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Panther.

That's what Ishan calls Shubman. Not once, not casually, not tossed out like some half-hearted nickname. No, when Ishan says it, it's with the kind of reverence reserved for ancient deities or really expensive whiskey.

He'll roll the word in his mouth, like it deserves savoring. "Paaaanther," he'll say, stretching the syllables just enough, head tilted, one eyebrow arched, as if he's letting you in on some grand cosmic truth.

And you know what? He's not wrong.

There is something about Shubman that justifies the drama. The way he looks, for one. Those eyes—sharp, smoldering, and unsettlingly precise.

The kind of gaze that doesn't just notice you but dissects you, files the information away, and circles back to it at 2 a.m. You could be across a room, hiding behind ten people, and he'd still clock the fact that your shoelaces are mismatched.

Then there's the smile. Oh, that smile. It's not warm or inviting—it's sharp.

Not in the metaphorical "he's-so-charming" sense but in the literal "this-could-cut-glass" sense. Like he's permanently one second away from delivering the punchline of a joke that's too clever for you to get.

And the way he moves? Well, that's the real clincher. He doesn't walk so much as... glide. Effortlessly, quietly, like he's some jungle predator on the prowl.

It's mesmerizing in the kind of way that makes you a little nervous. He could be crossing the room to grab a drink, and you'd still half-expect the Mission: Impossible theme to kick in.

But the thing that really seals the whole "Panther" deal? It's not the eyes or the smile or the glide. It's the nose.

You see, panthers are hunters. Their senses are fine-tuned, razor-sharp. And Shubman? His sense of smell could put a bloodhound to shame. It's not just good—it's borderline supernatural.

If someone, three houses down, so much as thinks about sautéing garlic, he'll know. He doesn't even need to try; it's instinctive. His nostrils will flare just slightly, his head will tilt back, and then... there it is.

That look. That flicker of recognition in his eyes, like he's receiving some kind of divine transmission from the Food Gods themselves.

And let me tell you, when it comes to aloo paranthas, that nose works overtime.

Calling Shubman's love for aloo paranthas "love" is a joke. It's an obsession. A sacred bond. Aloo paranthas aren't just food—they're a reason to wake up in the morning.

Butter chicken? Chicken curry? Sure, they're great, but they're distant runners-up, like the forgotten silver and bronze medalists in a race they never really had a chance of winning.

If someone within a half-kilometer radius so much as heats up a tawa with the intent of making paranthas, Shubman knows. It's like his entire being shifts into high alert.

Ishan sees it happen every time. Like clockwork.

"Ho gaya iska shuru," [Here we go.] Ishan mutters under his breath the moment Shubman freezes mid-step.

It's a small thing at first—his head tilts, just slightly, the way a cat's ears swivel when they pick up a distant sound. Then his nostrils flare, barely noticeable unless you're paying attention. But Ishan's always paying attention. He knows what comes next.

Shubman's eyes narrow, honing in on some invisible point in the distance. His entire posture changes. He's no longer standing like a guy in a living room but like a predator surveying his terrain, calculating the distance, factoring in wind speed, plotting his next move.

And then, with a kind of unhurried inevitability, Shubman starts to move.

Not fast, mind you. No, there's no urgency here. It's smooth, deliberate, like the world itself is slowing down to watch. He doesn't need to rush—he knows he's going to get there. He always does.

"Ab kya smell kar liya, isne?" [What did he smell now?] Virat bhai questions, his tone dripping with amusement.

Rohit, walking beside him, simply shrugs his shoulders, his expression somewhere between exasperated and entertained.

The group is making their way down the hallway from Rohit's study, their voices bouncing off the polished walls.

It's one of those moments that feels comfortably routine for everyone except Shubman, who is clearly locked in his own private detective saga.

His nose twitches again, and this time, his steps pick up a fraction. Just a fraction, but enough for Ishan to notice and smirk.

"Bata na, Shubhi, ab tere panther senses ne kya detect kiya?" [Tell me na, Shubhi, what did these panther senses' of yours detect?] Ishan teases, nudging Shubman with his elbow.

Shubman doesn't even bother replying, his focus unbroken. The air is thick with the faintest hint of something delicious—buttery, spicy, familiar. It's aloo parantha. It has to be. His instincts are never wrong.

The hallway opens up into the main living area, where the tantalizing aroma becomes stronger, wrapping around Shubman like a siren's call.

He's not even trying to hide it anymore—the way his chest rises with every deep inhale, the slight parting of his lips as if he can taste the air. Ishan's smirk widens.

"Shubh, bhai, control," Ishan quips, earning a chuckle from Virat. Even Rohit can't suppress a grin, though he quickly schools his features into something resembling authority.

But Shubman isn't listening. He's already plotting his trajectory, his gaze scanning the room for the source of the smell. The kitchen is open, and through the gap, he catches a glimpse of movement.

Someone is in there. Someone who clearly knows their way around a parantha. That much is obvious from the divine aroma wafting into the hallway.

"Who's cooking?" Shubman finally speaks, his voice low and laced with curiosity. It's not a question so much as a demand for answers. The room pauses, as if everyone is collectively deciding how best to play this.

