He was back home, underground. Lying on his bed, a random white piece of cloth wrapped tightly around his arm, only stopping the blood, not treating it. He had refused to go to the hospital, like he always did.
'Woh sirf tumhari call uthata hai', Laiba's cousin's words ringing in his ears. He felt a stitch getting tangled again, just as it was about to be unravelled.
'Aj thodi der main dholki hai...', she had told her cousins. He couldn't help himself and stood up.
"Bashir..mujhe teri help chahiye," Zain started, but before he explained what it was, Bashir replied, without glancing up at him. His fingers are still typing on his laptop. "Laiba Khan, 20, adress: XXX St."
Zain slightly smirked. Silence. He located her house on his phone and left. No getting ready, no invitation. He just left. His bike raced through the streets, hair flying as the wind touched him. He never cared about wearing a helmet, not like people in Pakistan cared about rules.
For him and his team, rules aren't made. They're broken, and new one's are created. His bike stopped near her house, his heart beating faster as he stepped closer towards the window infornt of him.
His breath hitched at the sight in front of him. Laiba, almost ready, fixing her cousin Sana's makeup. Sana's back was towards the window, Laiba standing in front of her, as she sat on the bed in front of her.
She looked breathtaking. Her white and golden gharara fitted but not enough to expose herself. I was simple, modest, yet so intimidating. He found himself smirking slightly as he lovingly stared, hoping that one day, he could see her from behind this window. Stand close to her, caress her features, and hold her closer than he had ever left anyone else.
She was wearing silver jhumka's, the ones she had picked out today. They had a hint of red in them, a perfect subtle contrast. Her makeup was done with such simplicity, and she looked breathtaking. His breath hitched, and his gaze lowered as soon as he realised she wasn't wearing her dupatta.
She was with her female cousins and sister, so her dupatta had been forgotten, thrown on the bed, beside Sana.
She was finishing her makeup when a knock disturbed the two and the man glaring at Laiba. Zeeshan stepped inside, holding gajre in his hands. One white and red, and two red and orange. He placed the two orange ones next to Sana and held the white one in his hand.
She quickly grabbed her dupatta, covering her chest, not placing it over her head. Zain's heart started beating faster.
She reached for the white one in his hand, but he didn't let her take it. Instead, he gently lifted her wrist and began to secure the flowers around it himself.
Zain's jaw tensed from where he stood behind the window, the shadows of the courtyard barely concealing his presence. He watched the scene unfold, every second feeling like an intrusion he could neither deny nor walk away from.
Laiba looked momentarily uncomfortable under Zeeshaan's careful attention. Her gaze dropped to her lap, her other hand clutching her dupatta higher over her chest.
"Ho gaya," Zeeshaan said quietly, tying the last loop. His touch was respectful, brotherly. But Zain felt a tightness coil in his chest all the same-an unfamiliar ache he hadn't named, something darker than he wanted to admit.
Zeeshaan's expression softened as he gave her wrist a light pat before stepping back. Laiba nodded once, her eyes still lowered, and she shifted the dupatta to cover more of her shoulders.
A minute later, the music began-soft, festive dholki songs floating up from the courtyard. Aiza's voice called from outside the room:
"Laiba! Jaldi aao, hum log wait kar rahe hain!"
She turned to Sana, her composure returning, and smiled faintly. "Chalo, sab hamara wait kar rahe hain."
They left the room together, stepping into the wide open hall that led to the small courtyard where fairy lights glowed across the walls. The women of the family had already gathered-mothers, khala, cousins-all in jewel-toned clothes, sitting cross-legged on rugs spread across the floor.
Laiba stopped just inside the archway, her white and gold gharara catching the soft yellow of the lights. She adjusted her dupatta one last time-still not covering her head-and then stepped forward, letting Aiza pull her closer to the centre.
Zain momentarily started searching for another window, hoping to get a clear view of her. And thankfully, Allah was by his side. Zain found a window. Small, but he could see her clearly.
Zain felt something shift in his chest again as he watched her move, graceful and quiet, yet somehow commanding all the attention without even trying.
Sana laughed and took her hand, nudging her toward the middle of the floor. "Laiba, tumhari bari hai!"
She resisted, blushing, but Aiza and Sana were already clapping in rhythm, trying to coax her.
"Laiba!" her khala called teasingly. "Thoda sa toh nach lo, warna dholki ka maza kya!"
Her protests were soft, half-hearted. In the end, she let her cousins pull her forward, and the three of them began to dance-slow at first, only swaying gently in time to the beat.
Zain swallowed hard, unable to look away. The ache in his arm was still there, the dull throb a reminder of the chaos earlier, but in this moment, it felt impossibly distant.
She was smiling now, laughing as Sana spun her lightly in a slow circle. The white gajra around her wrist brushed her cheek for a second. She tucked it back, eyes flicking down shyly, and that same soft blush rose to her face-nothing painted or practised, simply part of her.
He knew he should leave. This wasn't his place, not even close. But his feet wouldn't move, as if the sight alone had anchored him there.
She lifted her gaze once, over Sana's shoulder-and for the briefest instant, as she turned mid-step, her eyes passed across the window.
Zain drew in a sharp breath, heart stuttering.
He didn't know if she had seen him. He didn't know if she could feel what he felt-that pull so strong it left no room for caution.
But as she smiled again and turned away, the warmth in his chest mingled with something sharper.
The way Zeeshaan had tied that gajra around her wrist.
The way she looked-so entirely unguarded, so breathtaking, he almost resented the chance that any man could stand close enough to see it.
He hadn't even noticed his hand had closed into a fist at his side.
Inside, she finished the dance, her breath quick, laughter mingling with the beat of the dhol. She raised her wrist to adjust her hair again, and the flowers shifted higher on her arm-like a mark, he hadn't earned the right to give her.
Zain stepped back from the window, finally turning away, his heart unsteady.
But before he left the courtyard shadows, he glanced over his shoulder one last time.
She was still there, standing in the middle of the floor, a little out of breath, smiling down at her cousins.
And in that moment, he knew with more certainty than he had ever allowed himself before:
If there was anything in the world he would break his own rules for-it was her.
TO BE CONTINUED...