Second call means reality. Unless dreams upgraded recently. I grab it and answer immediately. “Hello?”
A male voice speaks over loud music. “Hi, I am the bartender from Julious Club.”
I sit upright so fast I nearly dislocate something. “The owner of the phone is completely wasted,” he continues, “and this is the last number she dialed. Is it possible—”
“I’m on my way,” I cut in instantly. “Please take care of her.”
I hang up before he can say anything else. Then I stare at the wall.
What the hell is wrong with her?
No, scratch that. What the hell is wrong withmethat my first reaction is panic and not annoyance? I throw the blanket off and get up immediately. I don’t bother changing. I’m in track pants and an old T-shirt, and right now fashion is not on the priority list.
My hair is probably insane. My face definitely looks sleep deprived. Ishika is drunk in a club.
We all have our problems. That's the only reason I give myself as I grab my keys and head out. The drive takes thirty minutes. That’s if you obey laws. I do not. I break enough speed limits to lose my license in spirit if not officially. My fingers drum against the steering wheel while my brain cycles through increasingly ridiculous possibilities.
Why is she there? Who is she with? Is she safe? Why am I this stressed? And most importantly—Why does the idea of some random drunk man near her make me want to commit crimes?
By the time I reach Julious Club, I park badly enough to shame my father who taught me how to drive and stride inside with the kind of focus usually reserved for hostage rescues. The first thing that surprises me is the crowd. It’s…decent. Not the sticky-floor, broken-dignity kind of place I expected. More upscale. Dim lights, expensive interiors, people dancing without looking like they’ve abandoned all values.
That calms me for exactly three seconds. Because then I see her. And I honestly think I hallucinated her. There is no universe where Ishika Vyas is on a dance floor. No universe where she is dancing wildly, hair loose and flying around her shoulders, laughing with her head tipped back, one hand in the air like she personally invented joy.
So yes.
I briefly assume this is sleep paralysis. She’s wearing black heels, fitted jeans, and a top that makes several men in the room too interested for my liking. Her cheeks are flushed, lips parted in laughter, eyes bright and unfocused. She looks beautiful. Not polished beautiful. Not curated beautiful. Dangerously beautiful. Alive beautiful. Messy, reckless, impossible beautiful.
Then her eyes land on me. She squints. I shake my head and start walking toward her. “Aryan!” she exclaims loudly. Then she looks around at the people nearby and announces, “Guys! This is my boss!” No one really cares. Except one man near the back who lets out a cheer. I turn and glare at him. He sits down immediately. Good choice. Ishika crouches suddenly in themiddle of the dance floor like a disgruntled goblin and frowns up at me.
“You are ruining the mood, Golden boy,” she says accusingly. “Come on. Let’s dance.”
“Ishika,” I say as gently as I can. “Let’s go home. It’s late, Sunshine.”
She pouts. “I don’t want to go.” Then she leans forward and wraps both arms around my waist. My heart does something deeply unprofessional. I help her stand, and she immediately stumbles, one heel stabbing directly into my shoe. I nearly yelp.
God damn.
“Come on,” I say more firmly. “We’re going home.” She huffs dramatically.
“You are such a mood killer.” Then she stomps toward the exit like an offended queen. I let her go, grabbing her purse and phone from the table on the way. The bartender gives me a look that saysgood luck. I nod solemnly. He has no idea. The drive back is chaos. Absolute chaos.
Because the moment the car starts moving, she begins screaming songs from theTees Maar Khanalbum with shocking confidence and very little accuracy. I don’t know how this became her drunk soundtrack. But I am learning things tonight.
Initially I’m stressed. Then, somewhere around her aggressively performingSheila Ki Jawaniwhile pointing at passing traffic, I start laughing so hard I have tears in my eyes. This is the funniest thing I have ever experienced. Which is why I decide I am absolutely not dropping her home. God knows what she’ll do alone. So I drive to my place instead. When we reach thepenthouse parking, I don’t turn the car off immediately. Instead, I take out my phone. I place it carefully on the dashboard camera-facing us.
And I record. Because no one would believe this. No one. This is rarer than lightning striking us right now. And I need evidence. Also, I deserve future entertainment. For five full minutes I capture Ishika lecturing me on why music is a human right and why I am “anti-vibe.” Then I finally switch it off and manage to get her out of the car. This involves whining, dramatic betrayal, and at one point her accusing me of emotional manipulation.
We get inside somehow. She immediately starts snooping. Opens a cabinet. Touches a sculpture. Nearly knocks over a vase worth more than my first bike. I move fast and cover her mouth lightly with one hand while steering her toward the guest room.
“If my mother wakes up,” I whisper, “we are dead.” She blinks solemnly. Then nods. I guide her onto the bed. “I’m going to get clothes for you, okay?”
She nods again. “Ishika. Stay here.” Another nod. I don’t believe her for one second. But she looks exhausted now, some of the manic energy fading. So I risk it. I go to my room and grab a sweatshirt and shorts. They’ll drown her, but everything else will be worse.
When I return, she’s sitting exactly where I left her. Hands in lap. Sulking. “I turned the music off,” she says bitterly.
“Yes,” I reply. “Get changed, Sunshine.” She takes the clothes and shuts the door in my face. I wait outside, leaning against the wall. Ten minutes later, the door opens. And I forget language.
She’s wearing my black sweatshirt, sleeves hanging over her hands, hem falling mid-thigh. The shorts are invisible under it. Her hair is messy, makeup smudged, eyes heavy with sleep.
