Scene: Zayn's Villa
It was around seven-thirty in the evening, and the air outside had turned cool and quiet. The street outside the house was cloaked in soft shadows, lit here and there by flickering streetlights. A few neighbors chatted in hushed voices on their porches. The distant sound of a scooter engine came and went, swallowed by the silence of the evening.
Inside the house, a warm golden light filled the hall. The fan whirred lazily overhead. Zayn sat at the dining table, fully immersed in his laptop, the soft clicks of his keyboard echoing in the otherwise still room. His eyes barely moved from the screen, fingers flying in calculated bursts as he typed.
Faqair was nearby, sprawled dramatically on the living room sofa like a man awaiting a royal summons. One arm dangled off the side, the other cradled his phone, which he scrolled through aimlessly. He let out loud, unnecessary sighs every so often, clearly hoping someone would ask what was wrong. No one did.
At the far end of the hall, Grandpa sat comfortably in an armchair, flipping through a newspaper with half-interest. His glasses slid down his nose a little, but he didn't bother adjusting them. He looked peaceful, almost drowsy from the quiet routine of the evening.
Then, from the kitchen, came the cook's voice—polite, but loud enough to carry through the house.
Sir, the vegetables and lentils are finished!Grandpa lowered his newspaper and glanced toward the kitchen doorway.
"Hm," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Alright... we'll need to get more. He stood up slowly, stretching his back with a soft grunt, and looked over at the two boys—one busy, the other barely conscious.
"Can someone go to the mall and bring the groceries?" he asked, tone calm but clear.
Zayn didn't even look up.
"Faqair is going," he said flatly, his focus unbroken.
Faqair blinked, jerking upright as if someone had poured cold water on him.
"Wait—what?! When did I say that?"
Grandpa walked over, slow and steady, then eased himself down beside Faqair on the couch. He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder—gentle, but with a weight that made it hard to argue.
"Go, Faqair," he said with a kind but firm smile. "The cook said we're out of groceries."
Faqair groaned, letting his head fall back into the cushions.
"But Grandpa—"
"No," Grandpa cut in smoothly, holding up a finger. "Zayn is working. I'll send him next time."
Faqair let out an exaggerated sigh.
"Ahhh, God... Why always me?"
From across the room, Zayn finally looked up. He didn't say anything, but the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth said it all: Because you make it so entertaining.
Faqair scowled.
"What? Huh? I'm not your employee, okay? We're at home now!"
Zayn began rising from his chair slowly, cracking his knuckles like he was warming up to go instead.That was it.
Faqair jumped to his feet in panic.
"I'm going, Grandpa!" he shouted, already moving toward the door.
In one fluid motion, he grabbed his coat from the hook, flung it over his shoulder, and stormed out. The front door slammed shut behind him.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Grandpa chuckled. Zayn joined in a second later, both of them laughing freely.
Grandpa shook his head, smiling to himself.
"Idiot. He didn't even ask what to bring."
Zayn leaned back in his chair, shutting his laptop with a soft click.
"It's fine, Grandpa," he said. "He'll call you."