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Waheguru ji, mainu bacha le oo. Main langar da prabandh karanga te gurdware vi avanga.

[Waheguru, please save me. I'll organize the langar and visit the gurdwara.]

Shubman walks down the hallway, each step feeling heavier than the last, like he's being dragged to the edge of a cliff.

His heart's going at full speed, thudding in his chest so hard he half-wonders if everyone in Rohit bhaiya's flat can hear it. His shirt's sticking to his back, and his palms are sweaty. How did it come to this?

It feels like he's walking towards his doom—not from some lethal bouncer aimed at his head but from this girl. This girl, who in less than 24 hours has completely destroyed his ability to function like a normal human being.

He's facing a conversation that could very well change his life, and instead of thinking about what he'll say, his brain is busy plotting an escape route.

He glances at the window at the end of the hallway. Could he make a run for it? What if he just bolts, jumps out, and lands perfectly on the lawn like some Rohit Shetty movie hero?

He's a cricketer, after all—he has reflexes, agility. Easy, right? Just dive, roll, and disappear into the night. By the time anyone realizes he's gone, he'll be hailing a rickshaw, speeding towards freedom.

But then, as always, his brain decides to ruin his escape plan. Shubman remembers he's not actually Pavitr Prabhakar—he might've voiced the character, but his spidey reflexes are strictly limited to the animated world. What if he jumps and breaks a leg? Can't you just see the headlines?

"Shubman Gill attempts stunt escape from Rohit Sharma's flat, ends up in the hospital with both legs in casts."

He sighs and shakes his head, feeling his knees wobble slightly as he keeps walking. And then, because fate loves to mess with him, his mind lands on the one thought that makes his stomach drop.

Rohit Sharma, the man who puts fear into bowlers worldwide, the hitman, could end up being his saala.

Rohit, who once forgot the word for drone and called it "woh udne wala yeh." [that flying that.] That Rohit Sharma, whose baby sister he's apparently about to marry.

He gulps, glancing over his shoulder, half hoping Hazel bhabhi will call him back, say it was all a joke, and he can go back to the safe zone of the living room.

But no, she's watching him with that look. The one that says, Himmat rakh, puttar. He's on his own.

Fine. No running, no jumping. He can do this. It's just a conversation, right? He's talked to girls before. Plenty of girls. Not that it's ever gone well, but still—he's got this.

It's just Radhika. Sweet, Radhika, with her doe eyes and that smile that makes his stomach flip every time she looks at him.

And that's the problem. Every time she looks at him, his brain short-circuits. It's like he forgets how to be a functioning human being.

He takes a deep breath, telling himself to stay calm, to act normal—like he's got his life together and isn't completely losing it over a girl. Just a casual conversation, no pressure.

Kya Spiderman banega tu? [What Spiderman will you be?]

He thinks to himself, shaking his head. Yeah, right—Spiderman who trips over his own feet every time Radhika so much as glances his way.

Radhika walks ahead of him, and he's completely transfixed by the effortless way she moves, as if she's floating, not walking.

There's a softness, grace, to her steps, a gentle rhythm that somehow pulls him further into the chaos of his own mind.

There's an elegance to the way her hips sway with each step, subtle yet impossible to ignore The chhan-chhan of her anklets feels like background music, each step in sync with his racing heartbeat, and his eyes—traitorous as ever—drift to the dori of her kurti. Oh God, not again.

Her doree, like the one he clumsily tied yesterday, his fingers brushing against her bare skin, and just thinking about it makes him blush all over again.

He should be focusing on the conversation they're about to have, figuring out how to sound like a sensible adult, but instead, all he can think about is how the soft glow of her back peeking through the backless kurti is doing absolutely nothing to help him focus.

He quickly looks away, focusing on the wall, the floor, anywhere but her back. Because if Rohit bhai pops up right now, he's done for. He can already imagine the scene.

