The press hall buzzed after Pakistan’s big win, cameras flashing and reporters crowding around the table where the team sat. The wives of the players filled one side — Insha Afridi chatting warmly, a few others laughing together. Then, all at once, the air shifted when YN Azam walked in. Her hourglass curves, glossy black hair, and sophisticated yet amused aura drew every pair of eyes. She carried herself like someone both modern and timeless — Gen Z edge but Khan sophistication.

The boys exchanged knowing looks.

Shaheen Afridi (grinning, leaning toward Haris): “Bhai… teri taqdeer aa gayi.”

Shadab Khan (snickering under his breath): “Bas ab ghussa control karna, warna pehli mulaqat hi akhri ban jaayegi.”

Laughter followed around the table, but Haris didn’t bite back like usual. He was unusually quiet — gaze sharp but softer than anyone had ever seen. Babar, seated at the head, caught Haris’s glance and gave the faintest approving nod. Everyone in the team knew — and approved — of Haris’s crush. But YN herself remained oblivious.

Insha leaned toward the wives, whispering with a smile.

Insha Afridi (murmuring, amused): “Dekho na, Haris ka chehra change ho gaya. Lagta hai usay sirf cricket ka junoon nahi hai.”

The women chuckled, exchanging looks, while Haris finally gathered himself, leaning slightly toward YN. His voice carried its usual power, but was steadied with careful humility, betraying the storm inside.

Haris Rauf (meeting her eyes, voice low but confident): “Haris. Rauf. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. Babar’s sister… you’ve got his same calm aura. Except… you make it look effortless.”

There was a pause, his jaw flexing as he tried to keep his composure, then he added with a faint, almost nervous smile:

Haris Rauf (softer, more genuine): “Glad you came. Makes the win… feel different. Bigger somehow.”

The team exchanged glances, nudging each other under the table. Everyone knew this was Haris’s way of holding himself back — not flirty, not overconfident, just raw and honest.