Rohit, ever the master of feigned ignorance, shrugs with a nonchalant air. "Mujhe kya pata?" [How do I know?] He gestures vaguely toward the study. "Main toh study mein tha." [I was in the study.]

Shubman narrows his eyes at him, a silent warning that says, "Don't mess with me right now." But he doesn't push.

He's already too preoccupied with the intricate tapestry of scents swirling in the air.

Butter, cumin, the faintest hint of ajwain. His brain is working overtime, breaking down the olfactory notes like a master sommelier analyzing a vintage wine. Whoever is behind that door isn't just cooking; they're creating.

Virat, standing to the side, is watching this unfold with barely concealed amusement. "Kya hua, Panther?" [What happened, Panther?] he drawls, folding his arms across his chest. "Khushboo ne pagal kar diya?" [Has the smell driven you mad?]

Ishan, leaning casually against the wall, joins in with a wicked grin. "Khane ka jaadu hai, bhai. Bas Shubman ka 'six sense' activate ho gaya hai." [It's the magic of food, brother. Shubman's sixth sense has been activated.]

Shubman doesn't dignify their teasing with a response. His focus is unrelenting, his gaze fixed on the kitchen door like it holds the secrets of the universe. He takes a step forward, almost imperceptibly, and his posture shifts.

Gone is the relaxed demeanor of a guy hanging out with friends. In its place is a hunter—silent, deliberate, every movement calculated.

There's a faint sound of sizzling, the kind that instantly conjures up images of golden-brown perfection crisping on a hot tawa. Shubman's heart skips a beat.

No, it's not just food being cooked in there. It's something sacred, something transformative. He can feel it in his bones.

Before he can inch closer, a voice interrupts the moment. "Aloo paranthe ban rahe hain," Anushka bhabhi announces, her tone light but unmistakably teasing. [Aloo paranthas are being made.]

The group's collective attention snaps to her, but none more so than Shubman. His eyes widen ever so slightly, the faintest flicker of something—hope? joy? reverence? —flashing across his face.

And then she adds, with a dramatic pause worthy of a soap opera, "Aur Radhika bana rahi hai." [And Radhika is making them.]

Shubman's entire world shifts, tilts, realigns itself with a quiet but undeniable certainty. His Mrignaini.

The thought alone sends a slow warmth creeping up his chest, settling somewhere near his collarbone, heavy and insistent.

It's not just the idea of paranthas anymore; it's the idea of her making them. For him. Maybe not today, but someday. Someday soon. Hopefully.

Paranthe ban rahe ne? Te Radhika bana rahi hai? Mujhe toh kabhi Shahneel di ne bhi paranthe nahi bana ke diye. [Parathas are being made? And Radhika is making them? Even Shahneel di never made parathas for me.]

Shadi ke baad bhi aise hi Radhika ke haath ke paranthe mile ge? Haye, kya din honge, shadi ke baad, subha subha uth ke, apni soni ji voti te haath de choode wali bahh de paranthe khan nu milu ge. [After marriage, will I still get parathas made by Radhika's hands? Oh, what days those will be after marriage—waking up early in the morning, getting to eat parathas made by my beautiful wife's bangles adorned wrists.]

The words drift through his consciousness, slow and syrupy, unhurried in their arrival, like honey spilling from a spoon in languid drops.

He doesn't fight the pull; instead, he leans into it, letting the vision unfurl with a life of its own. He sees himself waking up on a crisp winter morning, the kind where the air feels sharper, cleaner, almost sacred.

The sunlight filters through the curtains, weak and golden, painting soft patterns across the room that isn't just his but theirs.

The realization makes him pause, the word—theirs—echoing in his mind with a quiet weight, unfamiliar and thrilling all at once.

The faint jingle of her chooda catches his attention next, a sound so delicate it feels like it could dissolve into the morning light.

He imagines her moving around in the kitchen, her steps purposeful yet graceful, her anklets adding a soft rhythm to the silence.

Her hair is tied back, but not perfectly—loose strands fall over her face, catching the light, framing her features in a way that seems effortlessly beautiful.

He wonders if she'd brush them aside absentmindedly, the way she does when she's focused on something, and the thought tugs at something deep inside him.

In his mind, he's still groggy, the kind of early-morning daze that clings stubbornly after a good night's sleep.

He pictures himself walking into the kitchen, drawn by the smell—no, summoned by it. The aroma of paranthas, golden and butter-glazed, pulls him like an invisible thread, each step filled with quiet anticipation.

And then she turns. Slowly, deliberately, as if she knows he's there.

Her smile is soft yet bright, brighter than the sunlight streaming through the windows, brighter than anything else he can imagine.

In her hands is a plate, simple yet extraordinary, because it's not just food—it's hers. Made by her hands, for him.

It's such a simple scene, but it roots itself so deeply in his mind that it feels sacred. He lingers there, in that imagined morning, savoring the details like they're a rare treasure.

The smell, the light, the quiet intimacy of the moment—all of it weaves together, leaving him feeling both mesmerized and strangely at peace.

