"tu jaan mangay toh."

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ALL eyes were on her sinuously moving silhouette.

Zunyra Awan chasséd through the university campus, gaining admiring gazes from some guys, envious stares from some girls, and judgemental glances and whispers from both as she passed by the students scattered around the surrounding.

Garbed in a dark grey rib-knitted sweater dress with a mock neck and a figure-flattering sash belt tied at her oh-so-snatched waist, creating a faux wrap look and ending at a midi hem with a centre slit―paired with ankle boots and golden hoop earrings, she radiated oomph.

Zunyra didn't mind the attention, she relished in it, knew she was worthy of it, knew people couldn't ignore her.

It was the late hours of the morning, she had just gotten done with her first lecture of the day and had bunked the second because she had already invested all her energy in the 8 freaking AM one.

Now she needed coffee to get through the rest of the day.

She was on her way to the cafeteria to grab a cup of iced coffee when she noticed a short and slender girl hysterically running in her direction and when she was almost close to her, she stumbled on the pavement, a loud gasp escaping her lips as her frame dropped on the concrete floor like a sack of potatoes, right before the brunette.

Zunyra recognised her; she was from the same course as her but different section. She had seen her around a lot, might've even conversed but she didn't know her name.

And she didn't care enough to know either.

Groaning, the girl with shoulder-length wavy hair glanced up, meeting Zunyra's narrowed eyes locked on her pitiful, fallen frame.

"Are you waiting for me to give you a hand or something?" Zunyra asked, her voice sickly sweet and her expression utterly sour as she stared down at her. "Get up, loser."

Biting her lip and putting her hands on her knees, the girl hoisted herself and stood up, smoothening her clothes and then veering her head to the intimidating female standing in front of her, she mumbled;

"I-I'm sorry, Zunyra."

"Gross."

"Huh?" The girl blinked owlishly at her.

"What are you apologizing for? Falling down and getting up on your own?" Zunyra prodded and then shook her head with a tsk. "Fix this wimpy attitude of yours, please. Don't give people like us a chance to trample over you."

The short-haired girl stared at her open-mouthed for a few seconds, befuddled, struggling to make sense of her spiel. Was it a piece of advice? A threat? Or words of wisdom? She seriously couldn't tell but decided to just nod her head at whatever it was.

"By the way, why were you running around like a headless chicken?" Zunyra asked coolly. "What's the rush?"

"Oh shoot, the basketball match!" the girl clamoured, slapping her palm to her forehead. "I was actually supposed to cover it for the sports magazine of Uni. Even Omer is playing toda-"

"Omer Bakhtiyar?" Zunyra interrupted with a pointed quirk of her brow.

"Y-Yeah."

"He plays basketball?" She narrowed her curiosity-filled eyes and tilted her head. "Since when?"

"Uh, he joined the club last semester but he doesn't participate in matches much. I've heard he's a great player though, in fact, he is the ace of the team."

"Ooo, wouldn't I like to see that." A whimsical spark lit up the brunette's dark irises.

"Listen los-" Zunyra held back the word from slipping her mouth and decided to be decorous for once. "Uh... what's your name again?"

"It's Huda."

"Okay cool, Huda," Zunyra stated and then her plump lips pulled into a foxy grin as she instructed in an assertive voice, "Lead the way to the basketball court."

Huda stared at her for a few seconds of hesitance but eventually complied as the two females made their way to the gymnasium of their university which consisted of two basketball and volleyball courts.

As they entered inside, Huda, eager to work on her assignment, excused herself and left Zunyra alone to scrutinize the place.

The spacious and brightly-lit arena with paneled high ceilings was abuzz with the squeaking sound of rubber-soled shoes of a bunch of basketball players skidding on the hardwood flooring of the court―coupled with the loud roars of the few spectators and extra team members perched on the sidelines.

Zunyra pursed her lips as her eyes cruised around, searching for a familiar face.

Now, where was that damn nerd-

Her breathing stilled and her eyes widened as they descended on a tall, bespectacled guy.

Unholy

Smokes!

In the centre of the court, surrounded by other players stood―out―Omer Bakhtiyar, clad in a white sleeveless jersey and shorts that exposed the taut and defined muscles of his arms and legs scrawled with prominent veins.

