#shirani

With nothing left to do but wait out the clock, I give up on my rigid posture and lie down on the wide charpai beside him.

But the universe and the basic laws of physics immediately penalizes me. The loose woven ropes of the traditional bed instantly gravitate toward his massive, heavy weight. The entire center of the mattress dips violently, effectively sliding my body down the slope and smashing me directly against his hard, black-kurta-clad side.

Ugh. This is so incredibly awkward.

I stiffen my spine, desperately trying to anchor myself and lie completely straight on my back, staring hard at the purple sky to pretend I am miles away.

Until the third element enters the equation.

Rizwan, apparently feeling left out, decides to lie down on the absolute edge of the frame. Because the center is already heavily compromised by Hamza, the balance shatters. Rizwan starts slipping down the incline, his arms flailing as he frantically tries to hold onto Hamza’s shoulder for stability.

Hamza rolls his head sideways, glaring at his bodyguard, “Tu ek kaam kar—”

["You do one thing—"]

Wobble.

COLLAPSE.

“Hamza—” I scream, my hands blindly tearing through the air.

“Ammi—” Rizwan shrieks.

“Aye khuda—” Hamza groans as the entire sky flips upside down.

The entire woven structure gives out beneath us. The snapping of fibers cracks as we all land violently down in the dirt, a tangled mass of black silk, heavy silver jewelry, and limbs. In the panic of the freefall, both Rizwan and I have instinctively clamped onto Hamza’s broad shoulders and jacket fabric like he is a human life raft who can somehow defy physics and save us from the floor.

Goodness... I swear, I will never have a boring day with these people as long as I live.

“Arey theek ho tum sab?” Shirani’s voice echoes from across the clearing, filled with sudden alarm. “Yeh bakri...”

["Hey, are you all okay? This goat..."]

I shake the dust from my hair, frantically trying to stand up and reclaim my dignity.

Beside me, the fearsome Sher-E-Baloch is scrambling to his feet in a state of absolute, unhinged panic, his hands desperately clutching the waistband of his shalwar to keep it from falling down after the rope snap.

A foot away, Rizwan is heavily coughing, hoisting himself out of the dirt by using the broken wooden locks of the bedframe like a ladder.

There, standing completely unbothered in the wreckage, is the tiny white baby goat. The little creature had not only eaten cleanly through Rizwan's "secure" rope hoop, but it had spent the entirety of our whispers chewing through the main structural ropes of the bed.

It looks up at us, lets out a small, innocent bleat, and calmly munches on a stray piece of woven fiber.

“Shirani sahab, yeh agli eid tak bada hojayega na? Isko ba—”

Rizwan’s voice cuts off mid-sentence with an abrupt, dry swallow as Hamza pivots his head.

[“Master Shirani, this one will grow big by next Eid, right? For Sa—”]

Shirani simply lets out a deep chuckle, aggressively patting the little goat on its head before scooping it up into his arms and walking it away from the crime scene. A few of the camp hands immediately rush over to gather the splintered wooden locks and frayed ropes, attempting to salvage the wreckage of the bed.

Hamza lifts his wrist, dusting off the glass of his silver Rolex to track the sinking light. “Aadha ghanta aur.”

["Half an hour more."]

“Aadhe ghante mein toofan bhi aajayega. Aaj jitne kand hue...” I mutter, I drop down, sitting directly onto the cool slope of the sand dune.

["In half an hour, a storm will arrive too. With the number of disasters that happened today..."]

Seeing a gap, Rizwan eagerly steps forward, bending his knees to join me on the slope. But before his trousers can even touch the sand, Hamza waves a large, dismissive hand at him, his expression deeply annoyed. “Andar ja.”

["Go inside."]

Rizwan lets out a visible sulk, turning on his heel to stomp off toward the mud huts, leaving us completely alone as the last amber glow of the sun dips behind the mountain peaks.

Hamza takes a step closer, his long hair catching the light as he drops down onto the sand slope right beside me, tucking one long leg beneath him. “Hamesha mere saath hi rehta hai na, toh aadat hogayi hai. Waise, aapki koi dost ho toh...”

["He always stays with me, so it's become a habit. By the way, if you have a friend..."]

I freeze, slowly turning my head toward his profile. My eyes narrow into two sharp, disbelieving slits, “Main aapko matrimonial site dikh rahi hoon? Itni hi jaldi hai toh khud kyun nahi dhundhte apne dost ka rishta?”

["Do I look like a matrimonial site to you? If you're in such a hurry, why don't you look for your friend's proposal yourself?"]

“Main uske baare mein nahi puchch raha tha.”

["I wasn't asking about him."]

