Now, I just had to find Uncle Noraiz.

I pulled my suitcase closer, my free hand adjusting my dupatta as I scanned the sea of unfamiliar faces. People bustled around me, some greeting loved ones, others rushing toward taxis, their hurried footsteps echoing in the crisp morning air.

But nowhere—nowhere—did I spot the familiar face of Uncle Noraiz.

I frowned, shifting my weight from one foot to another. Baba had said he'd be here. I pulled out my phone, fingers quickly typing out a message.

Me: I just landed. Where are you, Uncle?

A few seconds passed. No reply.

I bit my lip. Okay, don't panic. Maybe he was stuck in traffic. Maybe he just hadn't seen my message yet.

Another minute passed. Then two. Then five.

Okay, now I was panicking.

I glanced around again, gripping the handle of my suitcase a little tighter. The reality of being alone in a foreign country—one I had dreamed about for years—suddenly hit me like a wave.

And just as I was about to call Baba—

A deep voice spoke from behind me.

"You're blocking the way, Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

I froze.

Oh, no.

Not him.

My breath hitched.

That voice. Low, smooth—almost lazy—but there was something sharp beneath it, like the edge of a knife hidden in silk.

Slowly, I turned.

And there he was.

Zavian Noraiz.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a simple black coat over a charcoal sweater. Dark hair, a little messier than I remembered. Sharp jaw, even sharper eyes—watching me with that unreadable gaze.

I swallowed.

For years, our interactions had been nothing but fleeting glances, lingering looks across crowded rooms. He had never spoken to me. Not once.

Until now.

I opened my mouth—then closed it again. What was I even supposed to say?

His lips twitched, as if he could hear my internal struggle.

"Waiting for someone?" he asked, hands in his pockets, stance relaxed.

I nodded.

A slow blink. Then, as if he already knew, "Dad's not coming."

I blinked back.

Not coming?

I glanced at my phone again. No message. No missed call.

Zavian exhaled, a hint of impatience flickering in his expression. "I'll take you home."

My fingers curled around the handle of my suitcase.

Home. His home.

The place I had fought so hard not to live in.

I hesitated, shifting on my feet, but his gaze didn't waver. Steady. Unbothered.

And for the first time in my life—Zavian Noraiz was waiting for my answer.

I gave a small nod, gripping the handle of my suitcase a little tighter.

"Okay," I murmured, my voice quieter than I intended.

Zavian didn't react—no smirk, no unnecessary words. Just a small tilt of his head before he turned on his heel, walking ahead with the kind of effortless confidence that came naturally to him.

I exhaled and followed.

The airport doors slid open, and the cold London air hit me instantly. Crisp, biting—it seeped into my bones, making me shiver slightly. Zavian walked ahead, unfazed, his long strides purposeful. I quickened my pace to keep up, my boots tapping against the pavement.

He stopped next to a sleek black car, unlocking it with a sharp click. Of course. Even his car looked expensive.

I hesitated for a second before he opened the passenger door, stepping back just enough for me to get in.

"Thanks," I said softly, placing my luggage in the back before sliding into the seat.

He didn't respond, just shut the door behind me and walked around to the driver's side.

Silence settled as he started the car, the low hum of the engine filling the space between us. I stared out of the window, London's unfamiliar streets passing in a blur.

"You don't talk much."

His voice was calm, but there was something... observant about it.

I swallowed. "Not really."

A pause. Then, "Good."

I frowned, glancing at him. "Good?"

The corner of his mouth lifted—just barely. "Means I won't have to hear unnecessary chatter all the way home."

I blinked.

The audacity.

I huffed, crossing my arms as I turned toward the window. The passing London scenery was far more interesting than whatever nonsense he had to say. Tall buildings, glimmering streetlights, and the occasional blur of red buses—it all felt surreal, like stepping into a movie.

