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It is funny.

Almost absurd, how one little boy can occupy Abhishek's thoughts so completely. The car moves smoothly through the traffic packed roads of Mumbai, its motion steady and almost hypnotic.

The faint sounds of passing vehicles filter through the slightly cracked windows, blending with the soft hum of the engine.

Inside, the air is cool, tinged with the delicate scent of Keart massi's perfume. It is floral, subtle, and oddly grounding in a way that reminds him of simpler, calmer moments.

Seated in the backseat, Abhishek leans his head against the window, the glass cool against his temple, grounding him even as his thoughts drift.

His eyes follow the blur of sunlight as they streak past, the golden glow streaking the shadows of the buildings.

But the view outside is nothing more than a backdrop for the restless thoughts swirling in his mind. They keep returning, circling back like a persistent melody, to Rudra.

That boy. That little boy with his wide, curious eyes and an energy that seemed to radiate from him in waves, unrestrained and unfiltered.

Rudra's face is vivid in Abhishek's mind—so vivid that he can see it now as if the boy were sitting right in front of him.

Those round, chubby cheeks, flushed with excitement or stubbornness, depending on the moment.

The way his laughter would light up his face, drawing attention to the deep dimple that carved into his left cheek like a signature.

Abhishek lets out a slow breath, his lips curving into a faint, almost unconscious smile. That dimple. It isn't just familiar—it's identical. He had seen it before, a thousand times over the years, though on someone else entirely.

And once he starts to notice that detail, it's impossible to stop seeing the others, each one falling into place like a puzzle piece.

Rudra's nose, with its slight upward tilt at the tip, mirrors Shubman's so precisely it's almost eerie. It's the kind of similarity you wouldn't notice at first glance, but once it catches your eye, you can't unsee it.

And then there's the way Rudra smiles, wide and open, with that infectious energy that seems to draw people in.

It's exactly the way Shubman used to smile back in school—bright and unrestrained, like he held the world in the palm of his hand and wanted everyone around him to share in it.

Abhishek shifts in his seat, resting his elbow on the edge of the window as he looks out at the world rushing past.

His fingers drum softly against his knee, a rhythm that echoes the restlessness in his chest. There's no denying it now—not to himself, at least.

The similarities aren't just there; they're undeniable, written all over Rudra's face like a genetic blueprint come to life.

But it's not just the physical traits that strike Abhishek, not just the dimpled smile or the shape of Rudra's nose or the familiar curve of his cheeks. It's something deeper, something harder to pinpoint but just as unmistakable.

It's in the way Rudra had clung to Keart massi earlier, his small hands gripping her saree with a kind of intensity that felt almost too big for such a little boy.

That possessiveness, that instinctive need to claim what he loves and hold it close, is as much a part of Rudra as it is of Shubman.

He remembers it clearly now, the way Shubman would bristle at even the faintest suggestion of a threat to what he held dear.

It wasn't always loud or overt, but it was there, in every gesture and every word, an undercurrent of possessiveness so fierce it was almost primal.

It was never about trivial things—not just cricket matches or school accolades, though even those had sometimes triggered that side of him.

No, it was always more than that. It was about people.

About someone.

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Sari class dari hui hai. [The whole class is scared.]

The atmosphere in Class 11A at Saint Soldier International School feels as though it has been sucked dry of oxygen, leaving behind a suffocating weight that presses down on everyone's chest.

It isn't the usual hush that falls over a classroom when the teacher enters, nor the subdued murmurs of students quietly passing notes or whispering behind their hands.

This silence is different. It hums with unease, a collective tension that prickles the skin and sharpens the air.

Shubman Gill stands at the front of the room, his broad shoulders slouched just enough to exude the kind of authority that demands attention without trying.

He is leaning against the teacher's desk, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The edges of his untucked shirt graze his thighs, the crisp white fabric at odds with the defiant looseness of his tie.

His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, and the faint outline of veins on his muscular forearms draws the eye, adding to the raw power he radiates even in his stillness.

