Backstage at Lahore University, the bass from the last song still thumped faintly through the walls. The crowd outside screamed his name — “Talha! Talha!” — but behind the curtain, the storm that was Talha Anjum had finally gone still. Sweat glistened on his neck, his tattooed hands adjusting the chain resting over his black hoodie. His team cheered and laughed, producers talking fast, the air thick with adrenaline and smoke.

And then she appeared.

YN. Chubby cheeks. Hourglass body hugged by her cropped jacket and jeans. That pout, those soft eyes — and the way she looked at him like she saw the man behind the mic, not the rapper everyone else bowed to.

Talha’s team went quiet for a moment. They knew that look in his eyes — the shift from rage and chaos to something dangerously soft.

Umair (his producer, half-smirking): “Bahi’s out here killing stages and hearts both.”

Talha (snorts, wiping his face with a towel, eyes locked on her): “Chup kar, Umair.”

He tosses the towel aside, steps toward her. The air changes — even his boys stop laughing.

Talha (low, rough voice softening slightly): “You came all the way here for this chaos?”

She gives him that small smile — the one that cracks his composure every damn time.

Talha (exhales, shaking his head): “You’re mad, you know that? Whole crowd out there and you— you’re the only one I see.”

His hand finds her waist for a moment before he catches himself, aware of the dozen eyes watching them. His team grins quietly.

Talha (grumbling, glaring at his friends): “What? Look away, sab dekhnay ki zarurat nahi hai.”

Laughter breaks out, but he doesn’t care. The Karachi boy, the king of Urdu rap, the man who breaks faces on stage—now standing there with his woman, looking for the first time like peace itself had a name.