"…So he messaged both of you too?" I said, leaning back on the leather couch, one arm slung behind my head, the other holding the phone up.
"Yeah," Hamid replied, the line crackling faintly. "He's asked to meet tomorrow. Said it's important."
"Urgent, is the word he used," Zaffar added. "Which is strange coming from Hafiz. The guy barely says two words unless he's forced to."
My jaw clenched. That name again.
"What do you think it's about?" Hamid asked.
"Something to do with Iman." The words slipped out before I could stop them.
A pause.
Then Zaffar muttered, "You think he's planning to tell her something?"
"Not if I talk to him first," I said sharply.
Neither of them replied for a beat. Then Hamid cleared his throat. "Okay… so we meet him tomorrow. Noon, Old Library steps."
"Done," I said.
They hung up, and the silence in the room thickened around me. I tossed the phone onto the table and leaned forward, elbows on my knees. My eyes flickered to the window.
A knock rattled against the wooden door downstairs.
I sighed, stood up, and walked over, expecting one of the boys again.
But it wasn't.
It was Hashim.
Leaning against the doorframe like he owned the night, leather jacket hanging off his frame, a chain around his neck glinting under the porch light. That messy black hair — wild as the wind — and those sharp, criminally perfect features that made girls trip over their thoughts. He was the kind of beautiful that made you suspicious. Too smooth, too sculpted, like God carved him on a bad day just to mess with balance.
And yet, there was danger crawling beneath his skin. You could feel it in the way he walked — as if the ground had to ask permission before trembling beneath him.
"Hey," he greeted, like this was normal. "Is Iman okay?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Why?"
He shrugged. " She looked pale when she left. Just checking."
I stepped aside. "She's fine."
He entered anyway, like he didn't need permission. Like most things, Hashim walked into places without knocking.
"Coffee?" he asked, plopping onto the armrest of my sofa.
"No."
"Cool. I'll make my own."
I didn't stop him. He returned with a mug and settled in, sipping like this was his home.
"So," he began, eyes flicking to me with interest. "You and her…?"
"What?"
"Don't play dumb, Ahad," he smirked. "I've seen the way you look at her. You guard her like she's gold."
"She's not mine to guard."
"But you do anyway."
I didn't answer. My fingers curled loosely into fists.
"So?" he asked again, lazily. "You feel anything for her?"
"No," I lied, voice flat.
He tilted his head. "Liar."
I glared. "Why do you care?"
"Because," he said, voice suddenly soft, "It's in the way you check if she's fine. The way your jaw tightens every time Hafiz walks near her. You think no one notices? We notice, Ahad."
Silence.
Then he smirked, looking at me sideways.
"And if you're not interested… maybe she's more my type."
The air shifted.
I stood slowly. The room suddenly felt too small, too quiet. My eyes locked onto him — cold, razor-sharp, and entirely devoid of humor.
"Say that again," I warned.I buried my hands into my pockets.
Hashim blinked. Then — the idiot — grinned.
"Relax, Tiger. I was joking."
I didn't move.
"Easy, man. I know she's yours," he said, chuckling as he stood up and ruffled my hair like I was some pet.
I slapped his hand away.
"Don't ever joke about her," I said, voice low, deadly calm. "She's not your type. She's mine."
"So you do feel something," he said smugly, grabbing his bike keys.
"Out."
He laughed all the way to the door, that irritating swagger never leaving his walk.
"Good night, lover boy," he called, revving his bike before taking off down the lane.
I locked the door and let the silence swallow me.
A few minutes later, I found myself outside on the balcony, the night breeze brushing against my skin. I wrapped my fingers around a warm mug, the bitter smell of coffee grounding me.Hashim ,despite my curt response not to preparecoffeefor me,he made it anyway.
Above, the stars shimmered like secrets.
I took a sip, leaned back, and let my eyes close for a second.
Her laugh. The softness of her eyes when she looked at books. The way her fingers trembled when she was nervous. The slight furrow in her brow when she tried not to care.
I smiled — a rare, real one.
"You're trouble, Iman." I whispered to the sky.
And I was already too far gone.