Mumbai's afternoon sky hung low and heavy, the sort of heat that clings like damp fabric. The Defender waited outside in the parking lot, still wearing the streaks of mud from Spandana's morning drive. She had dumped the keys on the table the moment she got in, kicked off her boots without even untying them, and sank into the sofa like she'd been granted shore leave after a month at war.
The AC purred. Petrol still clung faintly to her clothes. Her phone lit up once — a message she didn't want to answer — then went quiet again.
Her skull buzzed with the echo of a week's worth of noise: meetings, accusations, too many eyes on her. Suspension papers still warm from the printer. Psychiatrist's pen barely dry. She'd held herself together, sort of. But she could feel the seams giving way.
She leaned her head back, shut her eyes, and breathed out—
BANG!
It wasn't a knock. It was the kind of hit that makes a doorframe wonder about its life choices. Before she could blink, something — someone — slammed into her.
"SPANSSSS!"
The air left her lungs. She found herself trapped under a tangle of perfume, bangles, and laughter.
"Pallavi—! Get—off—me—"
"No chance," Pallavi declared, squeezing tighter. "It's been months. You owe me every hug you've skipped. Pay up."
Spandana groaned, but her mouth betrayed her with a smile. "You're actually here?"
"Obviously," Pallavi said, grinning like she'd planned a heist. "Also… I brought you something."
That's when Spandana noticed the wriggling shape in her friend's arms.
"What is that?"
"Your new partner in crime," Pallavi said, lifting it like a trophy. "Meet Ranger. Eight weeks old. German Shepherd. The only man I trust with you."
The puppy blinked at Spandana, yawned, then licked her chin without shame.
"You… brought me a dog?"
"A puppy," Pallavi corrected. "Dogs are responsible. Puppies are chaos. You're chaos. Match made in heaven."
Ranger's tail wagged like it was trying to break the sound barrier.
"Okay… fine, he's cute," Spandana muttered.
"Obviously," Pallavi said, setting him down. Ranger tripped over his own ears on the way to sniff the carpet.
Spandana bent to scoop him up, but he darted off toward her boots and latched onto a lace.
"Oh no you don't—" She moved, but Pallavi caught her arm.
"Let him. Builds character."
"Destroys laces."
"Same thing."
"You're impossible."
"And you love me," Pallavi said, already in the kitchen. "Knives. Where are they?"
"Why—"
"Because you look like you've been living off instant noodles and spite."
She was right. The kitchen became a war zone. Pallavi bossed her around like a sous chef with zero patience, smacked her hand for chopping onions too slow, and stole the spatula when she "assaulted" the chicken masala instead of stirring it. Ranger barked at the frying pan like it was a burglar.
By the time they collapsed onto the couch with plates of chicken fry, the apartment smelled like a festival. They ate cross-legged, TV on, neither watching.
Halfway through, Pallavi froze mid-bite. "Highway run?"
Spandana arched an eyebrow. "With a puppy?"
"He's a shepherd. Adventure is his birthright."
Ten minutes later, the Defender was purring down the road. Pallavi in the passenger seat, Ranger curled in her lap, Mumbai's lights dropping away behind them. The wind tangled their hair; the speakers sang old film songs. Pallavi heckled slow drivers like it was a sport.
"Uncle, your gearshift is a fossil!""Bhaiyya, that horn isn't a mosquito!"
Spandana laughed harder than she had in weeks. Her grip on the wheel was easy. The night stretched wide and forgiving.
For the first time in days, she wasn't suspended, or monitored, or dissected in a report. She was just… home.