His ebony hair was damp and messy, resembling post workout hair, and his brown eyes were trained on the spherical orange ball being tossed around.

Zunyra breathed in awe.

She didn't know he had such an attractively toned and athletic body because all she had seen him wearing was baggy sweatshirts and full-sleeved casual tees but wow, today in that sportsman apparel he looked...

He looked yum.

Grinning, she drifted toward the scarcely filled bleachers and sat down in the first row as her gaze flitted to the huge digital scoreboard mounted on the wall in front, displaying the stats of the game.

81 - 85, period fourth, time left 2:00.

Team white was four points behind its opponent in black and the last quarter was currently in motion.

Zunyra had zero knowledge and minus zero interest in basketball, or any other sport for that matter, it just wasn't her thing, but for the moment, she didn't mind being there. Besides, the game was nearing its conclusion anyway.

Her attention was piqued as she saw Omer swiftly catching the pass his teammate made and getting a firm hold of the ball.

Slowly dribbling it up the court, he quickly scanned the positioning of the defenders, probably trying to find an opening, and then he sprinted ahead with an impressive speed.

Steering to the right to avoid being marked by the opponent and dribbling with his right hand, he manoeuvred around and leapt into the air when he was close to the rim and made the shot.

And missed.

As the ball failed to pass through the hoop and clanked off the ring, Omer let out a frustrated cry and Zunyra burst into a loud cackle.

With her lips spread into a full-blown mocking smile, she watched his dejected frame trod back to the centre, gritting his teeth, breathing heavily, and fists tightly clenched to his sides.

What had Huda told her earlier? That Omer was the ace of the team? she snorted. Ace, my ass!

The player number five―as it was inscribed on the back of his jersey―was now positioning himself at the left side when his brown gaze involuntarily connected, clashed, with Zunyra's vicious one and his eyes slightly widened in surprise at her presence.

Immediately seizing the ephemeral opportunity, she pointed her willowy finger towards him, scrunching her nose in disgust and moving her lips in an exaggerated manner, separating the letters, as she mouthed:

Pa-the-tic.

Omer, quick on the uptake, read the movement of her lips very clearly and as his eyes blazed, jaw ticked and a glower shadowed his traits, Zunyra could've sworn he radiated an aura darker than the jet-black attire of his opponents.

He averted his gaze the next second when his teammate yelled out his name but the brunette's amused gaze remained fixated on him as she watched him turn around.

The game entered into the last, final minute and the cacophony of shoe-squeaks and vigorous yells by both team's coaches and extra players on the bench filled the court as the boys in white desperately tried to seize the ball from team black, racing against the ticking timer.

One of Omer's teammates finally succeeded in stealing the ball and halting by the half court line, he shot the ball high into the air and to everyone's surprise, it swished through the net―successfully fetching three points for his team.

84 - 85, 35 seconds left.

So close, Zunyra mused internally, but there was no way team white could manage to score another basket in such a short amount of time.

After the inbound, a towering guy in white again seized the ball and shielding it from the men in black, he threw a pass to player number five who caught it with ease.

Omer―hounded by an opponent taller and bulkier than him, determined to stop his offence and keep him in check―tried to make his way to the other side of the court.

Slightly inclining to the right, Omer dribbled the ball in his right hand, closely watching the body movement of the guy in black and when his defender moved in the same direction, he briskly passed the ball to his left hand.

And then, he performed an insane combination of crossovers, on the front, behind the back, between the legs―putting on a dazzling show of aggressive dribbling moves as he changed directions with head whirling speed―left to right―not giving his defender any chance to even touch the ball, brutally crumbling his efforts to guard him and eventually sending him sprawling to the floor.

The player in black landed on his ass like he just broke his ankle.

19 seconds left.

Omer charged towards the basket, sporting an out of my way look, as a swarm of defenders gathered around him.

What impressed Zunyra was not only how fast he moved, but also how he was able to bring himself to a sudden stop to deceive his defenders, going from max to zero and then zero to max in a blink of an eye.

The change of pace was absolutely maddening; was absolutely magical to witness.