Rohit bhai storming out of the living room, that deadly calm look in his eyes, asking, "Yeh kya dekh raha tha tu, Shubman?" [What were you looking at, Shubman?] And then the inevitable threat: "Teri jaan le loonga."  [I'll take your life.]

Shubman's sure Rohit wouldn't even need to say much. One glare, and he'd be finished. Rohit bhai is protective like that—he's the kind of brother who treats Radhika like his firstborn, and the idea of anyone messing with her?

Well, that's a guaranteed ticket to an early grave. Shubman swallows nervously, making a mental note to keep his eyes firmly fixed on safe territory.

Finally. Finally, they reach the door to Radhika's room, and it feels like the longest walk of his life—like he's about to step into an exam hall without having studied a single page.

Radhika quietly pushes the door open, and the moment he steps inside, it feels like he's intruding on something private, something sacred.

And wow. Shubman has never seen so many books in one place .The only books he remembers from his own past are his school textbooks, especially that Hindi Sanchayan Bhag from Class 10—the literary villain of his teenage years.

Shubman still shudders at the thought of Madhukar Sir drilling him on every line of Topi Shukla, asking questions that Shubman had no business knowing. Honestly, he still doesn't know. then, and he doesn't know now.

The shelves are crammed with books, from hardcovers to paperbacks, teetering in every corner. Some of them are piled up with the carelessness of someone who reads too much to care about neatness; others are lined up perfectly, like they've been arranged by colour and author.

There are books in English, Hindi, and even a few in Marathi. So she reads real books while he's still wondering when Motu Patlu rerun is coming on TV.

In one corner of the room, a tidy white study table sits, piled with colorful stationery and thick medical textbooks, because of course, she's a genius too.

Right next to the stack of books, he spots a pair of ghungroos hanging off the side. Kathak—or maybe Bharatanatyam?

That would explain why she walks the way she does, like she's gliding across the floor, not just walking like the rest of us mere mortals. Wow, Shubman, tu toh gaya. [Wow, Shubman, you're finished

The room is peaceful—walls painted in a soft, soothing pink.], the floor cool white marble, and a big fluffy cream rug near her bed. It's cozy in that Pinterest-perfect way.

Sunlight spills across the room like melted butter. On the windowsill, there are tiny pots with succulents and a few flowering plants, the low-maintenance kind. Smart. Like her.

His eyes land on the white vanity across the room, complete with a lotus-shaped pink chair. It's lined with skincare products—fancy-looking bottles and creams.

He recognizes a few because, well, he uses them too. You've got to protect your skin from the harsh sun, after all.

The air smells like jasmine and vanilla, and he realizes that's her scent, the one that's been driving him crazy since he first got a whiff of it yesterday.

But then, his gaze falls on the high shelf near the window, and there they are—trophies. Dozens of them, lined up, gleaming in the sunlight. Medals too. His stomach drops.

Itne medals kabhi tujhe mile, Shubman? [Have you ever won this many medals, Shubman?]

He shakes his head, trying to brush off the sudden wave of inadequacy. Koi na, tu cricket mein hai. Bas trophy le aa World Cup ki. [No worries, you are a cricketer. Just bring home the World Cup trophy.]

But it's the big canvas photo hanging on the opposite wall that stops him in his tracks. It's Radhika in full Kathak regalia, caught mid-spin, her lehenga swirling around her like a watercolor dream.

She's dressed in this indigo blue lehenga with intricate gold embroidery and her blouse is a lighter blue, and a sheer dupatta hangs elegantly from her shoulder.

A maang tikka sits on her forehead, a crescent moon above those deep, expressive eyes lined with dark kajal, and her nose is adorned with a septum ring connected by a chain to her hair.

Her waist is cinched with a heavy gold kamarbandh, and her wrists are stacked with colorful bangles and gold armlets. White interticate details are painted from her temple and forehead.

