small step closer to him. "Toh... mera 'Ajnabi Aashiq', jo pichle ek mahine se mere hostel ke baahar shaairana baatein phenk raha tha... woh Quaid-i-Azam University ka sab se khamosh aur dehshatgard student hai?"

Sarbuland lowered his head slightly, a quiet, sheepish smile touching his lips. "Main dehshatgard nahi hoon. Aur... main aap se darta nahi tha. Main bas... is baat se darta tha ke agar main samne aaya, toh aap shayad baat bhi nahi karengi."

"Kyu?" Laila raised her chin, her eyes glittering. "Kya main itni buri lagti hoon?"

"Nahi," Sarbuland looked directly into her eyes, his expression instantly turning serious and deeply sincere. "Aap buri nahi lagti. Aap itni roshan hain ke insaan ko apni nazrein jhukani parhti hain."

Laila felt a sudden, strange fluttering in her chest. She had heard dozens of compliments from boys on campus before, but none had ever spoken to her with this level of quiet, unshakeable reverence.

"Baatein toh bohot achhi kar lete hain aap, Sarbuland Khan," Laila said, stepping closer until only a couple of feet separated them under the midnight sky. "Lekin kaagaz ke phoolon ka waqt khatam ho gaya hai. Ab agar baat karni hai, toh rubaroo hogi."

Sarbuland’s eyes glowed with quiet happiness. "Mujhe manzoor hai."

The silence of the night was broken only by the cold breeze and the distant hum of the city below. They sat down on the wide concrete ledge of the terrace, wrapped against the chill, watching the misty lights of Islamabad stretch out beneath them.

"Toh bataiye," Laila began, swinging her legs slightly over the edge, looking at him sideways. "Mujhe hi kyu chunna? University mein ladkiyon ki kami nahi hai. Main toh har teesre din kisi na kisi professor ya student ki class leti rehti hoon. People call me stubborn, arrogant, unruly."

"Log galat kehte hain," Sarbuland said firmly, turning his upper body to face her completely. "Aap unruly nahi hain. Aap ghair-munsifana baaton ko bardasht nahi karti. Aur yeh sifat har kisi mein nahi hoti."

Laila looked at him, slightly surprised by his insight. "Aapne Professor Qadri waale din se dekhna shuru kiya na?"

Sarbuland smiled, a warm, genuine look that made his harsh features look extraordinarily handsome. "Uss din se pehle bhi dekhta tha. Lekin uss din... uss din mujhe ehsaas hua ke aap sirf khoobsurat nahi hain, aapke paas ek shairani dil hai jo kisi ke samne jhukta nahi."

"Aur aapko jhukne waale log pasand nahi?" Laila asked with a soft giggle.

"Nahi," Sarbuland shook his head gently. "Humaare yahan... mere kabeela mein, mard hamesha samjhte hain ke hukoomat unka haq hai. Lekin main jab aapko dekhta hoon, toh mujhe lagta hai ke asli hukoomat toh soch ki hoti hai. Aapki soch aazad hai."

Laila leaned back on her hands, staring up at the stars, thoroughly fascinated by the man sitting beside her. For all his massive build and reputation as a powerful tribal heir, Sarbuland Khan possessed a heart that was intensely thoughtful, deeply romantic, and shockingly progressive.

"Pata hai, Sarbuland," Laila said quietly, her voice softening into a rare gentleness. "Main samajhti thi ke aap baaki mardon jaisi honge. Rigid, arrogant, loud. Lekin aap toh... ek bilkul alag hi dunya ke hain."

Sarbuland looked at her dark eyes reflecting the moonlight. "Main bas aapki dunya ka hissa banna chahta hoon, Laila."

"Itni aasan nahi hai meri dunya," Laila warned him, though her eyes were filled with warmth. "Main sawal karti hoon. Main bahas karti hoon. Main raatei parhte hue guzaarti hoon."

Sarbuland chuckled softly, pulling his shawl around his shoulders. "Toh phir theek hai. Main bhi aapke sawalon ke jawab doonga. Aur agar aap raatei parhte hue guzaarengi... toh main aapke liye chai banaya karoon ga."

Laila burst into a bright, musical laugh that vibrated through the cold night air. "Aap? Sarbuland Khan? Chai banayenge?"

"Main bohot achhi chai banata hoon," Sarbuland declared proudly, raising his eyebrows. "Kal raat try kar ke dekh lijiyega."

"Kal raat?" Laila teased, raising an eyebrow at him. "Aapne toh pehle se hi kal raat ka plan bana liya?"