Zavian said nothing after that, and I wasn't about to break the silence either. The car moved smoothly through the city, the streets growing quieter as we drifted away from the airport's chaos.

My phone vibrated in my lap. A message from Baba.

Baba: Beta, Uncle Noraiz got caught up in something, but Zavian is there, right? Let me know when you reach.

I sighed. Yes, Baba. I'm with him. Will text when I reach.

I locked my phone and exhaled, sneaking a glance at Zavian. His jaw was sharp under the dim car lights, one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel, the other tapping idly against the gear shift. Effortless. Composed. Annoyingly good-looking.

My sixteen-year-old self would have combusted at the sight. My twenty-year-old self? She was just... tired.

"Are you always this quiet?"

I turned my head sharply, caught off guard. His tone wasn't mocking this time. Just... curious.

I blinked. "Depends on who I'm with."

He hummed, amused. "So I just don't make the list, huh?"

I shrugged, looking out again. "I don't talk for the sake of talking."

Zavian let out a soft chuckle, more to himself than at me. "Mashal-e-Mehtaab," he mused under his breath, shaking his head slightly.

That name again.

I frowned. "Why do you keep calling me that?"

His fingers drummed once against the wheel. "Because it fits."

Not an answer.

I narrowed my eyes but let it go, sinking deeper into my seat. The conversation ended there, silence wrapping around us once more.

Outside, the city lights blurred as we sped through the streets, my new life waiting somewhere ahead.

The car turned onto a quieter street, the hum of the engine the only sound between us. The houses here were large, standing tall with elegant stonework and iron gates. This was where Uncle Noraiz lived?

Zavian pulled up in front of a grand house with warm porch lights and a trimmed front lawn. The kind of house that didn't just belong to someone but belonged in London.

"We're here." His voice was casual, as if this wasn't a big deal, as if I wasn't about to step into a stranger's home for God knows how long.

I exhaled, gripping the strap of my bag as I pushed the door open. The chilly London air bit at my skin the moment I stepped out. Zavian took his time getting out, stretching slightly before walking around to the trunk.

I turned to the house, adjusting my dupatta. The front door was already opening.

A woman in a deep green shawl stepped out, her face breaking into a warm smile.

"Iman, beta!" she called, hurrying toward me.

I straightened. Uncle Noraiz's wife?

She reached me, holding my face in her hands for a moment before pulling me into a hug. "MashAllah, you're even prettier in person! Welcome, welcome, my dear."

"JazakAllah khair, Aunty," I murmured, unsure but grateful for the kindness in her tone.

Zavian walked past us, pulling my suitcase along. "Where do I put this?"

"Upstairs, in the guest room," she said before turning back to me. "Come inside, beta, it's freezing."

I nodded, stepping in. The house smelled of cinnamon and something faintly floral. The walls were lined with paintings, the furniture polished, the lighting warm. It felt... homey.

As we moved into the living room, I hesitated. "Uncle Noraiz...?"

Aunty sighed, shaking her head. "He got caught up in work. He'll see you in the morning, inshaAllah."

I nodded, trying to ignore the slight pang of disappointment. I had been ready for his familiar, welcoming energy.

Aunty patted my cheek. "But don't worry, you must be exhausted. Come, I'll show you to your room."

I followed her up the stairs, passing by Zavian as he came down. Our eyes met for half a second before he looked away, continuing past me.

I should have looked away first.

I inhaled, shaking off the strange feeling settling in my chest.

This was just the start. I had bigger things to focus on.

_

Uncle Noraiz had two wives, and judging by the house, I could tell that only one of them lived here—Aunt Sidra. Zavian was her son. The other wife, Aunt Sana, had a son too, a little younger than Zavian. Maybe around my age. But no one ever talked about him. It wasn't hard to figure out why.

Rumors whispered through the family, half-spoken truths. He had been caught at some illegal party. Drugs, maybe. Jail, definitely. Whatever had happened, it was enough for the family to act as if he never existed.

