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Is he still breathing?

Shubman blinks, staring up at the ceiling, trying to find some hidden answer in the intricate patterns of Rohit bhai's living room.

Is he still breathing? He checks again—yes, the slow rise and fall of his chest is proof that he's still alive. But just barely. A marriage of convenience? And with his Mrignaini, no less?

The thought alone makes his heart do an awkward somersault, and he has to force himself to take a deep breath, slow and steady, as if that might somehow make this entire situation less surreal.

He almost wants to burst out laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all, like one of those over-the-top plot twists in the serials his mother and Shahneel di are glued to every evening, where the hero suddenly finds himself married to the heroine in the most unexpected circumstances.

But this isn't a serial. This is real life, and he's the one caught in this ridiculous situation.

Mann mein laddoo phoota.

A marriage. To her. The same girl who has managed to turn his world upside down in less than 24 hours. And here he is, in Rohit bhai's living room, on this ridiculously comfortable sofa, while a group of very serious people are calmly discussing his future like they're planning a family function.

The worst part? Somewhere deep inside, past all the confusion, the nerves, and the sheer madness of it all, there's a tiny flicker of excitement, something warm and unfamiliar, something that makes him wonder if maybe, just maybe, this isn't the worst idea in the world.

Of course, the thought of actually going through with it sends another wave of disbelief crashing over him. What will his mother say? She'll probably faint the moment she hears about it, or worse, drag him to the nearest temple for some sort of ritual to purge whatever madness has seized him.

And Shahneel di? She'll never let him live it down, teasing him at every turn, composing silly songs and singing them at every family gathering just to see him squirm.

And Papa ji. Hayo Rabba, he can already picture the stern look on his father's face, the kind that could make even the bravest soul shrink back a little.

Papa ji will probably sit him down for one of those long, serious talks that always start with "Puttar ji," and end with Shubman feeling like he's somehow managed to disappoint the entire family line.

He can almost hear it now, the quiet disappointment wrapped in concern, the way his father would try to understand how his sensible, cricket-obsessed son ended up in a situation straight out of a melodramatic movie.

And what would he even say? That it's all part of some wild PR strategy to save everyone's reputation? That he's been tossed into the deep end of a plan that makes no sense but seems to be the only solution everyone can agree on?

Shubman can already imagine the way his father would raise an eyebrow, that look of quiet resignation that says, "I raised you better than this."

But then, there it is again—that spark of excitement, that ridiculous, stubborn thrill that courses through him when he thinks of her, of Mrignaini, and the way her presence has pulled him so far out of his comfort zone that he's actually considering the impossible.

The thought of her by his side—not just for a moment, but for all the moments to come—sends butterflies tumbling chaotically in his stomach. It's crazy. It's reckless. But the idea, as absurd as it is, doesn't seem entirely unappealing.

Maybe he has lost his mind. Maybe this is what happens when you're thrown into a situation so far removed from your comfort zone that you start considering the impossible.

Still, as ridiculous as it all seems, Shubman can't help but wonder what life would be like with her. What would it really be like, waking up to her every day, sharing all the little, ordinary moments with her? It's a thought he's never entertained before, not seriously, but now, with the suggestion laid out before him like some fated opportunity, he can't stop wondering.

"Nahi." [No.]

Rohit bhai's voice cuts through his daydream like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head, yanking him back into the present with a jolt.

Shubman blinks, realizing with a sinking feeling that he's been lost in his own thoughts while everyone else in the room is firmly rooted in reality. He sits up a little straighter, the weight of Rohit bhai's words sinking into the silence that now grips the room.

Rohit bhai is glaring daggers at the PR guy, his eyes narrowed to slits in a way that could make even the toughest person rethink their entire life's choices.

Shubman's seen that look before—the same one Rohit bhai gives bowlers who dare to sledge him on the field—but here, in the cozy confines of his living room, it feels ten times more intimidating. It's the kind of look that says, 'You've just made the biggest mistake of your life.'

