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Happy Holi Guys
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The Bombardier Global 7500 touched down smoothly on the private runway of Farnborough Airport, greeted by the crisp, grey autumn weather of England. As the cabin doors opened, the stark contrast between the sweltering heat of the Australian summer and the biting London wind was immediate.
Aarav stepped out onto the tarmac, zipping up his dark grey bomber jacket. Right behind him, Virat carried a sleepy Vamika, wrapped snugly in a thick pink jacket, while Anushka followed, pulling her trench coat tighter around herself.
Because they had flown into a private terminal, the immigration and customs processes were handled in a quiet, luxurious lounge within minutes. There were no flashing cameras, no screaming fans. Just the quiet hum of a well-oiled VIP machine.
Outside the glass doors of the terminal, two imposing vehicles were already waiting on the tarmac, their engines purring quietly. A sleek, black Range Rover SV was parked for the Kohli family. Right behind it sat a midnight-blue Bentley Bentayga, waiting for Aarav.
The ground staff efficiently separated their luggage, loading the respective trunks. It was time to part ways.
"Well, Aarav," Virat said, adjusting Vamika in his arms. "Thanks for the ride. This was infinitely better than a 20-hour commercial flight. We owe you one."
"Anytime, Virat bhai," Aarav smiled, zipping up his jacket. "Enjoy setting up the new house."
However, Vamika, who had been rubbing her sleepy eyes, suddenly realized what was happening. Her gaze shifted from her father to the waiting cars, and then to Aarav, who was standing near the Bentley. Her little brain connected the dots. The fun airplane ride was over, and her favorite playmate was leaving.
Her lower lip immediately pushed out, trembling dangerously. Her big, dark eyes welled up with tears in record time.
"No..." Vamika whimpered, reaching her arms out towards Aarav.
Virat sighed, recognizing the impending storm. "Oh boy. Here we go."
"No cha-chu!" Vamika suddenly wailed, her voice echoing in the quiet terminal area. Large, heavy tears spilled over her chubby cheeks. She struggled in Virat's arms, trying to lean towards Aarav. "Don't go! Aavav cha-chu, no go! Vami sad! Vami cry!!"
Aarav's heart instantly broke into a million pieces. The Vice-Captain of the Indian cricket team, a man who stared down 150 kmph fast bowlers without blinking, was completely defenseless against a crying two-year-old.
He immediately rushed over, abandoning his Bentley, and stopped right in front of her.
"Hey, hey, Princess, what happened?" Aarav cooed, his face laced with genuine distress.
"You go," she sobbed, pointing a tiny, accusing finger at him.
Anushka stepped in, gently rubbing Vamika's back to soothe her. "Vami, baby, let Aarav cha-chu go," Anushka said softly. "He has some important work to do. But don't worry, he will come back soon, and next time, he will come with Chachi (Aunt)!"
Anushka looked up at Aarav with a warm, knowing smile. "Speaking of which, you really need to bring Shradha to meet us properly. We have never met."
Aarav's face lit up with an idea. He looked at Virat and Anushka. "Actually, Bhabhi, why don't you guys come over to my place day after tomorrow for dinner? You'll be settled in by then, and I'll have Shradha there too. A proper dinner. My treat."
"Are you cooking?" Virat raised an eyebrow skeptically.
"Yes," Aarav laughed. "I am a chef. The food will be great, I promise. My house is near Regent's Park."
"Regent's Park?" Anushka smiled. "Perfect. We would love to. Consider it a date."
Aarav turned his attention back to the weeping toddler. He bent down slightly so he was at eye level with her, pulling a pristine white tissue from his pocket to gently wipe away her tears.
"Vami, listen to me," Aarav whispered conspiratorially, as if sharing a massive state secret.
Vamika sniffled, looking at him with watery eyes.
"Cha-chu isn't just going away," Aarav lied smoothly, utilizing his best acting skills. "Cha-chu is going on a secret mission to get the biggest, yummiest chocolates in all of London. Just for you."
Vamika's crying paused. Her eyes widened slightly at the word 'chocolate'. "For Vami?"