A sharp, disbelieving gasp hitches in my throat. My hands instantly ball into fists against the fabric of my gown. Really. I am genuinely, absolutely about to throw hands with this man right here on the sand—

“Arey, ruko,” Hamza chuckles softly, lifting his hands in a mock surrender. He leans in closer, “Mera matlab tha... kya Clifton jaana zaruri hai? Koi intezaar kar raha hai aapka?”

["Hey, stop. I meant... is it necessary to go to Clifton? Is someone waiting for you?"]

I slowly shake my head, my gaze dropping slightly. “Ji nahi. Koi nahi hai.”

["No. There is no one."]

“Hmm...”

Hamza lets out a low hum from the depths of his chest. He shifts his weight on the slope, sliding even closer until his broad shoulder completely blocks out the rest of the camp. The heavy silver jewelry against his black kurta gleams in the dying indigo light.

“Agar main nikah ki baat kar bhi raha hota,” he murmurs, “toh mujhe sochne ki kya zarurat jab tum ho mere saamne?”

["If I were even talking about marriage, why would I need to think when you are right in front of me?"]

The sheer boldness of the declaration makes my heart skip. I force my eyes to lock with his, “Humein mile do mahine hue hain.”

["We met two months ago."]

Hamza doesn't blink. “Chaar saal, do mahine, bara din, aur teen ghante.”

["Four years, two months, twelve days, and three hours."]

“Har ek pal aur lamha bhi gin lete,” I mutter, rolling my eyes in a desperate bid to shield myself from the terrifying accuracy of his memory. “Aur waise bhi chaar saal ka hisab nahi. Hum sirf ek baar mile the hospital mein, aur uske baad kabhi nahi.”

["You might as well count every single moment and breath too. And anyway, that four-year calculation doesn't count. We only met once at the hospital, and never after that."]

“Achcha, aisa hai?” Hamza tilts his head, a slow smug smile bleeding into his dense beard as he pretends to think deeply. “Toh fir itna gussa kyun hogayi thi jab maine puchcha tha aapki koi dost hai mere liye?”

["Oh, is that so? Then why did you get so angry when I asked if you had a friend for me?"]

“Kyunki—” I catch myself, letting out a sharp. “Kyunki hum ek rishte mein hain na?”

["Because—Because we are in a relationship, aren't we?"]

Hamza nods slowly, the satisfaction in his gaze absolute.

“Magar uska matlab yeh toh nahi ki humein itni jaldi nikah karna chahiye?” I counter gently. ["But that doesn't mean we should get married so quickly, does it?"]

“Sahi kaha,” he agrees instantly, his large, warm hand shifting on the sand to gently curve near mine, though he doesn't force the contact. “Main aapko zabardasti nikah ke liye haan nahi kehne ko bol raha.”

["True. I am not telling you to say yes to marriage by force."]

“Lekin...”

There it is. “...kisi ke saath ek ghar basane ka socha hai toh woh sirf tum ho.”

["...if I have ever thought of building a home with anyone, it is only you."]

I blink, a sudden, dizzying wave of weightlessness washing over me.

“Mujhe nahi pata main aapko manpasand ghar de paungi ya nahi,” I whisper back, the confession slipping past my tightly guarded defenses. It is the closest thing to a warning I can give him. ["I don't know if I will be able to give you the home of your choice or not."]

Hamza doesn't hesitate. He doesn't ask for guarantees. He simply reaches out, his thumb lightly tracing the back of my hand. “Tum jo bhi dogi, usi se hum ghar banayenge.”

["Whatever you give, we will make a home out of that."]

Hum.

Hamza reaches down to his own hand. With a slow, deliberate movement, he slides a heavy, dull-gleaming ring off his own ring finger—a thick band of solid silver intricately carved into the roaring visage of a lion. The mark of the Sher-E-Baloch himself.

He takes my hand, his grip warm.

“Tasdeeq,” he whispers fiercely. ["Confirmation."]

The gravity of the gesture shatters into a million pieces the exact second he lets go.

The ring doesn't fit. It doesn't even come close. The massive silver band instantly slips down the slender line of my finger, hanging comically loose and wobbling against my skin.

“Gussa mat dilao,” I snap. I forcefully yank my hand back from his space, aggressively turning my face away from his profile with a sharp, loud huff.

["Don't make me angry."]

Really? The fearsome, multi-layered kingpin who prides himself on tracking every single hour of my existence for four entire years couldn't manage basic logistical arithmetic?

If he was truly, absolutely serious about building a future, he couldn't have exercised a fraction of that tracking efficiency to buy a single, elegant ring that actually matched my size and my liking?

Instead, he just casually hands me a weapon-grade piece of men's jewelry that could literally slide off my hand if the wind blows too hard.

Hamza watches the heavy silver band slip completely off my fingers, tracking it as it tumbles a few inches down the cool slope of the sand dune before his large hand darts out, smoothly catching it before it gets swallowed by the dark.