While Radhika is spinning in the photo, Sara stands in the middle, a playful smile playing on her lips. She is wearing a bright yellow pitambar and a blue silk shirt.

A peacock feather peeks out from her turban, and she's holding a flute. Gold bangles jingle on her wrists, and her forehead is adorned with white urdhva pundra and white details on her temple.

Radha and Krishna.

And as Shubman stares at the photo, he feels this weird pang in his chest. But it's not what people would expect—it's not jealousy toward Radhika. No, no. Waise bhi, who even started that ridiculous rumor that he and Sara were dating?

He still remembers the first time he heard it. It was after some random Instagram post, and suddenly the whole internet decided they were a thing. Like, yaar, just because they're good friends, doesn't mean they're automatically a couple.

No, the real reason for his jealousy is something completely different. It's that Sara gets to pose beside Radhika as Krishna while he... doesn't. That's the problem.

"Yeh photo meri honi chahiye thi" [This photo should have been mine] He thinks, unknowingly pouting like a kid who didn't get invited to a birthday party.

He's the one who should be beside her in that beautiful Radha-Krishna moment. If anyone was going to be her Krishna, it should be him!

Par koi na, [But no worries] he reassures himself, half-nodding as if to convince his own brain, aage jaake toh tu hi banega na, Radhika ka Krishna? [in the future, you'll be Radhika's Krishna, won't you?]

Just as he's lost in his own delusional, yet oddly comforting daydream, he feels a soft hand on his bicep, snapping him back to reality.

His heart skips a beat. It's Radhika.

Her hand is resting gently on his arm, and all the alarms go off in Shubman's brain. Oh God, is this happening? He glances at her, but her face is still calm, serene, like she's not even aware that his entire system is about to short-circuit from that tiny touch.

For a moment, he's completely still, staring at her hand, trying to process the fact that she's touching him. Now, logically, he knows this is no big deal.

People touch each other's arms all the time. It's a completely normal, human thing. But his brain isn't getting the memo. Bilkul normal hai, Shubman. Chill maar. [Totally normal, Shubman. Relax.]

Except, of course, it's not normal when it's her hand. When it's Radhika's hand.

He glances back at her face, his heart still racing, and sees her looking up at him with a small, reassuring smile. She pulls her hand back after a few seconds, but the warmth of her touch lingers on his skin like a permanent mark.

"This is... really nice," Shubman finally manages to mumble, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels like banging his head against the nearest wall.

Nice? Really? That's the best he could come up with? He's in the room of a girl who's got more talent and elegance in her little finger than he has in his entire cricket career, and all he can say is 'nice'?

Wah, Shubman, next level impress kar raha hai tu. [Wah, Shubman, what a next-level impression you're making.]

Radhika just smiles softly, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and for a second, he thinks maybe—just maybe—she didn't notice how lame he sounded.

But before he can dwell on his own awkwardness any longer, something catches his eye from across the room—a flash of green that wasn't there a second ago.

Shubman blinks, trying to figure out if he's seeing things, when suddenly, a mischievous parrot swoops down from one of the bookshelves and Shubman panics.

He barely has time to react before his body jerks backward in a panicked, reflexive attempt to escape the sudden bird attack. And just like that, he's falling—arms flailing, legs scrambling, crashing into Radhika's bed in the least dignified way possible.

The soft mattress cushions the impact, but the humiliation? Well, there's no soft landing for that. He's flat on his back, limbs spread out like a fallen action hero, staring blankly up at the ceiling, wondering how his life has come to this.

Before he can even think about getting up and salvaging whatever is left of his dignity, the parrot swoops down with the precision of a professional wrestler.

It lands squarely on his chest, tilting its head to the side as if studying him, its beady little eyes locked onto his face. For a second, Shubman's heart skips a beat—not because he's scared of the parrot, but because of how ridiculous this whole situation is.

Kya yeh sab aaj hi hona tha? [Did all this really have to happen today?]

