I watched him, my gaze trailing over the way his fingers moved swiftly over the laptop—effortless, precise. The screen's glow cast sharp shadows over his face, highlighting the slight furrow in his brow as he concentrated. A flicker of tension in his jaw. Then, a breath later, he relaxed, fingers twitching once before resuming their relentless rhythm.

His earlier words still lingered in the air between us. I'm sorry.

Good. He should be. Or maybe... maybe I wouldn't have talked to him ever again.

I cleared my throat, breaking the silence. "So..." My fingers curled around the hem of my sleeve as I watched him carefully. "You do illegal racing?" My voice was light, almost casual, but I was testing the waters. "Not something I expected from you."

Maybe he'd snap again. Maybe he'd shut me out, the way he always did when he didn't like my questions.

I braced myself.

But instead, his gaze flicked up to mine, something dark and unreadable in his expression—before the corner of his lips tipped into a slow, amused smile.

Okay...?

He leaned back lazily, stretching, his hands clasped behind his head. The motion made his shirt pull taut across his shoulders, his muscles flexing beneath the fabric. Effortlessly confident. Completely unbothered.

"It's just racing," he said, his tone smooth, almost lazy. "I go. I win. I come back." His eyes never left mine, watching—waiting. And then, just as casually, he added, "If you're worried about me being with other girls... don't be.

I felt my breath hitch.

His lips curved into something dangerously close to a smirk. "I only like you."

Bold.

My stomach flipped—an annoying, treacherous reaction—but that was private information. No way was I letting him know.

I huffed, forcing nonchalance into my voice. "Of course you do," I muttered, looking away, hoping he didn't see the way my fingers clenched in my lap.

He chuckled, low and amused. "Mashal-e-Mehtaab..." My eyes flickered back to him, only to find him watching me with a look that sent heat crawling up my neck.

"What?" I snapped, defensive.

His smirk deepened, something dark flickering in his gaze. "You're adorable when you pretend not to care."

I rolled my eyes, crossing my arms, trying to ignore the way my heart hammered against my ribs. "I don't pretend."

"Mm," he hummed, unconvinced, tilting his head. "Then why are you blushing?"

I stiffened. "I'm not blushing."

He just chuckled again, leaning forward slightly, voice dropping lower. "Liar."

He shut his laptop with a quiet click and stood, stretching slightly before rolling his shoulders back.

"Namaz parh kar aaya," he murmured, voice smooth and unbothered as he walked toward the stairs. (I'll be back after my prayer.)

I sat there, frozen, watching him go—until my mouth worked faster than my brain.

"You... You speak Urdu? You pray?" The disbelief in my tone was so obvious that he actually stopped mid-step and turned, raising a brow at me.

His lips quirked, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Why do you sound so shocked?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it. "I just— I mean, I didn't think you'd—"

"Mashal-e-Mehtaab," he drawled, shaking his head, "You really underestimate me.

And with that, he disappeared up the stairs, leaving me staring after him like an idiot.

He was so confusing. One second, I thought he was the kind of man who wouldn't blink before breaking bones, the type to gamble away his soul without a second thought. I even suspected—just for a fleeting moment—that he did drugs. And now... prayer?

Wow.

I shook my head, exhaling slowly. What kind of contradiction was this man? A racer, a gambler, a walking danger sign—yet here he was, excusing himself for namaz like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Maybe I didn't know him at all.

Maybe I never would.

The scent of freshly cooked food filled the air, and a few minutes later, his mother walked in, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Zavian chale gaya?" she asked, looking around. (Zavian left?)

I blinked, startled. "Uh—no, he just went to pray."

Her expression softened instantly, and I caught something close to pride flicker in her gaze before she turned back to the kitchen.

Interesting.

So she liked that he prayed.

And for some reason, that realization made something tighten in my chest.

Well... I liked that too. More than I should.

A small smile tugged at my lips before I quickly wiped it away. Confusing idiot. One second, he was a reckless racer, a man who spoke of breaking bones and burying secrets without hesitation. The next, he was leaving for namaz like he wasn't the same person who casually admitted to nearly killing a man in front of me.

What was he?

A contradiction wrapped in danger. A storm I had no business stepping into.

I exhaled, shaking my head. Nope. I wouldn't let my guard down. Not for a second.

Fifteen minutes later, he was back, his lips moving in a barely audible murmur, like he was finishing the last of a quiet prayer. His hands ran through his damp hair, his usual sharp intensity softened—just a little.

I watched him, arms crossed. "So, do you actually believe in God, or is this just another contradiction to add to the list?"

He looked at me then, really looked. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his gaze before his lips curved into that slow, knowing smirk.

"Allah pe shak hai tumhe?" (Do you doubt Allah?) he asked, voice lower, quieter.

I swallowed. "That's not what I meant."

