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Sweeter Than Jalebi, Bebi! - Pt.2 - Hurricane Rocky

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Pairing: Rocky Randhawa x Reader (Shy & Plus Size)

NOTE: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! This content is intended for audiences 18+ only since later chapters contain smut!

Warnings: shy, unconfident reader, lots of humour, respectful but very direct , intense flirting, Rocky Randhawa being flashy and flirty as always, very bad english in his dialouges.

Part 2 of ..?

Morning arrived with the kind of thick, humid stillness that usually promised a blinding Delhi afternoon. In the quiet sanctuary of your bedroom, you woke up later than usual, your limbs heavy and soft beneath the familiar weight of your quilted duvet. For the first time in an entire week, your heart didn't immediately launch into a frantic, nervous rhythm the moment your eyes fluttered open.

You sat up, stretching your arms above your head, a soft, long sigh escaping your lips. You looked toward the cream-colored curtains, watching the dull, gray morning light filter through the gaps. It was quiet. Amazingly, beautifully quiet.

After your abrupt, panicked departure from the grocery store yesterday—after you had explicitly told him that his intense, flamboyant pursuit felt like a cruel joke—Rocky Randhawa had finally backed off. He was a rich, ridiculously attractive, flashy guy; he probably had a dozen high-society models waiting for his attention. He had likely laughed off the rejection, hopped back into his Car with Vicky, and forgotten all about the shy, plus-size girl in the oversized kurta.

You spent the next hour preparing for the day, determined to be productive. As the maid of honor and the favorite cousin, you had a mountain of responsibilities to organize for Pooja’s wedding over the next four months. There were catering menus to finalize, guest seating charts to coordinate, floral templates to review, and an endless list of traditional favors to source.

You let out another breath, this one lighter, though a tiny, microscopic part of your chest felt strangely hollowed out by the thought. You shook it off instantly, annoyed at your own ridiculousness. This is what you wanted you reminded yourself firmly as you stepped out of bed. Peace. Normalcy. Invisibility.

Your destination was a small, upscale coffee shop tucked away in a quiet, affluent corner of the neighborhood. It was a place designed for introverts. The walls were lined with dark, exposed brick, the lighting was low and amber, and a gentle, ambient jazz playlist hummed softly from hidden speakers, completely drowning out the roar of Delhi traffic outside. The air smelled rich and comforting—a mixture of freshly ground espresso beans, roasted hazelnuts, and warm cinnamon pastries.

To steel yourself for the task, you dressed in your ultimate comfort armor: a massively oversized, ink-black cotton kurta that fell completely to your calves, entirely obscuring the contours of your hundred-plus-kilogram frame, paired with wide, loose matching trousers. You pulled your thick, dark hair into a tight, neat braid, ensuring not a single unruly wave could frame your face, and slipped on a pair of simple, flat leather sandals. Armed with your heavy bag, your laptop, and a thick leather-bound notebook crammed with wedding notes, you decided to escape the mounting chaos of your own house.

You needed a neutral, quiet workspace.

You walked in, instantly feeling the cool, crisp embrace of the central air conditioning. The café was blissfully sparse at 10:30 AM, occupied only by a few quiet corporate professionals tapping away at their MacBooks and a lone couple whispering in a far corner. You navigated the space like a shadow, slipping toward the very back of the café. You chose a secluded, deep-set wooden booth nestled in a dimly lit corner, partially hidden behind a massive, leafy fiddle-leaf fig plant. It was the perfect spot. From here, you could see the entire café, but nobody would easily notice you. You were perfectly, beautifully hidden.

You laid your bag on the bench next to you, pulled out your laptop, and opened your thick notebook. The barista, a polite young man who recognized your quiet demeanor, brought over your usual order without you even having to ask: a large, comforting mug of hot vanilla latte with a double shot of espresso and a warm, flaky almond croissant.

"Thank you.." you whispered, offering him a small, polite smile before instantly looking down at your screen, wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic mug.

For the next two hours, you lost yourself completely in the world of Pooja’s wedding planning. The rhythmic, soft clicking of your keyboard became a soothing anchor. Your thick notebook quickly filled up with neat, meticulously organized lists written in your precise handwriting.

1. Mehndi Favor Boxes: Source 150 handmade tiffin boxes (pastel shades only)

2. Sangeet Playlist: Finalize entry track for Pooja & Rahul (remix of old Bollywood, ask Pooja for final approval)

3. Bridesmaid Fitting: Confirm Neha and Riya’s appointment at Mehraas for next Saturday.

When your eyes hit the word Mehraas, your fingers froze over the keyboard. A sudden, vivid memory of the soft, icy baby blue silk and tulle flashed behind your eyelids. You remembered the way the fabric had cinched your waist, the way your pale skin had looked luminous against the pastel color, and the way your thick, dark hair had tumbled over your shoulders. For a fleeting second, you remembered the sheer, breathless look of worship in Rocky's eyes when he had stood frozen at the dressing room door.

......

You forced yourself to take a deep sip of the sweet, vanilla-scented latte, letting the warmth settle into your stomach, and buried your focus back into the spreadsheets. You spent the next hour meticulously organizing the seating arrangements for the grand reception. It was a diplomatic nightmare—deciding which extended aunties couldn't be seated next to each other, ensuring the groom's side had the premium tables near the stage, and trying to calculate exactly how much space the massive buffet counters would require.

Your chest tightened with a strange, confusing warmth. You looked down at your oversized black sleeve, your fingers subconsciously tightening around your coffee mug. Stop it, you scolded yourself, your cheeks warming slightly. He’s gone. It’s over. Focus on the seating chart.

By 1:00 PM, your eyes were growing blurry from staring at the bright spreadsheet grids. The almond croissant sat half-eaten on its ceramic plate, a trail of golden, flaky crumbs scattered across the dark wood table. The jazz music overhead shifted into a slower, deeper saxophone melody, and the café had grown even quieter as the morning crowd cleared out, leaving the space beautifully empty.

You leaned your head back against the plush leather cushion of the booth, closing your eyes for a brief moment to rest them. You let out a long, peaceful sigh, stretching your legs out beneath the wide table. For the first time all week, you felt completely in control of your own narrative. There were no surprises, no sudden bursts of chaotic energy, no loud declarations of love over the grocery store intercom. You were just a regular girl, doing a regular task, completely enveloped in a beautiful, predictable quiet.

You opened your eyes, staring out through the large, glass storefront windows of the café. Outside, the Delhi sun was beating down brutally onto the pavement, the heat waves shimmering off the asphalt like a mirage. The trees along the pavement stood completely still, their leaves dusty and heavy in the stagnant air. It was a lazy, unbothered Saturday afternoon.