The heat creeps up his neck, turning his ears a deep shade of red, and all he can think is that this bird—this tiny green terror—has officially ruined any hope he had of impressing Radhika today.

The parrot, clearly enjoying its new throne, puffs up its feathers and stares down at him like it's waiting for him to say something.

Just when he thinks it can't get worse, he hears it—laughter. Soft at first, but unmistakably Radhika's. The sound startles him, yanking him out of his mortified daze.

He shifts his gaze towards her, and there she is, standing a few feet away, her hand covering her mouth as she tries to contain her giggles, but her eyes are twinkling with amusement.

Haye... Radhika.

Shubman's brain short-circuits like an overworked power line, and whatever was left of his dignity or coherent thought is gone, vanished. Honestly, it's ridiculous.

Here he is, standing like a complete idiot, while all he can think about is how her smile spreads across her face like the sun on a winter morning—warm and blinding at the same time.

Her nose crinkles in this cute, totally unfair way when she laughs, and her hair, of course, falls in those perfect waves. And he's just... stuck, staring at her, feeling like the biggest fool in the world.

Then it happens.

"Handsome. Handsome."

Wait, what?

Did—did she just call him handsome? His heart does this weird jolt, like someone kick-started it into overdrive, and for a moment, his ego perks up, throwing confetti and celebrating like it just hit a sixer.

She called me handsome, his mind screams, already halfway to planning how he'll brag about this to Ishan later.

But no, reality crashes into him like a fast ball he completely misjudged. It wasn't her. It wasn't Radhika.

It was the parrot.

Shubman wants to die. Right here, right now. But instead, he gives a nervous chuckle and awkwardly tries to shoo the bird away.

"Uh, yeh... Hi Mithu, kya naam hai aapka?" [Uh, yeh... Hi Mithu, what's your name?] he blurts out, immediately regretting every syllable.

Radhika, meanwhile, is trying her best not to break into another fit of laughter, her eyes sparkling as she glances between Shubman and the parrot, clearly amused at how flustered he's become.

She gives a soft whistle, and to Shubman's utter disbelief, the parrot actually listens, flapping its wings and flying to her arm.

As the parrot settles on her arm, Radhika strokes its neck like it's the most natural thing in the world. The bird, clearly loving every second of it, ruffles its feathers, puffing up proudly as if this is its daily spa treatment.

Meanwhile, Shubman shuffles awkwardly into a sitting position. He straightens his shirt, trying to look composed, but it's a lost cause. His hair's a mess, his ego's bruised, and his brain's still stuck on the fact that he almost got knocked out by a parrot.

Radhika just gives him that soft smile, then, without a word, she steps toward the door, giving the parrot a gentle nudge.

The bird flaps its wings again, taking off like it owns the place, disappearing out into the hallway. As it goes, it throws one last smug glance over its shoulder—like even it knows who won this round.

He watches as Radhika shuts the door softly behind her, and for a brief moment, his heart does a little flip. It's just the two of them now, no birds, no brothers, no distractions.

She walks back toward him, her anklets softly jingling, that same grace in her step that drives him crazy, and sits down beside him on the bed.

Shubman stiffens slightly. His mind takes him back to yesterday, and how close they had been to each other.

He clears his throat awkwardly, trying to think of something to say that won't make him sound like a total idiot. But what comes out is: "Uh... Mithu ka naam kya hai?" [Uh... what's Mithu's name?]

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he mentally facepalms. Mithu ka naam kya hai? Seriously? That's the best he could come up with? He can picture Virat bhai's reaction already—"Is ladke ka future kaise banega?" [What kind of future will this boy have?]

Shubman watches as Radhika picks up the notepad from her lap and starts scribbling, her delicate fingers moving quickly over the page.

A few seconds later, she flips the notepad around, revealing a single word written in neat handwriting: "Mishi."

"Mishi," Shubman repeats, letting the name sit awkwardly in his mouth. It sounds way too cute for a bird that just ruined his entire sense of self-worth, but he's not about to argue.