And then, the thought shifts. His gaze drops to her hands in his mind's eye—those hands that are making paranthas now.

He pictures them adorned differently, with choodas bearing his name, her fingers moving with the same grace but with a new weight, a new meaning.

Yeh haath jo aaj paranthe bana rahe hain, kal yeh mere naam ke choode se sajenge. [These hands that are making paranthas today, tomorrow they will be adorned with bangles bearing my name.]

The thought is so unexpectedly tender that it startles him. It's the kind of feeling that sneaks up on you, like sunlight breaking through clouds on an overcast day.

For a moment, Shubman feels disoriented, unsure of where the thought even came from, but he doesn't push it away. Instead, he lets it linger, warm and comforting, like the first sip of chai on a cold morning.

He doesn't fully understand what's happening—this strange spell Radhika has cast over him without even trying—but he knows one thing for sure: he doesn't want to break free of it.

Standing there, caught in his own little world, Shubman doesn't notice the way the room has gone quiet, the way a few pairs of eyes have turned toward him.

He doesn't see Virat and Ishan's smirks forming slowly, like someone who's just found a juicy piece of gossip. He doesn't even notice Rohit glancing at him, puzzled, until Virat leans in closer to Rohit, his voice low but carrying just enough to be heard.

"Yeh toh gaya kaam se," [He's completely gone.] Virat drawls, his tone brimming with an almost theatrical smugness, each syllable stretched out like he's savoring the taste of his own wit.

He leans back, crossing his arms with the confidence of someone delivering a grand declaration.

Rohit, ever the pragmatist, gestures toward Shubman with a lazy flick of his hand. "Shubman toh yahi khada hai, Virat. Tu kya bakwas kar raha hai?" [Shubman is standing right here, Virat. What nonsense are you talking about?]

His voice carries the indulgent exasperation of someone accustomed to deciphering his friend's cryptic nonsense.

For a brief second, Virat's smug expression falters, like he wasn't prepared for the sheer density of Rohit's response.

Ishan, standing beside him, lets out a theatrical groan and pinches the bridge of his nose as if he's dealing with an errant child rather than his captain.

"Rohit bhai," Ishan begins, his tone slow and deliberate, as if he's explaining something to a particularly stubborn toddler. "Virat bhai yeh bol raha hai ki Shubman, yahan—" [Virat bhai is saying that Shubman—]

He gestures at Shubman with exaggerated drama, he points dramatically at Shubman, who is still staring blankly into space, "—dil se gaya." [—is done for from heart.]

"Gone," Virat interjects, his smugness returning in full force. "Emotionally, mentally, aur shayad thoda physically bhi." [Emotionally, mentally, and maybe a bit physically too.]

Rohit squints at Shubman, leaning in ever so slightly, as though inspecting him for cracks or signs of wear and tear. "Toh iska matlab hai...?" [So this means...?] he asks slowly, his voice trailing off in genuine puzzlement.

Ishan and Virat exchange a look, the kind of look that only years of shared exasperation can produce. Both their eyebrows shoot up simultaneously, their noses scrunching in unison.

They look so synchronized that for a fleeting moment, they resemble a father-son duo caught in a comedy skit.

Ishan waves his hand lazily in front of Rohit's face, his tone dripping with mock concern. "Ro bhai, aap na shayad abhi bhi neend mein hi hain. Thoda jag jayiye, haan?" [Ro bhai, I think you're still half-asleep. Wake up a little, please.] He snaps his fingers for effect, adding to the theatrics.

Rohit bats his hand away, glaring. "Main perfectly jag gaya hoon. Tum log mujhe yeh batao, Shubman ko gaya kaise declare kar diya tum dono ne? Banda yahi apne dono pairon pe khada hai." [I'm perfectly awake. You two tell me—how have you declared Shubman 'gone'? The guy's standing right there on his two feet.]

Virat leans forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice as if he's about to share a state secret. "Arey, physical presence ki baat nahi kar rahe hum. Dil ki baat ho rahi hai, Ro." [We're not talking about physical presence. We're talking about matters of the heart, Ro.]

"Correct," Ishan chimes in, nodding sagely. He throws an arm around Virat's shoulders, their collective smugness reaching new heights.

"Dekho uska chehra. Aise dreamy smile dekhne ko tabhi milti hai jab ya toh koi ladka love mein ho, ya cricket ka World Cup jeeta ho." [Look at his face. You only see a dreamy smile like that when a guy's in love or has won the Cricket World Cup.]

Rohit squints at Shubman, his head tilting slightly to the side like a curious bird sizing up a shiny object.

There's an odd expression on his face now, a mix of intrigue and suspicion, as though he's just stumbled upon a particularly tricky crossword clue. And to be fair, Shubman does look... different.

Usually, there's a sharpness to him—a focused, almost laser-like energy in the way he carries himself, whether he's at the crease or just standing around.

But today, his eyes seem softer, unfocused, with a faraway look that screams I'm not all here right now. Even his shoulders, always so squared and ready for action, have slumped ever so slightly, like he's been wrapped in an invisible fog.