He doesn't speak right away. Instead, his eyes move slowly across the room, scanning every face, every bowed head, every nervous fidget.

His gaze is like a searchlight, sweeping through the rows with an intensity that makes it impossible for anyone to meet it.

The room feels frozen in that moment, as though the students themselves have become part of the furniture, afraid to make even the smallest movement lest they draw attention to themselves.

The only sound comes from the whir of the ceiling fans overhead, their rhythmic hum a feeble attempt at normalcy in an otherwise abnormal situation.

It does little to mask the faint shuffle of feet or the nervous breaths being held just long enough to escape detection.

Abhishek leans on the blackboard, his posture deliberately relaxed but his senses heightened. He knows better than anyone the kind of storm Shubman can unleash when provoked.

His cousin may be charming on most days, even playful, but today is not one of those days.

Today, Shubman's expression is carved from stone, his jaw tight, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes alight with something raw and unrelenting.

Abhishek doesn't need to ask what this is about. Everyone knows. Everyone always knows.

Siya.

Shubman's anger isn't just an emotion—it's a presence, an invisible force that ripples outwards and envelops everything in its path.

It makes the already small classroom feel even more confined, as if the walls themselves are closing in, pushing everyone into the center of this quiet, electric storm.

"Kaun tha?" [Who was it?]

Shubman's voice shatters the silence, but not with volume. It is low and deliberate, the kind of tone that cuts deeper than shouting ever could.

It's calm, but there's an edge to it, a controlled fury that it's a demand. A demand that everyone in this room knows can only be answered with the truth, or with consequences.

No one answers.

The question is not new. It's the second time Shubman has asked it, and that his patience is wearing dangerously thin.

If he asks one more time, they know they are screwed. His eyes narrow slightly, his gaze becoming colder, harder, more searching.

He pushes himself off the desk, his movements slow but deliberate, his boots making a soft scuff against the tile floor—a sound that reverberates in the stillness, amplifying the dread in the room.

"Main ek baar aur pooch raha hoon—kaun tha?" [I am asking one more time—who was it?]

The words fall from his lips, controlled but now carrying a sharper edge, a hint of something darker.

The students are holding their breath, waiting for the storm to break, knowing that this time, Shubman isn't asking for an answer .

Abhishek's fingers tap lightly on his elbow, as he stands with his arms crossed, but it's a nervous habit, a need to do something, anything, to shake off the feeling of helplessness that comes with witnessing Shubman's fury.

He doesn't dare to look up. He knows better than to make eye contact now. He knows how much more dangerous Shubman becomes when someone challenges him.

And today, no one is willing to challenge him. Everyone is too afraid, too aware of the power he holds over them all.

Their heads are bowed, their bodies stiff as they try to make themselves as small as possible, hoping that if they stay quiet enough, they won't become the target of Shubman's ire.

And then, finally, Shubman speaks again, but his voice is softer this time, low and steady, though still carrying the same weight of authority.

"Mujhe sab pata hai," [I know everything,] he says, his words slipping into the silence like a quiet warning.

It's not a threat—not exactly—but it carries the same sense of finality. He's not asking anymore. He's telling them that the truth is already known.

The room reacts immediately. There's a subtle shift as students glance nervously at one another, their eyes wide, as if searching for some reassurance that they're not the ones Shubman is talking to.

But no one speaks. The knowledge of who Shubman is, of what he's capable of when pushed too far, hangs in the air like a tangible force.

"Mujhe sirf naam chahiye," [I just need the name,] Shubman continues, his voice almost eerily calm now, but the threat is still there.

The words themselves are simple, but they hang with an intensity that makes it impossible for anyone to ignore them.

"Warna..." [Or else...] Shubman lets the word hang in the air, unfinished, but sharp enough to make its point.

Whatever comes next won't be pleasant, and everyone in the room knows it. He exhales slowly, his fists tightening at his sides, his nails pressing into his palms as he fights to keep his temper in check.

His thoughts churn, each one feeding the slow burn of frustration that's been building all day.

He can still see Siya's face, the way her eyes flashed with annoyance when Ritu Ma'am announced that students couldn't pick their own partners.