There's a pause, and Shubman feels the weight of the real conversation creeping in. He knows they can't avoid it, no matter how much he wants to keep talking about Mishi or anything else.

The air in the room shifts, and the reality of the situation starts to settle in. Shaadi. The word alone feels like a cricket ball that's been hurled at him at full speed. He glances at her, waiting for her to bring it up.

Radhika, still holding the notepad, meets his eyes and then slowly writes something down. She turns it toward him: "Are you okay with this?"

Shubman stares at the words for a second, blinking. She's asking him if he's okay with this? Like he's the one whose whole life is going to be flipped upside down. He rubs the back of his neck, buying time, unsure of how to even begin to answer that. He clears his throat again, which has apparently become his favorite thing to do when he's nervous.

Shubman lets out a deep sigh, his fingers running through his already tousled hair. It's like he's trying to comb through his chaotic thoughts by making his hair even more of a mess.

"Radhika, sirf mera chehra hi nahi, tumhara bhi kal se trend kar raha hai Instagram pe. Yeh sab sirf mujhe nahi, tumhe bhi affect karega. Main ek acha match khel loonga, aur log mujhe criticize karna band kar denge, par tumhe? Tumhara to koi galti bhi nahi hai..." [Radhika, it's not just my face that's trending on Instagram since yesterday—yours is too. This isn't just going to affect me, it'll affect you as well. If I play a good match, people will stop criticizing me, but you? You haven't done anything wrong...]

He trails off, his voice softening with frustration. The last thing he wants is for her to be caught up in this mess—especially when she had nothing to do with it in the first place. He feels helpless, like he's dragging her into something she never asked for.

Radhika watches him, her eyes calm but unwavering. After a moment, she picks up her notepad again and scribbles something quickly. She turns it towards him: "Apko lagta hai maine yeh decision soch samjh ke nahi lia hai?" [Do you think I didn't make this decision after careful thought?]

Shubman stares at the words for a long second, blinking as he tries to process them. He opens his mouth to respond, to argue, but she's already writing again. When she holds up the notepad again, the words hit him like a blow.

"Log aaj mujhe kuch bhi bol rahe hain, kal meri family ko bolenge. Jab pata chalega main Rohit bhaiya ki behen hoon, toh unko bhi ghaseetenge. Tum jaante ho duniya kaisi hai. Main yeh unke liye kar rahi hoon." [Today people are saying things about me, tomorrow they'll target my family. Once they find out I'm Rohit bhaiya's sister, they'll drag him into this too. You know how the world is. I'm doing this for them.]

The weight of those words sinks in slowly, and for a moment, Shubman is at a loss. He knows she's right, as much as he wishes she wasn't. This isn't just about a photo or the ugly comments people are already making about her. It's about the ripple effect.

The longer this drags on, the more fingers will be pointed—not just at her, but at her family. At her parents, who don't deserve to have their daughter's character questioned. And it's not fair. None of it is fair.

He runs his hand over his face, trying to absorb it all. He knows how brutal the world can be. One photo, one rumor, and suddenly everyone's an expert on your life.

They won't stop with Radhika. They'll dig deeper, find out she's Rohit Sharma's sister, and then the attacks will multiply. It won't be just trolls on the internet—it'll be the media, the gossip, the never-ending whispering behind their backs.

Shubman knows this kind of life. He's seen it happen with others in the public eye, how their personal lives are dissected like open wounds.

But it hits differently when it's happening to someone who's never asked for this kind of attention. And especially when it's someone he... well, someone who means this much to him.

He swallows, his throat suddenly dry. "Lekin, Radhika... shaadi?..." [But, Radhika... marriage?]

She shakes her head, cutting him off without saying a word, her eyes holding his with a kind of quiet intensity that stops him from finishing the sentence. She's not wavering. She's not backing down. This is her decision, and she's standing by it.