He stepped closer, not rushing, just there—commanding without trying. "Then what do you mean, Mashal-e-Mehtaab?"

My brows furrowed, a scowl tugging at my lips. "It's just... you..." I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. "I shouldn't be the one to judge anyone, but... forget it." Frustration laced my voice as I looked away.

He didn't let it slide.

"Nahi, bolo." (No, say it.) His voice was smooth, coaxing—but there was an edge to it, something firm, unrelenting.

I crossed my arms tighter. "You're... confusing."

His smirk deepened, a glint of amusement flashing in his dark eyes. "That's not exactly a new revelation."

I shot him a glare. "I thought you were the kind of guy who doesn't care about right or wrong. The kind who does whatever he wants, whenever he wants."

He stepped closer, his presence pressing down on me. "And what if I am?" His voice dipped lower. "Would that scare you?"

I held my ground, refusing to let my pulse betray me. "No." A lie.

He chuckled, the sound dark and knowing. "You overthink too much, Mashal-e-Mehtaab. Maybe you should stop trying to figure me out."

I huffed. "Maybe you should stop being such a contradiction."

His gaze flickered over my face, something unreadable in his expression. "Contradictions make life interesting."

I rolled my eyes. "Or exhausting."

His smirk didn't waver. "Depends on who you ask."

I should leave. I should eat dinner and go back to my hostel, keep my distance from him and his world. But instead, I asked, "Why do you pray?"

His brows lifted slightly. "What kind of question is that?"

I crossed my arms. "You're not exactly... the type."

His gaze darkened, the amusement in them dimming. "And what type is that?"

I hesitated. "The kind that..." I struggled for the words. "The kind that threatens people, races illegally, probably breaks noses without blinking—"

His lips twitched. "Not probably."

I glared. "You get my point."

He was quiet for a moment, studying me, and then he said, "You think I don't believe in anything?"

I blinked at the sudden shift in his tone. It wasn't teasing anymore.

"I don't know what you believe in," I admitted.

He exhaled, tilting his head slightly. "I believe in Allah."

I stilled.

He continued, voice quieter now, steadier. "I believe in His words. I believe in the weight of my actions." He met my gaze, unwavering. "I'm not a good man, Mashal-e-Mehtaab, but that doesn't mean I don't know what's right and wrong."

I stared at him, my heart knocking against my ribs. I didn't know what I expected him to say, but it wasn't that.

"Then why..." I gestured vaguely. "All of this?"

His lips curved into something unreadable. "Because sometimes the world isn't as simple as good and bad."

I had no response to that.

And maybe that was his intention. Because before I could ask more, before I could push, he stepped back, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking something off.

"Come on," he murmured, nodding toward the kitchen. "Dinner's getting cold."

I followed him, but my mind was still reeling.

Zavian was a contradiction. A dangerous one.

And I was starting to think I wasn't ready to unravel him.

The scent of freshly cooked biryani filled the dining room, the steam curling into the air as Aunt Sidra set the dishes down. I smiled at her, genuinely, as I took my seat.

"It smells amazing, Aunty."

She patted my hand with a warm chuckle. "Eat, beta. You've lost weight."

Zavian snorted beside me. "That's the first thing every Pakistani mother says."

Aunt Sidra swatted his arm, rolling her eyes. "And you? You're always off doing God knows what. Have you even eaten a proper meal this week?"

He smirked, reaching for the raita. "I'm alive, aren't I?"

I ignored their banter, scooping some rice onto my plate. "Uncle Noraiz is still in America?"

Aunt Sidra nodded, sighing. "Yes. Business meetings, negotiations. He was supposed to be back last month, but things got delayed."

I hummed. "Amsterdam was the same. One thing after another. If I had known the workload would be that insane, I wouldn't have gone."

Her eyes twinkled with curiosity. "Oh? You never really told me how it was."

I felt Zavian shift In front of me. He didn't say anything, but I knew he was listening.

I smiled, launching into a lighthearted version of my Amsterdam trip—the museums, the food, the endless meetings, and the struggle of adjusting to the cold. What I didn't mention was the part where Zavian had shown up out of nowhere, dragging me into his dangerous world, a moment that still clung to the back of my mind like a shadow I couldn't shake.

I exhaled softly, stirring my rice with my spoon. "But still... I miss Pakistan. Everyone."

Aunt Sidra's gaze softened, a knowing smile touching her lips. "I know it's hard, beta. But you're visiting after your exams, aren't you?" She reached over, patting my hand gently.

I nodded. "I am... but two weeks still won't be enough." A sigh escaped me. "It never is."

Her fingers squeezed mine in understanding. "It never feels like enough when home is in your heart."

Zavian, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke, his voice low but amused. "That's why some of us never leave."

I glanced at him, narrowing my eyes slightly. "Some of us also don't have a PhD to finish."