Rohit narrows his eyes further, the furrows on his forehead deepening. Then, almost out of nowhere, he mutters, "Paranthe."

The word drops out of his mouth in a low, contemplative voice, as if he's just uncovered the key to unlocking a great mystery. "Woh... yeh jo ho raha hai, sab... woh..." [This... whatever is happening...] His hand makes a circle in the air, searching for the right word. "...paranthon ka kiya dara hai." [It's all because of the paranthas.]

There's a moment of stunned silence.

From her corner near the kitchen, Aditi snorts. She's been carrying a tray of chai, but now she stops in her tracks, her face morphing into something caught between outrage and glee.

"HAWWW!" she gasps, her voice exaggerated enough to rival any saas-bahu serial. "Ridhu, sun rahi hai? Rohit bhai tere paranthe ko bura bol rahe hain!" [HAWWW! Ridhu, are you hearing this? Rohit bhai is badmouthing your paranthas!]

The soft chime of anklets rings through the room, subtle yet persistent, like the faintest whisper carried on a breeze.

It's a sound that seems almost too delicate to penetrate the noise of the living room—the rise and fall of animated voices, the occasional burst of laughter, the clatter of a misplaced bowl against the coffee table—but somehow, it does.

It weaves its way into the chaos, threading through the layers of chatter until it lands, almost unnoticed, on Shubman's ears.

His gaze shifts instinctively, pulled toward the doorway, and there she is.

Radhika steps into the room with a kind of understated grace, her presence quiet yet impossible to ignore. She doesn't rush. She doesn't falter.

Her attention is entirely consumed by the tiny figure nestled in her arms—Akaay, who stirs fitfully, his soft, round fists scrunching the fabric of her kurta as she rocks him gently.

Her movements are fluid, unhurried, like this is something she's done a hundred times before, though Shubman knows that can't be true.

Her lips move faintly, shaping murmurs too soft to reach him, but the cadence of her voice carries through, low and soothing, the kind of sound meant to settle frayed nerves and lull restless babies back to sleep.

It's not what she says—it doesn't matter, not really—but how she says it, her tone laced with a tenderness that feels almost sacred, a warmth so natural it seems effortless.

The morning sunlight, golden and soft, spills through the wide ceiling length windows, catching on the loose strands of her braid that have slipped over one shoulder. The rest of her hair is still neatly woven, but the small imperfections—the stray tendrils framing her face, the way her dupatta is slightly askew—make her look... real. Achingly human in a way that hits Shubman like a punch to the chest.

He can't take his eyes off her.

At first, it's subtle—the way his posture changes, the way he leans forward just a fraction as if drawn closer by some invisible force. But then it deepens.

His breath slows, his focus narrows, and the rest of the room begins to blur into insignificance. All fade into an indistinct hum, a backdrop to the quiet, unassuming moment unfolding before him.

Radhika shifts her weight from one foot to the other. The motion is small, barely perceptible, but it draws Shubman's attention like a magnet.

He watches as she adjusts Akaay in her arms, cradling him closer, her hand bracing the back of his head with such gentle precision it feels like a kind of art.

She tilts her head slightly, pressing her cheek to the baby's for a fleeting moment, and then—there it is—a smile.

It's not a big, dazzling smile meant for an audience. It's quiet, private, just the faintest curve of her lips, and yet it's enough to leave him reeling.

There's a softness in it, an intimacy that feels almost too much to witness, and he finds himself gripping the edge of the sofa with unnecessary force, as though the act might keep him tethered to the ground.

He knows he should look away.

He tells himself it's the polite thing to do, the reasonable thing to do, but his body doesn't listen.

His eyes stay locked on her, tracing every detail—the delicate slope of her shoulders, the way her anklets glint faintly with each small step, the quiet determination etched into her every movement.

And then there's her face—serene, focused, entirely unaware of the storm she's igniting in him.

It's absurd, the way his thoughts spiral. He barely knows her. They met yesterday. Not even a single conversation, just what they communicated through their eyes.

She had smiled at him as a thank you then, too—different from this smile, but captivating all the same—and he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it since.

But this?

This is something else entirely.

As he watches her, an image begins to form, unbidden and reckless, sharp as it is impossible to ignore.

He sees her there, in that same spot, holding not Akaay but a different child—a child with her eyes and maybe his smile, her round cheeks, and his height.

It's a picture that sneaks into his mind without permission, vivid and startling in its clarity, and for a moment, he's struck completely still.

His chest tightens, his breath catching in his throat, and he forces himself to look away—but the image stays. It lingers, seared into his mind, refusing to dissolve no matter how hard he tries to push it aside.

Radhika shifts again, her movements gentle, instinctive, as if she was born knowing exactly how to hold a baby. Akaay nestles closer to her, his tiny fingers curling around the edge of her dupatta like it's the only anchor he needs in the world.

He lets out a soft sigh, somewhere between a coo and a yawn, and the sound cuts through the room, leaving Shubman frozen in place.

She doesn't notice Shubman. Doesn't see the way his gaze has been fixed on her for what feels like an eternity, doesn't catch the way his breath hitches every time she smiles down at the baby.

