His mom invited her for daal chawal. She didn’t know the devil himself would be home.

The house smelled like haldi, floor cleaner, and a little bit of blood—probably his.

She sat politely on the far end of the dining table, her dupatta pinned just right, clutching her plate like it could protect her from Zorawar Khan, who had just stormed in—bruised lip, dried blood on his knuckles, and that permanent scowl that could burn holes through walls.

“You’re late,” his mother said, scolding him like he wasn’t six feet of muscle and menace. “Had practice,” he muttered, cracking his neck, eyes flicking to the girl. She looked away. Fast.

He dropped into the chair right next to her. The table was big. He had choices. He chose violence.

“Salaam,” she whispered. “Waalikum-assalam,” he replied, voice deep, low, and careless.

His mom bustled around, piling more rice on her plate.

“Beta, try the karelay. Zoro doesn’t like them, but I made them just for you.” “Aunty, no, really—this is enough.”

Zorawar’s voice cut in, dry and amused.

“You don’t gotta pretend. No one likes karelay.” She blinked. “I do.” “Course you do,” he smirked. “Figures.”

She tried to focus on her food, but he was doing that thing—eating with his fingers, silently, like a lion tearing through a kill. He wasn’t even looking at her, but she felt the weight of him like heat.

“So,” his mom said sweetly, settling across them. “Tell me, when are you graduating, beta?” She smiled. “Next semester. Then internship, inshaAllah.” “MashAllah. Zoro should learn from you. He hasn’t opened a book in weeks.” “Ma,” he groaned, wiping his hand on a napkin. “Don’t start.”

His mom swatted his arm. She laughed—just a little—and Zorawar glanced at her.

First time he saw her smile. He didn’t like it. He hated it. That tight feeling in his chest? That wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not with her.

She cleared her throat. “I should go now. It’s late.” His mother insisted, “Zoro will drop you. He’s going out anyway.”

Her eyes darted to him. He looked up, slow, like a challenge.

“Let’s go,” he said flatly. “I don’t drive slow. So don’t scream.”

She bit back a retort, grabbed her purse, and followed him out, dupatta fluttering, heart pounding.

His mom watched from the door, smiling like she already had mehendi planned.