You smiled softly to yourself, reaching out to pack your thick leather notebook into your bag. You felt a profound sense of accomplishment. You had organized three major events of the bridal itinerary, sorted out the favor logistics, and most importantly, you had survived the lingering anxiety of the past week. You felt steady. Secure. Invisible once more.

You slid your laptop into its protective sleeve, your movements slow and relaxed. You took one final sip of your lukewarm latte, letting the sweet vanilla flavor linger on your tongue. You were completely at peace, entirely convinced that the bizarre, neon-injected chapter of your life had officially closed its doors, leaving you safely tucked away in your quiet corner.

You reached for your bag, preparing to slide out of the wooden booth and head back home. You had absolutely no idea that outside, the heavy, unmistakable purr of a high-octane luxury engine had just come to a smooth halt right in front of the café entrance—

You slung the heavy bag over your shoulder, the comforting weight of your laptop and completely updated wedding notebook settling against your hip. For the first time in days, your steps felt light. As you pushed open the heavy glass door of the Coffee Shop, the crisp, cool sanctuary of the air-conditioned café vanished, replaced instantly by the thick, golden blanket of the afternoon Delhi heat..

You adjusted the strap of your bag, a soft, completely unbothered smile still playing on your lips as you stepped onto the dusty pavement. You were free. The wedding lists were done, your mind was clear, and the world was beautifully, predictably normal.

Then, you looked up.

Your feet instantly froze flat against the concrete. The breath in your lungs completely hitched, and the peaceful smile on your face vanished into a expression of utter, catastrophic disbelief.

Parked directly across the street, straddling the curb like it owned the entire municipality of New Delhi, was that violently bright, Red Ferrari.. But it wasn't just the car.

Standing right in front of the hood, completely blocking the pavement, was Rocky Randhawa.

If you thought his grocery store outfit was a crime against fashion, today he had escalated to a full-scale declaration of war. He was wearing an incredibly flashy, oversized silk shirt in a blinding neon-turquoise color, completely covered in massive, glittering golden paisley patterns. The shirt was, of course, unbuttoned entirely too low, exposing his smooth chest and an entirely new, even heavier set of gold chains that practically blinded you under the direct sunlight. He wore matching turquoise shorts, pristine white designer sneakers, and a pair of massive, square-framed gold sunglasses perched on his nose.

The moment his eyes locked onto you stepping out of the café, his entire face lit up with the power of a thousand stadium lights. He didn't just walk toward you—he launched into a full, theatrical Bollywood stride, cutting straight through the lazy afternoon traffic without looking left or right.

And in his arms, he was struggling to carry a bouquet of red roses so comically massive it looked like a literal bush. It was so large it was actively hitting him in the face as he walked.

"Oye hoye! Meri jalebi! Meri parii!" Rocky’s voice boomed across the quiet, affluent street, completely shattering the weekend peace. A stray dog sleeping under a tree startled awake and began to bark frantically. Rocky completely ignored it, throwing his arms wide open—endangering the massive bouquet—and shouting at the top of his lungs. "Mata Rani ki kasam, I knew it! My dil told me, 'Rocky, go to coffee shop, your queen is waiting!' Aur dekho! Asli jannat bahar aa gayi!"

"Oh my god.." you whispered, your face instantly catching fire. A furious, deep crimson blush crawled from your neck all the way to your hairline. You instinctively clutched your bag against your chest like a shield, looking around frantically. Two elderly aunties out for a afternoon walk had stopped dead in their tracks, staring at the neon-turquoise giant with wide, judging eyes.

"You... what are you doing here?!" you hissed in a frantic, desperate whisper as Rocky finally reached your side of the pavement, bringing with him a massive cloud of expensive sandalwood perfume and the overwhelming scent of fresh roses.

"What am I doing? Arey, I am doing poetry, baby!" Rocky declared proudly, entirely unbothered by your panic. He dramatically dropped to one knee right there on the dusty concrete, the massive bouquet of roses completely swallowing his torso as he looked up at you with wide, puppy-dog eyes full of unadulterated adoration.

He cleared his throat, raised one gold-ringed hand to the sky, and began to recite with immense, theatrical passion:

"Zameen se aasmaan tak, sirf tumhara charcha hai...Tumhe dekh kar lagta hai, khuda ka bohot bada kharcha hai! Jaan! Your face is like white rose, and your body... ekdum luxury, ekdum royal! Please, meri jaan, ab toh sharmna chhoro aur mujhe haan bolo!"

Behind him, across the street, Vicky was leaning against the car, holding a large umbrella to shield himself from the sun. He looked upward, silently praying to the heavens for a sudden thunderstorm to wash them all away.

You stood there, completely trapped between a wall of bricks and a neon-turquoise poet. Your brain was entirely short-circuiting. His poetry was absolutely atrocious, it didn't even rhyme properly, his English was completely broken, and he was making an absolute, undeniable idiot of himself in the middle of South Delhi.

"Rocky, please, get up! People are staring!" you pleaded, your voice shaking as you tried to step around him.

"Let them stare, baby! Pyaar kiya toh darna kya~" Rocky countered, stubbornly refusing to move his knee from the floor. He lifted the massive bush of roses higher, his face peeking through the red petals with a look of comically intense sincerity. "Suno ji, I am standing... sorry, knee-ding here since one hour! Say yes Jaan, i will die of starve! Sachi bol raha hoon, subah se maine ek bhi gulab jamun nahi khaya!"

"You... you fasted from gulab jamuns for one morning?" you asked, a sudden, treacherous tremor of amusement hitting your chest.

"Yes! Totally sacrifice, baby! Pure romantic tragedy!" Rocky nodded vigorously, his styled hair bouncing. He stood up smoothly, adjusting his heavy gold chains with a cocky, playful smirk. He took off his sunglasses, leaning in just a fraction closer, his warm brown eyes locking onto yours with a look of such unfiltered, genuine warmth that your heart did a violent dhik-chik flip. "Because I know you think i prank. But look at my eyes yaara!- i mean- jaanu! Main bohot serious hoon. Tum itni pyaari ho, itni sexy ho... ki mera dimaag chal gaya hai..!Just one date. I will treat you like a total diamond!"

You looked at him—this beautiful, flashy, utterly ridiculous giant of a man who was looking at your shy self as if you were a rare, priceless masterpiece. He didn't see a girl who took up too much space. He didn't see a girl who hid in baggy black clothes. He just saw his Jalebi.

The cold, defensive walls around your heart didn't break, but they cracked significantly. The sheer, unadulterated comedy of his presence was completely infectious.

"No, Rocky.." you said softly, trying your absolute best to keep your voice firm, though your lower lip was trembling. You took a step backward, tightly clutching your bag. "I’m going home. And please, stop buying a whole flower market every time you see me.."

"Oye, no? listen to the playback music of your heart, baby! It is saying haan!" Rocky shouted after you as you finally managed to break past him, your sandals clicking rapidly against the pavement as you walked away.