To her, he's just a part of the scenery—a guest blending into the muted hum of conversations and the occasional clink of glasses.

And maybe that's the cruelest part.

Because Shubman knows one thing with absolute, bone-deep certainty: she has no idea what she's doing to him.

No idea that the sight of her holding Akaay has unleashed something in him he doesn't quite understand—something primal, something that feels like it's been lying dormant, waiting for this exact moment to spring to life.

He shifts awkwardly, running a hand through his hair as if that will somehow shake off the thoughts crowding his mind. But it doesn't work.

All he can think about is Radhika—her soft smile, her delicate fingers cradling the baby's tiny form, the way her entire demeanor seems to mold into something impossibly tender when she looks at Akaay.

And then there's Akaay himself, blissfully unaware of the chaos he's set in motion. Shubman glances at the baby, a faint, amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Whatever this kid wants in life, Shubman is ready to deliver it.

If Akaay grows up and decides he wants to elope with someone halfway across the world, Shubman will book the tickets, pack the bags, and drive the getaway car himself.

Akaay has no idea how powerful he is. Because in this moment, he's given Shubman a glimpse of a future he hadn't even known he was capable of imagining.

A life where his heart doesn't beat only for cricket or victories or the next game. But a life filled with the quiet comfort of home, of family, of love—things that have always seemed so distant to him, things he's never allowed himself to crave.

It's absurd. It's completely irrational. He's supposed to be focused, grounded, free from these distractions. But despite his best efforts, Shubman can't shake it.

Every time his eyes fall on Radhika, every time he watches such a natural tenderness, his mind goes to places he's not ready to visit yet. But they're there anyway, like uninvited guests in his thoughts.

And then, just as he's spiraling further into the maze of his own confusion, the one thing that could pull him back into the present happens.

"Sh-Shu-Shub-Shubman!"

The frantic call of his name from Yuvi Paa jolts him out of his thoughts, and he blinks, suddenly aware of the entire room's attention on him.

His gaze shifts, and he realizes that it's not just Yuvi Paa who's staring—everyone is looking at him, from the PR team members to the friends at the table, all with curious, amused expressions.

Even Radhika is watching him intently, a concerned frown on her face.

Shubman freezes, a slight panic rising in his chest as he realizes that for the last few moments, he's been lost in his own world, completely oblivious to everything around him.

He can feel his face flush with the kind of embarrassment he hasn't experienced in a long time.

"Kya hua, Shubman? Kahan khoya hai?" [What happened, Shubman? Where are you lost?]

Yuvi Paa's voice cuts through the tension, but instead of being worried, he's clearly trying to hide a grin. Shubman glances at him quickly, then his eyes shift to the others.

Everyone, even the PR team seems mildly confused, but it's Ishan, sitting a few seats down, who's clearly enjoying the entire spectacle. The smirk playing on his face says it all.

"Mujhe lagta hai, bhai ne thoda zyada soch liya hai. Dekh, kya chal raha hai yeh!" [I think, bro, you've been thinking too much. Look, what's going on here!]

Shubman exhales sharply, trying to shake off the feeling of being caught in the middle of something he's not prepared for. He clears his throat, gathering his thoughts, but it's no use—his mind keeps drifting back to Radhika.

She's still looking at him, her expression no longer one of simple concern but now with a hint of something else. Curiosity? Amusement?

He can't tell. But her eyes, those damn eyes, are like magnets, pulling him in despite everything he's trying to do to stay focused.

"Aaja Shubhi, Radhika bhabhi ne kya mast paranthe banaye hai," [Come on, Shubhi, Radhika bhabhi has made amazing paranthas!] Ishan calls out, his voice muffled by a mouthful of parantha.

The lively chatter at the dining table continues, a harmonious blend of laughter, teasing, and the clinking of utensils against plates.

Ishan shares a dramatic story, which earns him a sharp nudge on his arm from Aditi, her exasperation barely masking her affection.

"Sabke saamne tameez se baat karo, Ishan. Bachhe jaise behave mat karo!" [Speak properly in front of everyone, Ishan. Stop behaving like a child!] she scolds, her voice stern but tinged with amusement.

Ishan, unbothered as ever, leans back in his chair with a wide grin. "Kya karoon, yaar? Radhika bhabhi ke haathon ka khaana khake toh dil garden-garden ho ra!" [What can I do? After eating Radhika bhabhi's cooking, my heart feels like a blooming garden!]

The room erupts with laughter again, even Aditi unable to suppress a chuckle this time. Rohit bhai shakes his head, leaning back in his chair with a bemused smile.

"Iska kuch nahi ho sakta," [There's no hope for him.] Rohit mutters under his breath, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Sara, sitting beside her father, looks at Ishan with mock seriousness, "Ishan, tumhe ek din Bollywood join karna chahiye," [Ishan, you should join Bollywood someday.] she says, trying to keep a straight face.

"Sara, tum producer dhoond do, phir toh baat pakki samjho," [Sara, just find me a producer, and it's a done deal.] Ishan quips, raising his eyebrows as if already imagining himself on the silver screen.