He had wanted to say something then, to step in, to promise her that he'd convince Ritu Ma'am to let them work together. But he hadn't moved, and now it was too late.

Now, someone else had been paired with her.

The thought sends a fresh wave of irritation coursing through him. His jaw tightens as the image of Siya standing next to someone else—working with someone else—flashes in his mind.

He doesn't even know who Ritu Ma'am has assigned to be her partner, but the idea alone feels like a betrayal.

Not by Siya—never by her—but by the situation, by the universe, by whatever twisted logic had led to this arrangement.

Ek toh, they're not even in the same section. [First, they're not even in the same section. Second...]

Siya wasn't just his girlfriend; she was his anchor, his calm in the storm. She balanced him in a way no one else could, her sharp mind and quick wit meeting his intensity head-on.

They were a team, always in sync, and now someone else was standing in his place. Someone else would get to work beside her, hear her ideas, share her laughter.

The fire in his chest grows hotter, consuming every rational thought. He knows he's being irrational, that it's just a class project, but it doesn't matter.

Siya wasn't just anyone—she was his.

Meri Siya. [My Siya.]

His voice breaks the silence again, low and deliberate. "Mujhe pata hai ki tum sabko malum hai," [I know all of you know.] he says, his tone dangerously calm, each word measured and precise.

He doesn't raise his voice; he doesn't need to. The quiet authority in his tone is enough to make the students shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"Ritu ma'am ne Siya kis ke saath kis ko pair karega?" [Who has Ritu ma'am paired Siya with?] he asks, his gaze narrowing as it sweeps across the room.

His voice doesn't rise, but the sharp edge in it makes it clear that this isn't a casual question. He's daring someone to answer, to give him the one name that's been gnawing at him since he heard about it.

Shubman's jaw tightens, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. He moves forward slowly, each step deliberate, his boots creating a steady rhythm against the tiled floor that seems to echo in the silent room.

He stops at the desk in the front row, leaning slightly over it, his arms braced against the edge, his broad shoulders looming over the boy seated there.

The boy, Mahesh, sits stiffly, his body tense as though every muscle is locked in place. His eyes are glued to his notebook, his pen frozen mid-word, as if he believes that if he doesn't move, he'll somehow escape Shubman's attention.

But there's no escaping Shubman's gaze—not when it's this sharp, this focused, this relentless.

"Mahesh," [Mahesh,] Shubman begins, his voice low and measured, carrying a weight that feels heavier than the silence itself. "Tu bata, tujhe pata hai?" [you tell me, do you know?]

Mahesh's fingers tighten around his pen, the plastic creaking faintly under the pressure of his grip.

His knuckles turn white, and a bead of sweat slides down the side of his temple, disappearing into the collar of his shirt.

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, before finally managing to stammer out a response.

"N-nahi, bhaiyya," [N-no, bhaiyya.] he begins, his voice trembling, barely audible. "Mujhe nahi pata... mujhe nahi pata bhabhi ne kya decide kiya." [I don't know... I don't know what Bhabhi decided.]

Shubman's eyes narrow slightly, his expression hardening. The room feels colder somehow, the weight of his silence pressing down on everyone present.

He straightens up slowly, his arms leaving the desk as he takes a step back, his gaze never leaving Mahesh.

"Rekha," [Rekha,] Shubman says, his voice steady but unyielding.

The way he says her name makes it impossible to ignore, like a thread pulling her out of her attempted invisibility. "Tu toh sab jaanti hai. Bata." [you know everything. Tell me.]

Rekha's head jerks up slightly, her wide eyes flickering nervously toward him before darting away again.

She swallows hard, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dupatta as though the fabric can anchor her somehow.

"Bhaiyya... mujhe sach mein nahi pata," [Bhaiyya... I really don't know.] she stammers, her voice barely above a whisper. "Main toh class ke baad seedha ghar gayi thi." [I went straight home after class.]

Shubman's sharp gaze snaps away from Rekha the moment he hears his name being called, and the entire room seems to hold its breath.

