Jaan, it's 2:30 a.m. - shubman gill
Summary: Shubman wakes up at 2:30 AM to find his wife missing from bed, only to discover her mid-baking chaos, trying to surprise him for his birthday.
warnings: soft domestic fluff, minor panic/anxiety
The room was drenched in inky silence, save for the low hum of the air conditioner. Shubman Gill stirred beneath the plush grey duvet, his arm instinctively reaching out for the warmth that always lay beside him.
Empty. He blinked, groggy and disoriented.
"YN?" he murmured, voice rough from sleep. No answer. The clock on the side table glared red: 2:30 AM.
Frowning, he pushed the blanket off, bare-chested, wearing only a pair of loose black shorts. The chill in the room bit at his skin. He flicked on the bedside lamp, the sudden light stinging his eyes.
"What the fuck… where did she go?" he muttered, running a hand through his messy hair. The curls stuck out in odd directions.
Their bedroom looked untouched. Her phone was still on the nightstand. Her lavender cardigan was by the door.
His heart gave a tiny jolt.
“YN, this isn’t fucking funny!” he shouted, louder this time, the sharp edge of panic beginning to creep in. His voice bounced off the walls.
He padded out of the bedroom, barefoot. The marble floor sent a cold jolt through his soles as he walked past the dark hallway. A faint glow flickered from the kitchen at the end.
He stalked toward it, heart thumping. And there she was.
Bending over the kitchen island in one of his oversized Team India training jerseys that swallowed her petite frame, paired with cotton shorts that barely peeked out. Her hair was up in a messy bun, a few strands falling around her face, cheeks flushed and focused. The scent of cocoa and caramel hung in the air.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he exhaled.
She jumped, whipping around, a dab of frosting on her nose.
“Shit—Shub! You scared me!”
“It’s two-fucking-thirty, jaan,” he growled, half-angry, half-relieved. “I woke up and you weren’t there, I thought—fuck, I don’t know what I thought. Jesus.”
“I was trying to surprise you,” she said softly, wiping her hands on a towel. “It’s your birthday, remember?”
His eyes flicked to the counter—cupcakes half-frosted, a heart-shaped chocolate cake cooling, “HAPPY FUCKING 26TH, GILLU” scrawled in bright icing. Balloons were still half-inflated on the side.
“You left the fucking bed for this?”
She bit her lip. “I wanted to make it special. It's your first birthday as my husband.”
That word hit him hard. Husband. He exhaled slowly, anger dissolving into guilt.
“Fuck, baby… I’m sorry.” He stepped forward, pulling her into a hug, burying his face in her neck. “I just panicked. I thought something happened.”
She melted into him, arms sliding around his waist.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, Gillu,” she whispered. “You looked so cute sleeping, I didn’t wanna wake you.”
He chuckled into her hair. “I’m still mad. You could’ve at least left a note or something.”
“In what world do I stop mid-baking to write a ‘dear husband’ note, huh?”
He leaned back and looked at her—really looked. Batter on her elbow, flour on her cheek, eyes sparkling despite the hour.
“You look like a fucking delicious mess,” he said, grinning.
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said all week,” she teased.
He smirked. “Now I feel bad for being a dick. You did all this for me?”
“Of course I did, asshole,” she said, flicking frosting at his nose. “You’re my pain-in-the-ass husband, and I love you.”
He grabbed her by the waist and lifted her effortlessly onto the counter, her legs curling around him.
“And I fucking love you too, cupcake bandit.”
She giggled, grabbing a spoonful of frosting and feeding it to him.
“Best fucked-up birthday wake-up ever,” he said, licking frosting off her finger.
They kissed, slow and messy, while the cake sat forgotten for a while, just like the hour, and the panic, and the cold sheets of an empty bed.
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