The laughter grows louder, but amidst the lively energy of the room, Radhika moves quietly. With Akaay cradled securely, her other hand works deftly to serve freshly made paranthe and refill glasses of chai.

Shubman, standing slightly apart from the main cluster, watches her silently. His feet remain sturdy as his gaze follows her, noticing how effortlessly she is managing to serve everyone with Akaay.

The warmth of the golden light reflects off her bangles, casting a subtle glow around her wrists. She moves with a quiet grace, her presence understated yet unmistakably central to the gathering.

Sachin sir catches Shubman's wandering gaze and gestures to him warmly. "Beta, aao na. Table pe baitho aur khaana enjoy karo. Radhika ne itni mehnat se banaya hai." [Son, come on. Sit at the table and enjoy the food. Radhika has worked so hard to prepare it.]

Anushka bhabhi nods in agreement, "Haan, Shubman. Khud ko guest mat samjho. Yahaan sab apne hi hain." [Yes, Shubman. Don't think of yourself as a guest. Everyone here is family.]

"Aur suno, ek baar baith jao toh tareef karna mat bhoolna. Radhika ka khaana khaake sabhi fida ho jaate hain." [And listen, once you sit down, don't forget to compliment the food. Everyone falls in love with Radhika's cooking.] Anjali ma'am adds with a smile

Shubman nods absently, his mind elsewhere. His gaze remains fixed on Radhika as she moves to serve Anjali ma'am.

The soft clinking of her bangles as she places a plate down pulls his attention further, a melody that seems to slow the bustling atmosphere around him.

He rises from his seat without a word, the noise around him fading into a dull hum. His steps are deliberate, measured, and yet there's an urgency in the way he crosses the room.

Radhika doesn't notice him at first, too absorbed in balancing Akaay while ensuring everyone's plate remains full. It's only when she feels the gentle pressure of his hand on her wrist that she freezes, the motion stopping her mid-step.

Her head turns, and her eyes meet his—wide, questioning, and filled with quiet strength. There's no alarm in her gaze, just curiosity, as though she's asking him silently, "Kya hua?" [What is it?]

Shubman's voice is low, steady, but there's an unexpected softness in it. "Radhika, tum baitho. Itna kaam mat karo," [Radhika, sit down. Don't work so much.] he says, his grip firm yet gentle.

Her brows knit in confusion, her eyes flickering briefly toward the table where the others are still talking and laughing. She gestures faintly with her free hand, her expression as if to say I'm fine, really. But Shubman doesn't let go.

He leans in slightly, his voice dropping further. "Maine kaha na, baitho. Tumne kaafi kiya hai. Ab rest karo." [I said, sit down. You've done enough. Now rest.]

Before she can respond, Shubman gently takes the plate from her hand, his fingers brushing hers briefly. Without waiting for her approval, he turns toward the table and begins serving the paranthe himself.

The room falls into an unexpected silence, the lively chatter pausing as everyone turns to watch.

Ishan whistles under his breath. "Arre waah, Shubman! Cricket ka hero, ab romance ka bhi hero! Tu itna sanskari kab ban gaya?!" [Wow, Shubman! The hero of cricket is now the hero of romance too! When did you become so well-mannered?]

Ritika bhabhi smirks, his tone teasing. "Lage raho, Shubman. Lagta hai kisi ko khaas impress karna hai." [Go on, Shubman. Looks like you're trying to impress someone special.]

But Shubman doesn't look up, his focus entirely on pouring chai into cups and ensuring everyone has what they need.

When he finishes, he turns back to Radhika, his voice softer now but resolute. "Ab tum baitho. Main dekh loonga," he says simply. [Now you sit. I'll handle it.]

Radhika hesitates, her lips parting as though to protest, but the look in his eyes stops her. There's no room for argument in his steady gaze, only an unspoken insistence that she allow herself this moment of rest.

Slowly, she moves to the empty chair Sachin sir had pointed out earlier. As she sits, Akaay still nestled in her arms, a faint flush colors her cheeks.

The room gradually returns to its rhythm, the teasing and laughter picking up again, but an unspoken shift lingers in the air.

And though the room hums with energy, Shubman's gaze drifts back to her, watching as she quietly sips her chai.

There's a softness in her eyes now, a silent acknowledgment of the moment they've just shared.

And for Shubman, the noise, the food, and even the teasing fade into the background, leaving only the warmth of the moment between them.

Once everyone is served, Shubman finally takes a seat beside Radhika, his arm brushing lightly against hers as he settles into the chair.

The warmth of the brief contact lingers longer than it should, but he doesn't pull away, and neither does she.

Her eyes flicker toward him, a curiosity dancing in their depths, before she lowers her gaze back to the half-empty cup of chai cradled in her hands.

Her fingers trace the rim absentmindedly, and Shubman wonders what thoughts occupy her mind so intently.

The conversation around the table shifts as the PR team clears their throats, a subtle signal for attention.

Karan opens a leather-bound folder with deliberate precision. "Ab yeh sab settle karte hain ki kaise aage badhna hai," [Let's settle how to move forward with this.] His words hang in the air, drawing the attention of everyone at the table.

