The Lahori café buzzed with chatter, chai cups clinking and the smell of fresh coffee filling the air. At the center table sat Nadeem Ustad—6’2, laid-back in a black shalwar kameez, leaning back like he owned the place. Around him, his usual circle—Fasih Junaid, Neni Abbasi, Arbaz Arif, and Ismail Khohar—were mid-conversation, laughter spilling out between roasts and inside jokes.

Then the café door opened.

Two girls walked in.

And for the first time ever—Nadeem went quiet.

His eyes locked.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Fasih noticed first, following his gaze, then smirked slowly. “Oye hoye… Ustad ko kya ho gaya?”

Neni leaned forward, grinning wide. “Yeh wohi banda hai na jo kehta tha ‘mujhe farq nahi parta larkiyon se’?”

Arbaz chuckled, nudging Ismail. “Record kar… aaj history ban rahi hai.”

Ismail laughed under his breath. “Bhai ka system hang ho gaya.”

Nadeem didn’t respond immediately. Still watching her as she walked to the counter—black shalwar kameez, khussas tapping softly, tote bag hanging off her shoulder, long silky hair falling down her back.

Something about her… simple, but impossible to ignore.

He exhaled slowly, finally leaning forward, elbows on the table, eyes still fixed.

“Chup kar jao sab,” he muttered, low but serious.

The boys went quiet—still smirking.

Nadeem tilted his head slightly, a faint grin forming, the kind that meant trouble.

“Yeh wali…” he said under his breath, almost to himself, “…alag hai.”

Fasih raised a brow. “Toh phir, Ustad? Aaj bhi memes banaoge ya khud move loge?”

A pause.

Nadeem stood up.

Adjusted his sleeves.

Eyes still on her.

“Har cheez ka mazaak nahi hota…” he said calmly.

Then, with that same raw confidence he carried everywhere—

“Aur yeh wali… mazaak bilkul nahi hai.”