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BHAGWAN JI BACHA LO! [God, please save me!]

Ishan is sure it's easier to face Jasprit Bumrah's bouncers than sit behind Shivangi on this scooter. He lets out a helpless chuckle as he tightens his grip around her waist, praying silently that he doesn't fly off.

He's been on bikes before, sure, but this ride? This is something else—a perfect cocktail of speed, chaos, and absolutely no control.

Honestly, if given a choice between dodging bouncers or surviving this Vespa ride, he'd pick the bouncer any day.

Every bump sends a jolt through him, every turn makes him cling tighter, his fingers clutching her waist as if his life depends on it. And maybe it does, the way Shivangi's driving.

The scooter wobbles slightly on the wet road, and with every wobble, Ishan feels his heart jump into his throat.

The rain may have stopped, but the roads are still wet, and every time they hit a puddle, water splashes up, soaking his jeans.

A chill runs down his spine, not just from the cold but from the unmistakable squish of soggy socks.

He grimaces—wet socks. The bane of his existence. Forget Austrailia, wet socks might just be worse.

Another puddle, another splash, and Ishan flinches as icy water seeps into his shoes again. Through the rush of the wind, he swears he hears Shivangi giggling.

Of course she's having the time of her life. Meanwhile, he's hanging on, trying to look calm but failing miserably.

Every time she takes a sharp turn, he leans into her just a little more, his silent prayer getting louder:

Bas, bhagwaan, crash mat karana. [Please, God, just don't let us crash.]

At one point, they nearly graze the side mirror of a parked rickshaw, and his heart leaps to his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for the worst—impact, injuries, hospital mein full drama.

But when he opens them, Shivangi's still cruising along like nothing happened. Cool, calm, and collected, as if they didn't just have a near-death experience.

Bhai, Shubman, maaf karde, [Bro, Shubman, forgive me] Ishan thinks, his heart still racing. Aage se tere saath koi prank nahi karoonga. [From now on, I won't prank you again.]

It's a desperate promise, made in the heat of the moment, as he silently swears off ever pulling another prank on Shubman or anyone else on the team. Not after this. He's done messing with karma.

"Arre, thoda slow toh chalao!" [Hey, at least slow down a bit!] he finally shouts over the wind. There's no real anger, though—more like a desperate plea. His voice is a mix of exasperation and fear.

Shivangi turns back, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Itni speed mein bhi darr lag raha hai?" [You're scared even at this speed?]

"I'm not scared," he grumbles, but his voice betrays him with a slight shake. "Just... careful rehne ka." [I'm not scared, just... need to be careful.]

He tries to relax, tries to convince himself it's just a normal ride. But there's nothing normal about it—not when every nerve in his body is on edge, not when he's this close to her, and definitely not when the scooter feels like it's always one bump away from disaster.

Even the rain has failed to ruin her vibe. If anything, it's made her look even more radiant. Strands of her wet hair stick to her face, framing it in this annoyingly perfect way that makes it impossible to be mad at her.

There's a soft flush on her cheeks, probably from the wind or maybe the thrill of zipping through the city. She looks like she's having the time of her life, while he's busy calculating how many close calls they've had in the last five minutes.

And that beauty mark just beneath her lips? It's driving him nuts. He keeps catching glimpses of it in the mirror, even though he's supposed to be focusing on staying alive.

They hit another bump, and he clenches his teeth. Bhai, ab bas bhi karo. Pichle janam ka badla le rahi hai kya? [Man, enough already. Are you taking revenge for a past life?]

He's about to offer to stop the scooter, anything to make this madness stop. Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, Shivangi gestures ahead. "Dekho, market aa gaya," [Look, we've reached the market.] she announces, all cheerful, like she hasn't just turned him into a nervous wreck.

Thank God. Ishan's never been more relieved in his life. As soon as the scooter slows down, his legs turn to jelly. He's ready to kiss the ground, wet and muddy as it is.

But of course, he can't do that. Gotta keep it cool. So, he straightens up, adjusts his jeans, and pretends like that ride didn't just take years off his life.

Shivangi hops off the Vespa, pulling off her helmet and shaking her hair loose. Naturally, she looks perfect—like she hasn't just terrified him beyond belief.

She turns to him with that wide, grin. "Kaise laga?" [How was it?]