"Only for Vami," Aarav promised solemnly, tapping her nose. "But I can only bring them if you stop crying. I need to see my favorite smile. Smile and happy?"
Vamika looked at him for a long moment, weighing her options. Finally, the promise of chocolate outweighed the sorrow of parting. She gave a watery, multi-toothed smile, wiping her own eyes with the back of her sleeve.
"Smile and happy," she agreed softly.
"That's my girl," Aarav beamed, giving her a gentle high-five. "I'll see you on Thursday, Princess."
He stood up, giving Virat and Anushka a final wave. "See you guys. Drive safe."
"You too, Aarav," Virat nodded. "Good luck with the surprise."
Aarav watched the Range Rover pull away, heading west towards the upscale, pastel-colored streets of Notting Hill.
He then turned and slid into the plush cream-leather interior of his Bentley Bentayga. His driver, an older English gentleman named Thomas who managed the Pathak family's London properties, greeted him from the front seat.
"Welcome back to London, Mr. Pathak," Thomas said smoothly, putting the car into gear. "Headed straight to the Regent's Park residence, Sir?"
"Yes, please, Thomas," Aarav sighed, sinking back into the luxurious seat and feeling the fatigue of the journey finally catching up to him.
He pulled out his phone and checked the local time. It was 3:00 PM. He had a decision to make. He needed to get home, take a long, hot shower, and change out of his travel clothes. But after that, the timing was crucial.
Shradha's clinical rotation at the hospital ended at 6:00 PM. Sometimes she went straight to her apartment; other times, she went to the college library.
I'll track her schedule once I freshen up, Aarav thought to himself, a giddy flutter of excitement replacing his exhaustion. College or apartment... doesn't matter. The surprise is going to be perfect.
The Bentley glided onto the M4 motorway, the grey London skyline looming in the distance. The World Cup heartbreak was left behind in Australia. Right now, Aarav Pathak was on a completely different mission.
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Aarav stepped out of the steaming hot shower in the master suite of his family's Regent's Park residence. The fatigue of the long flight and the lingering disappointment of the World Cup were washed down the drain, completely replaced by a bubbling, boyish excitement.
He walked into the walk-in closet to pick his outfit. He needed to be comfortable, but more importantly, he needed to be inconspicuous. Cricket was a religion in India, but in London, there was still a massive popularity who could recognize the Vice-Captain of the Indian Cricket Team.
He settled on a 'stealth wealth' look. A plush, midnight-black Loro Piana cashmere hoodie paired with dark, tailored denim. He slipped a pristine white Audemars Piguet Royal Oak onto his wrist—a subtle flex of luxury that hid perfectly under the cuff. To complete the disguise, he wore a pair of clear-framed geometric glasses and pulled a dark grey baseball cap low over his forehead.
Looking at himself in the full-length mirror, he smirked. He looked less like a global sports icon and more like a wealthy, brooding university student. Perfect.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Shradha. The call rang out. A second later, a text popped up: In the middle of a lab session! Give me 5 mins! 💖
Aarav smiled, tossing his phone onto the bed while he put on his sneakers. Exactly five minutes later, his phone buzzed.
"Hey," Shradha's voice came through the speaker. She sounded exhausted, the background noise filled with the clinking of glass beakers and the hum of medical equipment.
"Hey, Doctor," Aarav said smoothly, throwing himself onto the edge of the bed. "Where are you? I thought your college shift was over by now. Don't tell me you are doing overtime again."
She let out a long, tired sigh. "I am. We have some extra clinical experiments to finish, and my supervisor just dumped a pile of internship project files on my desk. It's a nightmare, Aarav. I won't be able to leave for another few hours."
"How late?" Aarav asked, trying to sound sympathetic while internally doing the math for his cooking timeline.
"Probably around 8 or 9 PM," she groaned. "I'm surviving on black coffee and sheer willpower right now. How is Mumbai? Did you reach home safely with the others?"
Aarav didn't even blink at the lie. "Yeah, Mumbai is... Mumbai. Traffic, humidity, and Mom force-feeding me. Listen, when you finally escape that prison of a hospital, call me, okay? You have a 20-minute walk back to your apartment. We'll talk the whole way so you don't feel lonely."
