The coffee had been poured. The biscuits passed around. His mother was discussing senate committee etiquette with his phuppo, and Faizan was seated in his usual spot—straight-backed, cufflinks gleaming, barely blinking.

His wife sat beside him on the velvet sofa, legs crossed in that dramatic, chatty-girl way. She wore pastel and perfume and had already said “yaar” four times in the last hour. His nani was watching her like she was a Netflix show.

She leaned in toward Faizan suddenly and whispered something only he could hear.

Something about the senator uncle’s new toupee and how it looked like “an omelette with a side part.”

Faizan’s face didn’t move. Not right away.

Then— A tiny twitch.

And then— He laughed.

Short. Shocked. Real. A clipped, unfiltered laugh that cracked out of him like a secret let loose.

The entire room went silent.

His father paused mid-sip. His mother’s teacup froze in midair.

His cousin whispered, “Did he just—?”

She blinked beside him. “Faizu…?”

He cleared his throat immediately, straightened, face snapping back to neutral. “That was… inappropriate. Don’t say things like that.”

But his ears?

Flushed red.

And his family?

They beamed.

His nani clutched her heart dramatically. “MashaAllah, beta. I’d forgotten what your smile looked like.”

His mother blinked rapidly. “You used to laugh like that as a child.”

Phuppo wiped a fake tear. “Someone mark the date.”

He scowled. “It wasn’t that funny.”