His lips curved. "True. But some of us also don't have to go halfway across the world just to run away."

My grip tightened around my spoon. I wasn't going to take the bait. Not tonight.

Instead, I smiled sweetly. "Not running away. Just... expanding my horizons."

Zavian leaned back, smirking. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

I inhaled slowly, ignoring the way my heart picked up at the name. I wouldn't let him get under my skin.

Not tonight.

The moment my phone rang, I glanced up instinctively. Ali's name flashed across the screen—a video call.l

Aunt Sidra smiled warmly. "Pick it up, dear. We won't mind."

I hesitated for a second, but then sighed and answered. The screen lit up with Ali's grinning face.

"Assalam Alaikum, chipkali." His voice was way too cheerful. (Lizard.)

I rolled my eyes, already prepared for battle. "Lizard ki aulaad to tum ho, Ali. Mujhe kuch na kaho." I shot back, leaning back into my chair. (You're the son of a lizard. Don't call me that.)

Aunt Sidra bit back a smile, clearly amused. Meanwhile, Zavian ate in silence, not even sparing the screen a glance.

"Oho, ghussa mat karo. I was just checking if you're still alive after dealing with all those angrez log." Ali teased, laughing. (Oh ho, don't get mad. I was just checking if you're still alive after dealing with all those foreigners.)

"Haan haan, and here I thought you actually missed me," I huffed dramatically. (Yeah, yeah, and here I thought you actually missed me.)

"Aray, of course I did. Tumhara naatak kon sunta warna?" Ali smirked. (Of course I did. Who else would listen to your drama?)

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help the small smile tugging at my lips. "Point."

Ali grinned, leaning closer to the camera. "I called you for a reason, Iman."

I nodded absentmindedly, taking a bite of my biryani. "Haan bolo?" (Yeah, speak.)

"Mama and Baba found a rishta for you."

The words barely registered before I inhaled the wrong way, choking violently on my food. My fork clattered against the plate as I coughed, eyes watering. "Pardon?!"

Ali winced at my reaction. "Aray, relax! It's just a rishta—"

"Just a rishta?!" I wheezed, reaching for my water. "Mujhe kya catalogue mein daal diya hai?!" (Did they put me in a catalog?!)

Ali burst into laughter, while Aunt Sidra quickly passed me a napkin, trying to suppress a chuckle of her own. But it wasn't her or Ali that sent a chill down my spine.

It was the silence.

The heavy, dangerous silence from across the table.

I didn't dare look up immediately, but when I did—Zavian was staring.

Not eating.

Not blinking.

Just watching.

The grip on his fork was tight, knuckles faintly white.

Not thrilled was an understatement.

The air in the room shifted.

A heavy, suffocating weight settled over my shoulders, pressing against my chest. I swallowed hard, forcing a laugh that came out more nervous than I intended. "You're joking, right?"

Ali gave me a flat look. "When have I ever joked about rishtas?"

I wanted to scream always because, surely, this was some kind of prank. But deep down, I knew it wasn't.

"Taya Abu's friend's son. He's in London too, doing his PhD at some other university. Good guy, apparently. Mama really wants you to meet him."

I felt the blood drain from my face.

Oh. Oh, shit.

A horrible, twisting sensation curled in my stomach. Not because the guy existed—no, I couldn't care less about him. But because of who was sitting across from me, absorbing every single word, every single reaction.

I made the mistake of looking up.

Zavian.

He still hadn't moved. Still hadn't spoken. But his gaze? It burned. A deep, unreadable storm brewing beneath those dark eyes, like a predator watching its prey make a very, very bad decision.

I felt my breath hitch.

Allah, why did I feel like I had just stepped onto a tightrope, and he was the one holding the other end?

"So?" Ali prompted, dragging me back to reality. "You're meeting him, right?"

I flinched. "I—uh—" My throat felt dry.

I flinched, scrambling for words. "I—uh—" My throat felt unbearably dry. "You know I'm doing my PhD, right? I won't be done for another four years... I don't think it's a good idea."

I forced a casual shrug, fingers tightening around my glass as I took a long sip of water, anything to steady my nerves.

"Besides," I added, attempting to sound indifferent. "You didn't even tell me his name."

My tongue flicked out to wet my lips, but it didn't help much.

Across from me, Zavian sat unnervingly still.

Too still.

Like a storm gathering at the edge of a horizon.

Ali grinned, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "His name's Hamza Khan. Twenty-eight. Handsome. Strong. A PhD student in mechanical engineering at King's College London..."

I blinked. Great. Just great.

"Oh wow," I deadpanned, shoving another bite of biryani into my mouth, pretending like my heart wasn't hammering against my ribs.

Ali chuckled, "Seems perfect, right?"

No. Absolutely not.

I forced a tight smile. "Yeah. Amazing. Just what I need in the middle of my research—rishta meetings."