He could practically hear her smile through the phone. "You're the best. I will definitely call you. I need to hear your voice to de-stress. I love you."
"I love you too. Focus on the project, don't stress. Bye."
Aarav hung up the phone. A massive, wicked grin spread across his face. The timing was absolutely perfect. He had exactly three and a half hours.
He grabbed the keys to the Bentley Bentayga from the foyer and headed out. The drive from Regent's Park to the upscale neighborhood where Shradha rented her apartment took about 50 minutes through the sluggish London evening traffic.
When he reached her street, he made a calculated detour. He didn't park the Bentley in the reserved spots outside her building. Shradha was observant; if she saw a massive, midnight-blue Bentley with tinted windows parked outside her flat, she would get suspicious instantly.
Instead, he drove two blocks down and parked in a paid underground parking garage. He paid for a full 24 hours, pulled his cap lower, put on his glasses, and walked back up to the street level.
His first stop wasn't her apartment. It was a large, well-stocked Asian supermarket he had spotted on Google Maps.
Grabbing a shopping basket, Aarav walked through the aisles with a singular, focused mission. He wasn't just going to order takeout. He was going to cook her a feast.
Aarav Pathak, the lethal fast bowler, had a secret. Exactly one year ago, after completing a particularly grueling milestones, his mysterious internal System had granted him a unique lifestyle reward:
It was a skill he rarely got to use while living in bio-bubbles and hotels, but today, it was his ultimate weapon.
He moved through the aisles like a man on a mission. He picked up fresh pav (bread buns), green chilies, garlic, and gram flour for the quintessential Mumbai street food: Vada Pav. He knew how much she missed the taste of home. Next, he grabbed blocks of fresh paneer, rich cream, and whole spices for a creamy Paneer Sabji. He picked up whole wheat flour for soft, hot Rotis. Then came the ingredients for the true Maharashtrian soul food: chana dal, jaggery, cardamom, and a large jar of pure, golden Ghee to make authentic Puran Poli. Finally, he grabbed thick hung curd, saffron, and pistachios for dessert: Shrikhand.
The cashier at the checkout counter barely glanced at him, assuming he was just another Indian student preparing for a weekend feast. Aarav paid the bill, grabbed his two heavy grocery bags, and stepped out into the chilly London evening.
He walked the two blocks to her apartment building, carrying the bags effortlessly.
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Aarav stood outside the door of Shradha's rented flat. It was a modern, upscale apartment building with a digital lock system. He didn't have the physical key, but he didn't need one. A few weeks ago, during one of their late-night video calls, she had punched in the code while holding her phone awkwardly. Aarav, with the sharp memory of a top-tier athlete, had quietly registered the six digits.
He punched in the PIN: 1-0-1-1-2-2. The lock beeped, the light turned green, and the heavy door clicked open.
Aarav slipped inside, locking the door behind him, and set the heavy grocery bags on the floor. He took a look around. The living area was exactly as he expected: neat, cozy, and completely dominated by her medical studies. Thick textbooks, highlighters, and sticky notes were organized meticulously on the coffee table and the small study desk.
He smiled, walking quietly towards the back of the apartment. He peeked into her bedroom—the bed was made, everything tidy and clean.
Then, he turned and walked into the kitchen. Aarav stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw dropped slightly.
"Good lord," he whispered to the empty room.
Shradha was a brilliant medical student, a loving fiancée, and an incredibly smart woman. But she was a notoriously terrible cook. The kitchen looked like the aftermath of a culinary war. There were two unwashed pans in the sink, a mysterious dusting of flour on the black granite countertop, a half-open jar of pasta sauce, and a burnt piece of toast sitting sadly on a plate. It was a disaster zone.
Aarav chuckled, rolling up the sleeves of his Loro Piana hoodie. "Dr. Tendulkar might save lives, but she definitely kills kitchens."
He found an apron hanging on the back of the pantry door—a cute, slightly stained pink one with a cartoon cat on it. He didn't care about his macho image right now. He threw it over his head and tied it around his waist.