When Omer was inside the three-point line, an opponent who had caught up was ready to snatch the ball and pull the victory.

7 seconds.

Zunyra felt a rush of thrill in her veins as she closely watched the game with bated breath.

Omer leapt in the air with his right foot and the guy in black who was on his right jumped along, extending his lanky hands to stop the basket but before he could, Omer swiftly lowered his hand and twisting his wrist behind his back, he slung the ball to his left hand.

3 seconds.

And with his left hand, he slammed the dunk.

The sound of buzzer reverberated around as Omer landed back on the floor and Zunyra scrambled to her feet, her heart pounding in her throat and mouth agape in sheer wonder.

86 - 85, team white had won.

The victorious team erupted in loud cheers and in between the ferocious hoots and fist bumps, Omer spared her a glance, the corner of his lips twitching upwards―smugness written all over his face.

For the first time, Zunyra thought the smug look really suited him because
that right-on-the-buzzer slam dunk was too sensational, too unbelievable, too fucking badass!

After the small celebration, the players dispersed and Omer walked to the sidelines, tired and thirsty. He pulled out a bottle of water from his bag lying on a bench and was busy chugging it down when a sarcastic feminine voice echoed from behind.

"Didn't know nerds could also play basketball."

Lowering his hand, he capped the bottle and placed it on the bench before heaving a deep breath and turning around―coming face to face with Miss Awan standing in front of him with a wicked smirk.

"Congratulations, you just learned something new," Omer jeered, shoving a biting smile her way. "Want a medal?"

"Sure." She shrugged nonchalantly. "I prefer gold by the way."

An eye roll, and then he exhaled and asked calmly, "What are you doing here, Zunyra? Why are you not in class?"

"Because you are not there."

The basketball ace's brows furrowed. "What?"

"Yeah, without your know-it-all attitude, quick answer to every question and our good old arguments, it's boring." Zunyra clicked her tongue and then mournfully added, "No entertainment."

"Do you come here to study or to get entertained?"

The brunette tilted her head, biting the side of her lower lip as she let her dark gaze dwell on his face, studying his glistening, chiselled-to-perfection features and getting thoroughly entertained by their verbal exchange.

"Mhmm, a little bit of both," she murmured.

Omer huffed. "No wonder you are so dumb."

The expression of mirth clouding her face quickly morphed into fury as she straightened her neck and shot him a glare sharper than the winged liner she had drawn this morning.

"Oye!" Zunyra hollered and purposefully decided to say something she knew would get his knickers in a twist. "Dumb hogi tumhari behen!"

As expected, wrath instantly ravaged his traits. "You better watch your tongue when you are talking about my sister, Zunyra!"

His warning was full of thunder.

"And you better watch your tone when you're talking to me, Omer."

Her retort was a fiery flash of lightning.

They eyeballed each other in hostility for several seconds before Zunyra pulled in a breath and opened her mouth again.

"Here's a not-so-sweet reminder: Your sister lives in my house now so if you don't want me to give her hell, then you better start treating me with some respect."

His lips curved into a line of derision. "A woman who can't respect another woman doesn't deserve my respect."

"And a woman who ran away on her wedding day and blasted your family's honour does?"

"Behave, Zunyra," he growled.

"You know Omer," Zunyra drawled, slowly drifting closer, invading his space as mischief gleamed in her big, black irises and a coquettish smile twirled on her glossy lips. "When you say it like that, it only makes me want to misbehave even more."

Omer stiffened, blushing an agitated pink at the sudden proximity and overwhelmed by the strong scent of her perfume―the deep notes of coffee and bean mixed with the whimsical notes of bergamot filling his senses.

A loud masculine voice suddenly echoed around, hauling Omer out of his misery as he instantly jerked back and veered his head―breaking the hazardous eye contact he was sharing with Zunyra―and saw one of his teammates trudging toward him.

"Omer yaar the coach is saying-"

"Excuse me, are you blind?" Zunyra swivelled to the guy and severed his sentence.

"Sorry?" his teammate uttered, stupified.

Weaving her arms across her chest, she bit out in a venomous tone, "Can't you see two people are having an important conversation here?"