Rohan, poor guy, looks like he's desperately wishing for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Shubman almost feels sorry for him, but then again, anyone who suggests a marriage of convenience involving Rohit bhai's sister has to know they're walking on dangerously thin ice.

Shubman sneaks a glance at Radhika, sitting quietly beside Anushka bhabhi, her fingers nervously twisting the edge of her kurti. She looks as if she wishes she could vanish into the fabric, and Shubman's heart aches at the sight.

As insane as this situation is, the last thing he wants is for her to feel uncomfortable. Not when her own brother is practically breathing fire across the room.

The tension is so thick now that even a pin drop would feel like an explosion. Shubman's itching to say something—anything—to break the suffocating silence, but his mind is completely blank.

What could he possibly say to Rohit bhai, especially when the man is one wrong word away from launching Rohan across the room?

"Meri Khargosh tumhe PR strategy lagti hai?" [Does my Khargosh seem like a PR strategy to you?] Rohit's voice cuts through the silence like a whip, low and simmering with barely contained anger. "Main jaan se maar doonga agar aise phirse suggest bhi kiya." [I'll kill you if you even suggest this again.]

Rohit bhai is usually a gentle giant, the kind who'd laugh heartily at a silly joke or share a warm hug with you when you're down, but right now, he's more like an angry parent who's just caught you doing something you shouldn't have been doing.

Rohan clears his throat, trying to salvage the situation, though his voice trembles slightly. "Sir, dekhiye, it's not what you think. Yeh India hai, sir. Agar US hota ya koi foreign country, we could've spun this whole thing into a dating narrative—logon ko wahan aisi cheezein normal lagti hain. Par yahan toh... Sir, yahan aisi scandalous photos ka release hona is not just bad optics; it could ruin Radhika ma'am's reputation, Shubman sir's career... sab kuch. The backlash would be immense." [Sir, look, it's not what you think. This is India. If this were the US or some foreign country, we could have spun this whole thing into a dating narrative—people over there see such things as normal. But here... Sir, here, the release of such scandalous photos is not just bad optics; it could ruin Radhika ma'am's reputation, Shubman sir's career... everything.]

Virat bhai is the first to react, shifting in his seat as he folds his arms across his chest, eyebrows shooting up in that way of his that says he's had just about enough.

He's wearing that look—the one he usually saves for reporters asking dumb questions after a tough loss—and it's clear he's about to say something no one will forget anytime soon.

"Have you lost it?!" Virat's voice booms, filled with incredulity and barely contained anger. It's the kind of voice that makes you feel like a child caught in the act of doing something wrong.

"Yeh koi PR strategy hai ya reality show hai? We're talking about real people here, not celebrities pulling PR stunts for the limelight. Do you have any idea what this would mean for them? For her?" [Is this a PR strategy or a reality show? We're talking about real people here, not celebrities pulling PR stunts for the limelight. Do you have any idea what this would mean for them? For her?]

The very suggestion of a fake marriage has everyone's blood boiling. It's not just about saving face or avoiding a scandal anymore—there's an underlying disrespect in the way this whole situation is being handled. It's the audacity of casually proposing a lifelong commitment, like they're pawns in some corporate game.

And it's not just anyone—they're talking about Radhika. Rohit's baby sister. The girl he's practically raised alongside his cricket career, shielding her from the world's madness.

And Shubman—Shubman who's dedicated his life to the game, building a name for himself with hard work and discipline, only to have it all reduced to a cheap PR move.

The weight of unspoken anger presses down on the room. Ritika bhabhi, who's usually the calmest person in any situation, looks like she's on the verge of tears.

Her fingers anxiously tap against the armrest of the sofa. It's one thing to deal with bad press, but to drag Radhika's name into it, to involve their families, their private lives, just to save a career? It's too much.