He holds the lion crest in his palm, “Tumhe pasand nahi aaya?”

["You didn't like it?"]

“Pasand—” I turn my entire body toward him, gesturing wildly at my own hands. “Hamza, yeh mere haath mein hathkadi jaisa lagta hai.”

["Like—Hamza, this feels like a handcuff on my hand."]

A low, knowing rumble vibrates in his chest as he casually slides the massive silver ring back onto his own finger, where it fits perfectly. “Sahi size ka lata toh mujhpar ilzam lagati ki main tumpar nazar rakh raha hoon.”

["If I brought the right size, you would accuse me of keeping an eye on you."]

My breath hitches. “Rakh rahe ho?”

["Are you?"]

“Nahi.”

The denial is flat, absolute, and entirely unreadable.

I let out a heavy, defeated sigh, running a hand through my hair as the wind picks up across the peaks. I cut my eyes sideways at his massive frame. “Aapko laga mujhe aise zevar pasand hain?”

["Did you think I like this kind of jewelry?"]

Before I can blink, Hamza reaches deep into the inner pocket of his black kurta and pulls out a small, velvet box. The deep crimson fabric catches the faint amber glare.

I raise my eyebrows, my heart doing a treacherous, violent flip against my ribs. He doesn't say a word. He simply extends his broad hand, offering the elegant box to me like a peace offering.

I slowly reach out, my fingers brushing against his warm skin as I take it from his palm.

My fingers tremble slightly against the plush crimson fabric as I flip the small latch. I lift the lid, revealing a soft velvet pouch nestled inside the custom casing. Reaching in, my fingertips brush against something cool, fluid, and incredibly delicate.

I pull it out into the starlight. Anklets.

I hold the shimmering strand up between my thumbs, watching it glisten. The clean, brilliant white sheen instantly catches my eye. That’s not traditional silver. My eyes widen.

Platinum.

The band is thin yet structurally strong, entirely devoid of the loud, jingling bells typical of local jewelry. Instead, dangling at perfect intervals along the platinum chain are microscopic, intricately carved lotuses—their petals blushing with the unmistakable, brilliant fire of rare pink diamonds.

This is... breathtakingly beautiful.

I slowly turn my head to look at his profile, completely speechless.

Hamza doesn't move away. He gently reaches out, his fingers sliding beneath the delicate chain in my palm, lifting one of the shimmering lotuses to let the diamonds catch the moonlight. “Suna hai aapko kanwal bohot pasand hai?”

["I've heard you like lotuses a lot?"]

I genuinely do not know how or what to feel anymore. The crisis isn't the fact that this piece is staggeringly expensive. The real, operational terror is that... he knows my choices so thoroughly.

Swallowing down the sudden lump in my throat, I try to weaponize my tongue, “Pasand hai,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Aur aap meri pasand ki cheezon ko mere pairon mein rakhna chahte hain?”

["I like it. And you want to place the things I love at my feet?"]

A slow beautiful smile breaks, he doesn't drop his gaze. “Galat matt samajhiyega, lekin aapke har pasandida cheez ko main aapke kadmon par rakhunga.”

["Don't misunderstand me, but I will lay every single thing you love at your feet."]

“Khud ko bhi?”

["Yourself too?"]

“Main toh pehli mulaqat se hi wahan hoon, Seherzadi.”

["I've been right there since our very first meeting, Princess."]

My mind violently tracks back four years; remembering his bloody, battered face in that dimly lit hospital room, the metallic tang of iron in the air as I meticulously stitched up his torn forehead. Even then, covered in grime and targeted by the state, he had simply closed his eyes under my hands, completely leaning into my touch as if I were his only sanctuary.

Keeping a faded, cheap hairband for four long years of absolute silence and zero contact... it wasn't a criminal's eccentricity. It was a vow.

Before I can process the roar in my ears, Hamza shifts smoothly in the sand, dropping down to his knees at my feet. His large hands reach out, tenderly sliding my feet out of my sandals, wrapping the platinum strand around my right ankle and clicking the custom clasp into place.

It fits perfectly.

He pauses, leaning his heavy head down to press a quiet, lingering kiss right against the top of my foot.

A sudden, violent jolt of electricity shoots straight up my spine, settling into a deep, heavy warmth in my stomach that I haven't felt in decades. Or perhaps... never.

Hamza reaches up, smoothly taking the second platinum anklet from my frozen fingers. He repeats the motion with an agonizing slowness, the coarse, thick brush of his mustache scraping softly against my sensitive skin as he secures the left clasp.

My breath catches in my throat, my toes instinctively curling inward, burying themselves tight against the rich, dark fabric of his black kurta.

Why is he genuinely the perfect man I’ve ever wanted but... has such questionable hobbies?