"Important convo?" the tall guy repeated, glancing back and forth between the duo and stated, "I see." His attention then flung to Omer and he playfully wiggled his eyebrows, stressing, "I see."

Embarrassment coated Omer's countenance as he opened his mouth to defend himself-

"Just please shut up and scram," Zunyra ordered and waved a dismissive hand, making Omer's jaw slacken and leaving him speechless at the flagrant show of indifference.

His teammate, however, looked more amused than offended as he raised his hands in surrender with a droll look on his face and turning around the next second, he jogged away.

Zunyra instantly veered back to him, unaffected, like shooing people away in that tone was a regular thing for her.

"Yeah, so where were we?"

"Nowhere," Omer spat and then iterated, "Shut up and scram."

The brunette's little kittenish grin lengthened.

"I read on the internet that if someone starts copying your lingo then it means they're into you. So, what is this, Omer?" she batted her long sooty lashes, giving him a coy look. "Do you have feelings for me?"

He regarded her with a blank expression for a few seconds before his feet sailed forward and he came close, a little too close, taking Zunyra by surprise with the uncharacteristic and unexpected action.

"Yeah," he whispered, looming over her, looking into her eyes with dead seriousness.

Zunyra felt a flutter in her chest but she chose to ignore the sensation because she knew he was going to say something nasty next.

And he did not disappoint.

"Of hatred," Omer spat, his bronze gaze piercing into her Stygian spheres. "I can feel it burning within me!"

Zunyra held his flaring gaze, unflinching and bold, with a ghost of a smile flickering on her lips and the next moment, her lips parted as she crooned;

"Oh, how love-ly."

Omer swallowed, his expression softening and pulse quickening at the way she said, almost sang, those words.

It pained him to admit that Zunyra had a uniquely mellisonant voice.

And when she sang, oh god when she sang, she could give the professional playback singers a run for their money and he could say that with such surety because he had heard her singing recently, accidentally, when he was passing by an empty classroom in the evening last week after basketball practice.

In contrast to her haughty attributes and sabre-like tongue, her voice was soft and exceptionally warm with a sweet-sounding cadence that melted in your ears.

It was like hot chocolate with marshmallows on a chilly winter night, warming the insi-

His breath hitched and eyes spanned in horror.

Oh hell no! Omer screamed internally, immediately grappling with every single thought that had invaded his mind in the past few seconds and crushing all of them with a big and burly NO!

He didn't mind acknowledging someone's praise-worthy quality even if he disliked that person―even if it was painful to do so in Zunyra's case―he wasn't that shallow, but comparing her voice to his favourite beverage that he absolutely loved to have every night to soothe his mind? Seriously? Had he hit his head somewhere this morning? Had he lost it?

If he hadn't yet then he was definitely going to if he remained in her presence any longer.

Getting hold of his senses, he backed away, creating a distance between them that should not have been covered in the first place, should have been maintained by him, if not her.

Hunching over, he grabbed his bag pack and slinging it around his shoulder he stormed ahead without sparing her a glance.

He had barely taken a few steps when his feet suddenly halted and he had no idea what overcame him at that moment, why he did what he did, but he turned.

His head turned to her and as their gazes met again, he saw her eyes slightly widened, in surprise or delight, he couldn't decipher but in those few inexplicable moments of eye contact, Omer saw a shade of softness on her face he hadn't seen before.

It was only when a cocky smile suddenly spread across her lips that he realised he shouldn't have looked at her.

Immediately whirling around, he squeezed his eyes shut and grinded his teeth, berating himself internally for behaving in such an unwonted manner.

He shouldn't have looked back at that... that...

Museebat.

Opening his eyes, he heaved a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he marched forward.

This time, determined to only look ahead, ahead.

Omer wasn't aware that in future, he was going to look back at this moment and was going to regret it more than he did now―for an entirely different reason.

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"The heroin consignments reach Karachi through three different routes, then it's divided into smaller batches by the gang members and stuffed into particularly designed vehicle cavities and distributed throughout the country. Each packet is marked with a specific symbol; a chaos cross."