The voice rings clear, cutting through the tense air like a bell that announces the arrival of a savior—or perhaps a reckoning.

"Shubman Gill!"

It's Siya.

Her voice isn't loud, but it carries a weight that immediately shifts the atmosphere in the classroom.

The students, who had been frozen under the oppressive heat of Shubman's anger, suddenly exhale in relief, like they've been handed a lifeline.

Heads turn toward the doorway, and there she is—standing tall and poised, her eyes narrowed with a mix of disapproval and resolve.

Her presence fills the room effortlessly, the kind of presence that commands attention without demanding it.

Shubman, for his part, freezes mid-step, his back still partially turned to the door. His shoulders, which had been squared with tension and authority, visibly relax.

He straightens up but doesn't turn around right away, as if taking a moment to steel himself. When he does finally turn to face her, the transformation is almost comical.

Gone is the intimidating, authoritative figure who had been holding the entire class hostage with his presence.

In his place stands a man who looks like he's just been caught stealing cookies from the jar. His gaze softens instantly, his posture losing its edge. His lips part slightly as if he wants to say something, but no words come out.

It's clear to everyone in the room: Shubman Gill has gone from a roaring lion to a very, very subdued cat.

"Hum aap se kuch pooch rahe hain, Shubman," [I'm asking you something, Shubman.] Siya says, her tone calm but firm, each word measured and deliberate.

Her hands rest on her hips, her posture radiating authority, and her gaze doesn't waver as she locks eyes with him.

Shubman blinks, his lips twitching as though he wants to defend himself but doesn't dare to. "Ji...?" [Ji...?] he ventures hesitantly, his voice much quieter than anyone expected.

The students glance at one another, suppressing smiles. This is better entertainment than anything they could have hoped for.

"Yeh kya ho raha hai?" [What's going on here?] Siya asks, her brows arching as she takes a step into the room.

Her tone is not accusatory, but it carries the weight of expectation, the kind that makes people straighten their backs and rethink their choices.

"Puri class ko aapne statue banwa diya hai? Aur yeh sab ko dara kyun rahe the?" [You've turned the entire class into statues. And why were you intimidating everyone?]

Shubman scratches the back of his neck, his eyes darting toward the floor for a split second before returning to her. "Hum bas... pooch rahe the," [I was just... asking.] he mumbles, his tone defensive but not aggressive.

"Pooch rahe the ya dhamka rahe the?" [Were you asking or threatening?] Siya counters immediately, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. Her voice softens slightly but doesn't lose its edge.

Shubman opens his mouth to respond but stops, realizing that anything he says will only dig him into a deeper hole.

He shifts awkwardly, one hand reaching up to loosen his tie as if the room has suddenly become too warm.

Abhishek bites the inside of his cheek to suppress a grin. He knows better than to let even a hint of amusement show on his face—Shubman's temper might not be aimed at him right now, but it could easily veer in his direction if provoked.

Still, he can't help but find the entire scene unexpectedly funny.

For all his swagger and bravado, for all the raw authority he commands with nothing more than a glance, Shubman is completely and utterly disarmed by Siya.

It's not just amusing—it's almost endearing.

There's something inherently fascinating about watching his cousin, the same boy who can silence a room with a single question, shrink under the weight of one unimpressed stare from her.

Abhishek watches as Shubman shifts on his feet, his gaze flickering between Siya and the floor as though unsure where it's safer to look.

His confidence seems to have evaporated, leaving behind a man who suddenly looks a little too big for the room, like he doesn't quite know what to do with his hands or the weight of his own presence.

"Dhamka nahi rahe the," [I wasn't threatening anyone...] Shubman finally says, his voice low but steady, though there's an uncharacteristic uncertainty laced through his words.

He scratches the back of his neck again, a nervous tic that Abhishek has seen him do a hundred times but never in front of an audience. "Bas... baat kar rahe the." [just talking.]

Siya tilts her head slightly, her sharp gaze softening, but only a fraction. She crosses her arms, her slender frame radiating an authority that feels far too natural for someone so composed.