Ishan takes a deep breath and gives her a long look before saying, "Oh, Madam Ferrari, jaate waqt hum chalaenge. Yeh toh pakka." [Oh, Madam Ferrari, I'll drive on the way back. That's for sure.]

Shivangi bursts into laughter, the kind that's all carefree and musical, and despite himself, he smiles. She reaches out and pats his cheek. "Arre, baba, you survived, didn't you?"

Barely. He rolls his eyes but can't help grinning back. "Survived? Hume lagta hai ki hume chiropractor ke paas jana padega." [Survived? I think I'll need to see a chiropractor now]

"Drama queen," Shivangi snickers, taking the helmet from his hands. She pops open the seat of the Vespa, tucks the helmets inside, and pulls out a cloth shopping bag with a flourish.

Swinging her shoulder bag over her shoulder, she slams the seat shut, twists the key to lock the handles, and turns to him.

"Kitne drame karte ho aap," [You make such a fuss.] she says with a smirk, already striding ahead towards the market. "Ab chalo, bhaji lena hai." [Now come on, we need to buy vegetables.]

Ishan watches her go, shaking his head with a long, exhausted sigh, still trying to recover from the adrenaline rush of the scooter ride. His legs feel like jelly, his socks are soaked, and his heart?

Still racing. As he trails behind her, watching her confidently march towards the vegetable stalls, he's slightly annoyed, but a part of him can't help but be impressed.

Yeh ladki, [this girl] he thinks, shaking his head again.

He's so lost in thought—still trying to shake off the trauma of holding on for dear life—that he doesn't even notice Shivangi has stopped ahead.

By the time he looks up, she's already turned around, noticing him lagging behind. With a swift move and that mischievous glint still in her eyes, Shivangi grabs his hand.

And just like that, a jolt of electricity shoots through him. It's so sudden that both of them freeze, a bit taken aback by the unexpected spark.

Their eyes lock, holding each other's gaze for a second longer than they'd usually dare, a moment stretching out between them that feels oddly charged.

"Current."

"Static."

Ishan blinks, breaking the spell, but he can't ignore the way his heart's racing—this time, it's got nothing to do with the scooter. Shivangi, too, seems momentarily flustered, though she quickly masks it with a shy smile.

"Chaliye abhi," she says, clearing her throat lightly, "sabse pehle kothmir, alambi, bhindi, kanda, aur gajar leni hai." [Let's go, first we need to get cilantro, mushrooms, okra, onions, and carrots.]

Ishan nods, though he's only half-listening. His mind is still stuck on the warmth of her hand in his and the way that one look between them felt different. He shakes his head slightly, trying to focus as they walk towards the vegetable stalls.

What has he gotten himself into, he does not know. But one thing is clear—this whole ride with Shivangi has thrown him into something far more unpredictable than he ever imagined.

Yet somehow, amidst all the chaos and drama, he's starting to realize something: it's not just the madness of the ride or the market; it's the madness of her.

And, against his better judgment, he might just be okay with that.

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Shivangi steals a glance at Ishan, chuckling as she watches him awkwardly navigate through the crowded market, looking like a man thoroughly out of his element.

She knows he is getting annoyed by the people around him, but honestly, it feels like he could use the distraction.

It's not that she's trying to really annoy him—well, maybe just a little—but it beats watching him mope around and stew in whatever's been bothering him lately.

And anyway, there's something about Ishan that makes her feel more playful, more mischievous. Normally, she wouldn't bother teasing someone this much, but with him?

She can't help it. There's a satisfaction in watching him struggle with something as simple as walking through the sabzi mandi.

"Arre, sambhalke!" [Hey, be careful!] she shouts, laughing as Ishan nearly barrels into a thela.

He stumbles, his sneakers sliding on a wet patch of pavement, and she instinctively grabs his arm, yanking him toward her with more force than she intended.

The sudden pull throws Ishan off balance, and for a moment, he's all tangled limbs and quick breaths, gripping her shoulder to steady himself.

Her hand lingers on his bicep, warm and grounding, and for just a split second, he feels her fingers tighten before she lets go, her cheeks tinged with the faintest hint of pink.

She throws him a grin, trying to mask her own awkwardness, but the way her lips quirk at the corners tells him she's just as flustered as he is.

"Hume toh aapko hi sambhalna padega na," [I guess you'll have to take care of us,] he mutters, mostly to himself, his voice carrying a mix of exasperation and that reluctant relief that comes with narrowly avoiding a fall.