I mean, the baseline criteria for a dream partner is entirely there—he’s deeply attentive, hyper-observant, completely devoted, and coordinates custom jewelry based on my favorite flower. He just happens to run a massive, illicit black-market syndicate on the weekends. Maybe a perfect partner really isn't found in the pristine, structured spaces you expect.

Hamza finally lets go of my ankles, straightening his broad shoulders as he looks up at me. “Jhanjhar bhi nahi hai isme, toh tum har roz pehen sakti ho.”

["There are no bells in this either, so you can wear it every single day."]

He settles back into the sand beside me.

“Kanwal toh mitti mein khilta hai na? Khalis ki alamat hai yeh,” I whisper, “Ki kaise kichad mein rehkar bhi apne upar daag nahi aane deti. Aap mujhe us layak samajte ho? Yeh janne ke baad bhi ki main kaise logon ka ilaaj karti hoon?”

["The lotus blooms in the mud, right? It's a symbol of purity. How despite living in the muck, it doesn't let a single stain touch it. Do you consider me worthy of that? Even after knowing what kind of people I treat?"]

Hamza doesn't hesitate. He reaches out, his calloused palm smoothly cupping the side of my face, his thumb wiping away a stray strand of hair. “Maine pehle hi kaha tha na, mujhe khalis se fark nahi padta. Mujhe tum chahiye—achcha, bura, aur har ek hissa jo chhipa hua hai.”

["I told you before, didn't I? I don't care about absolute purity. I want you—the good, the bad, and every single hidden piece that you keep concealed."]

His eyes burn into mine. “Aur tumne bhi toh mujhe quboola hai—ek hathiyar nahi, balki ek insaan ki tarah.”

["And you have accepted me too—not as a weapon, but as a human being."]

“Kaafi... pyaara taufa hai,” I mutter under my breath, looking down at the platinum to hide the sudden heat in my eyes.

["It's a very... lovely gift."]

“Wapsi taufa isse bada lunga,” he murmurs back. ["The return gift I take will be even bigger than this."]

A genuine, breathy chuckle escapes my lips. Hamza reaches out, his thick arms wrapping completely around my shoulders to pull me into his chest. Giving in to the exhaustion of the day, I wrap my arms around his waist, burying myself in his space.

The sensory overload is immediate. The faint, rich scent of his expensive perfume mixes with the sharp tang of sweat radiating off his warm skin after hours in the sun.

My nose brushes right against the edge of his black kurta where the top buttons are left open, the soft skin of my cheek grazing the cold, heavy links of his silver chains. He leans his head down, resting his chin firmly over my dark hair.

“Firse daadhi fasa matt dena,” I whisper directly into the fabric of his chest, my tone sharp but entirely fond.

["Don't get your beard tangled in my hair again."]

A low, vibrating chuckle rumbles against my cheek as his grip tightens around me.

I gently pull back from the heavy embrace, my fingers sliding up the thick column of his neck to lightly trace the sharp, rigid line of his cheekbone, “Mujhe maaf kardo maine aapko maara. Main aisa firse nahi karungi.”

["Forgive me for hitting you. I won't do it again."]

As my fingertips linger against his warm, dark brown skin, the close proximity reveals something. Scattered across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose are tiny, faint freckles, dusted over his face like hidden constellations. I want to stay right here and count every single one of them.

Hamza doesn't pull away. He allows my hand to remain pinned to his face, “Hmm. Aur mujhe bhi. Maine kuch zyada hi zaalimana baatein bol di thi.”

["Hmm. And me too. I said some things that were far too cruel."]

My fingers still against his cheek. “Aap mere baare mein sach mein aisa toh nahi sochte na?”

["You don't really think of me like that, do you?"]

“Kya tum sochti ho mere baare mein waisa?” he counters instantly.

["Do you think of me like that?"]

“Nahi...” I finally whisper, “Main samajhti hoon aapki majboori.”

["No... I understand your compulsion."]

Hamza offers a slow, solemn nod, accepting the truce. At this distance, his striking sap-green eyes are completely exposed, the sharp iris shot through with metallic flecks of gold and smoky grey under the starlight.

My gaze slips lower, dropping to his mouth, his lips are partially shaded by the coarse drop of his mustache, a thinner, dusky pink contrast.

Before my brain can register, I find myself leaning closer, tilting my chin up until the absolute crests of our lips are almost brushing, the heat of his breath fanning directly against my mouth.

“Hosh kho rahi hain aap, Sanaz sahiba.”

["You are losing your senses, Lady Sanaz."]

He doesn't lean back, and he doesn't close the final millimeter of distance. Instead, he uses my formal title like an anchor, his dark green eyes blazing down into mine in the starlight, waiting to see if his Seherzadi will snap out of the trance or completely throw her uniform into the fire.