Her eyebrows lift, just enough to signal that she isn't buying his excuse.

"Abhay?"

Abhishek steps forward, as he braces himself for whatever Siya is about to say. He knows when bhabhi calls his name like this, calm but edged with expectation, there's no room for excuses or evasion.

"Yes, Bhabhi?" he responds, his tone polite, with just a hint of cautious curiosity. He stops a step behind her, careful not to step into the invisible space she commands with such ease.

Siya doesn't look at him right away. Her gaze is still fixed on Shubman, who is now looking anywhere but at either of them, his broad frame shrinking under her gaze.

Abhishek can't help but marvel at the sight—it's not every day you see Shubman Gill, the boy who could make an school fall silent with a glance, like this.

"Aap jaante the, na?" [You knew this was happening, didn't you?] Siya says finally, turning her head just enough to glance at Abhishek from the corner of her eye.

Her voice is soft but measured, each word carefully chosen to strike with precision. "Yeh sab ho raha tha, aur aapne hume bataya tak nahi?" [And you didn't even bother to tell me?]

Abhishek exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Bhabhi, main..." [Bhabhi, I...] He pauses, choosing his words with care, his tone tinged with the faintest hint of apology.

"Main soch raha tha ki Shubman khud handle kar lega." [I thought Shubman would handle it himself.]

The look Siya gives him is enough to make him wish he had chosen a better excuse. It's not angry—not exactly—but it's sharp, pointed, the kind of look that says she knows he's holding back.

She doesn't say anything right away, letting the silence stretch out just long enough to make Abhishek shift uncomfortably on his feet.

"Sorry, Bhabhi," Abhishek says again, this time softer, his tone more earnest, as though he's trying to bridge the gap that her silence has created.

The words hang awkwardly between them, and he shifts on his feet, his fingers brushing against his wrist in a nervous tic.

Siya finally exhales, a quiet sound that breaks the stillness but does little to ease the tension.

She shakes her head slowly, her expression softening just enough to reveal a hint of exasperation, though her gaze remains steady, her authority unshaken.

"Sorry, Heeriye," [Sorry, Sweetheart,] Shubman says suddenly, his voice low and hesitant, as though testing the waters.

He takes a tentative step closer, his broad shoulders slumping ever so slightly, a gesture that seems almost foreign on someone who usually carries himself with such self-assuredness.

Siya's head turns toward him, her brows lifting slightly in surprise at the unexpected addition. For a moment, her expression wavers, caught between amusement and frustration, before she shakes her head again, this time more firmly.

"Bas," [Enough!] she says quietly, her voice calm but with a finality that brooks no argument.

Her hands drop to her sides, the tension in her posture easing, though there's still a resolute firmness in the way she holds herself. "Chalo. Yeh sab yahin khatam karo." [Come on. End all this.]

Without waiting for a response, Siya turns, her movements smooth and purposeful as she strides toward the door.

Her uniform skirt sways lightly with each step, a subtle but commanding presence of the Head Girl.

Abhishek exchanges a quick glance with Shubman, his lips twitching into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Bheegi billi ban gaya hai," [He's turned into a wet cat.] he mutters under his breath, the words just loud enough for Shubman to hear.

Shubman shoots him a warning look, his jaw tightening slightly, but there's no real heat in his expression.

He adjusts his tie with a sharp tug, as though trying to reclaim some semblance of composure, before falling into step behind Siya without a word.

Abhishek follows close behind, his steps measured but easy, the tension in his shoulders melting away now that the storm has passed.

The classroom hums with quiet relief as the trio exits, the students exchanging wide-eyed glances, their whispers barely audible over the soft rustle of pages and the faint whir of the ceiling fans.

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Abhishek's thoughts are broken further by the rhythmic jolt of the car as it slows down at a traffic signal.

He shifts slightly in his seat, blinking at the sight of a street hawker passing by with balloons in one hand and an assortment of toys in the other.

"Bhabhi ka magic," [Bhabhi's magic.] he murmurs to himself, shaking his head with a soft chuckle.