Finally, Yuvi Paa speaks up. "Rohan," he says, his tone firm but measured. "We're not here to play games with people's lives. This isn't about deflecting bad press or finding quick solutions. Yeh log celebrities hain, lekin insaan bhi hain. Aur unki apni zindagi hai, apne emotions hain." [We're not here to play games with people's lives. This isn't about deflecting bad press or finding quick solutions. These people are celebrities, but they are also human.] He looks directly at Rohan, his gaze unwavering. "Aapko yeh samajhna padega ki jo insaan is sab mein hain, unke personal choices bhi matter karti hain." [And they have their own lives, their own emotions.]

"Bas, bahut ho gaya. Nikalo yahan se." [Enough, that's it. Get out of here.] Aditi's voice slices through the thick tension in the room like a knife. She's sitting with her back straight, her fingers gripping the armrest tightly, knuckles white.

No one will dare treat her best friend's life like some PR strategy. This isn't just anger—it's personal. A deep hurt that anyone could look at Radhika, someone so close to her, and reduce her to a mere problem that needs managing.

Radhika remains silent, but Aditi doesn't need words. She can feel the unease radiating from her best friend, a quiet discomfort that makes her want to scream. This is not the life they imagined, not the path they should have to navigate. Especially not like this.

Rohan tries again, his voice wavering under the weight of the collective anger filling the room. "Ma'am, please, try to understand..."

"No." It's Sara this time, her voice softer but just as firm. She's seated across the room, but her gaze is direct, unwavering. "Aditi is right. Please, chale jaiye." [Aditi is right. Please, leave.] There's no edge to her words, just a finality that leaves no room for further argument.

Shweta steps forward, and it's clear from the way her hands tremble ever so slightly that she's nervous. "Ma'am, I understand. I know this feels wrong, aur believe me, humein bhi pata hai how uncomfortable this must be. Aap sab logon ko dekh kar hi lag raha hai ki it's not an easy decision, aur it shouldn't be. It shouldn't feel right, because it's not ideal." [Ma'am, I understand. I know this feels wrong, and believe me, we also know how uncomfortable this must be. Just looking at all of you, it's clear that it's not an easy decision, and it shouldn't be.]

She pauses, drawing in a shaky breath, her words careful and measured. "Par hum yeh solution soch samajh kar hi laaye hain. We didn't just come up with this out of thin air. We've gone through every possible scenario, every way we could think of to handle this without making things worse. Aur mujhe pata hai, yeh koi aasan baat nahi hai, especially jab family involved hoti hai."  [But we have brought this solution after careful consideration. We didn't just come up with this out of thin air. We've gone through every possible scenario, every way we could think of to handle this without making things worse. And I know, this is not an easy thing, especially when family is involved.]

"Radhika ma'am koi celebrity nahi hain," [Radhika ma'am isn't a celebrity.]  Vikas says gently, glancing at the quiet figure on the sofa. "Logon ko pata nahi hai ki woh Rohit sir ki behen hain. Aur iss waqt, that's actually a good thing. Agar yeh baat abhi leak hoti hai, toh public ka reaction will be a lot harsher than you can imagine. Logon ke liye unka naam, unki reputation... sab kuch suddenly unke relationships se define kiya jayega. And once that happens, there's no turning back. Unka naam hamesha ek controversy ke saath jura rahega." [People don't know that she is Rohit sir's sister. And right now, that's actually a good thing. If this thing leaks now, the public reaction will be a lot harsher than you can imagine. For people, their name, their reputation... everything will suddenly be defined by their relationships. And once that happens, there's no turning back. Her name will always be associated with controversy.]

Amit hesitates, but only for a moment, then he presses on. "More than Shubman sir, mujhe Radhika ma'am ke baare mein zyada fikr hai. She has no public life, no PR team to protect her image. Woh yeh sab nahi chahengi, woh publicity nahi maang rahi." [More than Shubman sir, I'm more concerned about Radhika ma'am. She has no public life, no PR team to protect her image. She doesn't want any of this, she's not asking for publicity.]