I abruptly pull my face back, heat instantly rushing up to my cheeks. If there is one thing I deeply respect about this man, it is how he constantly, unyieldingly tries to protect my dignity, even from my own fleeting lapses in judgment and never once takes advantage of my vulnerability.

I steady my breath, “Kabhi aap bhi kho kar dekhiye. Achcha lagega.”

["You should try losing your senses sometime too. You'll like it."]

Hamza leans forward, a faint, teasing glint returning in his eyes. “Yeh sab aapko kaise pata?”

["How do you know all this?"]

“Aapke jaise bohot ziddi mareezon ko dekha hai maine,” I reply smoothly.

["I've seen many stubborn patients like you."]

“Mareezon ko. Main woh nahi.” The teasing warmth instantly vanishes from his face. “Aapne mera zid dekha nahi hai, Seherzadi. Jab main hosh khota hoon toh daag reh jaate hain.”

["Patients. I am not that. You haven't seen my stubbornness, Princess. When I lose my senses, stains are left behind."]

That sentence somehow makes me intensely aroused and deeply terrified at the exact same time.

I swallow hard, a visible gulp moving down the line of my throat. “Mujhe manzoor hai woh daag.”

["I accept those stains."]

We stare at each other for one infinite second. The gravity of what I’ve just admitted presses down on my chest until, unable to handle the burning sincerity in his eyes for a single second longer, I abruptly look away.

Hamza’s large hand reaches up, his fingertips gently gathering a loose strand of my hair and tucking it securely behind my ear. His touch lingers for a fraction of a second before he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss directly against the heated curve of my cheek.

My lips part slightly in a quiet gasp, my eyelashes fluttering shut as I instinctively turn my face toward his warmth.

Except... there is nothing there.

My balance gives out, and I violently lurch forward, almost face-planting straight into the coarse dirt of the sand slope. My eyes snap open, my internal processor short-circuiting.

He’s gone.

Hamza... Haramzada.

Instead of the fearsome Lion of Balochistan, Rizwan is standing a foot away, holding a thick wool woolen cloth, blinking down at me with an expression of pure, innocent neutrality.

I scramble to my feet, my cheeks burning with a mixture of residual heat and pure embarrassment. I vigorously dust the desert sand off the dark silk of my gown, aggressively pulling my tangled hair up into a tight, messy bun. “Aap kab aaye?”

["When did you come?"]

Rizwan blinks, entirely unbothered by my hostile tone. “Bas yeh shawl dena tha. Thand lage toh odh lijiyega.”

["Just had to give you this shawl. If you feel cold, please wrap it around yourself."]

I let out an irritated huff, snatching the fabric from his hands and loosely draping it over my shoulders. Near the perimeter, Shirani and a few other camp members emerge from the shadows, systematically packing the large plastic leftover containers into the trunks of the waiting vehicles.

“Raaste mein bhuk lage toh khaa lena,” the same elderly woman calls out, offering a warm wave.

I instinctively look down; my prominent pulao food baby is still undeniably present under the fabric of my dress, though thankfully less tight than before.

“Car mein baitho sab, main thodi der mein aata hoon,” Hamza’s deep, commanding voice echoes across the dirt clearing.

["Everyone sit in the cars, I'll be out in a moment."]

Within seconds, the security detachment and Rizwan filing into three of the heavily armored vehicles. I step toward the remaining SUV, the one equipped with the custom open-roof facility, sliding into the seat.

Through the clear pane of the window, I keep my eyes locked on his distant figure. Hamza stands near the center of the camp, his frame expanding as he slips back into his tailored waistcoat and the long, heavy commander's jacket.

Shirani steps forward, his movements solemn as he hands him the massive, white chieftain turban. As Hamza wraps the heavy cloth around his head, the desert wind begins to blow like crazy, whipping the dust into violent spirals around them.

My focus entirely on the movement of his lips, catching the fragments of his voice slicing through the gale.

“Pehle Rehman, fir Uzair, aur ab aapke pote ke saath Baloch bachche,” Hamza says, his face hardening, “Aisa aadmi qayamat tak nahi rukega, Shirani sahab. Agar zyada der ki toh SP Chaudhary Aslam mujh tak, aap tak bhi pohonch sakta hai.”

["First Rehman, then Uzair, and now Baloch children along with your grandson. Such a man won't stop until doomsday, Master Shirani. If we delay any longer, SP Chaudhary Aslam can reach me, and you as well."]

Shirani offers a single, heavy nod, “Jo tum sahi samjhoge, Hamza. Wahi hoga.”

["Whatever you deem right, Hamza. That is what will happen."]

“Uzair do mahine baad Dubai jail se wapas aa raha hai,” Hamza responds, “SP use maarne zarur aayega. Kya karna hai, kaise karna hai... Woh aap tay kijiye.”