He grabbed some cleaning cloths, multi-purpose spray, and tissues. For the next twenty minutes, the Vice-Captain of the Indian Cricket Team scrubbed, wiped, and washed until the kitchen gleamed, restoring it to a sanitary condition acceptable for cooking.
Satisfied, he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, sat on one of the bar stools, and rested his tired legs for a few minutes. The long flight was catching up, but he had a feast to prepare.
After his brief rest, Aarav turned on his Spotify playlist—soft, instrumental Bollywood lo-fi—and got to work.
With his system-granted skill silently guiding his hands, Aarav moved with absolute precision. He didn't need to measure spices; his instincts took over. He started with the Shrikhand, whipping the thick hung curd with saffron strands and crushed pistachios, popping it into the fridge to chill perfectly. Next, he kneaded the dough for the Rotis and prepared the sweet, fragrant chana dal and jaggery stuffing for the Puran Poli. The aroma of roasted coriander, cumin, and red chilies soon filled the London flat as he prepared the rich, spicy gravy for the Kadhai Paneer. Finally, he mashed the boiled potatoes, mixed in the fiery garlic-chili paste, coated them in gram flour, and fried them to golden perfection for the Vada Pav.
Three hours flew by in a flurry of chopping, stirring, and tasting. Aarav took a small spoon of the Kadhai Paneer. It exploded with flavor. It tasted exactly like the premium dhabas back in India. "She's going to lose her mind," he grinned, turning the stove to a low simmer.
Aarav was just sitting down on the living room sofa, taking a well-deserved breather, when his phone buzzed. 'Dr. S 🩺' calling.
He cleared his throat, making sure he sounded casual, and answered. "Hey, babe. Did you escape the hospital?"
"Finally," Shradha's voice came through, accompanied by the sound of London traffic and howling wind. "I just left the campus. It is freezing tonight, Aarav. My hands are numb."
"You have a 25-minute walk, right?" Aarav asked, putting the phone on speaker and rushing back into the kitchen.
"Yeah. Talk to me so I don't focus on the cold," she requested, her teeth chattering slightly.
"Of course," Aarav said smoothly.
While he listened to her complain about a particularly annoying senior doctor, Aarav was a blur of silent activity. He pulled out the finest plates she had. He arranged the dining table beautifully. He pulled a bouquet of fresh red roses from his grocery bag and placed them in a vase in the center. He scattered small, vanilla-scented tea-light candles around the table and lit them one by one.
Finally, he quickly brewed a hot, strong cup of ginger tea—exactly the way she liked it after a long shift—and placed it on the table. It took him barely fifteen minutes to set up the perfect romantic candlelight dinner.
"Anyway, how is Mumbai?" Shradha asked through the phone. "Is Mom feeding you properly?"
Aarav smirked, placing the hot Vada Pavs onto a serving platter. "Mumbai is great," he lied effortlessly. "Listen, Shradha, Dad is calling me on the other line. I think it's about a meeting tomorrow."
"Oh, okay," she said, sounding slightly disappointed. "Take the call."
"Go home, take a hot shower, and freshen up, okay? You sound exhausted. I'll call you back before you sleep. Bye, love."
"Bye, Aarav. Love you."
Beep.
The moment the call cut, Aarav ripped off the pink cat apron and threw it onto a chair. He sprinted around the apartment, turning off every single light switch until the flat was plunged into darkness, illuminated only by the soft, flickering, golden glow of the candles in the dining area.
He tiptoed into the living room and crouched down, hiding completely behind the large, grey sofa facing the front door. His heart was hammering against his ribs. The ambush was set.
Ten minutes later, the digital lock outside beeped. Click.
The heavy door swung open. Shradha stepped inside, shivering, wrapping her thick trench coat tightly around herself. "Alexa, turn on the lights," she called out, kicking off her boots.
Nothing happened. He had unplugged the smart speaker.
"Ugh, great. Power cut?" she muttered to herself, closing the door slightly but not locking it.