Sarbuland’s cheeks flushed dark red again, and he quickly looked down, rubbing the back of his neck in utter embarrassment. "M-Mera matlab tha... agar aap ijazat dein toh."

Laila reached out, her fingers lightly brushing against the sleeve of his coat, causing a wave of electricity to shoot down Sarbuland’s spine.

"Ijazat hai, Sarbuland Khan," Laila whispered softly. "Kal raat, isi terrace par. Par chai achhi honi chahiye."

What started as a single midnight meeting quickly turned into a sacred, unshakeable ritual.

Every night at midnight, while the rest of the campus slept, two figures would slip onto the terrace of the old humanities block. Sarbuland would arrive first, carrying a thermos filled with boiling hot, cardamom-infused Karak chai, along with two small metal cups he had specifically bought for their meetings. Laila would arrive right on time, carrying her thick law textbooks and notebooks.

They spent hours sitting side by side under the open sky, wrapped in winter shawls, studying, debating, and laughing until the sky began to turn dark purple with the approach of dawn.

"Nahi, Sarbuland! Yeh constitutional point galat hai!" Laila argued one night, tapping her pen aggressively against her open book. "Article 8 clearly states that any law inconsistent with fundamental rights is void!"

Sarbuland sat cross-legged beside her, holding his cup of tea, watching her intense expression with absolute, unfiltered adoration. He wasn't even looking at the textbook; he was completely mesmerized by the way her eyebrows furrowed when she was deeply focused.

"Sarbuland!" Laila snapped her fingers in front of his eyes. "Aap sun rahe hain ya mujhe ghoor rahe hain?!"

Sarbuland blinked, taking a calm sip of his chai. "Main dono kar raha hoon."

Laila gasped playfully, hitting his arm with her notebook. "Aap bilkul bhi dhyan nahi de rahe! Main yahan exam ki tayyari kar rahi hoon aur aap... aap romance ke mood mein hain!"

"Exam toh pass ho jaye ga, Laila," Sarbuland said softly, leaning a little closer to her, his voice dropping into that deep, enchanting tone that always made her pulse race. "Lekin yeh waqt... yeh raatein wapas nahi aayengi."

Laila looked into his eyes, her sharp tongue instantly falling silent. The intensity in his gaze was overwhelming, wrapping around her like a warm blanket in the icy wind.

"Aap bohot dangerous hain, Sarbuland Khan," Laila murmured softly, resting her chin on her knees. "Aapki baatein dimaag kharab kar deti hain."

Sarbuland smiled, reaching out with agonizing slowness. His fingers gently tucked a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear, his warm skin brushing against her cheek. Laila didn't pull away; instead, she leaned slightly into his touch, her eyes closing for a brief second.

"Dimaag kharab nahi kar raha," Sarbuland whispered gently, his thumb lightly grazing her cheekbone. "Bas apna dil aapke paas rakh raha hoon... Meri Jaan."

Laila’s eyes flew open. The endearment echoed in the quiet air between them—Meri Jaan. It was spoken with such deep, natural affection, without a hint of pretense or dynamic power, that it sank straight into her soul.

Laila looked at him, her heart beating wildly against her ribs. She didn't scold him. She didn't roast him. She just offered a soft, brilliant smile, her dark eyes shining with an emotion she was only just beginning to truly understand.

"Chai pilao ab," Laila murmured playfully, nudging his knee with hers. "Varna main gussa ho jaungi, Sarbuland."

Sarbuland’s smile broadened as he poured more tea into her cup.

In those quiet hours under the Islamabad stars, they were just two young lovers caught in the beautiful, chaotic web of first love. Neither of them knew the terrifying truth lurking in the shadows of their pasts. Neither of them knew that back in the ancient, blood-soaked mountain valley they both called home, their families carried titles written in centuries of hatred.

They didn't know that Sarbuland was the heir to the Khan kabeela, and Laila was the daughter of the rival faction that had sworn to wipe his bloodline off the earth.

For now, in the quiet warmth of the midnight terrace, there was no blood feud. There were no swords, no ancient rivalries, no warlords.

There was only the quiet night, the sweet taste of cardamom tea, and the unspoken promise of a love that was growing stronger with every passing breath.