["Uzair is returning from Dubai jail in two months. The SP will definitely come to kill him. What to do, how to do it... you decide that."]

Before Hamza turns away from Shirani, their eyes simultaneously shift, locking onto a single figure standing near the edge of the fading crowd. It’s a young boy, barely old enough to shoulder a rifle, his dark eyes wide.

Are they...?

There is no conversation after that heavy, lingering glance. The brutal reality of the province needs no explanation. Hamza simply breaks the look, his heavy combat boots crunching against the dirt as he strides purposefully toward the SUV.

I instantly snap my head forward, staring rigidly out the windshield to pretend I haven’t spent the last five minutes reading his lips.

The driver's side door swings open, and his frame slides into the seat beside me. Without a word, he reaches up, unpinning the gold chains and unwrapping the heavy white turban, tossing the fabric onto the backseat.

He hits the console button, and the mechanical roof groans, retracting completely to expose us to the vast, ink-black sky.

Ahead of us, the headlights of the first armored SUV flash once before the vehicle rolls forward into the dark terrain. The second follows, then the third, creating a protective trail across the wasteland.

Finally, our car moves, bringing up the rear.

Only us.

“Thand lag rahi hai?” Hamza’s voice cuts through the low rumble of the engine. ["Are you feeling cold?"]

I silently shake my head, the crazy desert wind instantly catching the loose strands of my hair, whipping them across my face. I lean back completely into the leather headrest.

But as I shift my weight, a sudden, alarming restriction pulls tight across my ribs.

My right hand covertly slips down the side of my hip, my fingers frantically tracing the hidden zipper of my silk gown. I give it a subtle, desperate tug. Please don't tear…

“Zor se khichogi toh toot jayegi.”

["If you pull it hard, it will break."]

Hamza’s hand reaches across the console, hovering in the small space between us for a hesitant second, before his fingers gently find the metal pull at my hip. With agonizing slowness, he slides the zipper down, releasing the structural tension of the silk.

The fabric parts. The side of my midriff, waist, and upper hip is suddenly exposed to the night air, but the paralyzing restriction vanishes. I let out a deep, heavy chest expansion.

“Behtar?” he questions softly. ["Better?"]

“Shukriya,” I hum under my breath, my hands instantly scrambling to drag Rizwan’s thick wool shawl down. I pull the heavy folds tight over my hip, desperately trying to hide the pale, silvery stretch marks lining the skin.

“Kichad mein jo kanwal khilta hai,” Hamza starts quietly, “Uski pankhudiyon par mitti ki lakeerein hoti hain. Unhe mitao mat, Seherzadi. Woh batati hain ki tumne kahan se guzar kar apni hifazat ki hai.”

["The lotus that blooms in the mud has lines of earth on its petals. Don't erase them, Princess. They tell the story of where you have passed through to protect yourself."]

My fingers freeze against the wool. I slowly let my hands drop, allowing the shawl to slide just enough to let the wind graze the exposed skin. “Aapke liye aasan hai bolna.”

["It's easy for you to say."]

“Haan, shayad,” he replies, a rare, somber honesty settling into the lines around his eyes. “Main nahi soch sakta tum har mahine kin halaton mein khud ko sambhalti ho ya fir aayine mein khud ko dekhne se darti ho. Lekin samajh sakta hoon. Main yeh nahi bolunga tum be-aib ho. Main bhi nahi hoon. Woh kehte hain na khoobsurti dekhne waale ki aankhon mein hoti hai.”

["Yeah, perhaps. I can't imagine what circumstances you manage yourself in every month, or how you fear looking at yourself in the mirror. But I can understand. I won't say you are flawless. Neither am I. They say beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, don't they?"]

I stay absolutely silent. Down below, the platinum lotuses feel incredibly light yet piercingly cold against my bare ankle.

Twisting my fingers into the wool, I ask the one question. “Kab tak?”

["Until when?"]

Hamza shifts slightly in the driver's seat, his heavy eyebrows raising.

“Kab tak?” I repeat, my voice cracking slightly. “Bezaar nahi hojaoge? Mohabbat karna aasan hai, mohabbat karte rehna mushkil.”

["Until when? Won't you get fed up? Falling in love is easy, staying in love is difficult."]

“Chaar saal pehle tumhe jaane diya tha, kyunki tum mohabbat thi, zid nahi. Roz aayine mein khud ko dekhta hoon, toh apne is chehre par tumhari di hui nishaani dikhti hai, tab bezaar nahi hua.”

[“Four years ago I let you go, because you were love, not a stubborn obsession. Every day I look in the mirror and see the mark you left on this face, and I didn't get fed up.”]

My eyes instinctively lift, tracking the faint, silvered line of the scar cutting across his forehead.