She smirks, tossing a playful sideways glance at him as she resumes walking. "Aise gir rahe ho jaise pehli baar market aaye ho." [You're stumbling like it's your first time at the market.]

He clears his throat, trying to keep it cool, but her look—equal parts teasing and amused—makes him feel like he's just admitted a secret he wasn't ready to share.

He scratches the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze. "Pehli baar hi aaye hain," [It really is my first time,] he mumbles. "Maa toh Raj bhaiyya ko le jaati thi hamesha." [Maa always took Raj bhaiyya.]

She stops, turning to him with an eyebrow raised in surprise. "Achha? Toh matlab aapka sabzi lene ka bilkul bhi experience nahi hai?" [Oh really? So you have no experience buying vegetables at all?]

She shakes her head, smirking like she's just discovered a new source of entertainment. "Phir toh badi mushkil hogi, Mr. First-Timer." [Then it's going to be tough, Mr. First-Timer.]

Her tone's light and playful, but he can see she's enjoying every bit of his discomfort. He looks around, taking in the cacophony of the market: vendors shouting prices, shoppers elbowing their way through, bags of produce spilling over with every possible shade of green.

It's an overload of sights and sounds, and he feels completely out of his depth.

"Mushkil nahi hai," [It's not that hard] he says, trying to sound nonchalant, though the slight edge in his voice gives him away.

The truth is, he has no clue what he's doing, and he knows it. But there's no way he's about to admit that to her.

She chuckles, a soft, musical sound that somehow cuts through the noise and makes him feel just a little less out of place.

"Koi baat nahi," [No worries,] she says, shaking her head with that mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Aaj main aapki guide hoon." [Today, I'll be your guide.]

She straightens her shoulders, exuding a sort of gentle authority that he finds both comforting and slightly intimidating.

With a quick glance over her shoulder, she beckons him to follow, setting off down the narrow market aisle with a confidence that makes him feel like they're on some grand adventure instead of a simple shopping trip.

"Chaliye, shuru karte hain," [Let's get started] she calls, her voice teasing but carrying a hint of genuine enthusiasm, as though she's looking forward to showing him her world.

He trails behind, half-reluctant but increasingly curious, watching the way she moves through the market with an ease he can only envy.

Ishan shakes his head, his mullet falling back into place as he trails after Shivangi, who's already a few steps ahead, gliding through the market crowd like she's been doing it all her life.

Her dupatta trails behind her, catching the breeze like a ribbon in the air, and he's so caught up in the scene—how she moves, the colors, the noise—that he doesn't notice when her dupatta loops itself around his wrist, soft and snug, pulling him to an unexpected stop.

He glances down, confused, and there it is: her pink dupatta, wrapped around his watch as if it's refusing to let go. He tugs at it, but it holds firm, almost as if it has a mind of its own.

He sighs, half-exasperated, but he can't help the smile that creeps up as he looks back at her, catching that glint in her eyes that tells him she knows exactly what's going on.

Without missing a beat, she raises an eyebrow, her gaze daring him to catch up. "Chalo!" [Come on!] she calls, not waiting for an answer as she takes off, tugging him along with her.

And before he knows it, he's stumbling after her, tangled in her dupatta, and it's all he can do to keep up.

For a moment, it's like the market fades away—the vendors, the noise, the clatter of vegetable crates, all replaced by the sound of her laughter, bright and carefree.

He matches her stride, and it hits him just how effortlessly she's pulled him into her world. He can't help but chuckle, letting himself get lost in the rhythm of her pace, the way she owns every step she takes.

It's funny, he thinks, how this small moment, something so ordinary, feels so monumental.

He's chased a lot of things—records, victories, dreams—but right here, right now, he realizes that this is a different kind of chase, one he never saw coming.

And as he stands there, his heart racing, he knows he's willing to follow her lead, wherever she decides to take him next.

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He takes it back.

All of it. Every single thought of being "okay with it" evaporates the second Shivangi yanks his arm and drags him toward yet another stall.

The vendor is shouting about bhindi like he's trying to sell gold, and Shivangi? She's negotiating like it's the final deal on Shark Tank.

Meanwhile, Ishan's just standing there, holding a bag of aloo and coriander like some helpless intern, silently questioning every decision that led him to this exact moment.

