Dusk to Dawn (The Legacy Duet - 1)

𝕯𝖎𝖈𝖙𝖚𝖒 𝕱𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖚𝖒

The grin I gave him was unhinged at best.

"They're sending me off to get married to the highest bidder... so yeah, it's bad," I dropped the loosely guarded secret, keeping my voice as light and casual as I could.

He just stared back at me, jaw popping like I'd pissed him off. Not a single word crested his lips, not a single tug up on his cheeks.

"Sir... kya leinge? (What will you have?)"

"Pakoray aur (and) chai."

"Your Urdu's surprisingly good for someone who hasn't set foot in Pakistan for the past thirteen years," I muttered, burning with curiosity.

"I'm the only son of a politician. You think he'd have let me get away with me now knowing Urdu?"

"There are others who don't," he watched me for long moments, until we were trapped in this stare-off, neither one of us wanting to be the one to back down. His eyes bore into mine, and I almost leaned forward, but stopped myself at the last second. I wanted to reach for him for some reason. Every time, his voice plucked a too-tight string in a piano deep in my stomach. There were no butterflies fluttering through my gut. Just blood vessels constricting and contracting around my organs. The twist of my veins and flow of my blood wanted me to fall against his chest, to have his arms wrapped around me.

It was overwhelming.

"I'm not like the others."

"Yeh lain Sahab (Here you go sir)," a young boy, dressed in a clean but faded shalwar kameez, handed us a wobbly tray. Asfand balanced it in one hand, while handing the money to the child.

"Wow, this looks -" greasy. Strange. Not entirely hygienic.

"We can go back to the city and get something else. I know you've probably never had street food before but it's really not that bad once you try it."

"I want to know about the time you tried this food before. I don't remember you being a fan of pakoras," I turned towards him, breathing in his intoxicating scent. His eyes pierced through me, so much fiercer than the thirteen-year-old boy who had been stuck in my mind for years.

It was more than just his physical appearance. It was the aura he gave off. I'd always been curious about him more so than anyone else, but this man in front of me made me almost desperate to know who he really was. A part of him felt the same, but most of him felt different. I'd never felt like this growing up with him. I never experienced this electricity between us that made me feel like I'd fall apart if I didn't hold on to him, but I don't. I don't touch him, because the fear in my heart keeps me on edge, at a distance, a few feet away from where he sat.

"My mother loves street food. She's the one who got me addicted to this."

"I didn't know that. She'd never mentioned that before."

"Probably because every time we went some place, your family had a private chef to cater to your every need."

"That's..." unflinchingly true. "Umm... how is she?" I grabbed the first piece from the plate, placing it on the small napkin. "And your father?"

"They're both fine. Happy in their lives," he watched me as I took a small bite and the texture is a little different than the ones the chef used to prepare. More crusty, maybe also a little softer. And the filling was so good, a moan escaped my lips. "Good?" he asked, his eyes filled with expectation as he waited for the verdict.

"I had no idea that this could taste good."

Lacing both hands behind his head, he observed me eating. Content. Satisfied. "Maybe because you haven't eaten anything the entire evening..."