The next morning, Zaid walked towards Azad Maidan—the biggest cricket ground in the city.
It wasn't just any ground.
This was where the rich boys played.
The ones with expensive bats, proper kits, and personal coaches.
Zaid had never stepped inside before.
Because kids like him?
They didn't belong here.
But today—he wasn't leaving empty-handed.
As he reached the boundary line, he watched from a distance.
A group of boys in crisp white uniforms were practicing under the eyes of a strict-looking coach. Their gear—brand new, shining under the sun.
And there—just behind the benches—a bat.
It was leaning against a bag, left unattended.
Zaid's heart pounded.
This was it.
If he could just take it—
"Thinking of stealing?"
A voice behind him. Sharp. Confident.
Zaid spun around.
A girl stood there, arms crossed, watching him.
She wore a perfectly pressed school uniform, her hair neatly tied back. Rich. Well-spoken. Dangerous.
Zaid froze.
And just like that—his world collided with Zoha's.
Zaid's pulse spiked.
The girl's gaze was sharp, her eyes filled with curiosity—but also amusement.
Like she had caught him red-handed.
"I wasn't stealing," Zaid muttered.
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? So you were just… staring at a bat like it was a plate of biryani?"
Zaid clenched his jaw.
This girl—whoever she was—was trouble.
"I don't have a bat," he admitted. "I need one."
For a second, she didn't reply.
Then, unexpectedly—she laughed.
"Honest thief. That's new."
Zaid glared. "I told you—I'm not a thief."
She tilted her head, studying him. "Then why not just ask?"
Zaid scoffed. "You think these rich boys will just give me a bat?"
She smirked. "Maybe not. But I might."
Zaid's eyes narrowed.
Who was this girl?
And why did she seem so interested in him?
Zaid took a step back, finally getting a proper look at the girl in front of him.
She was his age—maybe a little younger.
Long, dark hair tied neatly into a ponytail. Bright brown eyes, full of mischief. Skin a shade lighter than his, clear and glowing, like she had never spent a day struggling under the sun.
Her uniform—a pristine white shirt and a navy-blue skirt—screamed expensive school. A school he could never dream of attending.
Everything about her was polished, effortless, privileged.
And then there was him.
Zaid knew how he looked—dusty, sunburned, and exhausted.
His hair was rough and uneven, cut at home with old scissors. His skin was darkened from hours in the sun, his palms calloused from hard work.
His clothes? A faded T-shirt and old track pants—loose at the waist because he wasn't eating enough.
They were from two different worlds.
And yet—here she was, talking to him like they were equals.
Zaid frowned. "Who are you?"
She smirked.
"Zoha."
He waited for a last name—some rich, famous surname that would tell him exactly who she was.
But she didn't give one.
Just Zoha.
Like it was enough.
And somehow—it was.
For a moment, Zaid just stared.
Because Zoha wasn't just pretty—she was stunning.
She had big, expressive eyes, the kind that could trap a person in a single glance. Her lashes were long, her nose perfectly shaped, her lips soft and curved in an amused smirk.
Her hair, even tied up, had a silky shine, with a few loose strands framing her delicate face.
She looked like someone straight out of a movie.
And then there was him.
Zaid knew he wasn't bad-looking.
He had sharp features, a strong jawline, and intense, deep-set eyes that people often said were too serious for someone his age. His skin was bronzed from the sun, his hair messy but naturally thick.
If he had the money for good clothes, a proper haircut, and some polish—he knew he could turn heads too.
But right now?
Standing in front of Zoha in his old, faded clothes and dusty face?
He felt like a stray dog outside a five-star hotel.
And yet—she didn't look at him with pity.
She looked at him like she was intrigued.
Like he was interesting.
And that?
That was even more dangerous.
Zaid folded his arms, trying to ignore the way Zoha was looking at him.
Like he was some rare, interesting creature.
He hated it.
"Why are you talking to me?" he asked bluntly.
She raised an eyebrow. "Because you're interesting."
Zaid scoffed. "You don't even know me."
Zoha tilted her head, her eyes gleaming. "I know enough."
She took a step closer, lowering her voice slightly.
"You don't belong here, but you're here anyway."
"You don't have a bat, but you want to play."
"You don't have money, but you don't beg."
She smirked. "That's interesting."
Zaid clenched his jaw.
What was her deal?
Was she playing with him?
Was this some kind of rich girl's joke?
"You think this is funny?" he asked coldly.
Zoha's smile didn't fade. "No. I think you're stubborn."
She leaned in slightly. "And I like that."
Zaid stiffened.
He had no idea what to do with a girl like her.
But one thing was clear—Zoha wasn't going to leave him alone.