"No!" you called back over your shoulder, not stopping.

"Okay, today is no! But tomorrow! Main phir aayega! Phir poochega!" Rocky’s loud, booming voice followed you down the street, entirely undeterred. "Bol haan ya naa, jalebi baby! Main haar nahi manega!"

You kept marching down the tree-lined lane, your head down, your heart hammering a wild, chaotic rhythm. But as the distance between you and the car grew, the paralyzing anxiety of being perceived completely melted away.

Slowly, helplessly, a massive, brilliant smile broke across your face. A quiet, bubbling laugh escaped your lips, and you had to press your hand against your mouth to stifle the sound. He was completely out of his mind...!

The next three days in Delhi were not measured by the rising and setting of the sun, but by the escalating, neon-colored romantic warfare waged by Rocky Randhawa. It became a relentless, spectacular chaos that turned your quiet, predictable life into a live-action Bollywood musical, and no matter how hard you tried to retreat into your baggy clothes and safe corners, Rocky was always there, ready to shatter the silence with 200% pure passion.

It began on Sunday afternoon. You had ventured out of your house just to clear your head, walking down the quiet, tree-lined lane of your residential colony. The street was peaceful, the afternoon heat keeping most neighbors indoors. You were dressed in a massive, oversized charcoal-gray kurta and loose linen pants, your head down, enjoying the stillness.

Suddenly, a thick, artificial mist began to roll down the pavement.

You froze. From behind a massive banyan tree, a portable smoke machine was chugging away, filling the residential street with dramatic, cinematic fog. Before you could even process the absurdity, the iconic, swelling melody of the movie Silsila began to blast from a high-end bluetooth speaker hidden in the hedges..

Out stepped Rocky.

He had completely abandoned his shorts for a tight, sleeveless white ribbed undershirt that showed off his muscular, gold-chain-adorned frame, with a pristine, bright yellow silk dupatta dramatically draped over one shoulder. He was walking in slow motion, his eyes locked onto yours with a look of such intense, soulful agony that it was borderline theatrical.

"Dekha ek khwab toh yeh silsile hue...!" Rocky sang, completely out of tune but with maximum, hand-on-heart emotion. He gracefully spun, letting the yellow dupatta fly in the artificial wind of a battery-operated fan Vicky was frantically holding from behind a bush

"Rocky! You brought a smoke machine to my colony?!" you hissed, a breathless, helpless laugh bubbling in your throat. You looked around frantically as an elderly uncle peered out of his first-floor balcony in utter bewilderment.

"Arey that was your clue! You missed Rekha's part..Anyway! Everything is fair in premium luxury love, baby!" Rocky grinned, popping his collar and doing a playful shoulder shake. "Bol haan ya naa? Ek dinner, just ek!"

You stepped around his large, yellow-silk-draped frame, your heart hammering against your chest You looked back at him over your shoulder, a teasing, bright smile breaking through your defensive exterior. "No, Rocky! Definitely no!"

"Oye! Smile toh 'haan' bol rahi hai, baby! Main kal phir aayega!" he shouted after you, completely undeterred.

Monday morning brought no relief. You worked part time in a small Office. It was a highly professional, quiet environment where people sipped green tea and tapped quietly on their laptops.

At 11:30 AM, the glass double doors of the office didn't just open; they were practically inaugurated.

Two delivery men in crisp white uniforms marched in, carrying a structural masterpiece. It was a multi-tiered, custom-made tower consisting entirely of imported premium Belgian chocolates, artisanal truffles, and gold-leafed barfis from Dhanlakshmi Sweets. The structure was so massive it required its own zip-code.

Behind them walked Rocky, wearing a blinding neon-orange blazer over a black V-neck shirt, his gold sunglasses perched perfectly in his gelled hair. The entire co-working space went dead silent. Twenty-five sophisticated Delhi corporate professionals stopped typing, their jaws dropping.

"Excuse! hello! Suno ji!" Rocky announced to the room, his voice booming off the glass walls. "Where is the the most beautiful, most royal, most drop-kick-gorgeous girl in this office?"

You wanted the earth to split open and swallow you whole. You slid down in your ergonomic office chair, your oversized navy-blue cardigan pulled over your face, your cheeks burning white-hot. But it was too late. Rocky’s diamond-detector eyes locked onto your hidden corner.

He strode over, his heavy leather boots squeaking on the polished floor, and gently tapped on your desk. When you slowly lowered your cardigan, revealing your wide, crimson-faced expression, Rocky gasped dramatically, clutching his heart.

"Oho! Look at you in this office look! Ekdum intelligent princess!" he whispered loudly, leaning over your desk, bringing the scent of roasted hazelnuts and expensive cologne into your cubicle. "Baby, I sent these chocolates because your boss looks very strict, and I thought, if you eat sweet, your heart will soften for Rocky. Poora block chocolate ka bhej diya hai, bilkul tumhare jaisa soft aur sweet! Ab toh office chhoro, aur mere saath chalti ho toh bolo?"

Your coworkers were already pulling out their phones, snapping photos of the neon-orange confectionery prince hovering over the shy, plus-size designer. The sheer absurdity of it was so overwhelming that you couldn't help but let out a loud, delighted giggle. You leaned back in your chair, looking up at his ridiculously handsome, completely unbothered face with a playful glint in your eyes.

"Rocky, you cannot deliver a mountain of chocolate to a quiet office-" you whispered, leaning in slightly, a teasing smile playing on your lips. "And my answer is still no."

Rocky didn't look defeated; he looked like he had just been handed a trophy. He leaned closer, a dazzling, confident smirk settling on his lips. "No mein bhi 'know' chhupa hai, pyaari. I know you are liking the chocolate, and I know you are liking the Rocky. Kal milte hain!" He blew you a dramatic kiss, snapped his fingers at his delivery team, and strutted out like he had just won a corporate merger.

Dear god- he was insane..all your co workers- the ones you thought were so much prettier than yourself, envied you. Scolding you playfully for turning down such a sweet, handsome boy.

Little did they know your heart was already softening up like the chocolate factory he just bought you...

This continued- for days he showed up with chocolates, songs and flowers, and each time your "na" became softer, your smile brighter.

The night that changed it all, you were already in bed, thinking of him- how he hadn't shown up today..

The bedside clock glowed a soft, amber 10:14 PM, casting a quiet light across the sage-green walls of your bedroom. Outside, the usual nocturnal symphony of Delhi was in full swing—the distant, rhythmic bark of street dogs, the faint, metallic hum of a neighbor’s desert cooler, and the occasional, lonely rumble of a truck passing on the main road.