“Tumhare liye mohabbat karna aur rehna do alag baatein hongi, Seherzadi,” Hamza continues. “Mere liye yeh dono ek hi hain. Main jis mitti se hoon, wahan log dushmaniyan pashthon tak nibhate hain. Toh phir tumne yeh kaise soch liya ki main apni mohabbat adhoori chhor dunga?”

["For you, falling in love and staying in love might be two different things, Princess. For me, they are the same. The soil I am from, people carry out enmities for generations. So how did you think I would leave my love incomplete?"]

I stay completely quiet, letting out a long, shaky sigh. “Shayad mujhe hi zyada tashkeen ki zarurat hai.”

["Perhaps it is I who needs more reassurance."]

“Toh woh main aapko dilata rahunga. Bezaar nahi hounga.”

["Then I will keep giving it to you. I won't get fed up."]

A tiny, defenseless smile breaks through.

Reaching across the console, I let my hand slip into his, my fingers curling around his warm palm. I close my eyes, letting the rhythmic thrum of the engine wash over me, allowing my thoughts to wander into the dangerous, prohibited territory of a real future with him.

But the peace shatters into pure, electric friction the exact second his hand leaves mine.

His calloused fingers shift, tracing a slow, deliberate path up the exposed skin of my side where the silk zipper hangs open. As his rough fingertip lightly brushes against the silver stretch marks on my hip, a violent, helpless quiver hits my core, my eyes flying open.

“Achcha nahi hai?” he murmurs, his green eyes flicking sideways to catch the sudden hitch in my breath.

["Is it not good?"]

I frantically shake my head, my knuckles gripping the edge of the seat, “Bas... thodi nazuk hoon.”

["Just... I'm a little delicate."]

A smug smile edges into the dark shadow of his beard. Huff. He doesn’t pull back. Instead, his hand traces further inward, sliding past the divided silk of my gown with an agonizingly slow, grounding pressure.

I would be lying to myself if I said I didn't absolutely melt under the coarse texture of his rough hand against my skin. A sharp, ragged gasp escapes my parted lips as his broad palm completely slips inside, his fingers spreading wide to firmly, tenderly palm the soft pudge of my tummy.

He can probably feel the erratic thrum of my heartbeat vibrating straight through my skin. God, this is so incredibly embarrassing.

Before I can even attempt to smooth over the awkwardness, his fingers twitch, and he gives the soft skin of my tummy a slight, playful pinch.

“Ah!” I wince, my hand instantly flying down to sharply slap the back of his rough knuckles. Rude. Defensively, I yank the heavy shawl back down, tucking the fabric firmly over my exposed midriff so I don't catch a sudden chill from the howling highway wind.

Hamza lets out a low, vibrating chuckle against the rush of the air, entirely unbothered by the assault. His large hand remains on top of the fabric now, his palm slowly slipping down from the curve of my waist to rest steadily against my thigh.

It stays there—a grounding weight that warms my skin through the wool, comforting and constant, never once escalating further into the dark territory.

Outside the open roof, the jagged silhouettes of the Balochi mountains roll past like ancient, silent guards, the brilliant white crest of the moon faithfully following the line of our four-car convoy.

“Kya soch rahi ho, Sanaz?” he questions softly. ["What are you thinking, Sanaz?"]

“Kuch nahi. Bas... soch rahi hoon ki Karachi pohoch kar is mitti ka rang kaise badal jayega.”

["Nothing. Just... thinking about how once we reach Karachi, the color of this soil will completely change."]

I lean my head back against the leather, tracking the stars.

I’m not going to lie to myself anymore—I genuinely had fun here. For the first time in a long decade I have experienced hospitality that didn't feel wrapped in razor wire.

Yes, Bade Sahab Dawood and Major Iqbal are always perfectly polite, but their version of hospitality feels like a rigid administrative duty rather than genuine, human warmth.

Iqbal only treats me with high regard because I manage the medical care for his daughter; and as for Dawood... I am never truly certain what reality hides behind his calculating eyes.

But here, in the middle of the dirt and the smoke, the warmth was terrifyingly real.

“Mitti ka rang kuch bhi ho,” Hamza responds, his voice dropping into that possessive cadence.

“Tum par sirf mera rang chadhega. Aur woh koi UTAAR NAHI SAKTA.”

["Whatever the color of the soil may be. Only my color will bleed into you. And no one in this world can ever wash it off."]

Masterlist.

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The final chapter also has it's own font, which is once again a lovely detail. The chapter however, starts with Hamza being tortured, and I promptly shut my eyes, cuz I refuse to watch my Varun babu, or Kabir for that matter, be beaten up (Ranveer has always given me lil bro vibes). Atp, Maddy calls Hassan, who is overseeing the torture, and asks him to leave Hamza. Srsly, stop hitting Hamza guys. Now Maddy threatens him by saying that they're gonna shell Pakistan's fronts, if they don't let Hamza go, which, is weird to say the least, cuz since when did India, or any country for that matter, start claiming spies?