I barely got the words out before I felt it—Zavian's gaze.

Heavy. Dark.

I glanced up, and—Allah—he was staring at me like he was seconds away from snapping his fork in half.

I tore my gaze away from Zavian's burning stare, pretending I couldn't feel the tension crackling in the air. Instead, I focused on Ali, forcing a casual shrug.

"So you're meeting him?" he asked, far too amused for my liking.

I hesitated. My fingers curled around my glass as I glanced at Aunt Sidra. She gave me a small, reassuring nod.

Fine. One meeting. Just to shut everyone up.

I took a slow breath before nodding. "Okay. Only once. And if I don't like him, no one—" I emphasized, pointedly looking at Ali, "will pressurize me."

Ali grinned, holding up his hands. "Deal."

But something told me Zavian wasn't finding this nearly as amusing.

Silence settled over the table, thick and charged. I finally dared to glance at Zavian.

Mistake.

His jaw was clenched so tight I thought he might crack a tooth. He wasn't eating anymore, his fork resting on the edge of his plate, fingers drumming against the table in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

If looks could kill, my phone—and possibly Ali—would have been reduced to ashes.

I cleared my throat, shifting uncomfortably. "So... when exactly do they want me to meet him?" I asked, mostly to fill the suffocating silence.

"Next weekend," Ali said, still grinning like this was some grand joke. "Mama said they'll set up a nice dinner. His family is visiting London, so it's the perfect time."

My eyes widened as I glared at him, "Family? Where did the family come from? A dinner? I can just meet him after university or something? We don't have to be this fancy. And what's the point for family meeting when my family isn't here."

Ali chuckled, clearly enjoying my distress. "Oh, come on, Iman. You think Tayi Ammi would let you meet a guy casually, like some secret rendezvous after class? No way. This is a proper rishta meeting, full protocol."

My jaw tightened. "Full protocol?"

"Yup," he said, popping the P. "His parents insisted on meeting you too. Something about wanting to see if you'd fit into their family."

I gaped at him. "Fit into their family? Ali, I'm not auditioning for a reality show!"

Aunt Sidra bit back a smile, while Zavian remained silent. Too silent.

My fingers curled around my fork. "Can't I just meet him after university? Grab a coffee, exchange a few words, and be done with it?"

Ali raised a brow. "Oh, so you're considering it now?"

I opened my mouth, then shut it. Stupid trap. I glared at him. "That is not what I meant, and you know it."

"Well, too bad, because Mama already agreed. So, next weekend, you're having dinner with the Khans."

I groaned, slumping back in my chair. "I hate you."

"You love me," Ali shot back with a wink.

I did not. Not in this moment.

And as I finally stole a glance at Zavian, whose expression was unreadable, I realized something—

I wasn't the only one who hated this arrangement. And honestly, I wasn't even surprised.

Forcing a tight smile, I gave a quick, "Allah Hafiz," and ended the call before Ali could say anything else to annoy me further.

Aunt Sidra beamed, her warm hands clasping mine. "Mubarak ho, beta! This is a big step."

I nodded, swallowing hard. Big step. Right.

I shouldn't be bothered. I shouldn't care. But I did.

And as I again mustered the courage to glance at Zavian, I saw it—his grip tight around the fork, jaw clenched, a storm brewing behind his dark eyes.

He hated it.

But the real question was—why did I?

I was a girl who grew up obsessed with fairytales. But not the kind with charming princes and grand castles bathed in golden light. No, I craved the darker ones—the stories where knights bled, where love was tangled with danger, where the lines between hero and villain blurred.

And this... this felt like the beginning of one.

Oh, Allah... what was I getting myself into?

After dinner and a quick tea session—during which Zavian barely spoke but managed to glare at me every time our eyes met—I decided it was time to leave. The weight of his gaze lingered, heavy and unreadable, but I ignored it. It was getting late, and I had university tomorrow.

I stood up, smoothing down my clothes. "Aunt Sidra, thank you for the lovely dinner," I said with a small smile.

"Anytime, beta," she replied warmly, patting my hand.

I could still feel Zavian's eyes on me as I reached for my bag.

I reached for my bag, but before I could even take a step toward the door, Zavian stood, his voice firm. "I'll drop you off."

It wasn't an offer. It was a demand, laced with finality.

I blinked at him. "I can call a cab—"

"I said I'll drop you," he cut me off, already grabbing his keys. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable, but there was something possessive in the way he looked at me.

Aunt Sidra smiled, completely unbothered. "That's a good idea. It's late, and you'll be safer with him."

Safe. The irony wasn't lost on me. Safe from what? From whom?

I hesitated but nodded, not wanting to argue in front of her. "Fine."

Zavian didn't wait for me to change my mind. He was already at the door, holding it open like he owned the world and I was just living in it.