Sat in the meeting room of the Special Investigation Unit in the late hours of evening, around a large wooden table with the higher ranking police officials, Zain gave his senior officers a rundown on the modus operandi of the cartel he had infiltrated.

"Also, apart from land routes, they also use seaport for international  trade with the help of local fishermen. I found out about it when their rival gang attacked them for using the same route," he further apprised.

Zain had received his first gunshot wound that day when he had to fight side by side with the men he had befriended, deceived, for the sake of his mission.

It was the most bloodiest and violent clash between the two gangs he had ever witnessed but his participation in it had earned him the trust of the cartel's top assassin who had later paved a way for him to penetrate further into the organisation under disguise.

"We now have significant information about their trafficking tactics. Good work, Zain. You went through a lot to get us this far." The Superintendent of Police perched on the other side of the table appreciated his efforts.

"But even after going through all that, it's a shame I couldn't finish the actual task I was handed over," Zain bit out, frustration―stemming from his failure―evident in his tone as he added, "The identity and whereabouts of the real drug kingpin are still unknown."

Before Zain was handed over the task of infiltrating the infamous and most dangerous drug cartel in the city, an investigation had been carried out by the special unit which had revealed a shocking detail about the head of cartel.

The man Karachi Police had been persuading all this time was apparently just a puppet dancing on someone else's strings, deliberately publicised to mislead the law enforcers.

According to the investigation report, the real head of the cartel was no ordinary person or a local gangster, but a notable man who was either a businessman or had his foot inside the corridors of power.

The heart of Zain's mission was to find out about that mastermind who had been leading the group by being in shadows, and that day, when he had gotten busted and almost killed, he was supposed to meet that man.

"It's unfortunate; you were so close," his senior officer bemoaned.

"Everything was going as planned, I just don't understand what mistake I made," Zain ruminated with a stern look.

"Do you think that assassin already knew about your identity and lured you inside that place to finish you off?"

"If he did, he would've finished me off the second he had found out and wouldn't have taken me to a place reserved for the cartel's rendezvous, where only the most trusted members of the gang were allowed to enter."

Zain pointed out in a firm voice and then continued;

"I am certain my secret and his trust in me, both were intact but the people inside were probably aware, especially that woman..." Zain trailed, recalling a certain memory.

The middle-aged law enforcer nodded his head and asked, "You've mentioned that woman before. Any information on her?"

"Not much, in fact, at all. I just know that one of the men called her, Saki."

Obsidian eyes, vigilant and sharp, like knives; a face with no trace of emotions; and a tall―taller than average―frame encompassed in scruffy green clothes, Zain vividly remembered the woman who had disclosed his identity and had disappeared after unleashing the gang members on him.

She didn't so much as raise a hand on him but just by reading her gritty countenance, her iron stance, and the way she moved, Zain could tell she was a trained fighter.

"Was she the only woman present there?" His senior queried.

"Not that I saw any other," Zain replied.

"She must be a very important and well-informed member of the group." The officer made an assumption.

"She is," Zain affirmed. "And I feel like we can extract a lot of information from her if we capture her."

And then his eyes darkened with a resolve.

The next time they met, he was going to make sure to detain her.

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Iman couldn't take it anymore.

Turning off the hot shower she had spent a good forty-five minutes to cool down her haywire brain, and failing miserably at it, she dragged her dispirited frame out.

She had heard―or rather overheard―something.

And that had planted a seed of doubt in her fragile little heart. Now she was restless; a feeling of unease swirling in her gut that she could not seem to get rid of.

She needed to vocalise her inner turmoil.

To him.

Quickly slipping into an azure shirt and trouser and not caring about drying or untangling her dripping wet hair, she paddled back into the room, expecting to see her husband but he wasn't there.

Her gaze roamed around and her stormy eyes caught his―enrobed in a  moss green zip neck sweater and black jeans―frame leant against the railing of the balcony through the glass door.

She scurried towards him.

Staring at the sprawling area of his residence and enjoying the cold morning breeze caressing his face, Zain stood on the balcony, his fingers wrapped around the hot chai ka cup he held in his hand.