But inside your room, the atmosphere was entirely different. It didn't feel like the quiet, sterile fortress you had spent years building to hide yourself from the world. Tonight, the air was heavy, thick, and utterly saturated with the intoxicating, sweet fragrance of dozens of fresh roses.. his gifts.

Tonight, your eyes wouldn't settle on the familiar, safe corners of your room. They kept drifting.

Every available flat surface in your bedroom had been completely overtaken by Rocky’s relentless, colorful warfare. On your study desk, resting right beside your laptop and neat wedding planners, sat the massive, comically oversized bush of red roses from Saturday, their petals still deep and velvety. On your chest of drawers, the single red rose he had abandoned on the supermarket fridge sat elegantly in a tall glass of water. And right on your nightstand, taking pride of place, was the grand bouquet of long-stemmed pink roses from this afternoon’s Greater Kailash market spectacle.

You walked over to the nightstand, your bare feet sinking softly into the cream-colored rug. You reached out, your fingers slowly tracing the soft, cool edge of a pink petal. A faint, involuntary smile tugged at the corners of your lips, blooming completely before you could even think to suppress it.

"He is completely, utterly insane..mental case.." you whispered into the quiet room, your voice a soft, breathless sound.

You shook your head, a helpless laugh bubbling in your throat as the memories of the last days came rushing back in vivid, high-definition color. You thought of him standing in the middle of your residential lane, engulfed in a cloud of artificial smoke from a portable machine, dramatically draped in a bright yellow silk dupatta while screeching old Bollywood songs completely out of tune. You thought of him strutting into your professional, quiet co-working space in a blinding neon-orange blazer, delivering a literal structural monument of premium Belgian chocolates while twenty-five corporate professionals stared in absolute shock. Every little gift, every try of him to get closer to you, was perfectly planned and carefully executed..! a weird word to use for him..careful-..but it was true. The nice you thought about it, the bigger your smile grew.

Any other person would have been mortified. Any other person would have called the police, or at the very least, hid under a table. And God knew, your initial instinct had been exactly that—to shrink, to run, to vanish into the background like you always did.

But as you sat down on the edge of your mattress, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them, you had to admit the terrifying, exhilarating truth to yourself: you hadn't hated it. Not even a little bit.

In fact, over the last days the crushing, paralyzing anxiety that usually accompanied the thought of people looking at you had completely fractured. Because when Rocky Randhawa made a scene in public, he wasn't inviting people to mock you. He wasn't highlighting your flaws or making a joke at your expense. He was standing there, a magnificent, roaring, neon-colored shield, absorbing every single ounce of attention in the room and then directing all of it toward you as if you were the only thing that mattered in the entire universe.

You leaned your chin against your knees, staring at the pink roses. He is sweet.. you thought, the realization settling into your chest like a warm, glowing coal.

Again, it was a strange word to use for someone as loud and flamboyant as Rocky, but it was the absolute truth. Beneath the heavy gold chains, the unbuttoned silk shirts, the terrible English, and the complete lack of volume control, Rocky possessed a heart that was completely, beautifully devoid of malice. He was entirely transparent. In a city like Delhi, where people wore masks of sophistication, status, and judgment, Rocky was just... Rocky. He didn't know how to play mind games. He didn't know how to be cynical. When he liked something, he shouted it from the rooftops. And he liked you.

Your mind drifted back to the way he had looked at you this afternoon when he dropped to his knee on the cafe floor. You had lowered your hands from your face, breaking past your own defenses to look at him, and for a fleeting second, the entire crowded market had faded into white noise.

You remembered his eyes. Behind those ridiculous, square-framed gold sunglasses he loved so much, Rocky had the most incredibly expressive, warm brown eyes you had ever seen. When he looked at you, they didn't just see a plus-size girl in a loose tunic. They didn't calculate your weight, or look at your baggy clothes with the polite pity of the boutique salesclerks. His eyes shone with a look of pure, unadulterated reverence. It was a gaze that made you feel beautiful. Not "pretty for your size" not "having a nice face" but genuinely, deeply, breathtakingly beautiful.

And, you admitted to yourself with a sudden, violent skip of your heart, he was undeniably handsome.

You felt a deep, fiery blush creep up your neck, warming your cheeks in the dim room. It was true. You couldn't deny it anymore. He was built like a classic Punjabi hero—broad shoulders, a strong, muscular frame that made him look completely commanding, a sharp jawline, and thick, dark hair that always looked perfectly styled no matter how much he bounced around. The image of him in that tight, sleeveless white undershirt from Sunday, with his silver chains catching the sunlight and his muscular arms exposed, flashed behind your eyelids, sending a sudden, powerful shiver straight down your spine.

You buried your face in your knees for a moment, letting out a soft, groaning laugh. "What is wrong with you?" you scolded yourself silently. "You are actually falling for the neon jungle."

You sat back up, running your fingers through your long, dark hair, letting it tumble over your shoulders in loose, wild waves. You turned your head to look at the small, dark-wood mirror on the wall. Slowing rising from the bed, you walked over to it, stepping into the amber glow of the lamp.

You looked at your reflection. For years, this mirror had been a source of quiet anxiety, a place where you cataloged all the parts of yourself that didn't fit into society's neat little boxes. But tonight, as you looked at your soft curves beneath the gray t-shirt, you didn't feel the urge to pull the fabric wider or look away.

Over the last three days, your "no" had shifted. It was no longer a defensive wall built out of fear and the absolute certainty that he was playing a prank on you. It had turned into something else—something playful, something light. You had found yourself teasing him, leaning into the ridiculous rhythm of his pursuit, watching his eyes light up with manic joy every time you smiled before delivering your playful rejection. You had been testing him, waiting for the spoiled rich boy to lose patience and walk away.

But he hadn't. Every single rejection just made him show up the next day with more energy, bigger flowers, and a wider, more determined grin. He was willing to be an absolute idiot for you, completely unbothered by what the world thought, just to hear you laugh.

You leaned your hands against the wooden frame of the mirror, staring deeply into your own eyes. A quiet, profound realization washed over you, settling the last of your doubts. You were done running. You were done hiding in the corners of coffee shops and pretending that you didn't want to be noticed. You wanted to be noticed. You wanted to be chased. You wanted to be loved with the absolute, roaring, uninhibited loudness that only Rocky Randhawa could provide.

Maybe... you thought, your heart launching into a fast, thumping dhik-chik, dhik-chik rhythm against your ribs. Maybe tomorrow... I should finally say yes...

The quiet warmth of your room shattered instantly.

Before the thought of maybe could even fully settle in your chest, a low, rhythmic vibration rattled the glass panes of your balcony door. A second later, the dark, sage-green walls of your bedroom were violently illuminated by a pair of blinding, high-intensity xenon beams. They sliced through the gaps in your cream-colored curtains, painting your ceiling in a harsh, sweeping white glare.

