The morning sun of Madrid filtered through the sheer curtains of the apartment near Plaza Mayor, painting the room in hues of dusty gold and amber. The city outside was slowly waking up—the distant hum of a delivery truck, the clatter of shutters being raised—but inside, the silence was heavy and comfortable.
Siddanth Deva stirred.
He lay on his back, the high thread-count sheets tangled around his waist. His body felt completely relaxed. The soreness of the Champions Trophy was a distant memory, replaced by a different kind of lethargy—the good kind.
Beside him lay Isabella. She was fast asleep, her dark hair fanned out across the white pillow, one arm draped possessively over Siddanth's chest, her leg entangled with his beneath the blanket. She was naked, her skin warm against his side.
Siddanth watched the dust motes dance in a shaft of light.
He was just a man in a bed with a beautiful woman.
He slowly tried to shift, intending to slide out from under her arm to find a glass of water.
As soon as he moved, Isabella's grip tightened. She didn't open her eyes, but she made a soft, protesting noise in her throat.
"No," she murmured, her voice raspy with sleep. "Stay."
Siddanth smiled. He settled back down, turning on his side to face her. He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her bare frame. She sighed, snuggling her face into the crook of his neck.
They lay there for another twenty minutes, just breathing in sync, enjoying the warmth.
Finally, Isabella blinked her eyes open. She looked up at him, a sleepy smile playing on her lips.
"Buenos días, Mr. Cricketer," she whispered.
"Buenos días, Madame Architect," Siddanth replied, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
They looked at each other for a moment, the memories of the previous night flooding back. It had been frantic, passionate, and surprisingly tender.
"So," Siddanth asked, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. "Did you understand cricket?"
Isabella chuckled, the sound vibrating against his chest. She shook her head.
"Not yet. It seems... very complicated. Lots of positions. Lots of... stamina."
Siddanth laughed softly. "Well, as I said last night, I am an excellent teacher. I can explain the finer points to you. We can go over the techniques as long as you want."
Isabella traced a line down his chest with her finger. She looked him in the eye, her expression shifting from playful to sincere.
"You were," she said softly. "And that was... honestly, the best sex I have ever had."
Siddanth felt a flush of pride that had nothing to do with a Man of the Match award.
"Thank you for the praise," he said, kissing her forehead. "I aim to please."
"So," he said, sitting up slightly, the sheet falling to his waist. "Shall we start the day? Or... shall we have a shower together first?"
Isabella bit her lip, looking at his broad shoulders and the defined muscles of his back.
"A shower sounds... necessary," she nodded. "And fun."
Siddanth grinned. He threw the blanket aside.
Before she could move, he scooped her up.
"Whoa!" she laughed, clutching his neck.
He lifted her effortlessly in a princess carry. To him she was light as a feather.
"Vámonos," he said.
He carried her into the bathroom. The shower was large, tiled in slate grey, typical of a modern architect's taste.
They stayed in there for an hour.
The steam filled the room. The water was hot. The "cricket lesson" continued, albeit in a much wetter environment.
When they finally stepped out, wrapped in plush towels, they were scrubbed clean, fully refreshed, and glowing.
---
Isabella took charge of the itinerary.
"You cannot visit Madrid without a proper breakfast," she declared, pulling on a pair of designer jeans and a loose white blouse.
They walked hand-in-hand to a local favorite, Café de Oriente, facing the Royal Palace.
They sat outside on the terrace. The autumn air was crisp.
Isabella ordered for both of them.
"Chocolate con churros," Isabella said as the thick, dark hot chocolate and fried dough arrived. "Dip it. Eat it. Thank me later."
Siddanth took a bite. The sugar and rich cocoa exploded in his mouth.
"Okay," he admitted. "This beats protein shakes and boiled chicken."
"I should hope so," she laughed.
They ate in comfortable silence for a while, watching the tourists snap photos of the palace.
