"Baba, I don't want to live in someone else's home," I protested, crossing my arms in defiance. "We already found a hostel just outside the campus."

Baba, unfazed by my dramatics, continued stirring his chai, his voice calm yet firm. "Beta, if you stay at Noraiz's house, you'll be safe. You'll have family there. It'll feel like home."

Home? I almost scoffed.

Not when that home belonged to a man with two wives. Yes, two. And, more importantly—Zavian. Nope. Not happening. Ever.

Mama, who had been silently listening, finally nodded in agreement, her expression mirroring mine. "She's right," she said, placing a hand on Baba's arm. "Why live in someone else's home when she can have her own space?"

Exactly! Thank you, Mama.

Baba sighed, as if he had already expected this resistance. "I just want you to be comfortable," he said, shaking his head.

Comfortable? Living under the same roof as him? I'd rather fight for my life in a tiny hostel room than spend even a second in that house.

"I'll be just fine living on my own," I said, lifting my chin. "Besides, I'll have roommates. It's a great opportunity to make friends, experience independence."

Baba sighed, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. "Beta, it's not about independence. It's about knowing you have family nearby, people who will look out for you."

I pressed my lips together, resisting the urge to groan. "Baba, I'll be fine. It's London, not Mars."

Mama nodded along, backing me up. "She's right. Let her be on her own, experience things her way. She's responsible."

Baba gave me a long look before shaking his head. "Responsible, yes. But stubborn, even more so."

I grinned. "Exactly. That's why I should get to decide."

Baba sighed again, this time deeper, before picking up his phone. "Let's see what Noraiz says."

I froze. Wait. What?

The next thing I knew, Baba was dialing, and my stomach flipped as the line connected.

Oh Allah. Please let Uncle Noraiz be out of town, off the grid, lost in the mountains—anything but answering this call.

But luck had never really been my best friend. A deep, familiar voice echoed through the speaker.

"As-salamu alaykum, Hamid! Kese ho?" (How are you?)

Oh shit!

"Alhamdullilah. What about you?"

"Oh as handsome as ever. Or sunao. How's Iman's preperations going? Must be hectic," he said as Baba nodded.

I sat cross-legged on Mama and Baba's bed, my laptop resting on my lap, pretending to be busy. But in reality, my ears were completely tuned in to their conversation.

"Oh ji, very hectic," Baba chuckled, leaning back against the headboard. "The paperwork alone is a nightmare, and this ladli of mine has a list of things she must take along."

Mama smirked, folding a dupatta on the bed. "Not just a list, Hamid. Three lists."

I rolled my eyes. "Mama!"

Uncle Noraiz laughed from the other side. "Haye, Iman beta, why stress so much? London isn't a jungle. You'll find everything here!"

"I know," I muttered under my breath, pretending to type, "but desi spices and chappals are not the same."

Baba shook his head, amused. "She's worried about food, not her degree."

"Well, food is important," Uncle Noraiz agreed. "By the way, tell her no need to worry about settling in. We're here, and Zavian will be around to help."

My fingers stilled over the keyboard.

Zavian.

My stomach twisted.

Baba smiled. "I told her that, but you know her. She's insisting on staying in a hostel."

"Aray, what hostel?" Uncle scoffed. "Why should she stay with strangers when she has family here?"

I closed my eyes, inhaling sharply. Not this argument again.

Mama, thankfully, intervened. "Bhai, let's see. She's still deciding."

"Hmm." There was a pause. "Put her on the phone. Let me convince her."

My eyes flew open. What? No. No, no, no—

Before I could protest, Baba handed me the phone, looking way too amused. "Lo, talk to him."

I hesitated before bringing the phone to my ear. "Assalamu alaykum, Uncle."

"Wa alaykum assalam, beta! So, London ki nayi wargi?" (London's new resident?)

I groaned. "Not yet."

"Haan, haan, bas visa lagay ga, aur ho jao gi." (Yes, yes, just get your visa, and you're set.)

I chewed my lip. "Uncle, I—"

"Beta, listen. You'll love it here. And Zavian—"

I flinched. "Please don't bring him into this."

Uncle laughed. "Aray, why not? He's responsible, smart, and he knows the city better than anyone."

I clenched my jaw. Yeah, and he's also the last person I want to be around.

Baba and Mama watched me with curiosity as I took a deep breath, gripping the phone tighter.

I needed a way out of this. Fast.

After what felt like an eternity of back-and-forth—me insisting on independence, him pushing for "family values"—I finally struck a deal.

"Fine, Uncle," I exhaled, rubbing my temple. "I'll visit every weekend. And whenever I'm free."