Then came the bass. It didn’t just play; it thudded straight through the floorboards, vibrating right up into the soles of your bare feet. It was a heavy, intoxicating, unmistakable beat, followed instantly by a booming, high-energy voice blasting through top-tier surround-sound speakers:

“Aaja meri gaadi mein baith jaa… aaja meri gaadi mein baith jaa!”

Your jaw dropped. The absolute, undeniable madness of it hit you all at once. "No," you whispered, your hands flying to your mouth as your heart leaped directly into your throat. "He didn’t. It is ten-thirty at night!"

You scrambled off the bed, your flat leather sandals completely forgotten as you dashed to the balcony door. You pulled the curtain back just an inch, peering down into the narrow, quiet residential lane below.

Your neighborhood was a sensible, upper-middle-class Delhi colony where uncles went for brisk morning walks and aunties discussed house-help over afternoon tea. It was currently supposed to be asleep. Instead, the entire street was lit up like a Diwali festival.

Parked diagonally across your front gate, completely blocking the lane, was his Car.. The engine didn't purr—it growled, a deep, mechanical beast that shook the neighboring hedges.

And there he was. Rocky Randhawa was sitting comfortably on the edge of the driver’s seat with the butterfly door swung wide open to the night air. He was wearing a shiny, silk red-and-gold vintage track jacket, a brand-new set of thick silver chains that caught the neon dashboard lights, and his signature gold-rimmed sunglasses—completely ignoring the fact that it was pitch black outside. He had one hand casually resting on the steering wheel, his fingers tapping to the beat of Aaja meri gaadi while his other hand was holding a wireless microphone connected directly to the car's sound system.

He looked up at your dark house, cleared his throat, and amplified his voice right over the booming chorus:

"Oye! meri jaan, meri zindagi, suno ji! The night is young, the car is red, and Rocky is waiting! Ab toh nacheez ko darshan de do, meri jaan!"

"Oh my god, oh my god!-" you panicked, your cheeks burning with a heat that could have fried an egg. You could already see the lights in the first-floor bedroom of the Sharma family next door flicking on. Your own mother was a notoriously light sleeper. If she woke up and saw a neon-clad confectionery billionaire serenading her daughter with a sports car at 10:30 PM, you would be grounded until Pooja’s wedding in four months.

Driven by pure, unadulterated panic, you didn't even think. You turned on your heel, threw open your bedroom door, and sprinted down the dark wooden stairs in your bare feet. Your oversized t-shirt billowed out behind you like a cape as you flew across the living room, unlocked the heavy front door, and rushed out into the warm, humid night air of the front courtyard.

You yanked open the small iron wicket gate and burst onto the pavement, practically skidding to a halt right beside the roaring red Ferrari.

"Rocky! Shut it off! Shut it off right now!" you gasped, your voice a frantic, breathless screech as you gestured wildly at the dashboard. "Are you completely insane?! My family is going to wake up! The whole colony is going to wake up!"

The moment your bare feet hit the gravel beside his car, Rocky’s eyes lit up behind his dark lenses. He didn't look a single bit apologetic. In fact, he looked like a king who had successfully summoned his queen. He reached over, casually hitting a button on the steering wheel. The deafening music instantly cut out, leaving only the deep, low, rumbling growl of the idling Italian engine.

"Oye hoye... meri jalebi.." Rocky breathed out, his voice dropping from the microphone boom into a smooth, completely dazed purr. He slowly slid his gold sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, his large, warm brown eyes locking onto you. He looked you up and down—taking in your wild, unbraided dark hair tumbling over your shoulders, your bare feet, and the massive, baggy charcoal t-shirt that completely hid your body.

To anyone else, you looked like you had just rolled out of bed in a panic. To Rocky, you looked like an absolute goddess.

"Look at you!~" he murmured, a soft, completely mesmerized smile spreading across his lips as he leaned his elbow on the leather door frame, tilting his head up to look at you. "Kudrat ka karishma ho tum, so cute!"

"Rocky, stop it!" you hissed, your hands flying to your burning cheeks, trying desperately to maintain your angry, authoritative stance despite the fact that your heart was currently doing a triple-flip inside your ribs. "Look around you! Mr. Sharma’s lights are on! You can't just park a... a spaceship in the middle of a residential lane and blast music at midnight!"

"Midnight? Arey, abhi toh party shuru hui hai, baby!" Rocky laughed, a rich, booming, completely joyful sound that made the silver chains jingle against his chest. He stood up from the low driver's seat, his massive, imposing frame instantly towering over you in the dim streetlamp light. He didn't step back; he stood right in your personal space, bringing with him that familiar, intoxicating cloud of sandalwood and luxury leather scent.

He popped the collar of his red track jacket, flashing you a devastatingly cocky, playful wink. "And this is not spaceship, okay? This is a Ferrari, limited edition, imported direct from Italy. Pure horse-power!"

A sudden, sharp bubble of laughter caught in your throat. You tried to bite the inside of your cheek, tried to force your features into a stern, unforgiving glare, but it was absolutely useless.

You covered your face with both hands, your shoulders shaking violently as a genuine, loud laugh escaped your lips. It was a bright, beautiful sound that echoed softly in the quiet lane.

"You are a total idiot," you laughed, peeking at him through your fingers, your dark eyes sparkling with genuine, helpless amusement. "A total, complete idiot. Do you have absolutely no filter?"

Rocky’s arrogant, playful posture instantly softened. He lowered his sunglasses completely, letting them hang from his collar as he stared down at you. The cocky smile on his lips melted into something incredibly warm, his eyes wide and completely full of a quiet, breathless adoration as he watched you laugh. He didn't care that you called him an idiot. He didn't care about the neighbors. He just reached out, his large, warm hand stopping just an inch short of your arm, as if he wanted to touch you but was desperately trying to respect your space.

"Filter? Filter toh Instagram mein hota hai, baby." Rocky whispered softly, his voice thick with a sudden, intense sincerity that made your breath catch. "Rocky ka pyaar ekdum organic hai. 100% pure. You laugh like this, no... toh sachi bol raha hoon, mera poora jivan safal ho jata hai. I am an idiot ...if it makes you smile."

He stepped just a fraction closer, his large frame completely shielding you from the view of the neighboring houses. He tilted his head, his eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, fierce, but incredibly gentle energy.

"See? You ran downstairs for me..!" Rocky said, a small, triumphant smirk returning to his lips, though his eyes remained deeply soft. "Iska matlab, humare beech mein thoda-thoda aatishbaazi chal raha hai. You are thinking about me, I am thinking about you..! So now... sharmna chhoro."

You stood there, the warm night breeze rustling the edges of your oversized gray t-shirt, looking up at him. Your heart was pounding a wild, frantic rhythm—no longer out of panic, but out of a sudden, thrilling sense of affection. He was ridiculous. He was a walking storm of chaos. But as you looked into his earnest, beautiful eyes, you knew that your "no" was officially running out of time.. oh how could you say no to this any longer?