Rohit leans forward slightly, continuing to take a huge bite of the parantha, "Haan, Taran bolo. Kya karna hai?" [Yeah, tell me. What do we need to do?]

Ignorning that his name has been said incorretly, Karan's gaze sweeps the table, lingering briefly on Radhika before settling on Shubman. "Sabse pehle toh, humko yeh marriage officially announce karni padegi," [First of all, we'll have to officially announce this marriage.]

He flips a page in his folder, his pen tapping lightly against the edge of the table as he continues. "Aur jo bhi controversy abhi chal rahi hai media mein, usko clear karne ke liye ek strong, joint appearance zaroori hai." [And to clear the ongoing controversy in the media, a strong, joint appearance is essential.]

Shubman nods slowly, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly as he processes the words. "Joint appearance... kahaan?" [Joint appearance... where?]

Akanksha with a laptop perched precariously on her lap, speaks up, "Humne socha hai ki sabse best option hoga 'The Great Indian Kapil Show.' It's family-friendly, bahut bade scale pe dekha jaata hai, aur controversy ka tone light karne ke liye perfect platform hai." [We've thought that the best option would be 'The Great Indian Kapil Show.' It's family-friendly, watched on a massive scale, and is the perfect platform to lighten the tone of the controversy.]

At this, Radhika's brow furrows slightly, the delicate line of her eyebrows knitting together in quiet unease.

She taps her fingers lightly on the rim of her cup, the soft tinkling of her bangles breaking the brief silence as she glances at Shubman, her expression questioning but composed.

He notices immediately, his gaze softening as he shifts slightly in his chair to face her more directly. There's an unspoken promise in his eyes, one that reassures her without the need for words.

"Main handle kar lunga," [I'll handle it.] he says softly, his voice low but firm enough to carry across the room.

Akanksha clears her throat again as she addresses Radhika directly. "Radhika ma'am, aapke liye ye thoda uncomfortable ho sakta hai, lekin show ki format aapke favor mein rahegi. Kapil sir kaafi understanding hain, aur unki team ko humne already brief kar diya hai." [Radhika ma'am, this might be a little uncomfortable for you, but the format of the show will be in your favor. Kapil sir is very understanding, and we've already briefed his team.]

Radhika doesn't respond immediately. Her fingers twist a strand of her hair as she looks down at her phone, typing something quickly before holding it out for Shubman to read.

Her message is short but laden with concern: "Will they make fun of us?"

Shubman's lips press into a thin line as he reads the words. For a moment, his eyes linger on the screen before he shakes his head, the gesture firm yet gentle.

He turns to her, his voice low but resolute. "Nahi, bilkul nahi. Agar koi bolega toh fir main usse apne tareeke se jawab doonga." [No, absolutely not. If anyone says something, I'll respond to them my way.]

His words carry a protective edge, one that seems to ease the tension in her shoulders.

Neha chimes in quickly, eager to address her concern. "Ma'am, Kapil sir ka show kaafi positive atmosphere maintain karta hai. Humor zaroor hota hai, par kisi ki insult ya discomfort ki baat kabhi nahi hoti." [Ma'am, Kapil sir's show maintains a very positive atmosphere. There's humor, but never at the cost of anyone's insult or discomfort.]

Radhika's gaze lingers on Shubman for a moment longer, her expression softening as the corners of her lips curve into a small, hesitant smile.

It's a tentative gesture, yet it holds the quiet strength of someone trying to step into unfamiliar territory with newfound courage.

There's a glimmer of trust in her eyes now, a silent assurance that Shubman catches immediately.

Before he can say anything more, Anushka bhabhi, who has been listening quietly from the far end of the table, leans forward slightly. Her voice, steady yet playful, cuts through the tension with ease.

"Haan, Ridhu, tu tension mat le," [Yes, Ridhu, don't worry.] she begins, addressing Radhika with an affectionate tone that makes the younger woman glance in her direction.

"Main Kapil ko achhi tarah se jaanti hoon. Woh kabhi kisi ko uncomfortable nahi karega. Haan, thoda masti toh karega, par woh bas show ki energy ke liye hota hai. Tumhare bare mein ya tumhare situation ke bare mein kuch bhi aisa-waisa nahi bolega." [I know Kapil very well. He will never make anyone uncomfortable. Yes, he'll joke around a bit, but that's just for the energy of the show. He won't say anything inappropriate about you or your situation.]

Radhika listens intently, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her cup as she processes Anushka's words.

Anushka leans back in her chair, a small, reassuring smile playing on her lips as she continues. "Aur waise bhi, agar tumhe lagta hai ki kuch zyada ho raha hai, toh mujhe bata dena. Main baat kar lungi usse." [And anyway, if at any point you feel things are going overboard, just tell me. I'll handle him.]

Karan takes this opportunity to steer the conversation back on track. Clearing his throat, he flips through his folder and addresses the group. "Toh yeh confirm karte hain ki Kapil sir ka show final hai?" [So, shall we confirm Kapil sir's show as the final choice?]

Shubman looks at Radhika again, his expression softer now. "Radhika, agar tum ready ho, toh hum confirm kar dete hain." [Radhika, if you're ready, we'll confirm it.]