He thought the scooter ride was the worst of it, but no—this is the real test of endurance. Watching Shivangi haggle over 55 rupees like her entire existence hinges on that discount. 55 rupees, yaar.

Ishan briefly considers whether banging his head against the nearest pile of bhindi might speed up this ordeal—or at least knock him out long enough to escape it.

He's a cricketer, for God's sake. He's stared down Mitchell Starc's 160 km/h reverse swing without so much as blinking.

He's sent sixes soaring over the heads of world-class bowlers, stood calm under floodlights in front of packed stadiums, and dodged bouncers like they were flies.

But here? Reduced to carrying eight kilos of potatoes in one hand, a bunch of sabzis in the other, while Shivangi fights for ₹55 on 5 kilo of bhindi like it's the IPL auction.

"Bhaiyya, ₹70 de rahi hoon. Lena hai toh lo, warna rehne do," [Brother, I'm offering ₹70. Take it or leave it,] she says, her tone calm but with that edge—like she knows she's winning this war.

The vendor, already looking thoroughly defeated, stares at her like he's reconsidering his entire life. Ishan, meanwhile, is staring blankly into the sky, mentally calculating how much longer he can survive this sabzi shopping marathon. His mind drifts back to cricket, obviously.

Chepauk mein 45 degrees dhoop mein fielding zyada behtar thi, yeh toh pakka hai. [Fielding in 45-degree heat at Chepauk was way better than this, that's for sure.]

Shivangi, though? She's thriving. She's got the same confidence as that one aunty at a wedding buffet who casually fills her plate with four desserts, unbothered by the growing line behind her. She's not leaving without a deal, and Ishan can't help but feel a weird mix of awe and dread.

"Chalo didi, na apka na mera, ₹100 final karte hai," [Come on, sister, neither yours nor mine, let's settle at ₹100,] the vendor mutters in defeat, clearly not up for any more resistance.

Ishan stands there, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, torn between admiration for Shivangi's bargaining skills and a growing sense of discomfort.

What's getting to him is the stark realization that he's never actually had to do this. He's lived in a world where prices are fixed and where his celebrity status means he doesn't even have to think about money, let alone argue over it.

They're standing here haggling over a difference of 55 rupaye, an amount that wouldn't even cover a sachet of ketchup at one of those fancy cafes he frequents.

A place where he's handed the bill without so much as glancing at it before tossing his card. Yet here, in the sabzi mandi, and he finds himself almost wishing he could just pay the full amount—or better yet, hand the guy ₹5000, pat him on the back, and call it a day.

"Shivangi, rehne do na. Hum ₹125 de dete hain," [Shivangi, let it go. We'll pay ₹125,] Kishan says, trying to offer an easy way out, his voice betraying just how out of his element he is.

"Arre didi, aapke pati toh bade acche lagte hain," [Hey sister, your husband seems really nice,] he remarks, the words dripping with playful amusement. "Unki baat maan lijiye." [Listen to him] the sabziwal remarks, having found an ally in Ishan.

Shivangi's head snaps toward him so fast he half-expects her to dislocate something. Her eyes narrow, sharp as a brand-new kitchen knife, and he suddenly realizes he's made a big mistake.

She stares at him like he's committed the ultimate betrayal, the kind that could only be punished by a lifetime of holding vegetable bags in public.

"Bade paise hai apke pass, haan?" [You have plenty of money, don't you?] she snaps, her tone icy, slicing through the crowded noise of the market like a hot knife through butter.

"Chup rahiye aap, pata nahi kya bol rahe ho. Aap meri side ho ya in bhaiyya ki?" [You should be quiet; you don't even know what you're saying. Are you on my side or this brother's?]

"Aapki," [Yours] Ishan stammers, his voice shrinking, barely managing to get the words out as he raises his hands in surrender, hoping to avoid any further damage.

"Good."

Shivangi round around to face the vendor. She gives the vendor one last glare before handing over ₹70, making it clear that she's won this round.

Grabbing the bhindi, she turns on her heel and marches off without a word, leaving Ishan standing there like a schoolboy who's just been caught cheating on an exam.

Ishan hurriedly follows her, juggling the growing collection of vegetable bags in his hands, trying to keep up as she weaves her way through the market crowd.

He feels like an absolute fool. The vendor's words—pati—echo in his head, and he groans inwardly. Pati? Of all the words that could have come out of that guy's mouth, pati had to be the one.