Shweta's voice is now softer, almost apologetic. "Hum sabko yeh decision bahut tough lag raha hai, and I promise, we're not suggesting it lightly. But right now, Radhika ma'am ka naam bachana zyada zaroori hai. Yeh temporary solution lagta hai, but it could be the difference between a quiet life and a lifetime of public scrutiny. Agar hum abhi action nahi lete, toh jo damage hoga, woh kabhi repair nahi ho paayega." [We all are finding this decision very tough, and I promise, we're not suggesting it lightly. But right now, it is more important to save Radhika ma'am's name. This seems to be a temporary solution, but it could be the difference between a quiet life and a lifetime of public scrutiny. If we do not take action now, the damage caused will never be repaired.]

The room is heavy with silence, the tension so thick it feels like everyone's holding their breath, waiting for the storm to hit. Rohit's jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing as Shweta's words sink in. It's obvious he's struggling to control his temper, his protective instincts kicking in with full force.

He takes a step forward, anger rippling just beneath the surface, ready to lash out at the PR team for even suggesting this absurd idea—this impossible solution that feels more like a betrayal than a plan.

But just as he's about to speak, about to launch into a fiery tirade that no one in the room would dare interrupt, he feels it—a gentle, steady pull on his wrist. He freezes. His head whips around, and there she is, standing quietly beside him, her small fingers wrapped around his wrist, anchoring him in place. Radhika.

Her eyes, deep and calm like they always are, meet his, and in that moment, everything changes. The fight in him begins to drain, slowly but surely, as if her touch alone is enough to remind him of what really matters.

She doesn't need words, she never has. The way she looks at him, with that determination, tells him everything she needs to say. Rohit's heart clenches painfully, his breath catching in his throat, because he knows—he knows exactly what she's trying to tell him.

She's ready. Ready for this impossible, ridiculous marriage. Ready to step into something that isn't fair, something that shouldn't even be on the table. But she's telling him, without so much as a whisper, that she's willing to do it. For him. For all of them.

Rohit stares at her, his heart in chaos, his mind racing. He feels like he's failing her somehow, like he's letting his baby sister walk into something she shouldn't have to. She's too young for this, too innocent. He's supposed to protect her from the world, not offer her up to it in the name of saving face.

But the look on her face is clear—she's made up her mind. His protective heart screams in protest, but he knows that look. It's the same one she gives when she's decided on something, the same stubborn determination that makes her so much like him.

Radhika's grip tightens for just a second, and she takes a slow breath, glancing at the floor before turning back to her brother, her expression soft yet unyielding. She's telling him, in the way only she can, that it's okay. That she can handle this. That he doesn't need to carry the weight of her protection alone.

Rohit feels his chest tighten, the lump in his throat growing unbearable as he fights back the surge of emotion threatening to spill out. He opens his mouth, ready to argue, ready to tell her this isn't her battle to fight, but the words die in his throat.

He's never been able to say no to her. Not when she looks at him like that, with those eyes that hold so much more strength than he gives her credit for. He swallows hard, his fists clenching and unclenching as he looks around the room, searching for someone—anyone—to help him make sense of this, to tell him there's another way.

Virat, sitting quietly in the corner, avoids Rohit's gaze, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping his knees like he's physically restraining himself from getting involved. Radhika is younger, yes, but she has always been stronger than they give her credit for.

Virat's always known that about her, admired it even, but in moments like these, it's unbearable to witness—like watching a kid forced to grow up too fast.

He wants to step in, wants to pull Rohit aside and shake some sense into her, tell her that this isn't the answer, that they can figure out something else. But then he catches Radhika's eyes, just for a brief second, and he knows—she won't let him interfere. Not this time.

Even Sachin Sir knows, with the way he watches Rohit and Radhika, that no one can truly shield them from what's happening. He's always treated Radhika like a little princess, especially when she would visit the practice sessions or matches.