When that doesn't work, Maddy blackmails him with info that Hassan was consorting with Israel. They play Rasputin for this scene, and I do love the song. The fact that Rasputin was Jewish (I just found it he wasn’t) is a little on the nose though. What I'm wondering is, is Hassan selling out his own country or what? Cuz, if he is, then isn't it weird that he doesn't mind being shelled down and accepts being a jihadi, but at the same time is willing to betray his country?

Maddy says that Israel informed them of the meeting, which is a rather cringe dialogue, but that's like a trend with Maddy's dialogues atp. Either way, I'm just glad that this makes Hassan stop people from beating up poor Hamza. Hassan is confused as to who to throw under the bus if Hamza is gonna be set free, and Hamza offers up Uzair; if this isn't doomed yaoi, I don't know what is. They don't even get to kiss once. Shirani turns out to be a pretty okay dude, Hamza leaves Rizwan in charge, I'm guessing; and is rudely dumped at Margala Hills.

A car catches up to him here, and he gets in to meet his co-ordinator, who is ofc, Jamali. Now here's the problem with this entire thing. In my wee opinion, it is very unlikely, that an operation like this, where a spy is made to rise so high that he literally becomes a politician, would actually happen; because the simple fact is, politicians, or even someone at Hamza's position in the 2nd part, are pretty conspicuous. It is inevitable that their past is going to be dug into, so this entire thing, although makes for a rather fun duology, doesn't make much sense, at least to me. But, ofc, I get that this part of the film is fiction, although I wouldn't exactly call it realistic. Doja Cat plays for Jamali, which is a fun choice. Hamza laughs at the situation, in an exasperated sort of way.

Now I know a lot of people will disagree, but imo, the whole Jamali is a spy thing comes a little out of left field. Also, thanks to the people on here that spoiled it for me 😡. Jamali gives Hamza his passport, and a lil picture of Yalina and Zayan, and asks Hamza to forget them (I'm sobbing).

Here, Hamza expresses regret that he couldn't kill Dawood, to which, Jamali responds by hinting that he has been poisoning him. In the throwback, Iqbal spanks Jamali??? But in general, while watching this scene, I was so surprised, cuz this is just so weird. This man is actively causing attacks against the country, is basically also the mastermind behind the fake currency, and u refuse to just kill him, cuz that's not as FUN? WTH? Does it not occur to anyone in this film's universe that as long as he's alive, no matter how sick, he will keep doing that stuff, which can really harm our country. This is just so strange to me.

Okay, finally Hamza is going back to India (poor Jamali, he doesn't get to go back). Hamza goes to meet Maddy, and he tells him that "he did good". What the actual hyuck? U better give him a much bigger hug than the frigid one u threw at him, cuz my man has been thru hell. It's just heartbreaking to see Jaskirat burn the image of another family he lost, poor baby. Also, in Sikhism, cigarettes are severely looked down upon (I would say rightfully so), and I like that he crushes the cigarettes with such relish.

Jaskirat runs away the next day, back to his hometown, looking so handsome in a turban; and ofc, Arijit Singh starts playing, cuz we haven't suffered enough. It's terribly sad, not to mention, the expression Ranveer be making, makes me sob so badly. Why is Arijit's voice so effing sad. This scene is so tough to sit thru, cuz it's so bare. Jaskirat is seeing the house he destroyed, the tree his father hanged from, his own house, his mother and sister and her kids, oh it's so sad, I don't get how he can take such grief. And like, he can't even go to them, oh, it's horrible, and definitely not good for my depression.

This might be the only film, which is properly going on even thru the end credits, which show, Jaskirat's days at the academy. I guess this wasn't shown earlier, so as not to spoil stuff, cuz later on Hamza uses a lot of the stuff he's taught here. This also makes this movie have the 2nd best credits after the OG Barbie movies. Honestly, these training scenes are so interesting, I wish we could have more of them; I hate to repeat myself, but this should've been 3 parts.

How does Sushant Bansal know that Uzair will be easily manipulated? I mean he's right, but how? Also, is that a lovely picture of Akshaye on the screen, swoon.

The last scene is Omar being his usual over-enthusiastic self and being locked up for it I think. Ya know, I couldn't help being worried that they were gonna start torturing Uzair, but my sister was like, why would they, the one in-charge knows he's not actually a spy, so why waste time. Now I dunno if this makes sense, but I hope that was the case; don't even ask me why. I guess it's cuz Uzair is just willing to go along with anything, that I find hard to blame him for stuff. Needless to say, I'd make a terrible spy.