She stood in the dark foyer, confused. But she knew the map of her own house perfectly. She dropped her heavy medical bag onto the floor and began to walk blindly towards the hallway. As she rounded the corner into the living space, she stopped.
She saw the faint, flickering light coming from the dining area near the kitchen. Her breath hitched. She hadn't left any candles burning.
She crept closer, her medical instincts suddenly replaced by pure panic. She peeked around the partition wall. There, on her dining table, was a vase full of fresh roses. Scented candles. And a feast of hot, steaming Indian food. Two plates.
Fear seized her chest with an icy grip. Someone is in my house. Her hand instinctively flew to her coat pocket, grabbing her phone. She needed to back out quietly. She needed to call the building security, or the police, or Aarav—
CLICK.
The main door of the apartment, which she had left slightly ajar, was suddenly shut and bolted from the inside.
Shradha spun around in the dark, a terrified gasp escaping her lips. She raised her phone, her thumb hovering over the emergency dial. Her hands were shaking violently.
"Who's there?!" she demanded, her voice trembling in the darkness.
From the shadows behind the sofa, a tall silhouette stood up. "Looking for someone, Doctor?"
The voice. Deep. Smooth. Familiar. A voice she heard through her phone every single night. A voice that instantly shattered the terror and replaced it with a shockwave of disbelief.
Shradha froze. Her phone slipped from her numb fingers, tumbling onto the soft carpet. She stared as the silhouette stepped forward into the dim, golden light of the candles.
The dark hoodie. The glasses. The smirk. Aarav.
"You..." she breathed out, her voice barely a whisper. "You're in Mumbai..."
"I lied," Aarav smiled softly, opening his arms wide.
Shradha didn't think. She didn't ask how he got in, or how he cooked, or why he was wearing those glasses. She let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, and sprinted across the living room.
She launched herself at him. Aarav caught her easily, his strong arms wrapping around her waist, lifting her clean off the floor as her momentum carried them back a step. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder, holding onto him as if he were a mirage that might disappear.
"You're here," she sobbed happily into his neck. "You're actually here."
"I'm here," Aarav whispered, burying his face in her cold hair, holding her impossibly tight. "I couldn't stay away."
She pulled back just enough to look at his face in the candlelight. She didn't say another word. She grabbed the lapels of his hoodie, pulled him down, and kissed him. It was a kiss full of longing, relief, and the overwhelming joy of a surprise perfectly executed. Aarav kissed her back deeply, the chill of the London night entirely forgotten, replaced by the warmth of the home he had finally found.
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The kiss was desperate, tasting of the cold London rain that clung to her coat and the deep, raw longing that had gnawed at both of them for over a month. Aarav held her suspended off the ground, his strong arms wrapped securely around her waist, while Shradha clung to the lapels of his hoodie as if letting go would mean he might vanish into thin air.
For Aarav, the crushing disappointment of the World Cup semi-final—the silent dressing room, the agonizing flight, the hollow feeling in his chest—dissolved the moment her lips met his. She was the anchor he didn't know he desperately needed.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting against each other. The only light in the living room came from the golden, flickering glow of the candles spilling over from the dining area.
"You are actually here," Shradha whispered, her voice still trembling with disbelief. She brought her cold, rain-chilled hands up to cup his face, her thumbs tracing his cheekbones just to make sure he was real. "You lied to me. You said you were going to Mumbai."
Aarav chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against her chest. He slowly lowered her back onto her feet but didn't let go of her waist. "I had to lie, Doctor. If I told you I was flying fourteen hours just to see you, you would have scolded me about my recovery schedule and jet lag."
"I still might," she sniffled, though a massive, radiant smile was breaking across her face. Her bubbly nature, suppressed by a grueling twelve-hour hospital shift, was bubbling to the surface again. "Do you have any idea how scared I was? I walked into a dark apartment, saw a feast laid out, and the door locked behind me. I thought a very romantic serial killer had broken in!"
Aarav burst out laughing, throwing his head back. "A romantic serial killer? That's your first thought? Not your fiancé who is famous for elaborate surprises?"