He'd lift her onto his lap, tell her stories, and give her small gifts. It wasn't just Sachin, though; everyone on the team had a soft spot for her. There's something about Radhika's calm nature and that innocent smile that could soften even the roughest of personalities.

But now, standing in this room, watching her prepare to step into a situation that feels so wrong, so unfair, Sachin feels helpless. He looks at Rohit, and he can see the  struggle. Rohit is torn between the instinct to protect and the reality that he can't always do so.

Across the room, Yuvi Paa sits silently, leaning back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the floor. He's always been the one to crack a joke, lift the tension with his playful demeanor. But today, the weight of the situation seems to have pulled him down too.

The idea of a marriage of convenience for someone like Radhika, who deserves so much more than just a quick fix to save reputations, it makes him feel sick. She's like a little sister to him, and seeing her forced into this, it feels like they're all losing control, one step away from something that can't be undone.

"Radhika, tu kya keh rahi hai?" [Radhika, what are you saying?] Anushka's voice cuts through the heavy air, but Radhika doesn't move. She just keeps her eyes fixed on the floor, like she's trying to make herself invisible.

Shubman, sitting a little to the side, should really be paying attention. Everyone else is. There's this whole serious conversation happening, and he knows it's important, but his mind keeps wandering off.

Marriage?

His eyes dart towards Radhika, and suddenly that one word is doing cartwheels in his brain. He glances at her again, almost shyly. Radhika. His Mrignaini.

What would that even look like? Would she still look at him with that same soft, doe eyes, , the one that made his heart do cartwheels and backflips, as if she had no clue she was setting off fireworks inside him? And why in the world was he thinking about marriage?

They had just met yesterday! YESTERDAY! But ever since that fleeting moment, when he'd awkwardly tied the dori of her backless kurti (and let's not even get into how that had made him feel), his thoughts had taken on a life of their own. She has already gotten him acting like some deewana, all distracted and giddy like a college kid with a crush.

Now, instead of focusing on how to fix this so-called crisis, his mind had gone into overdrive, imagining her walking around their house—their house—like they were already married. What was wrong with him? Totally normal thought to have for a person you met yesterday.

Now he was picturing her moving about the house quietly, like she always did, graceful in that soft, almost floating way she had. Honestly, kaun aise chalta hai? No one, right? But of course, she did. It was ridiculous, and yet... so graceful.

And now, because his brain was determined to torture him, it went full filmy. He was imagining their wedding. Yeah, shaadi, in some huge, grand mandap, like the kind you see in those over-the-top wedding sequences in TV serials.

Radhika, dressed in a stunning red lehenga—wait, wait, hold on. Does she even like red? What if her favorite color was something totally unexpected, like purple or yellow? How could he not know this? What if she hated red, and here he was, imagining her in it? Yeh toh gadbad hai. He panicked internally. What kind of husband would he be if he didn't even know her favorite color?

Pagal ho gaya hai tu, Shubman. Focus!

But then, just as quickly as he tried to snap out of it, his brain betrayed him again, this time jumping to chai. Chai? Would she make chai for him in the mornings? Or was she more of a coffee person? What if she didn't even drink chai? Arre, disaster!

How could he live with someone who didn't drink chai? But then again, if she smiled at him that way she sometimes did—okay, okay, she smiled once or twice, but it was something—he figured it wouldn't matter. He was pretty sure her smile could fix anything.

And speaking of smiles, Shubman suddenly found himself smiling at the thought, and that's when he realized he was the idiot grinning like a complete fool in the middle of this serious conversation.

Bahut badiya, Shubman, aur obvious ban gaya hai. Now you've officially lost it. He quickly glanced around, only to catch Ishan staring at him, one eyebrow raised in that judgmental way Ishan always had. Great. Now he knows.

Shubman cleared his throat, trying to look serious again, but of course, his mind was too far gone, lost in this ridiculous mental image of him and Radhika living happily ever after, like Raj and Simran from Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge.