"Arre, suniye toh," [Hey, listen,] he calls out, catching up to her just as she stops in front of a carrot stall. "Rukiye, Shivangi ji—" [Wait, Shivangi ji]

She cuts him off with a swift flick of her hand, her eyes still narrowed. "Ab koi bolne ki zarurat nahi, yeh bag uthaiye aap." [No need to say anything now; you carry this bag.] She thrusts the bag of bhindi into his hands like she's handing him a live grenade.

Ishan looks down at the bag and then back up at her, disbelief etched all over his face. Why is this his life right now?

He could be lounging in an air-conditioned room, sipping on a cold drink, watching a replay of the 2007 T20 World Cup when Yuvi Paa smacked six sixes in six balls. Stuart Broad getting roasted all over again.

But no, here he is, sweating buckets in a crowded sabzi mandi, a reluctant participant in what feels like a never-ending episode of Khatron Ke Khiladi.

He trudges along behind her, dodging stray elbows and squeezing past uncle-jis who've clearly never heard of deodorant.

Every so often, a thela nearly grazes his toes, and he dances out of the way, bags of sabzis swinging wildly. He wonders if Shivangi has some hidden agenda to make him work on his footwork even off the field.

Finally, they emerge from the maze of stalls, and Ishan feels like he can breathe again. He watches as Shivangi turns around from behind him, a bright smile on her lips,

"So? Kaisa tha apka pehla sabzi mandi ka experience?" [So? How was your first vegetable market experience?]

Ishan looks at the girl with a straight face, "Aaj ke baad aap mujhe kabhi bhi yahan bina security ke nahi laayengi. Shivangi ji, 55 rupee keliye unn sabzi wale se aap kitna jhagda kar rahe the." [After today, you will never bring me here without security again. Shivangi, you were fighting over 55 rupees with that vendor.]

She lets out a laugh, shaking her head as if he's the one missing something obvious. "Paise kya ped pe ugte hain? Jo main ₹55 bachaaye hain, unse main aur kuch le sakti hoon!" [Money doesn't grow on trees! The ₹55 I saved can get me something else!]

She gestures to the pile of bags he's holding, as though she's just performed a miracle. Ishan rolls his eyes, though he can't hide the grin that's tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Aur kya le sakti hain aap?" [And what else can you get?] he says, raising an eyebrow, feigning curiosity as if he genuinely believes she has some grand plan for those fifty-five rupees.

She tilts her head, considering him for a moment, and then she says something that catches him completely off guard. "Tumhi jevlis ka?" [Did you eat?]

"Tumhi... kya?" He tries to repeat it, stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables, and she bursts into laughter, clutching her side. [You... what?]

She looks at him with a mix of amusement and fondness. It's a look he's not sure he's seen before, and he's suddenly all too aware of the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles. But he snaps out of it, trying to mask his confusion.

"Oh god!" he mutters, scratching the back of his neck. "Rohit bhai bhi kabhi kabhi Marathi bolte hain, aur main unko 'haan, bhai' bolke nikal leta hoon." [Rohit bhai also sometimes speaks Marathi, and I just nod and say, 'yeah, brother.'] He shakes his head, grinning sheepishly. "Mujhe laga tha bhai ke saath rehkar sab samajh gaya hoon, lekin yeh toh abhi bhi ekdum bouncer gaya!" [I thought I'd understand everything being around him, but this is still a total bouncer!]

Shivangi raises an eyebrow, a sly smile curling her lips. "Yeh jo ₹55 hai na, unka hum nariyal lenge, aur jo bach jayenge unka hum tondali lenge. Phir hum ghar jaake aapko mast masala bhaat bana kar denge." [This ₹55, we'll get coconut with it, and whatever is left, we'll get ivy gourd. Then we'll go home and make you some delicious masala bhaat.]

Ishan squints at Shivangi, feeling like he's just walked into a trap. "Tondali? Ab yeh kya hota hai?" [Tondali? What is that?]

He's genuinely puzzled, trying to piece together the unfamiliar word, but all he gets in return is that sly smile of hers, the one that suggests she knows something he doesn't and isn't about to spill it yet.

Shivangi doesn't answer right away, though. Instead, she just shakes her head, clearly enjoying the suspense she's created.

The corners of her lips twitch like she's holding back a laugh, and it's driving Ishan nuts. He watches her closely, trying to figure out what game she's playing, but she's annoyingly good at keeping her cards close.

