Faris “Stonejaw” Abbasi speaks for the first time in ten years.

He wasn’t always like this.

Once, Faris Abbasi was the loudest boy in the ring — all teeth and fire and reckless bravado. A street kid from Lyari, raised by his older brother, Saeen, who taught him to fight with his fists and pray with his spine straight.

But when Saeen died — when Faris cradled his body in the middle of a blood-streaked ring at seventeen — something in him went silent. He didn’t scream. He didn’t cry. He just stopped speaking. Forever.

They called him Stonejaw after that. A fighter who didn’t flinch, didn’t gloat, didn’t grunt when his ribs broke. He won every match like a man possessed and left the ring without a word. No friends. No corner man. No distractions.

Until her.

⸻

She wasn’t supposed to matter.

Just a quiet girl who ran a bakery three blocks from the gym. Grew up in Hyderabad, lived with her aunt, spent her days covered in flour and icing sugar. She was known for her smile, her ridiculous pink aprons, and the tiny flower stickers on her receipts.

Every Thursday, she brought cupcakes to the gym.

Not for the fighters. For the staff. For the janitor. For no reason at all.

It was raining.

Not the kind of soft drizzle she liked—the kind that made her sit by her bakery window with a cup of chai and watch the world go grey. No, this was ugly rain. Angry rain. Water slamming into the pavement like punishment, streaking down the bakery’s glass front in thick, violent sheets.

She was inside, mopping up a leak under the counter with her apron tied sloppily around her waist. Everyone had left hours ago.

Except him.

She hadn’t heard him come in. He never made a sound. But she felt him—like always.

A quiet presence. Immovable. Inevitable.

She turned, startled. “Faris?”

He stood there, soaked to the bone. Rain dripped from his hair onto his shoulders, trailing down the curve of his neck. His hoodie clung to his body like second skin, and his fists—oh, those poor fists—were scraped and red again.

“I was closing,” she said gently, drying her hands on a towel. “You okay?”

He didn’t nod. Didn’t blink. Just watched her like she was something he didn’t know how to hold without breaking.

She took slow steps toward him. Not scared. Never scared.

She reached for his hand.

And he let her.

She cradled it in both of hers like something sacred, frowning at the dried blood and raw skin. “You’ve been wrapping them too tight again.”

Still nothing.

She looked up, brushing a wet curl off his forehead. Her voice softened. “You should tell me when it hurts.”

And then—he did.

His lips parted. His jaw clicked.

A voice broke the storm.

“It hurts when you leave.”

She froze.

The words hung heavy in the air, drenched and trembling.