"I know aap soch rahe honge ki kaisi ladki hai jo shaadi ke liye itni jaldi haan keh deti hai." [I know you must be thinking, what kind of girl agrees to marriage so quickly.]

He stares at the note, his chest tightening. It's like she's reading his mind, putting his unspoken thoughts into words. But the thing is, he's not judging her.

Far from it. He's just... shocked. Confused. He shakes his head but before he can say anything, she starts writing again.

"I know Shubman ki yeh ideal solution nahi hai. But if this solution can save my family from being dragged through mud, then it's worth it for me. Mujhe apni khud ki fikr nahi hai. Par jab baat Aai, Baba tak poonchegi tab?" [I know, Shubman, this isn't the ideal solution. But if this can save my family from being dragged through the mud, then it's worth it to me. I'm not worried about myself. But when it starts affecting Aai and Baba, what then?]

Nobody wants to hear people badmouthing their daughter, their parents whispered about in hushed tones in the society.

Hell, if in the future someone badmouthed his daughter, Shubman knows he'd lose his mind. He'd probably do something stupid and end up on the front page of every newspaper.

He looks at her for a second, and before he even realizes it, he reaches out and takes her hands into his, feeling the coolness of her fingers against his sweaty palms.

His touch is hesitant, almost like he's asking for permission. "Are you sure, Radhika? Main nahi chahta ki... Anushka bhabhi ke saath jo hua, woh tumhare saath bhi ho." [Are you sure, Radhika? I don't want... what happened to Anushka bhabhi to happen to you too.]

Radhika's eyes widen slightly, and there's a moment of stillness between them. She knows exactly what he means. Everyone does.

How Anushka bhabhi had to endure all that nonsense—being blamed for every match Virat lost, dragged through the mud as if she was somehow responsible for every missed shot. Humiliated in public, treated like a bad omen just because she stood by the man she loved.

It wasn't fair, and Shubman knows that if the same thing ever happened to Radhika... he'd lose it.

"Radhika," he says softly, and he tightens his grip on her hands, "tumhe pata hai na, yeh kitna tough hoga? Agar main koi match haara, log bina kisi wajah ke tumpe ungli uthayenge. They'll say the same rubbish they said about Anushka bhabhi. Drag you into the mess for no reason. It'll be hard, really hard, to ignore all that."

[You know how tough this will be, right? If I lose a match, people will blame you without reason. They'll say the same garbage they said about Anushka bhabhi. Drag you into the mess for no reason. It'll be hard—really hard—to ignore all that.]

He pauses, his gaze locked on hers, searching her eyes for even a flicker of doubt. "Mere ghar ki Lakshmi ko koi blame kare, yeh main kaise bardaasht karoon?" [How can I stand it if people blame the Lakshmi of my house?]

The words spill out before he can stop them, and for a second, he wonders if he's crossed a line. But he can't take it back. It's the truth. She isn't just some random girl to him. She's... more. So much more.

Radhika looks at him for a moment, her eyes soft but steady, and then she gently pulls her hands from his, reaching for the notepad resting in her lap. She scribbles quickly, her delicate fingers moving with purpose. A second later, she turns it toward him:

'Mujhe logon ka darr nahi hai, aap ho na mere saath.' [I'm not afraid of people, as long as you're with me.]

The words hit him harder than he expects. He stares at the note for a beat longer than necessary, feeling something tighten in his chest.

It's so simple, the way she puts it, like all the noise, all the chaos around them, doesn't matter as long as he's there. He swallows, feeling a knot form in his throat, unsure how to respond.

"Radhika," he says, shaking his head slightly, his voice quieter now, "Main hamesha tumhare saath hoon." [I'm always with you.]

And he means it. Every word. Whatever this is, whatever storm is coming, he's with her. There's no question about that.

Radhika smiles—just the tiniest curve of her lips, but enough to send warmth through him. She picks up the notepad again, writing something quickly, and turns it toward him: "Phir problem kya hai?" [So, what's the problem?]