Whatever this "tondali" is, she's not giving it away anytime soon.

"Chalo, aapko bataate hain," [Come, I'll show you,] she finally says, already turning and walking off, her bag swaying with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what's coming next.

"Kahaan le jaa rahe ho aap mujhe?" [Where are you taking me?] Ishan blurts, rushing after her like a confused puppy.

"Ghar," [Home] she says casually, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Ishan stumbles a little. "Ghar?" [Home] He echoes, more out of shock than anything else.

"Haan, ghar," [Yes, home,] she repeats, giving him a look over her shoulder, eyes twinkling with that same mischievous glint. "Aapko kuch achha khilayenge." [We'll feed you something nice.]

For a moment, Ishan just sits there, staring at Shivangi like she's suggested something completely out of the ordinary.

Did she really just invite him over? To her house? And offer to cook for him? They've barely known each other for a few hours, and now he's about to walk into her home like it's the most natural thing in the world?

His brain spins, trying to make sense of it, wondering if this is how people end up in bizarre stories they later laugh about—or regret.

But then, almost on cue, his stomach growls—loud and insistent—and all those questions evaporate into the evening air.

Shivangi calmly unlocks her scooter, her movements so relaxed and unbothered that it somehow makes the situation feel less crazy. It's just a meal, he tells himself.

Nothing unusual about that. He's already spent the entire day with her, survived a wild Vespa ride, endured a sabzi mandi showdown, so really, what's one more thing? How much stranger could things possibly get?

She taps the seat with a knowing smile, breaking through his thoughts. "Sabzi ke thele sambhal ke baithiye ga," [Hold on to the vegetable bags, carefully.] she says, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Ishan hesitates, awkwardly clutching the shopping bags as though they're the last thread keeping him tethered to reality.

Going to a stranger's house isn't something he does every day, but then again, when has playing it safe ever been his thing?

With a resigned sigh, he swings his leg over the scooter, making sure the sabzi bags are settled like he's handling cricket gear on a travel day.

His knees almost brush against her back, and for a split second, the whole situation feels weirdly surreal.

"Pakka aapka driving license hai, na?" [You have your driving license, right?] he mutters, half-joking but with a hint of the trauma from their earlier ride still clinging on.

Shivangi shoots him a look over her shoulder, a mix of amusement and mild offense glimmering in her eyes. "Arre, Ishan ji, aapko thoda trust karna chahiye." [Hey, Ishan, you should trust me a little.]

"Trust?" Ishan echoes, his grip tightening on the scooter seat. "Woh toh pichle ride mein khatam ho gaya." [That ran out in the last ride.]

She laughs—a sound that's light, warm, and somehow manages to make him feel a little less on edge.

Before he can dwell on it, she twists the throttle, and they take off, weaving through the evening streets with a surprising smoothness this time. The rain has settled into a cool mist, the sun slowly peeking through clouds.

Ishan tries to relax, the tension in his shoulders easing a bit as the cool breeze brushes against his face. It's oddly peaceful, considering how the day has unfolded.

The hum of the scooter, the rustle of the shopping bags between them, the steady rhythm of the city passing by—all of it starts to blend together, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Ishan's mind isn't racing.

He's not thinking about cricket. He's not replaying that terrible innings over and over in his head. He's not feeling the weight of expectations pressing down on him.

It's just the road ahead, the gentle buzz of the Vespa, and the girl in front of him, who, despite the whirlwind of events, has somehow managed to make him forget about the mess in his life, if only for a little while.

They don't talk, and the silence feels comfortable, natural even. It's strange how easy it feels now—after everything.

The earlier chaos of the scooter ride, the drama of the market, the awkwardness of being thrown into this bizarre situation with a stranger—it all fades into the background.

The bags of sabzi jostle against his legs, and for some reason, it strikes him as ridiculous—a professional cricketer, now sitting on the back of a Vespa, clutching a bunch of vegetables like his life depends on it.

He stifles a laugh, wondering how he's ended up here.

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Ishan ke toh aaj maze hi maza hai. But band bhi baj gaya hai iss bande ka.

Hopefully tum logon ko aacha laga. Agle chapter mein Shivangi Ishu ko apne ghar lekar jaa rahi hai.

Vote and comment kar dena. Story mein kuch chahiye, toh bata dena.

Prem so bolo,

Radhe..Radhe 🙏🏻