His hand raised and he was about to take a sip when the door separating the room suddenly slid open and Iman, in her straight-out-of-the-shower glory, popped up―her hair wet and tangled, cheekbones and nose flushed a deep red and a stark shade of worry marring her face.

"Zain, mjhe bohot darr lag raha hai."

Zain gawped at her, startled by the sudden announcement. Lowering his hand, he fully turned to her and asked;

"Mjhse?"

"Of course not," she refuted emphatically, and then in a small voice, "Tumhare baray papa se."

"What?" he sputtered, a twinge of hilarity leaking into his tone as he tried to smother his laughter. "Why is that?"

"A-Actually, I heard Arsal and Mama talking about how he was so angry when your father informed him about our nikkah. He must be unhappy with our marriage, haina?"

Zain opened his mouth to clear her assumptions but his attempt was stymied by his wife's sudden burst of question.

"What if he doesn't like me, Zain?" Iman exclaimed, pessimism dying her traits as she hopped on the carriage of rambling, "What if he tells you to leave me? Will you do it then? I-I mean... I'll understand if you do... but I don-"

She couldn't finish voicing her chaotic thoughts because of the sudden grip she felt at her waist and in a heartbeat, her frame was pulled forward, right into his chest.

"Stop. It's time to get off your overthinking train," he intoned, looking right into her wide, worry-laden eyes, his left hand wrapped around her waist in a firm yet gentle grip. "Kahan se kahan nikal gayien tum yaar."

She blinked. "But Zain-"

"Shush."

Iman snapped her mouth shut, lower lip jutting out into a pout as she held his sooty gaze and he held her close to him.

"First off, baray papa isn't unhappy with our marriage, he is just shocked and hurt... and rightfully so," Zain told her in a soft voice. "We couldn't inform him about anything that happened, we weren't really in a position to do so." He shrugged and then assured, "But you don't have to worry about that. I'll handle it."

She listened to him quietly, reluctantly nodding her head.

"Aur mujhse tumhara peecha kabhi nahi choothne wala," he said, leaning closer, dark eyes smouldering into her pearls of grey. "I will never leave you even if you want me to."

"Why would I want you to," she whispered, ducking her head, her face warm with a flush and her voice barely audible but Zain heard her.

"I know you wouldn't."

His deep baritone, festooned with buoyancy, stroked her ears.

She glanced up and stared at him, amazed at how effortless it was becoming for her to share her thoughts with him, how comfortable she was starting to feel around him, how easy was it was to forget all her worries when she was close to him.

And how easy it was to drown in his eyes―his eyes, dark and deep like the ocean, pulling her in.

Before she could further sink in the sea of his eyes, a frosty gale of wind blew around, colliding with her face, causing her teeth to chatter and making her shiver in his arm.

"It's cold," she mumbled, finally blinking.

Zain raised his right hand and offered the cup of tea he was holding to his beauty.

Smiling, she shook her head, beckoning with her eyes that he should drink it but instead of bringing the cup to his mouth, he pressed it against her cheek.

As the warmth bled into her skin, she squinted playfully, holding back a smile at his quirky action. The next moment, he lifted it up and took a sip, his eyes pinned to her face.

"Aray wah, ye toh aur zyda meethi hogayi," the lawman intoned with a smirk.

A giggle escaped her lips and she felt like there was nothing sweeter in the world than the way he was looking at her at that moment.

"How cheek-y, Zain," she quipped.

He threw his head back into a throaty laughter and when his gaze caressed her face again, his dark brows winged and he flashed her an impressed grin.

Iman beamed back.

And suddenly, everything felt light again.

That is how they spent the morning; brushing off the worries, exchanging laughs over silly things and enjoying the rainy weather as a light shower cascaded down the cloud-studded sky over the roof.

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When the skies cleared and dusk started to descend, Iman's anxiousness had been replaced by  anticipation to meet Zain's extended family who had finally arrived from London.

Standing in the lounge with the rest of the Awans, she saw a man in his sixties with a middling stature, faded grey hair and large black eyes behind silver rectangle glasses resting on his aquiline nose, enter inside along with a middle-aged stout woman with porcelain complexion and reddish brown hair―and a very cute couple in their early thirties that she discerned was Zain's cousin and his wife.