"You usually have a whole stadium to help you!" she giggled, her eyes shining in the dim light. She looked at him, her gaze trailing over the black Loro Piana hoodie and the clear-framed glasses he was still wearing. She reached up and playfully took the glasses off his face, folding them and slipping them into his pocket. "The Clark Kent disguise is cute, but I prefer my Superman without the glasses."
"Noted," Aarav smiled, his eyes locked onto hers with a soft, overwhelming adoration.
He gently stepped back and reached for the lapels of her heavy, damp trench coat. "Come here. You're freezing."
With careful, deliberate movements, he helped her out of the wet coat, tossing it over the back of the sofa. He took her medical bag and placed it neatly on the floor. Then, he took her freezing hands in his large, warm ones, rubbing them gently to bring the circulation back.
"Close your eyes," he whispered softly.
"Why?" she asked, her curiosity peaking.
"Just trust me. Close them."
Shradha smiled, her heart fluttering like a trapped hummingbird, and squeezed her eyes shut. Aarav slipped one arm around her waist, his other hand covering her eyes just to be sure, and slowly guided her out of the living room and into the dining space.
"Okay," Aarav murmured, his breath warm against her ear, sending a visible shiver down her spine. "Open them."
Shradha opened her eyes and gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.
Her tiny, usually chaotic London dining table had been transformed into something out of a fairy tale. Two dozen small, vanilla-scented tea-light candles flickered softly, casting dancing shadows on the walls. In the center sat a beautiful crystal vase filled with deep red roses, their velvety petals looking almost black in the dim light.
But it was the spread of food that made her jaw physically drop.
Steaming, golden Vada Pavs sat on a pristine white platter, accompanied by vibrant red garlic chutney and fried green chilies. Next to it was a copper bowl filled with rich, aromatic Kadhai Paneer, the scent of roasted coriander and cumin wafting through the air. A basket of soft, perfectly round, ghee-brushed Rotis was kept warm under a cloth.
And for dessert, two silver bowls held creamy, saffron-infused Shrikhand, garnished with crushed pistachios, sitting proudly next to a plate of traditional Maharashtrian Puran Poli, glistening with melted ghee.
Shradha stood frozen, her eyes darting from the feast to Aarav and back again. She turned to him, her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.
"Aarav... did you... did you rob a Michelin-star Indian restaurant on your way here?" she stammered, her bubbly disbelief taking over. "Where did this come from? Did you bribe Dishoom's head chef?"
Aarav leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, looking incredibly smug. "No robbery involved, babe. I made it. All of it."
Shradha let out a breath of pure amazement. "I know you're a good cook, Aarav, but... Puran Poli? Kadhai Paneer? From scratch? After a fourteen-hour flight? When did you even have the time to make all this?"
"Hey, I told you I've been upgrading my skills," Aarav protested playfully, walking over and pulling out a chair for her. "I went from being 'just good' to a certified master chef. Sit. Let the food do the talking.
Still giggling in disbelief, Shradha sat down. Aarav took the seat directly opposite her. The small table meant their knees brushed against each other, an electric contact that made the butterflies in her stomach go completely wild.
Aarav reached across the table. He picked up a perfectly round, golden Vada, sliced open a soft Pav, and generously applied the spicy garlic chutney. He pressed the bun together and held it out to her.
"Your twelve-hour shift prescribed cure," Aarav said softly, his eyes locked onto hers with intense affection. "Take a bite."
Shradha leaned forward, her eyes never leaving his. She took a bite of the Vada Pav.
Her chewing slowed. Her eyes widened to comical proportions. The crunch of the besan batter, the explosion of the fiery garlic chutney, and the perfectly spiced mashed potato hit her taste buds like a nostalgic explosion of Mumbai street food.
She covered her mouth with her hand, chewing rapidly, letting out a muffled groan of absolute ecstasy.
"Oh... my... god," she mumbled through her fingers. She swallowed and looked at him as if he had just performed actual magic. "Aarav... this is... this is better than the shop outside my school in Mumbai! How did you do this?!"