The possessiveness wasn't just an occasional flare; it was a defining trait, woven into the fabric of who he was.

And when it came to Siya bhabhi, that protectiveness had been amplified to a degree that bordered on obsession.

Shubman had been the kind of boyfriend who noticed everything. If Siya so much as smiled at someone for a moment too long, his jaw would tighten, his eyes narrowing in a way that made his feelings crystal clear.

And yet, it wasn't jealousy in the petty sense.

It was deeper—an almost desperate need to shield her, to keep her close, as if he feared the world would snatch her away if he didn't.

Shubman was the kind of person who didn't just love—he claimed, in the most consuming way possible.

Abhishek remembered the countless times he'd seen Shubman's intense protectiveness for Siya bhabhi. There was that one sports day in school when Siya had been casually chatting with a classmate.

Shubman, leaning casually against a wall, had looked calm—until Abhishek noticed the way his fingers drummed against his bicep, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

Later, when the guy walked away, Shubman had casually asked Siya what the conversation was about, his voice light but his eyes probing.

It wasn't like Shubman forbade her from talking to anyone—he wasn't that kind of possessive. But he made sure the world understood one thing loud and clear: Siya wasn't just anyone's to approach.

That intensity was so distinctly Shubman, and yet... Abhishek couldn't help but notice traces of it in Rudra.

He thought back to the airport, where he'd first seen Rudra with Keart massi. It was a mundane moment—just a kid and an elder—but something about the way Rudra stuck to her side caught Abhishek's attention.

If anyone so much as leaned into Keart massi's personal space, Rudra would shuffle closer to her, his small face scrunched in silent disapproval.

It had been endearing, in a way. But now, as he replayed those moments in his mind, a chill ran through him. The possessiveness wasn't just similar—it was uncanny.

The way Rudra glared at strangers, how his hand instinctively reached for Keart massi's when they were in a crowd, the way he stood as if ready to fend off an invisible threat—it was all so eerily reminiscent of Shubman during his Siya bhabhi days.

Abhishek ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. Was he overthinking it? After all, possessiveness could just be a personality trait, right? It didn't have to mean anything.

And yet, there was that nagging thought in the back of his mind—the one he couldn't quite shake.

"Laddoo, tujhe kuch chahiye?" [Laddoo, do you need anything?] Keart massi's voice pulls him out of his thoughts, her tone as gentle and nurturing as always.

She turns slightly in her seat to glance at him, her eyes warm with concern.

He straightens, offering a quick shake of his head and a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Nahi, massi. Main theek hoon." [No, massi. I'm fine.]

She nods, though her gaze lingers for a moment longer, as if she can sense the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind but chooses not to pry.

Lakhwinder clears his throat, glancing sideways at Shubman, who's been staring at the road like it holds all the answers to his problems. His fingers keep tapping the steering wheel, a rhythm that probably only he understands.

"Aur bata kake, teri practice schedule ka kya plan hai kal?" [Tell me, kake, what's your practice schedule for tomorrow?] Lakhwinder asks, his tone light but with that familiar edge, the one he used when he knew something was off but wasn't ready to push just yet.

Shubman doesn't respond right away. His gaze remains fixed ahead, his mind clearly on something else. "Papa woh—" he begins, but then trails off, clearly lost in thought, his words getting stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

Before Lakhwinder can get in another word, Ishan, who's been lazily using Keart's shoulder as his personal pillow, stirs awake.

He stretches dramatically, like a sleepy cat trying to shake off a nap, then lazily blinks his eyes open and yawns.

"Papa, kal practice nai hai, but Shubhi mujhe Ambanis ki party mein leke jaa raha hai," [Papa, there's no practice tomorrow, but Shubhi is taking me to the Ambanis' party.] he says, his voice full of energy despite the fact that he's still halfway asleep.

Keart, who's been the victim of Ishan's napping habits for the past hour, gives him an amused look.