Rocky didn't just stay standing; the moment he saw the hesitation in your eyes, he dropped straight back down onto his knees right there on the gravel pavement. The low, mechanical growl of the Ferrari’s engine vibrated right through his boots and into the ground, but he didn't care. He looked up at you, his large hands brought together in a dramatic, pleading gesture, his thick dark eyebrows furrowing into a look of absolute, cinematic desperation.

"Please, Have some merci, please!" Rocky begged, his voice dropping into a loud, theatrical whisper that still managed to carry down the quiet lane. "Just ek small 'yes'! One choti, beautiful haan from those sweet lips, and Rocky Randhawa will become the happiest man in the entire globally world! Look at me, I am begging on the road! Ab toh reham kardo, baby!"

You stood there, the warm midnight breeze catching the loose strands of your dark hair, blowing them across your face. You looked down at him—this massive, flamboyant whirlwind of a man who was currently kneeling on the dusty concrete in a red-and-gold silk track jacket, completely unbothered by dignity, completely unbothered by the neighbors, completely unbothered by anything except the quiet girl standing before him in a baggy gray t-shirt.

The lingering walls of your lifelong cynicism, the fear of not being enough, the anxiety of being seen—all of it felt so incredibly small in the face of his massive, unfiltered heart. A soft, breathless warmth bloomed deep inside your chest, expanding until it filled your entire being.

You let out a quiet, happy sigh, a brilliant, beautiful smile breaking across your face.

"Haan." you whispered softly.

Rocky, who was right in the middle of preparing his next massive, dramatic monologue, didn't even process the word. His face instantly contorted into a dramatic, exaggerated pout. He slumped his shoulders, his hands dropping to his sides as he let out a loud, defeated sigh.

"See? Still no! Always no! My heart is completely broken into pieces—" He began to complain, pushing himself up from the ground with a grunt, dusting off the knees of his red silk trousers. He turned around, his back to you as he took a step toward the open butterfly door of the Ferrari, looking entirely crestfallen. "Theek hai, ji.. If my destination is to die single hero, then I will accept it. I will go home, I will cry into my pillow, I will delete my—"

He froze.

His entire body went completely rigid right next to the sleek red hood of the car. His brain, which usually operated at the high-speed rhythm of a Punjabi rap track, finally caught up to the audio recording of the last three seconds.

He slowly spun back around on his heel, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open as he stared at you. He pointed a large, gold-ringed finger at your face, his voice trembling with a mixture of shock and sheer, unadulterated hope.

"Wait... kya bola?" Rocky whispered, stepping closer, his heart practically visible thumping against his silk jacket.

You leaned your weight onto one foot, crossing your arms over your oversized charcoal t-shirt, your eyes dancing with absolute, teasing mischief as your smile widened. "I said haan, Rocky. Yes..."

For a fraction of a second, Rocky Randhawa completely forgot how to breathe. And then, the absolute greatest, most explosive wave of pure joy took over his entire body.

"SHE SAID YES! VICKY! OYE! VICKY, SHE SAID HAAN!" Rocky screamed at the top of his lungs into his Phone, completely forgetting his promise to be quiet. He did a literal, ecstatic leap into the air, his pristine white sneakers clearing the pavement as he pumped his fist into the night sky. He did a rapid, joyous shoulder-shake dance right there on the gravel, his heavy silver chains jingling like a celebratory festival.

Before you could even process his reaction, Rocky lunged forward. His large, muscular arms wrapped completely around you, lifting you slightly off your bare feet as he pulled you into a massive, tight, and incredibly warm hug. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his expensive sandalwood and luxury leather scent completely enveloping you.

Your heart skipped a massive, frantic beat. He lifted you? Just like that?!- For a second, you froze, your hands hovering in the air. But as you felt the sheer, trembling purity of his happiness, the absolute warmth of his massive frame shielding you from the entire world, your arms slowly came up, wrapping around his broad shoulders. You pressed yourself into him, your eyes closing as a deep, profound sense of safety washed over you.

He pulled back just an inch, his hands resting on your shoulders, his face completely flushed, his brown eyes sparkling with a manic, beautiful excitement.

"Okay, okay, First date!-" Rocky began to ramble at a hundred miles an hour, his hands gesturing wildly in the air as he paced the small pavement. "Kal raat na, apun poora Imperial Hotel ka rooftop book kar daalega! Total private! Sirf tu, main, aur peeche ek private violinist Dilwale ke gaane baja raha hoga—full-on Bollywood vibes!- Or wait—no, no, no! Yeh toh bohot chhota soch liya maine. We will take private helicopter, direct fly karenge Jaipur ke ek luxury palace mein, straight for dinner! Aur wahan par na, fireworks honge! Jaan, real wale patakhe sky mein, aur tera naam likha hoga ekdum neon pink mein! Switch off, literally! Hadd hai, kal toh Dhanlakshmi Sweets ka aisa grand celebration ho jayega na, ki sab dekhte reh jayenge! Kya bolti hai, soniye?"

You stood by the iron wicket gate, watching him ride the absolute high of his own dramatic imagination. He was pacing, gesturing, his red silk track jacket fluttering, completely losing his mind over planning a first date as if it were a national holiday.

Your gaze softened completely. A deep, tender affection took over your features. You didn't feel the urge to run away from his loudness anymore. It was just so incredibly endearing. You stepped forward, closing the small gap between you, and reached out, gently placing your hand over his arm to stop his frantic pacing.

"Rocky, Rocky, hey.." you interrupted him, your voice dropping into a soft, quiet, and incredibly gentle register.

Rocky stopped mid-sentence, his mouth staying slightly open as he looked down at your hand on his arm, and then up into your eyes. The gentle, sweet melody of your voice acted like an instant mute button on his chaotic energy. He looked at you, completely captivated, his chest heaving slightly as he listened.

"Let’s just have some coffee..! Hmm?" you said softly, your eyes locked onto his, a warm, big smile illuminating your face under the streetlamp. "And maybe go for a walk. Just the two of us. No helicopters. No violinists. Okay?"

Rocky stared down at you, his large brown eyes melting entirely. The manic, flashy billionaire persona completely vanished, leaving behind a boy who looked completely, utterly starstruck. The soft, gentle tone of your voice seemed to echo inside his head, sweeter than any melody he had ever heard.

"Haye..." Rocky breathed out, a soft, dazed, and completely genuine smile settling on his lips. He placed his large hand gently over yours, his thumb lightly brushing the back of your knuckles. "Your voice... sachi bol raha hoon, it is like pure velvet. Ekdum honey jaisi meethi.. Whatever you want, Coffee and a walk. Rocky is 100% ready for a simple luxury walk with you~"

You let out a soft, delighted giggle, slowly pulling your hand back as you glanced toward your front door. The reality of the late hour was starting to catch up. "Okay. It's really late now. I should go back up before my mom actually comes downstairs with a broom.."