Radhika doesn't reply immediately. Instead, she takes a deep breath, her gaze drifting to the window for a moment before she turns back to the group.

With deliberate movements, she picks up her phone and types a simple response: "Okay."

Shubman nods, his lips curving into a small, satisfied smile. "Toh fir yehi karte hain," [Alright, let's go with this.] he says firmly, addressing the team.

Aiychya gaavat!" [For God's sake!] A voice bursts out like a forceful wave, echoing through the room. The Marathi exclamation leaves no room for doubt—they are in distress.

Everyone freezes. It's as if they've been caught in the act, a few seconds too late. Virat, seated next to Rohit, raises an eyebrow. His lips twitch, clearly struggling to hold back laughter.

Meanwhile, Radhika stares at her brother with wide eyes, her hand flying to her mouth as if she's watching a live episode of Kyunki Bhai Bhi Kabhi Cool Tha.

Rohit slams the cup down onto the table—not hard enough to break it, but just enough to make the tea wobble dangerously.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no..." he mutters to himself, running his hand through his hair like he's trying to tame a wild beast.

His voice falters as the tension mounts. "Main toh gaya. Kaise bolunga aai-baba ko ki unki eklauti beti ka lagan fix kar diya maine?" [I'm doomed. How am I supposed to tell Mom and Dad that I've fixed their only daughter's marriage?]

The room goes completely silent. No one knows how to respond.

Mihir, the PR consultant, who looks more out of place than a vegetarian at a steakhouse, clears his throat hesitantly. "Sir, aap unhe casually bata dijiye. Normal si baat hai." [Sir, just tell them casually. It's a normal thing.]

Rohit glares at him as if he's just suggested batting left-handed in a World Cup final. "Normal baat? Mere parents aur normal reaction? Beta, tu kabhi Sharma parivaar ke saath raha hai kya?" [Normal thing? My parents and normal reactions? Have you ever stayed with the Sharma family?]

Yuvi Paa bursts out laughing, his deep voice booming across the room. He slaps a hand on Rohit's shoulder, clearly entertained by the entire situation.

"Rohit, yeh koi breaking news thodi hai. Bas phone utha aur bol de, 'Mummy-Papa, Radhika ki shaadi ho rahi hai.' Seedha point pe aa!" [Rohit, this isn't breaking news. Just pick up the phone and say, 'Mom, Dad, Radhika is getting married.' Go straight to the point!]

Rohit's eyes widen in horror as he shakes his head vigorously. "Aap nahi samjhega, Yuvi Paa. Jab unhone suna tha ki main captain bana hoon, do minute baad unhone mujhse poocha tha, 'Toh ab ghar kaun saaf karega?'" [You won't understand, Yuvi Paa. When they heard I became captain, two minutes later, they asked me, 'So, who will clean the house now?']

Radhika can't suppress a giggle. She hides her mouth behind her hand, but it's evident she's enjoying the drama.

Ishan, Virat, and Aditi all burst out laughing so hard they almost choke. Rohit doesn't seem to notice. He's too caught up in his own spiraling thoughts, pacing around like he's strategizing for a World Cup final.

"Main jaanta hoon kya hoga. Pehle aai ghoorengi. Fir papa poochhenge, 'Tu kaun hota hai decide karne wala?' Aur fir dono milke mujhe woh emotional guilt-trip denge jo sirf parents kar sakte hain." [I know what'll happen. First, Mom will glare. Then Dad will ask, 'Who are you to make decisions?' And then they'll both give me that emotional guilt-trip only parents can pull off.]

Sachin sir, clearly entertained, leans back in his chair, a knowing smile on his face. He enjoys this as much as any cricket match.

"Toh phir tu kya karna chahta hai? Unse chhup ke se lagan karwa de? News channels tak toh khud unka TV le aayega!" [So, what's your plan? Secretly get her married? The TV will bring the news to them itself!]

Before Rohit can respond, his phone buzzes loudly, cutting through the tension. The caller ID flashes: Aai ❤️🙏.

The room falls into a new kind of silence, the kind that could precede the apocalypse. Everyone's eyes are locked on Rohit as he stares at the phone, his face drained of color.

"Dekha! Dekha kya bola tha maine! Woh mujhe live pakad leti hain!"  [See! See what I said! She catches me live every time!] he exclaims, lifting the phone up as though it's a cursed object.

Everyone bursts into laughter again, the tension breaking like a wave crashing on a shore. Radhika is smothering her laugh, tears in her eyes as she looks at her brother's plight. The PR team looks like they're ready to make a quick exit.

Rohit is left staring at the phone, weighing his options: answer it and face the wrath, or pretend the phone didn't exist and let the universe decide.

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MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE 💕

I hope everyone is with their loved ones, surrounded by warmth, laughter, and the joy of the holiday season. Take a moment to relax, share a smile, and make memories that will last a lifetime. Wishing you all the best this Christmas!

Esmahiranursultan77, ogcupid, dagabaazreee, bowledover18

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

Aur prem so bolo,

Radhe..Radhe 🙏🏻