Now he was imagining their future. Married life. Him and Radhika. Would she laugh at his lame jokes, make him feel like some kind of hero? And what if she had one of those laughs that made you feel like you'd just hit a sixer on the last ball of the match? The thought made him smile again, but this time he caught himself, shaking his head as if to snap out of it.

And then, like a googly out of nowhere, it hit him. What if she doesn't even like me? What if, in her eyes, he was just some random guy? Not worth noticing? He sneaked another glance at her, trying to decipher her expression. She was so calm, so distant, completely unaware of the chaos in his mind.

What if she thought he was boring? The thought made him shudder. He's supposed to be cool, confident. He's Shubman Gill, for God's sake! But around her, he's reduced to this awkward, blushing mess. Pathetic, he thinks, quickly running his hand through his hair, trying to fix it. Maybe it looks messy?

HAYE RABBA!

What if she doesn't want to be Simba ki mummy?

The thought hit him like a bouncer. Simba, his beloved little Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, his son. What if Radhika didn't love dogs? And then the next wave of panic hit him. What if she preferred cats?

The idea was horrifying. He couldn't even picture it. What if she found Simba annoying or, worse, allergic? His brain was spinning into ridiculous territories, imagining a life without her cuddling Simba, and it just felt wrong on every level. And, seriously, cats? No way.

But the real heart-stopper, the absolute worst-case scenario, flashed in his mind like a warning signal. What if she didn't like cricket? He almost gasped out loud at the thought.

Nahi, nahi, he reassured himself.

Her brother was Rohit Sharma. Of course, she liked cricket. She probably grew up around it. And even if she didn't, toh kya? He could teach her, right? But then his brain had to throw in one last doubt, just for fun: What if she thought cricket was boring?

Yeh kaise ho sakta hai? He was Shubman Gill, India ka future, and yet his wife doesn't know about cricket?

And as if that wasn't enough, his brain hit him with one final thought, one that truly made his heart sink: What if she didn't like aloo ke paranthe?

The horror of it all. What if she didn't enjoy the comforting, buttery goodness of aloo ke paranthe with dahi and lassi on a Sunday morning? What would he do then? Shaadi toh dur ki baat hai, how would they survive something like that?

Shubman's heart leapt into his throat as he heard Hazel bhabhi's voice cut through his ridiculous daydream. "Shubi? Shub?" She was looking at him expectantly, as if he should know what was going on.

He straightened up, blinking rapidly, trying to shake off the embarrassing series of thoughts he'd just had.

"Uh... haan, Hazel bhabhi?" [Uh... Yes, Hazel bhabhi?] he stammered, trying to sound like he'd been paying attention. But from the way Hazel's eyebrow arched slightly, he knows she can see right through him.

"Radhika ko tujhse baat karni hai," [Radhika wants to talk to you.] Hazel bhabhi says, her voice soft but with that 'don't you dare mess this up' tone only she could pull off. Shubman's brain, already on overdrive, short-circuits for a second.

Radhika... wants to talk to him? Alone? About what, exactly? Oh God. His heart does a somersault like he's just faced a bouncer from Bumrah, and it's going straight for his helmet.

"Uh... okay," he mutters, suddenly aware of all the eyes in the room boring into him—Rohit bhaiya, with his glare that practically screams watch it, kid;

Yuvi paa, sitting like some elder statesman, watching the scene unfold with an unreadable expression; and Virat bhaiya, who—let's be honest—is never really unreadable, and currently looks like he's one wrong move away from punching someone. Sachin sir looking calm but there is a weird restlessness to him.

Even Anjali ma'am and Anushka bhabhi are sitting there, their protective mode fully activated, looking at him like he's about to steal their prized possession.

Then, there's Radhika, standing quietly in the middle of it all, completely unaware of the chaotic circus in his head.

Her soft, calm presence is a stark contrast to the storm raging inside him. She gives him a small nod, a signal for him to follow her, and suddenly the room feels too small, too hot.

"Go on, Shub," Hazel bhabhi prompts again, her smile reassuring, but her eyes? Oh, they're watching him like a hawk.