"Ambanis ki party? Ab kis baat ki party hai?" [Ambanis' party? What's the occasion now?] she asked, adjusting her seatbelt and raising an eyebrow at the dramatic announcement.

"Massi, woh merger party hai," [It's a merger party with some UK company's CEO.] Abhishek chimed in before Ishan could launch into one of his overly elaborate explanations.

He shifted slightly to balance Ishan's weight on his shoulder. "Koi UK ki company ke CEO ke saath Ambanis ne deal sign karni hai, toh unhe welcome kar rahe hain. Celebs aur cricketers ko bulaya hai bas tamasha banane ke liye." [The Ambanis are signing a deal with the UK CEO, so they're welcoming them and have invited celebs and cricketers just to add glamour.]

Lakhwinder gave Ishan a side-eye and chuckled. "Haan, haan, tujhe bore hone se bachane ke liye toh Ambanis ne mujhe aur Maa ko special invite bheja hoga, hai na?" [Yeah, yeah, I'm sure the Ambanis sent me and Maa a special invite just to save you from getting bored, right?] he teased, shaking his head.

"Arre, aisa kuch nahi hai!" [Hey, it's nothing like that!] Ishan whined, leaning back dramatically against Abhishek. "Mujhe toh sirf koi boredom se bachane keliye chahiye, bas." [I just need someone to save me from boredom, that's all.]

He placed his hand on his heart, striking a pose that could have come straight out of a Bollywood melodrama.

"Koi na, meri biwi," [Don't worry, my wife.] Abhishek said with a mock-serious expression, forming the quintessential Italian hand gesture as he cupped Ishan's chin.

He rubbed it lightly, his voice dripping with exaggerated affection. "Main hoon na tere saath. Tujhe emotional support bhi dunga, aur tu bole toh tere entertainment keliye Ambani sir ke aage dance bhi karoonga." [I'm here for you. I'll give you emotional support, and if you ask, I'll even dance in front of Ambani sir for your entertainment.]

Ishan gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like he's just been proposed to. "Haye, Abhi! Tu toh asli hero hai!" [Oh, Abhi! You're a real hero!]

He flings his arms around Abhishek's neck in the most over-the-top fashion, his eyes gleaming with faux gratitude.

"Maa, meri shaadi karwa do isse! Ab toh hum IPL ki same team mein bhi hain—zindagi aur career dono set ho jayenge!" [Maa, get me married to him! Now that we're in the same IPL team, both life and career will be sorted!]

Keart glances at Ishan and Abhishek with an amused expression, her lips twitching as though she's fighting back laughter.

"Main kal hi granthi ji ko bol deti hoon. Lage haath tum dono ki shaadi bhi kara doon." [I'll call the priest tomorrow itself. Might as well get you two married right away.]

The entire car erupts in laughter, but Lakhwinder, not one to let an opportunity pass, adds his two cents.

"Arre Keart ji, pehle Ishu ke pehle pyar, Shubhi se toh pooch lijiye. Shubhi, tujhe koi problem toh nahi hai na, shaadi se?" [Oh, Keart ji, first ask Ishu's first love, Shubhi. Shubhi, you don't have any problem with the marriage, do you?]

The mention of "pehla pyar" makes Shubman, who's been silent so far, chuckle softly. He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, his tone laced with sarcasm as he switches lanes smoothly.

"Kya, Papa? Finally, chance mil raha hai iss dramebaaz se chutkara pane ka, aur aap khud hi bigaad rahe ho!" [What, Papa? I'm finally getting a chance to get rid of this drama king, and you're ruining it yourself!]

"HAWWWW!" Ishan gasps, his hands flying to his chest like Shubman has just delivered the ultimate betrayal.

"Shubhi, gadaari korbe! Main tujhe apna pyar samajhta hoon, aur tu mujhe apne se door karne ka soch raha hai?" [Shubhi, this is betrayal! I thought of you as my love, and you're thinking about getting rid of me?]