Aarav's chest puffed up with pride. The internal
"I told you," he smirked, pouring her a glass of water. "I have hidden talents. The Prince of Cricket by day, Gordon Ramsay by night."
"You are insane," she laughed, taking the Vada Pav from his hand and taking another massive, unladylike bite. "This is heavenly. I have been eating bland hospital sandwiches for three days. You have literally saved my life."
"That's what I'm here for," he smiled, watching her eat with a satisfaction that felt better than scoring a century.
For the next twenty minutes, the apartment was filled with the sounds of soft clinking cutlery, instrumental Bollywood lo-fi music playing softly from Aarav's phone, and Shradha's continuous, bubbly exclamations of delight.
She tasted the Kadhai Paneer, tearing a piece of the soft Roti. "Aarav, the spices are perfect. It's rich, it's smoky. Are you absolutely sure you didn't have your mom fly this in on the private jet?"
"I bought the ingredients from the Asian supermarket two blocks away," Aarav laughed, resting his chin on his hand, simply admiring her. He had barely touched his own plate; he was too busy feeding his soul by watching her happiness. "I even cleaned your kitchen before I started. By the way, Doctor, how do you manage to get pasta sauce on the ceiling?"
Shradha blushed a deep crimson, hiding her face behind a piece of Roti. "I was experimenting! And the blender lid wasn't secure. Stop judging my culinary disasters when you are clearly a prodigy."
"I'm not judging," he chuckled, reaching across the table to wipe a tiny smudge of red gravy from the corner of her lip with his thumb. His touch was feather-light, lingering for a second longer than necessary. "I think it's cute. You save lives, I'll cook the food. It's a fair division of labor for the rest of our lives."
Shradha's heart did a somersault. The rest of our lives. The phrase felt so heavy, yet so incredibly light when he said it.
She looked back up at him. The playful banter faded, replaced by a deep, resonant emotional intimacy. She noticed the faint dark circles under his eyes, the subtle exhaustion in the slump of his broad shoulders.
"You must be exhausted," she said softly, her bubbly tone settling into a tender, caring whisper. "You played a World Cup semi-final, dealt with all that heartbreak, flew hours, cleaned my disaster of a kitchen, and cooked a five-course meal. Aarav... you didn't have to do all this. Just you being here was enough."
Aarav reached across the table, lacing his fingers through hers.
"I wanted to," he said, his voice a low, soothing baritone. "When we lost the match... sitting in that dressing room in Adelaide, surrounded by cameras and questions... the only thing I could think about was getting to you. You are my quiet place, Shradha. Doing this for you... making you smile, seeing you eat... it heals me. It puts the world back into perspective."
Shradha felt her eyes mist over. She squeezed his hand tightly. "You played so beautifully, Aarav. That innings you played... you carried the weight of the entire country. You have nothing to be sad about."
"I'm not sad anymore," he smiled, a genuine, breathtaking smile that reached his eyes. "Not when I'm looking at you."
"You are such a smooth talker," she sniffled playfully, wiping a rogue tear. "Stop making me emotional, I still have to eat the dessert!"
"Priorities," Aarav laughed, letting go of her hand to serve the dessert.
He pulled the silver bowl of Shrikhand towards her, handing her a piece of the warm, ghee-soaked Puran Poli. "Try this. Mom's recipe."
Shradha dipped the Puran Poli into the chilled, creamy Shrikhand. She took a bite, and her eyes fluttered shut in pure bliss. The contrast of the hot, sweet flatbread and the cold, saffron-rich yogurt was a masterclass in textures.
"Okay," she declared, pointing her spoon at him. "I am marrying you for the food. The handsome face and Love are just bonus perks now. You are officially the designated chef of the Pathak household."
"I accept the position," he bowed his head playfully.
Once the plates were cleared pushed to the side so they wouldn't ruin the moment—the atmosphere shifted. The adrenaline of the surprise and the excitement of the food settled into a warm, intoxicating coziness.
Aarav stood up from his chair. He walked around the small table, offering his hand to her. "Come here," he whispered.
Shradha took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. He didn't lead her to the living room; he simply wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest right there in the dim, candlelit dining area.