Shahnawaz welcomed his bhaisahab, his older brother, Riaz Awan with a warm hug and the rest of the family members also exchanged congenial greetings with each other.

Iman, emboldened by her mother-in-law who was standing by her side, said salam to the elderly woman whose seasoned dark eyes raked her appearance from head to toe before regarding her with what seemed like a reluctant smile.

She then steered her attention to Zain and saw him greeting his uncle with a hug.

"So happy to see you, baray papa," Zain expressed when they pulled back.

"Bas naam kay baray papa hain ham. Shadi toh hamare bina hee karli tumne." Riaz exhibited his dissatisfaction with narrowed eyes.

"Please don't say that. You know how important you, all of you, are to me," Zain tried to convince in a genuine voice. "It's just that the circumstances weren't favourable and we couldn't help it."

"I know, Shahnawaz told me about it but I can't help but feel disappointed and angry either."

"Aap mere kaan keench len but please don't be angry," Zain said with a hint of levity but then then quickly leaning close to his ear, he muttered in a low voice, "Actually, don't pull my ears in front of my wife please."

At that, Riaz Awan burst into laughter. Shaking his head, he stated, "Tum nahi sudhroge, Zain."

The lawman bit his lip and rubbed his neck, internally relieved to see the rigidness swathing his uncle's features slowly melting away.

"Acha ab tumhare kaan ham baad mein keenchain gey, phele hamari bahu se milwao," Riaz Awan prompted in a lighter tone.

"Of course! She's so excited to meet you and has been talking about you since morning," Zain told him, giving a skittish side glance to Iman, reminding her of the ridiculous questions she had bombarded him with in the morning―making her flush red.

Her husband beckoned his uncle to where she stood, walking in the direction with him.

"Assalam o alikum," Iman intoned softly and her greeting was returned with a polite reply and a gentle pat on the head which gave her a boost of confidence to further converse with him as she asked him how he was doing and after responding he queried the same.

"And how's your father?" he suddenly asked, making Iman flinch. "Shahnawaz told me the reason why they had to do a very private and urgent nikkah was because he is ill?"

"Yeah, mentally," Zain murmured under his breath, looking to the side.

"What?" His baray papa looked at him questioningly.

"Nothing. I didn't say anything." Zain gave him a tight-lipped smile and then swung his gaze to Iman, hoping she hadn't heard him calling her father that.

By the solemn look on her face and the absence of a frown, he discerned that he was safe.

"He is fine," Iman stated calmly and then in a genuinely grateful voice, she said, "Alhumdolilah."

"That's good. I look forward to meeting him," Riaz said with a smile.

Iman swallowed, heart clenching inside her bosom at the thought if she was going to see her father again; if he was going to allow her to see him again.

Her pondering was interrupted by a loud manly voice that ricocheted in the lounge.

"We are here!"

Iman saw a tall and well-built, quiet handsome, guy with hazel eyes and a light stubble grazing his strong jaw, donning a long coat over a grey sweater enter inside along with a girl around the same age.

"Hey, Sohaib!" Zain raved, his face lighting up as he footed towards his younger cousins who had just arrived.

Iman watched her husband greeting him with an enthusiastic hug and then her eyes noticed the girl standing beside him. She was extremely stunning with long chestnut brown hair, flawless olive skin and a pair of striking green eyes―the colour brighter than Arsal and Sohaib's―set on a round, cherubic face.

She must be-

"Aisha!" Zain confirmed her assessment as he moved towards her with a grin but she immediately held out her palm in front of him and shot him a frosty glare.

"Who are you?" The green-eyed girl sneered in an accented―and caustic―voice. "Do I know you? Do we know each other? Are we related?"

Zain rolled his eyes."Cmon yaar, Aisha."

"Don't you cmon-yaar-Aisha me, you prat! How could you? How could you do that to me? Shadi karli tumne?!"

A twitch of incredible discomfort racketed through Iman upon hearing that intense screech of complaints pouring out from his cousin's mouth.

She shifted on her toes, chest tightening and her brows pinching together into an incensed frown as she watched Zain trying to cool off her cousin's incessant carping.