"Ahhh..! Yes, yes, go, baby! Sleep well, dream of Rocky!" he grinned, stepping back toward his car.

You smiled, turning around to walk back through the wicket gate. You had taken exactly two steps into your front courtyard when Rocky’s voice sharply cut through the quiet.

"Oye! Oye, look there! Look the sky! UFO! Alien aa gaya!" Rocky shouted suddenly, pointing a dramatic finger up toward the roof of the Sharma family’s house, his face a mask of absolute, shocking surprise.

You stopped instantly, completely startled. Without thinking, you spun around and looked up at the dark, empty night sky above the rooftop, squinting your eyes. "What? I don't see!..."

Before you could finish the sentence, a sudden, warm rush of wind hit you. Rocky had leaped across the small distance between you. In one swift, fluid movement, his large hand gently cupped the side of your jaw, and he leaned down, pressing his soft lips firmly against your flushed cheek.

The kiss was warm, lingering, and completely filled with a sweet tenderness that sent a violent, ecstatic jolt of electricity straight down your spine. Your breath completely hitched in your throat.

Rocky pulled away instantly, a giant, mischievous, boyish grin splitting his face in two. He let out a loud, delighted, bubbling giggle—looking exactly like a schoolboy who had just successfully pulled off the greatest prank in history. He didn't wait for your reaction. He turned on his heel, practically leaping over the side of his red Ferrari, and slid effortlessly into the low driver's seat.

"Goodnight, meri jalebi! 3 baje sharp tayaar rehna, tera bhai gaadi leke pohoch jayega! Check-in done!" he shouted, slamming the butterfly door shut.

The moment the door clicked, he hit the steering wheel button. The powerful xenon headlights flashed once, and the surround-sound speakers instantly exploded back to life at maximum volume, completely shattering the midnight silence of the colony once more:

“Aaja meri gaadi mein baith jaa… aaja meri gaadi mein baith jaa!”

The tires let out a sharp, loud screech against the gravel as Rocky slammed on the gas, the cherry-red Ferrari tearing down the residential lane like a streak of lightning, the loud Punjabi pop music trailing behind him into the Delhi night.

You stood frozen in the dark courtyard, one hand slowly rising to touch the exact spot on your cheek where his lips had just been. It was still burning, tingling with a wild, beautiful warmth. You looked down the empty street where the red taillights were vanishing into the distance, the echo of the music fading away.

A loud, helpless, and completely joyful laugh escaped your lips. You shook your head, your heart beating a magnificent, roaring dhik-chik rhythm as you turned and walked back inside, completely aware that your life would never, ever be quiet again—and you absolutely loved it..!

The glorious, buzzing high of the previous night came to a screeching, grinding halt at exactly 9:00 AM on Sunday morning.

You were sitting at the large, dark-wood dining table, staring blankly into your mug of hot ginger tea. You hadn't slept much. Every time you closed your eyes, you felt the phantom warmth of Rocky’s lips against your cheek, or you heard his ridiculous, beautiful boyish giggle before he sped off into the night. Your heart was still hyperactive..

Clink.

The heavy ceramic sound of a steel ladle hitting a serving bowl snapped you out of your trance. Your mother walked into the dining room, carrying a steaming pyramid of fresh, homemade aloo parathas wrapped in a white muslin cloth. Her face was a picture of absolute, peak Indian motherly suspicion. Her eyes, normally warm and gentle, were narrowed into tight slits as she set the bowl down on the table and wiped her hands on her apron.

"Suno.." your mother started, her voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying register that meant an interrogation was officially underway. "Last night... yeh kya tamasha chal raha tha poori colony mein?"

You choked on your sip of tea, coughing softly as your face instantly flared into a bright, uncontrollable crimson. "M-Maa? What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" your mother echoed, placing her hands on her hips, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. "It was 10:30 at night! I was just falling asleep, and suddenly it felt like a full-blown Punjabi wedding was passing through our drawing room! Itna loud music! Some... song was blasting so loudly that the windows were shaking! And then I saw bright white lights like a stadium outside. Sharma ji ka phone aaya subah-subah, asking if we had guests. What was that noise?"

Your throat completely dried up. You opened your mouth, but absolutely no words came out. Your fingers tightened around your mug, your eyes darting around the room, desperately looking for a trap door to swallow you whole.

Thankfully, the dining room door burst open, and Pooja practically bounced inside, wearing her silk night-suit, her eyes glittering with manic, chaotic cousin energy. She had been waiting for this exact moment all morning.

"Auntyyy~!" Pooja squealed, sliding onto the wooden bench right next to you, nudging your shoulder aggressively with her elbow. "That wasn't some guest, That was a pure luxury, imported cherry-red Ferrari! Pura hurricane aaya tha kal raat ko!"

"Pooja, please, shut up..!" you hissed under your breath, hiding your burning face in your hands. But your blush was completely betraying you, turning your ears a deep, furious pink.

"Ferrari?" your mother blinked, looking completely bewildered, the ladle dangling from her hand. "Humari lane mein Ferrari kyun aayegi?"

"Because of her, Aunty!" Pooja laughed loudly, pointing a dramatic finger at you. "Remember that guy from Mehraas Design Studio? The one in the neon sherwani? Rocky Randhawa! He has completely lost his mind for our girl here. For the last days, he has been staging a full-on Bollywood movie! Sunday ko he brought a smoke machine and a yellow dupatta to our lane. Yesterday he sent a mountain of luxury chocolates to her office. And last night? He literally came to her window in a sports car, screaming into a microphone for her to say yes! And guess what, isne haan bol diya! They are going on a date!"

Your mother stood completely frozen by the table. The information was entirely too large, too chaotic to process. She looked at Pooja, then slowly turned her gaze to you.

You slowly lowered your hands from your face, looking up at your mother with wide, shy, and deeply apologetic eyes. "Maa... it’s not like that. He’s just... he’s very extra. But he’s nice. Sachi...!"

A profound, heavy silence settled over the dining room. Pooja’s giggles slowly died down as she noticed the sudden, serious shift in your mother’s posture. Your mother slowly set the steel ladle down on the table. The suspicion in her eyes faded, replaced by something much heavier—something soft, deeply protective, but tinged with a deep, historical sorrow.

She looked at you. She truly, deeply loved you. She was the one who held you when you cried as a teenager because the school uniforms didn't fit you properly. She was the one who bought you the beautiful, flowing, dark kurtas so you could feel safe and hidden. She knew every single insecurity that lived inside your soul, because she had watched you build those walls stone by stone to protect your frame from the cruel, judging whispers of the world..