Abhishek places a kiss on Ishan's forehead, "Arre, Ishu, tu tension kyun le raha hai? Shubhi chahe kuch bhi bole, sach toh yeh hai ki tu uska sabse bada dard hai aur uska sabse bada sukoon bhi." [Hey, Ishu, why are you stressing? No matter what Shubhi says, the truth is that you're both his biggest headache and his biggest comfort.]

Ishan sniffles dramatically, his hand still clutching his chest as he shoots Shubman a wounded look. "Sahi bola, Abhi! Bas yeh Shubhmaan Gill samajhta hi nahi hai. Ek din meri kami mehsoos karega!" [Well said, Abhi! But this Shubmaan Gill just doesn't understand. One day, he'll miss me!]

Shubman rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips despite himself. "Haan haan, jab tu kisi aur ko chipak raha hoga tab main zarur teri kami mehsoos karunga." [Yeah, sure, when you're busy clinging to someone else, I'll definitely miss you.]

Abhishek shakes his head, clearly enjoying this too much. "Shubh, yeh sab mat bol. Ishu ko chhod ke tujhe aur kaun chhedega? Kaun tujhe 'Shubhiiiii' bol ke pareshaan karega?" [Shubh, don't say that. Without Ishu, who will tease you? Who will call you 'Shubhiiiii' and irritate you?] he says, his tone mock-serious as he gestures toward Ishan with an exaggerated flourish.

Ishan perks up instantly at Abhishek's words, his pout transforming into a self-satisfied grin. "Dekha, Abhi ko toh meri value pata hai!" [See, Abhi knows my value!]

He turns to Shubman, pointing a triumphant finger at him. "Aur tu samajh le, Shubhi, main nahi toh teri zindagi kitni boring ban jayegi. Sirf cricket aur interviews bachte hai tere paas!" [And you better understand, Shubhi, how boring your life will be without me. You'll only have cricket and interviews left!]

Shubman lets out a long, exaggerated sigh, his hands gripping the steering wheel as he glances at Ishan in the rearview mirror, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Haan haan, Ishu. Tere bina toh meri life ka koi matlab hi nahi bachega," [Yes, yes, Ishu. Without you, my life will have no meaning left.] he says, his tone dripping with mock seriousness.

Ishan beams as though Shubman has just declared him the MVP of his life. "Dekha! Tu samajh gaya. Finally, improvement ho raha hai!" [See! You've finally understood. At last, some improvement is happening!] he exclaims, leaning back triumphantly, his hands crossed behind his head.

Abhishek chuckles, shaking his head as he ruffles Ishan's hair. "Bas kar Ishu, itna bhi proud mat ho. Warna yeh Shubhmaan Gill tujhe agle signal pe utar dega," [Stop it, Ishu. Don't get so proud, or Shubhmaan Gill will drop you off at the next signal.] he teases, his eyes glinting with mischief.

"Utarega kaise?" [How will he drop me off?] Ishan shoots back, his grin widening. "Main Maa ko complain kar doonga." [I will complain to Maa.]

Keart finally bursts into laughter, her delicate chuckle filling the car. "Haye Rabba! Itne bade ho gaye hai lekin bachon ki tarah lad rahe ho." [Oh God! You have grown so much, but still argue like children.] she says, shaking her head fondly.

Lakhwinder chuckles, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Haan, aur sabse bada bachcha toh yeh Ishu hai," [Yes, and the biggest child is this Ishu.] he adds, pointing back at Ishan.

The car erupts into laughter, everyone's voices blending together in a symphony of joy. The tension from earlier dissolves completely, replaced by an easy, lighthearted warmth that fills the air.

Shubman shakes his head, his smile widening as he glances once more in the rearview mirror, watching Ishan and Abhishek mock-bicker like siblings.

His chest feels lighter, his earlier frustration fading into the background, replaced by the comforting realization that no matter how chaotic his friends and family could be, they were his chaos.

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JUST ONE MORE CHAPTER AFTER THIS ONE, AND THEN SHUB AND SIYA MEET!!!!

I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT!

bowledover18, Esma_Hiranur_Sultan, ogcuphid, Gillinmydil, dagabaazreee

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Radhe..Radhe 🙏🏻