Why was she feeling so uneasy and almost angry? No, the more apt question would be, why his cousin was overreacting and behaving like Zain had broken her hear-

"Your wedding was the only Pakistani wedding I absolutely, at any cost, did not want to miss, Zain! And what did you do?"

Aisha's whining pricked the expanding balloon of her uneasiness and the harsh frown fusing her brows instantly untangled.

Oh. Oh. Iman's tensed muscles relaxed.

"Got married in three days and had the blandest and boring nikkah ceremony in the history of our family, that's what he did," Zunyra piped in and fanned the flames.

"I had thought of all the outfits I was going to wear to every function, heck I had even planned the perfect theme for my Insta grid!" Aisha lamented dramatically.

And of course, Zunyra shared her misery. "That makes the two of us, Aisha aapi."

"Oh please, cut him some slack." Arsal came to the rescue of his brother and stood between the two dramatic females, slinging his arms around their shoulders as he eyed them amusingly. "You two can fulfil your Instagram fantasies with the reception pictures."

"That I will," Aisha bit out, veering her head as her gaze suddenly fell on the grey-eyed girl standing a few feet away.

"Is that Iman?" she asked Zain, receiving a nod from him.

"Hey!" she waved and then sauntered towards her with a vivacious smile bouncing on lips, making Iman gulp down nervously and Zain follow her from behind.

"Oh my god, look at you! I'm literally blown away by your beauty!" Aisha fawned, emerald eyes glittering with genuine appreciation as she stood before her.

"I could say the same about you," Iman managed to murmur with a shy smile, reaping an aaaw from her.

"You know what, Zain?" She turned her head to his cousin. "I was so mad at you but your wife is such a cutie I can feel myself softening up a little."

"Khuda ka shukar hai." Zain raised his hand in relief.

"Okay Iman, tell me, how did a gorgeous lady like you said yes to an oaf like him?" Aisha posed the question with a playful grin.

"In all honesty, I couldn't believe she said yes to me either," Zain stated innocuously.

"Bhaiyya, she called you an oaf." Zunyra joined the trio and reminded him. "Focus and retort!"

"It's alright, Zuny," Zain told his sister and then his inky eyes gravitated back to his wife, settling on her face as he tilted his head and intoned with ardent fondness;

"All my focus is on the gorgeous lady."

Hues of pink dusted Iman's face, and when all his cousins surrounding her oooh-ed loudly in a teasing manner, she ducked her head and bit her lower lip to contain her smiles.

As the night deepened and time for supper came, the house enlivened with the chattering and laughter of the family members sat around the dining table.

A part of her felt happy, being among the Awan siblings, listening to their adventurous childhood stories, smiling at their quirky banters.

But another part of her felt a great pang of sadness because she had never shared such bonding with her own family, she didn't have any fond or funny memories with her cousins that she could tell others, she hadn't had a taste of such pure, familial harmony.

There was an empty space in her heart―a void that couldn't be filled even in the warm and friendly presence of the Awans.

Some voids could only be filled by the people who had created them.

Or maybe they could never be filled.

You just had to learn to live with them.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/n: Don't tell Zunyra but Jadoo from Koi Mil Gaya (yes that blue alien) helped Omer win that basketball match.

Uhm, hey guys, I'm sorry for disappearing for such a long time but I paid the price for that because writing this chap was akin to climbing mount Everest, I had such a rock hard time.

I'd like to thank Naruto OSTs, that I listened to on repeat, for raising my writing spirits and my darling E, for making me finish this chap. *wipes tears*

Anyway, lemme know what you make of this Haider-less chapter!

And I'm not a basketball expert but I tried my best to write a fun and comprehensible bb match so I hope you liked reading it.

This chap is dedicated to Emalax  who is an absolute stunner, a brilliant writer, a lovely friend and also, my Zuny! :') Thankyou for bearing my annoying ass but you know you love me. (I love you more than K)

Also, *spoilers* Zain and Saki's next meeting is gonna be BLOODY epic.

Follow me on Instagram @ _zinu13 if you want to see Omer and Zunyra and Zain and some lut gaye memes :P

I'll see you in the next chapter (with my Haider)