"Haan, chal, Shubman. Hum bhi chal rahe hain," [Yeah, come on, Shubman. We're coming too] Aditi says, her voice laced with that big-sister authority that leaves no room for negotiation. She looks over at Sara, nodding as if it's not even a question. "Right, Sara?"

"Obviously," Sara chimes in, crossing her arms like she's already made up her mind. "Radhika is our best friend, aur tu—"

Before Sara can finish, Anjali ma'am steps in, her voice soft but carrying that unmistakable undertone of finality that only seasoned Indian moms have mastered. "Aditi, Sara," she begins, her tone measured yet unmistakably directive, "Woh dono baat kar lenge. Tum dono yahin raho." [They will talk. You two stay here]

Aditi and Sara exchange a quick glance, eyebrows raised, clearly gearing up to argue, but then they catch the look on Anjali ma'am's face.

It's a look that's half patience, half ironclad authority—the kind that tells you that she's already seen every excuse you could possibly think of and is more than prepared to shut it down.

Sara looks like she's about to make one last attempt, probably start with something along the lines of, "But, mom—" when Anjali ma'am arches a single eyebrow.

It's a small gesture, but the message is loud and clear: don't even think about it. The universal language of all Indian mothers who've perfected the art of ending debates with a mere expression.

Sara throws her hands up in resignation, her body language screaming 'I tried, yaar' as she slumps back, knowing when she's been outmaneuvered. Aditi huffs, reluctantly stepping back as well, her lips pursed in silent disapproval.

As he gets up, he's acutely aware of everyone's eyes following his every movement. It's like they're all waiting for him to trip over his own feet or say something stupid.

He's halfway across the room when Ishan lets out, "Bhai, best of luck," and Shubman shoots him a death glare, because the last thing he needs right now is more pressure. But of course, Ishan just smirks in that annoying way only he can.

"Jai Hanuman gyan gun sagar, jai kapis tihu lok ujagar..." Shubman mutters under his breath, desperately invoking the power of the gods, because, let's be honest, facing a fast-paced yorker is easier than whatever is waiting for him in that room.

His palms are sweaty, and his heart is doing this weird dhol beat in his chest. Why did everyone have to be watching? Seriously, is this a World Cup final or something?

He glances back over his shoulder, hoping maybe, just maybe, someone will jump in and stop this madness. But nope—everyone is sitting there like they're watching a live soap opera, eyes glued to him as if they're waiting for the next dramatic twist.

Hazel bhabhi raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with his hesitation, while Ritika bhabhi leans forward slightly, her protective aura practically pushing him toward the door.

Shubman takes a step, then another, and he's really trying to be calm, but his brain is working overtime. Shubman takes another deep breath, trying to slow down the erratic beat in his chest, but it only gets louder.

His brain, clearly in panic mode, starts throwing out random mantras from every religion he's ever heard of—"Hanuman ji, lajj rakh lena... Waheguru, teri meher... Jesus, please save me..."

He's about to be in a room, alone with the woman who's been living rent-free in his head for what feels like forever, and the mere thought has him caught between the giddy thrill.

He's trying to mentally prepare himself, like maybe if he takes a few deep breaths, he won't look like an absolute idiot the moment he's hit with her presence.

Her scent alone is already working its magic, this tantalizing mix of jasmine and vanilla that's practically whispering his name like a siren's call, and oh, he's got no plans to resist.

Nope, he's ready to follow that siren straight into whatever disastrous, mildly humiliating, but ultimately inevitable situation awaits, because hey, it's not every day you get the chance to be spectacularly dumb in front of the person you're convinced might be your future wife, right?

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Shubman keliye pray karna guys. Radhika toh yahan maan gayi. Aur yeh banda toh mana nahi karega.

Pasand aaya, toh vote and comment kar dena. Story mein kuch chahiye, toh bata dena.

Aur prem so bolo,

Radhe..Radhe 🙏🏻