MASTERLIST

Comment if you want to be added/removed from the taglist

@maladaptive-anxiety

@gehra-hua

@scarletpresentoldprofilename

@willowsgoldenhour

@lessthanalove

@twinblueflamee

@cherryyelixir

@spinebreaker101

@wolfcutgyu

@sahaar

@niteshkysx

@rutvii

@precioussophia

@gulaabjamun08

@heavenlit-34

@cherryyelixir

ਚੰਨ ਚੜ੍ਹਿਆ ਫੇਰ ਅੱਜ, ਬੱਲੀਏ

ਕੋਠੇ ਉੱਤੇ ਆ, ਅਸਾਂ ਉੱਡ ਚੱਲੀਏ

ਅੱਧੀ-ਅੱਧੀ ਰਾਤ ਐ, ਪੈਂਦੀ ਬਰਸਾਤ ਐ

ਤੇਰੇ ਨਾਲ਼ ਕਰਨੀ ਮੈਂ ਦਿਲ ਵਾਲੀ ਬਾਤ ਐ

ਚੱਲ ਬੱਲੀਏ, ਉੱਡ ਚੱਲੀਏ

ਚੰਨ ਤੱਕਦਾ ਤੇਰੇ ਵੱਲ, ਬੱਲੀਏ

ਦਿਲ ਵਾਲੀ ਰਾਹ ਉੱਤੇ ਚੱਲ ਚੱਲੀਏ

ਅੱਧੀ-ਅੱਧੀ ਰਾਤ ਐ, ਪੈਂਦੀ ਬਰਸਾਤ ਐ

ਤੇਰੇ ਨਾਲ਼ ਕਰਨੀ ਮੈਂ ਐਸੀ ਕੋਈ ਬਾਤ ਐ

Mahi ve aa jaa na

Kahan hai tu

Although Danny Zee is from Pakistan, he’s just as in tune with western R&B and hip-hop. From writing, composing, to producing, this rising songwriter crafted his debut album, Blue Butterfly, over the course of six months in complete isolation. Serving as documentation of his long journey to artistic freedom, Blue Butterfly explores Zee’s most vulnerable moments, from past heartbreak to abandonment.

Whether it is the hypnotism we encounter in “Blue Butterfly” or the Eastern Qawwali we are intrigued by in “So Long, Goodbye,” something about Zee’s artistic approach is so compelling and inimitable. As we dive deeper into the eclectic record, Zee leaves us absolutely stunned with calming lo-fi beats in “It’s 6 AM” and delicate vocals in “Your Love is an Addiction.” Blue Butterfly ends with the touching “Angels,” which easily reveals the rawest side to Zee we have seen yet.

Ones To Watch has your first listen of Blue Butterfly below, as well as an exclusive interview with Zee himself:

OTW: How did you first get into music? Who were your favorite artists growing up?

Danny Zee: I remember it was when my brother bought me my first guitar and I was just messing around on it, and he taught me my first few chords. In just a day, I was able to play "Knockin’ on Heaven's Door." That’s when I knew I had it in me to get into music. I remember always listening to Pink Floyd, Jeff Buckley, and Nirvana growing up. There was a time when I had The Dark Side of the Moon on repeat.

How has your Pakistani background shaped your music?

I don’t think I would’ve been the artist I am today if it wasn’t for Pakistan. I mean, for starters my brother had made it out here, so of course that was a factor. But being exposed to Pakistani music or the South Asian sound in general throughout my life really helped me find a middle ground, you know, where I could infuse the West and East together. I grew up listening to western music, but this innate ability to get into rhythm or even composing melodies that I do, a lot of it has to do with my roots. For instance, the verse melody for “Blue Butterfly” is heavily influenced by my Pakistani background and roots.

Your musical sound definitely doesn’t fit neatly into one category. How would you describe your music in five words?

Nocturnal, chill, deep, experience-based, and soothing.

Can you describe the creative process behind Blue Butterfly?

Honestly, the creation part of it was just me pouring my heart out and doing what sounded nice to me. I had no specifics of how I wanted the entire album to sound like. Like, for me, the sound part didn’t hold that sense of uniformity as much as the emotional part did. I knew what I was feeling emotionally and I knew that the “feelings” of all my tracks need to be cohesive. They need to convey one or two main emotions. The reason why some tracks are really different from others is that when I’d make one track and express myself through it, I was done with that form of expression, I wanted to move on and find a new form of expression that would help me express my pain further.

Do you have a favorite track off the new album?

It’s a tie between "Rumble Tumble" and "Angels." The former because I really enjoyed producing it, discovering the rhythm, the sounds to go for, etc. We were having a lot of fun. The latter because it shows me at my most vulnerable and raw self.

What overall message would you like listeners to take away from Blue Butterfly?

I just want them to be able to express their pain and sorrow of losing someone (not that I would ever wish upon anyone, but if they have gone through it). It’s like a grieving catharsis.

If you could sell out a headline show anywhere in the world, where would you pick?

The Forum in LA! Because it’s the first place I saw David Gilmour and John Mayer live in concert!

Who are your Ones To Watch?