The soft music from his phone transitioned into a slow, acoustic Bollywood melody—Tum Se Hi.
Shradha looped her arms around his neck, burying her fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. She rested her head against his chest, right over his heart. Its rhythm was steady, strong, and incredibly calming. They began to sway slowly, a gentle, improvised dance in the middle of her apartment.
"I missed your scent," Aarav murmured, pressing his face into her hair, breathing in the familiar, comforting vanilla fragrance. "I kept smelling deep heat and hotel soap for a month. It was depressing."
"And I missed your warmth," she whispered back, closing her eyes, letting the sheer solidness of his body envelop her. "London is so cold, Aarav. The hospital is so sterile. Being wrapped up in your arms... it feels like coming home."
Aarav tightened his grip, his large hands resting on the small of her back. "I am your home, Shradha. Wherever you are, that's where I want to be."
She tilted her head back to look at him. The candlelight danced across his features—the sharp jawline, the intense, dark eyes that held so much power on the field, but only held absolute devotion when they looked at her.
"You know," Shradha whispered, a mischievous, bubbly smile returning to her lips, "Anushka Bhabhi texted me yesterday. She said Virat was complaining that Vamika likes you more than him."
Aarav chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against her. "It's true. Vamika and I have a bond. I am the superior Cha-chu. Virat bhai just has to accept his defeat."
"You're going to be an amazing dad one day, Aarav," she said, her voice filled with a quiet certainty.
The words hung in the air, heavy with promise and the beautiful, terrifying weight of the future they were building together. Aarav looked down at her, his expression softening into something incredibly vulnerable.
"As long as you are the mom," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't care about anything else."
The air between them thickened, the playful banter melting away completely into raw, magnetic tension. The butterflies in Shradha's stomach morphed into a fluttering, intense heat.
Aarav's hand moved from her waist, his long fingers trailing up her spine, sending shivers cascading through her body. He cupped her jaw, his thumb gently caressing her cheekbone. His eyes dropped to her lips, and the intense, hungry look in them made her breath hitch.
"I've spent the last 48 hours thinking about doing this," he murmured, his face inching closer to hers, his breath fanning across her lips.
"Then stop thinking, Captain," she challenged softly, her eyes fluttering shut.
He didn't need to be told twice.
Aarav's lips captured hers, obliterating the remaining distance between them. It wasn't the desperate, frantic kiss of their reunion at the door; this was slow, deep, and intoxicatingly passionate. It was a kiss that communicated every unspoken emotion—the longing of the past month, the relief of his presence, and the burning, undeniable chemistry that sparked every time they touched.
Shradha gasped softly into his mouth, her fingers tightening their grip on his hair, pulling him closer. Aarav groaned, a low, primal sound that made her knees feel weak. He wrapped both arms securely around her, lifting her slightly so she was on her tiptoes, deepening the kiss, completely losing himself in her taste.
The world outside her window—the freezing London wind, the bustling traffic, the cricket stadiums, and the media scrutiny—ceased to exist. In this tiny, candlelit apartment, there was only the heat of his touch, the taste of his lips, and the overwhelming, butterfly-inducing realization that the man holding her was entirely, unequivocally hers.
He pulled back just a fraction, both of them breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the tip of her nose, then to her forehead.
"I love you, Shradha Tendulkar," he whispered, his voice raspy, his eyes burning with a fiery, protective love. "More than cricket. More than anything."
Shradha smiled, a tear of absolute joy escaping her eye, reflecting the candlelight. She leaned up and kissed him again, soft and sweet.
"I love you too, Aarav Pathak. Now... help me clean these dishes before my kitchen turns into a disaster zone again."
Aarav groaned dramatically, resting his head on her shoulder. "I am a World Cup Vice-Captain, a Master Chef, and now a dishwasher? My contract is severely under-negotiated."
"Consider the payment to be a lifetime supply of kisses," she giggled, pulling him towards the sink.
"Deal," Aarav grinned, rolling up his sleeves. "Best contract I've ever signed."
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Jaa Ne
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Author's Note: - 6100+ Words
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