Then, Isabella put her cup down. She looked at him, her expression turning slightly more serious.
"So, Deva," she asked. "When do you leave?"
Siddanth wiped his mouth with a napkin. He didn't want to ruin the mood, but honesty was the only policy here.
"Three days," he said. "My flight is on Thursday. I have a series against Australia starting at the end of the month."
Isabella nodded slowly. She didn't look devastated—she was a grown woman, and she knew what this was—but there was a flicker of disappointment.
"Three days," she repeated. She smiled, a little wistfully. "Well, then. We have no time to waste on being sad. Let's make the most of the time we have. We are two strangers who found each other in a city of millions. Let's make it a good story."
Siddanth reached across the table and took her hand. "I agree. A very good story."
He took a sip of water. "Speaking of stories... my friends and I were planning to watch a football match. Real Madrid is playing at home this weekend, right?"
Isabella's eyes lit up. "Yes! Against Real Valladolid! At the Bernabéu! Are you going?"
Siddanth smiled. "Will you come with me?"
"Try and stop me," she grinned. "I have season tickets, actually. But my seat is... well, it's good, but maybe not 'cricketer VIP' good."
"We'll sit together," Siddanth promised. "I'll try to arrange it."
"Do you watch football regularly?" she asked. "Or is cricket your only love?"
"I watch," Siddanth nodded. "In India, cricket is king, but we love the Premier League. The pace, the aggression... it's similar to how I play."
"Favorite team?" she challenged.
Siddanth grinned. "Manchester United. The Red Devils."
Isabella groaned theatrically, rolling her eyes. "Oh no. A United fan. Tragedy."
"Hey!" Siddanth laughed. "We are the best."
"Real Madrid," she pointed to her chest. "Los Blancos. The Kings of Europe. Especially now that we have Cristiano. You know, we took him from you."
"Don't remind me," Siddanth grimaced playfully. "He looks good in white, I hate to admit it."
They spent the next twenty minutes debating the merits of Ferguson vs. Pellegrini, Rooney vs. Raul. Siddanth found her knowledge of the game impressive—she argued tactics, offside traps, and transfer fees with the passion of a true Madridista.
Isabella checked her watch. "Mierda. I'm going to be late."
She stood up. "I have a site visit at 1:00 PM. My boss will kill me if I'm not there."
She grabbed a pen from her purse and a napkin. She scribbled her number on it.
"Here," she slid it to him. "Call me this evening. Around 8?"
Siddanth took the napkin. "8 o'clock. I'll be counting the minutes."
She leaned down and kissed him—a quick, chaste peck on the lips that tasted of chocolate and promise.
"Adios, Deva."
She turned and walked away, her hips swaying slightly, disappearing into the Madrid crowd.
Siddanth watched her go, a smile lingering on his face.
---
Siddanth took a taxi back to the Hotel Ritz.
He went up to his room, and changed into a fresh linen shirt and jeans.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Arjun.
"Yo. Where are you guys?"
"Look who's alive!" Arjun's voice crackled over the line. "We thought you eloped. We are at 'Mercado de San Miguel'. Eating our body weight in olives. Get here."
Siddanth grabbed his sunglasses. "On my way."
The Mercado de San Miguel was a bustling, iron-and-glass market hall packed with food stalls. The noise was deafening, a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and shouting vendors.
Siddanth spotted them near a stall selling oysters.
Arjun, Sameer, and Feroz were sitting on high stools, surrounded by empty plates.
As soon as they saw him, the cheering started.
"The Man of the Match returns!" Sameer yelled, raising a glass of sangria.
"Careful," Feroz laughed. "He looks exhausted. Heavy workload last night, Sid?"
Arjun grinned, slapping the empty stool next to him. "Sit down, Casanova. Tell us everything?"
Siddanth sat down, snatching an olive from Arjun's plate. He tried to keep a straight face, but he failed.
"It was... cultural exchange," Siddanth said diplomatically.