Your mother walked over, sliding into the seat opposite you. She reached across the table, her warm, slightly wrinkled hands gently covering your trembling fingers.

"Beta.." your mother started, her voice dropping into a soft, maternal whisper that instantly made your chest tighten with a familiar, anxious ache. "Look at me."

You slowly lifted your gaze, locking your dark eyes with hers.

"Pooja is young *woh toh mazaak mein udha rahi hai sab.." your mother said gently, glancing at Pooja, who now looked down at her lap, her playful energy entirely evaporated. "But I am your mother. I have seen the world, beta. This boy... Rocky Randhawa. I know his family name. Dhanlakshmi Sweets. They are multi-millionaires.."

She squeezed your hand, her eyes swimming with a painful, realistic tenderness as she tried to find the right words for what she was about to say.

"A boy like that... who drives a red Ferrari and wears gold chains... woh- woh seriously nahi soch raha, beta...He probably doesn't mean it. Men from that world, with that much privilege... unhe har cheez ek game lagti hai. He sees a quiet, simple girl like you, and he thinks it’s a fun challenge.. Ya toh kisi ne dare diya hoga, ya phir... he just wants one thing."

The words one thing hung in the quiet morning air, heavy and sharp like a knife.

Your throat tightened, a sudden, familiar coldness rushing down your spine, instantly threatening to extinguish the beautiful, warm glow that had been living in your chest since last night. You tried to pull your hand back, but your mother held on gently.

"Maa, no... he’s not like that.." you whispered, your voice cracking slightly, desperately trying to defend the boy who had giggled so sweetly after kissing your cheek. "He’s goofy, but his heart is very pure. He doesn't have any bad intentions...!"

"Beta, listen to me." your mother interrupted, her eyes softening with a pain that only a mother feeling helpless could possess. "You are my beautiful, golden child. Tumhara dil bohot saaf hai..! But the world out there is very cruel about... about appearance. Tumhe pata hai na log kaise hain? High-society families look for size-zero models, modern girls who fit into their luxury circles..Tumhare jaisi seedhi, simple... aur... aur heavy girl ke ghar, aise ladke shaadi ke liye nahi aate, beta... Men like that don't come to marry girls like you."

The words hit you with the physical force of a shattering blow to the chest.

Men like that don't come to marry girls like you.

It was the echo of every insecurity you had ever carried. It was the voice of the salesclerks at the boutiques, the voice of the whispering aunties at weddings, the voice of your own cruelest late-night thoughts. Your mother wasn't saying it to hurt you—you knew that. She was saying it because she was terrified. She was terrified that you would open your beautiful, fragile heart to this human hurricane, let him inside your walls, and then be left entirely shattered when he inevitably got bored and flew away to a girl who looked like she belonged on a magazine cover.

A heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. You looked down at your tea, the surface of the liquid trembling slightly. The brilliant, radiant smile that had been on your face just ten minutes ago was completely gone, your features locking down into that familiar, defensive, and completely closed expression.

Pooja looked between the two of you, her eyes wide with a mixture of sadness and defensiveness. "Aunty, but you haven't seen him...He really looks at her like—"

"Pooja, stop." you whispered quietly, cutting her off.

You slowly pulled your hands away from your mother’s grasp. You stood up from the dining table, the oversized yellow kurta suddenly feeling suffocatingly heavy against your body. You didn't look at your mother’s sad, pleading face. You couldn't.

"I'm not hungry.." you murmured, your voice small, flat, and entirely devoid of the life it had possessed last night. "I'm going to my room to finish the flower templates for the Sangeet."

You turned on your heel and walked down the hallway, your bare feet making no sound against the polished floorboards. You walked into your bedroom, shutting the heavy wooden door behind you, turning the lock with a quiet, hollow click.

You leaned your back against the door, letting out a long, ragged breath that felt like a sob trapped in your throat. The room was still thick with the beautiful, overwhelming fragrance of the red and pink roses. But as you looked at the bouquets scattered across your desk and nightstand, they no longer looked like symbols of a fairytale. They looked like an illusion. A beautiful, ridiculous dream that you had been foolish enough to believe in for a split second.

You walked over to your bed, collapsing onto the mattress, burying your face deep into your pillow. Your mother’s words echoed on a relentless, agonizing loop inside your head, tearing down every single piece of confidence Rocky had spent the last days building up.

Men like that don't come to marry girls like you...

You closed your eyes, a hot, silent tear finally slipping down your cheek, soaking into the cool fabric of the pillow. The beautiful rhythm in your chest had completely stopped, replaced once more by the heavy, familiar silence of your safe, invisible cage.

The silence of your bedroom was deafening. You lay perfectly still on the bed, staring up at the slowly whirring ceiling fan as it sliced through the warm afternoon air. Your mother’s words hung heavily in the space between the walls, refusing to dissipate even with the sweet, floral scent of Rocky’s roses lingering around you..

Was she right?

The question clawed at your chest, dragging up every buried insecurity you had spent a lifetime accumulating. When Rocky had first burst into your life at Mehraas Design Studio, your immediate, knee-jerk reaction had been absolute certainty that it was a dare. A cruel joke orchestrated by a rich boy who had too much privilege and too much time on his hands. You had spent years accepting the unwritten rules of the world: girls who looked like you—plus-size, quiet, hiding in oversized kurtas—were not the main characters in romantic movies. They were the dependable cousins, the invisible background characters. They didn't get chased down grocery store aisles by men who drove Ferraris...

But then... you remembered his eyes.

You closed your eyes, recalling the moment he had dropped to his knees under the dim streetlamp last night, his red-and-gold silk track jacket glittering in the dark. When he looked at you, there had been no audience to impress. Vicky had recieved a voicemail, tahts all..the neighbors were asleep, and there were no cameras rolling. Yet, his large, deep brown eyes had been completely wide, completely defenseless, and so blindingly pure. There wasn't a single shred of malice or deceit in him. When he looked at you, he didn't look like a predator playing a game; he looked like a boy who had stumbled upon a miracle.

A sudden, fierce spark of defiance flickered to life beneath your anxiety. You sat up on the bed, smoothing down your yellow kurta. You were unsure, yes. Your mind was a chaotic battleground of "what-ifs" and old scars. But it was too late to hide now. You had said yes. You had given your word, and more than that, a quiet, hidden part of your soul desperately wanted to see if the fairytale could be real. You needed to make your own experience. You couldn't let fear dictate the rest of your life, locking you away in an invisible cage forever.

"Today is the date.." you whispered aloud to the empty room, your voice steadying as you made your decision. You were not going to back out. You were going to go.

You stood up, a sudden surge of adrenaline replacing the hollow ache in your stomach. It was time to get ready...!

TO BE CONTINUED..

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