"Every weekend, pakka?" (For sure?)

"Ji, pakka," I confirmed, already dreading the promise.

He hummed in satisfaction. "Ab aisi baat karni chahiye thi, na?" (Now that's how you should've spoken.)

I rolled my eyes, but Baba grinned, clearly pleased. "See? Solved."

I handed the phone back, falling against Mama's shoulder with a sigh. "Your best friend is persistent."

Mama chuckled, patting my head. "You mean stubborn—just like you."

I gasped. "Mama!"

Baba just laughed, while Uncle continued talking about how excited he was to have me there. I wasn't sure if excited was the right word for how I felt. Because now, I had another problem.

Zavian Noraiz.

A name I had spent years pushing into the forgotten corners of my mind.

Now, he was being dragged back into my life.

_

I still remember the first time I saw him.

I was sixteen, sitting in the corner of the living room during one of those grand family dinners at Noraiz Uncle's house. The air was filled with laughter and the clinking of plates, but my focus had shifted entirely.

To him.

Zavian Noraiz. Nineteen. Tall. Broad shoulders. That effortless, slightly ruffled look, like he had just walked out of a magazine shoot without even trying. He wasn't just handsome—he was the kind of handsome that made you stare longer than you should, that made your stomach flip for no reason. Sharp jawline, a hint of stubble even at nineteen, and eyes that held something unreadable.

I never spoke to him. Not even once.

Just stolen glances from across the room. And sometimes—just sometimes—when I dared to look up, I'd find his gaze already there. It wasn't much. A second, maybe two. But enough to send my heart racing.

Then, years passed.

I was twenty when I saw him again. He was twenty-three.

It was at another dinner, but this time, something was different. Maybe it was the way he carried himself now—taller, sharper, with the confidence of a man who knew exactly who he was. Or maybe it was just me, finally realizing that the little crush I had at sixteen wasn't so little anymore.

I didn't talk to him then either.

But when our eyes met across the room, something shifted. A lingering gaze. A moment stretched just a little too long.

And just like that—boom.

It hit me.

Zavian Noraiz wasn't just a passing crush.

He was the kind of person who left a mark, even without a single word.

_

As soon as the phone call ended, I headed to my room, letting out a long sigh. Well, weekends wouldn't be that bad. At least I'd have some space during the week.

Pushing the door open, I barely had the energy to turn on the lights before I slumped onto the bed, face-first into the pillows. Ya Allah, what a day. My body ached with exhaustion, my brain still reeling from the whirlwind of conversations, convincing, and last-minute concerns.

I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. The reality of it all was sinking in, slowly but surely. London. Imperial College. A new life. And... him.

A groan escaped my lips as I covered my face with both hands. Zavian Noraiz. Why did he have to come up in all this? Why did my baba have to be best friends with his father? And more importantly—why did my heart have to do that stupid little flip at the thought of him?

I shook my head, pushing the thought away. Nope. Not going there.

Instead, I reached for my phone, unlocking it to check the endless list of things I still had to do. Visa paperwork. Packing. Shopping. The hostel confirmation email. So much to handle, and yet, all I wanted was to shut my eyes and let sleep pull me under.

But just as I started to relax, my phone buzzed.

A message.

From an unknown number.

I frowned, sitting up slightly as I opened it.

"Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

My brows knitted together. What?

Before I could even process the unfamiliar words, another message followed.

"London suits you."

Short. Clipped. No greeting. No explanation. Just five words that felt heavier than they should.

My stomach flipped.

I stared at the screen, my pulse drumming in my ears. Mashal-e-Mehtaab. No one had ever called me that before. Not my family. Not my friends.

But I knew exactly who it was.

Zavian Noraiz.

I stared at the message, my fingers hovering over the screen, unsure whether to reply or ignore it.

Mashal-e-Mehtaab.

The words rolled through my mind, unsettling yet... intriguing. Like a whisper in the dark, meant only for me.

London suits you.

My throat felt dry. I hadn't even left yet, but somehow, he had already decided. And what did that even mean? Was it a compliment? A taunt? A statement laced with something deeper?

I wanted to scoff. Typical. Zavian Noraiz never wasted words. He was all sharp edges and unreadable expressions, a man who made you feel his presence without even trying.

My thumb hesitated over the keyboard.

"Who is this?" I typed, but before I could press send, I deleted it.

He knows I know.

Instead, I locked my phone and tossed it aside, flopping back against my pillows with an exasperated sigh.

But no matter how much I tried, sleep didn't come easy that night. Because in the darkness of my room, his words still lingered, carving their place in my mind.

Mashal-e-Mehtaab.

And damn it... I liked the way it sounded.