I swallowed the uneasy thought as Aunt Sidra led me to my room.

The door creaked open, revealing a softly lit space with a large bed, a writing desk by the window, and a built-in closet. The décor was minimal, but the pale gold bedding and plush carpet made it feel cozy.

"Here you go, beta," Aunt Sidra said, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Make yourself comfortable. If you need anything, just let me know."

"JazakAllah, Aunty." I placed my bag on the bed, suddenly feeling the weight of exhaustion creeping in.

She gave me a warm smile before stepping back. "Come down for lunch if you're not too tired. We eat early here."

I nodded, and with that, she left, closing the door behind her.

I exhaled, rubbing my hands over my face before walking to the window. The sky was dark, the city lights twinkling in the distance.

London.

I was really here.

I pulled my coat off and reached for my phone, scrolling through the unread messages from Baba, Mama, Nimra, and Ali. My lips curled at their words of encouragement, a bittersweet ache settling in my chest.

Before I could reply, my phone vibrated again.

A new message.

Zavian.

"Settle in well, Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

I stilled. My stomach flipped.

_

I freshened up and sent a quick text to Baba, asking when I should move into my hostel since classes were starting on Monday. Two days to go. The thought settled uneasily in my chest—not quite nerves, not quite excitement. Something in between.

I ran a brush through my hair, smoothing down the stray strands before adjusting my dress. My jhumkas swayed softly as I checked my reflection one last time. Satisfied, I took a deep breath and stepped out of my room, making my way downstairs for lunch.

_

Lunch felt quieter than I expected. It was just Aunt Sidra, Zavian, and me at the table. The clinking of cutlery echoed in the spacious dining room as I hesitated for a moment before turning to Aunt Sidra.

"Aunty, do you live here alone?" I asked, pushing a piece of roti through the steaming curry.

She smiled, a little tired but warm. "Mostly. Zavian comes and goes. His work keeps him busy," she said, glancing at him briefly. "And Sana lives in the other house, as you know."

Zavian didn't react, just kept eating in silence, his jaw ticking slightly.

I nodded, unsure what else to say. "The house is beautiful," I added, genuinely. "Feels... peaceful."

Aunt Sidra chuckled, shaking her head. "Only because no one's home right now. Otherwise, it's anything but peaceful."

I smiled, taking another bite. Zavian remained silent, his presence heavy despite his lack of words. I didn't look at him directly, but I could feel the weight of his gaze on me every now and then—fleeting, unreadable.

"Do you need anything for your hostel?" Aunt Sidra asked, pulling me back to the conversation.

I shook my head. "I think I have everything, but I'll double-check tomorrow."

"Good," she said, nodding approvingly. "You should settle in before classes start. It's a big step, but I know you'll do well."

Her words were kind, reassuring. I smiled, grateful.

And Zavian? He stayed quiet. But for some reason, his silence spoke louder than words.

_

After lunch, Aunt Sidra gave me a gentle smile and patted my hand. "Go rest for a while, beta. You must be tired from the journey," she said. "Join us for tea later. Around five."

I nodded, offering her a small smile in return. "Okay, Aunty."

Zavian said nothing, as expected.

With that, I made my way upstairs, the silence of the grand house settling around me. My room was spacious, elegant, but unfamiliar. I set my phone on the bedside table and sank onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

I should sleep. Rest, at least. But my mind wouldn't settle.

Instead, I pulled my phone closer, checking messages from Baba, Mama, and Nimra. All of them making sure I had reached safely, if I had eaten, if I needed anything. A small smile tugged at my lips as I replied, reassuring them all.

Then, without thinking much, my eyes flickered to my last unread message.

A single text.

From Zavian.

"Tea at five. Don't be late, Mashal-e-Mehtaab."

My heart did an unsettling little flip at the nickname. Again.

I locked my phone, exhaling slowly.

This man was going to be a problem.