"Cultural exchange!" Arjun howled. "I'm sure it was. Did you teach her the 'Helicopter Shot'?"
"I taught her the forward defense," Siddanth deadpanned. "Very technical."
The table erupted in laughter. They spent the next hour roasting him relentlessly. They asked about the apartment and the breakfast.
Siddanth took it all in stride.
"Okay, enough about my love life," Siddanth said, signaling for more food. "What's the plan for the day?"
"We need to walk," Feroz patted his stomach. "Too much food. Let's go to Retiro Park."
They spent the afternoon roaming El Retiro, the massive park in the center of Madrid.
They rented a rowboat on the artificial lake. Siddanth rowed, while the others lazed around taking photos.
They visited the Crystal Palace, the glass structure glowing in the afternoon sun.
Siddanth felt light. He joked with his friends, practiced his Spanish on ice cream vendors, and just existed in the moment.
"So," Arjun asked as they walked back towards the city center around 6:00 PM. "Tonight?"
"Tonight," Siddanth checked his phone. "I have a date."
"Of course you do," Sameer rolled his eyes. "We are abandoned again."
"Hey, I secured tickets for the Real Madrid match on Saturday," Siddanth dropped the bomb. "VIP box."
The complaining stopped instantly.
"You are a god," Arjun whispered. "Go to your date. We forgive you."
---
Siddanth went back to the hotel to change. He chose a dark blue button-down and grey trousers. He put on a spritz of cologne—something woody and masculine.
At 8:00 PM sharp, he dialed the number on the napkin.
"Hola?" Her voice was warm.
"Isabella. It's Deva."
"Deva," she purred. "You kept your word."
"Always. Are you hungry?"
"Starving. Meet me at 'Restaurante Sobrino de Botín'. It's the oldest restaurant in the world."
"I'll see you in twenty minutes."
Sobrino de Botín was like stepping back in time. Wood-beamed ceilings, tile floors, and the smell of roasting meat from a wood-fired oven that had been burning since 1725.
Isabella was waiting outside. She wore a black cocktail dress this time, elegant and sharp, with a silver necklace.
Siddanth felt his breath catch. She looked even better than last night.
"Architect," he said, kissing her cheek.
"Cricketer," she smiled, linking her arm through his.
Dinner was spectacular. They sat in a cozy corner of the cellar. They ate the famous suckling pig (cochinillo asado), drank a bottle of heavy Rioja red wine, and talked.
They moved past the small talk. They talked about their families.
Siddanth told her about his parents—Vikram's strict discipline, Sesikala's superstitions. He told her about the pressure of expectations in India.
Isabella told him about growing up in Seville, moving to Madrid to study, the challenges of being a woman in a male-dominated construction industry.
"We are similar," she observed, swirling her wine. "Both fighting to be the best in fields where everyone watches your every move."
"Maybe that's why we get along," Siddanth toasted. "High performance individuals."
They left the restaurant around 11:00 PM. The cool night air was refreshing after the heavy meal and wine.
"So," Isabella said, standing on the cobblestone street. "My apartment is... that way."
"I know," Siddanth smiled.
"Do you remember the way?"
"I have an excellent memory."
They walked back to her place, arm in arm. The urgency of the previous night was replaced by a simmering anticipation. They stopped to kiss on a street corner, ignoring the passersby.
When they reached her building, the familiar rattle of the elevator felt like a welcome home.
Inside the apartment, Isabella didn't turn on the lights. The city glow was enough.
She dropped her purse. She kicked off her heels.
She turned to him.
"So," she whispered, walking her fingers up his chest. "Lesson number two?"
Siddanth caught her hand and kissed her palm.
"Lesson number two," he murmured, pulling her close. "This one covers endurance."
He picked her up again—because why break a winning tradition?—and carried her towards the bedroom. The door closed, shutting out the world, leaving only the two of them to make the most of the time they had left.