He lets out a breathy laugh, almost in disbelief at how easily she asks the question, like it's all so simple.

As if the world outside isn't waiting to tear them apart, as if they aren't standing at the edge of a decision that could change their lives in ways they can't even begin to imagine.

And yet, the way she says it—like she's already made her peace with it, like nothing matters as long as they're on the same page—it makes him pause.

Shubman rubs the back of his neck, looking down at the floor for a second before meeting her eyes again. "Problem yeh hai," he begins, his voice thoughtful, "Ki main apne aap ko bachane keliye, tumhari zindagi kharab nahi kar sakta. Main yeh nahi chahta ki tum mere wajah se apni zindagi ko compromise karo, sirf isliye kyunki situation itni messed up ho gayi hai."

[I don't want to make things easy for me at the cost of your life. I don't want you to compromise your life just because the situation has gotten so messed up.]

Radhika tilts her head, her eyes never leaving his, she lifts her notepad, which reads "Mujhse dosti karoge?" [Will you be my friend?]

The question catches him completely off guard. For a second, Shubman just blinks, unsure if he's read it right. Dosti? Right now? Ye sab ke beech, dosti?

Here he is, ready to defend her from the world, to do whatever it takes to protect her from the media storm, and she's sitting there asking if he wants to be friends

But then, something clicks. Of course. She's not asking for a quick fix, not demanding he steps into this mess without thinking. She's giving them a foundation, something solid to stand on before they even think about the next step.

And friendship? That's a place to start. It's not just practical—it's real. It's the one thing that makes sense in the middle of all this chaos.

Haye, mummy teri nooh kini smart aa. Tu te paani waaran di tayari kar.

[Haye, mummy, your daughter-in-law is so smart. You better get the water ready for welcoming her into the house.]

Shubman can already see his mom's proud, beaming face as she prepares for the biggest celebration of her life. And naturally, the first call will be to bua ji, Abhishek's mother, the unofficial reporter of the family.

Between Shubman's mom and bua ji, news spreads faster than WhatsApp forwards, and by the end of the day, every relative from Canada to Chandigarh to Fazilka will know about Radhika.

Shubman feels a light tap on his shoulder. He blinks, snapping out of his daydream, only to find Radhika standing beside him, her head tilted, eyebrows raised.

"Oh, uh... sorry," he stammers, feeling his cheeks flush with the kind of heat. "Bas... thoda soch raha tha." [I was just... thinking.]

Radhika just shakes her head with a smile, holds up her notepad again, scribbling something quick, before flipping it around to show him.

"Ab chale. Sabko bata hai na." [Shall we go? Everyone's waiting, right?]

Shubman reads the note, and it hits him. Right. The others. The family is waiting outside, probably exchanging bets on whether he's managed to make a fool of himself in record time.

Especially Rohit bhai, who, let's face it, is likely pacing around like an agitated lion, ready to pounce the moment he senses anything out of place.

Shubman lets out a deep breath, trying to gather whatever is left of his courage. "Yeah, yeah, chalo," he says, forcing a smile, but there's a knot of anxiety still tightening in his chest.

He knows that once they step out, there's no turning back.

Whatever tiny bubble of calm they've had in this room will burst, and they'll be right back in the thick of things, under the scrutinizing eyes of everyone who loves and worries about them.

Radhika gives him one last encouraging look before gesturing toward the door, and as much as he's dreading the inevitable barrage of questions, he knows they have to face it.

This isn't just about him anymore; it's about her, about them, about the promise they've made—unspoken, but felt.

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Toh ab Rohit bhai ka kya reaction hoga? And who is excited for Shubman getting the shovel talk?

Okay, so I know ki maine Shubman ke birthday pe post nahi dala, I tried my best but uss din thoda busy tha.

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

Aur prem so bolo,

Radhe..Radhe 🙏🏻