No one expected it.

Not the school teachers who remembered the sweet, obedient boy who always raised his hand before speaking. Not the neighbors who used to call him baba Krishu when he quietly walked his mother to temple. Not even his family, who’d still bring up how he once cried because a pigeon flew too close to his drawing.

But at 29, Krish Tripathi had become everything your parents warned you to stay away from.

Wild. Reckless. The kind of man who kissed with smirks instead of promises. A notorious flirt with a laugh that made hearts melt and a past that made jaws drop. He was the name whispered between girls at parties—“I heard he left her because she said the L-word.” He was a walking red flag wrapped in cologne and charisma. A danger disguised as desire.

But none of them knew the truth.

Krish Tripathi—the party animal, the player, the certified bad decision—had never been in love. Never been in a real relationship. Never even tried.

Because 18 years ago, in the middle of a chaotic, overcooked cousin’s wedding, he met a girl.

You.

You, the girl crying over her smudged mehendi, shoulders shaking in the corner while everyone else danced. You, who didn’t know he was watching as you wiped your eyes with the end of your lehenga. You, who didn’t even realize it was him who sat beside you quietly, handed you tissue, and awkwardly fed you rasgulla because your mehendi-covered hands couldn’t.

He never got your name.

But your eyes? God, your eyes stayed.

Krish wasn’t expecting anything deep that night. It was his best friend’s bachelor party, and he showed up to raise hell. Drink in hand, jacket slung lazily over his shoulder, he'd already dared two people to kiss and one to streak across the lawn.

That’s when he saw you.

You walked in, laughing with your friends, hair curled and falling down your back, dressed in a pastel bodycon that clung to you like a secret.

Krish’s drink paused mid-air.

His heart skipped the same damn beat it had when he was eleven years old and saw you cry in that pink mirror-work frock.

He blinked once. Then twice.

And suddenly, he wasn’t the confident, cocky Krish everyone knew. He was that confused kid again, ears warm, palms sweating, wondering if he should say something.

“What the fuck,” he muttered under his breath, knocking back the rest of his drink. “Is that really her?”

He didn’t know your name. Still didn’t.

But he knew.

It was you.

An hour later, and he was following you around the party like an absolute idiot.

“I’m Krish,” he said, leaning casually against the bar next to you.

You didn’t look up from your drink.

“I was hoping you’d tell me your name.”

You offered a half-smile, polite but clearly uninterested.

By the time the dance floor opened, every one of his friends had found a partner. Laughter, music, and glitter filled the air.

Krish leaned against a pillar, brooding, his jaw tight as he watched another man—some random asshole in a velvet blazer—twirl you on the dance floor. You laughed. He hated it. You touched his shoulder. He glared.

Velvet Blazer must’ve felt it too, because the guy glanced Krish’s way—and froze.

That’s right. Krish didn’t need to say a word. His glare said it all.

Back the fuck off.

As if on cue, your partner twirled you again—and Krish moved. Timing perfect. Precision smooth. You spun right into his arms.

“Hi,” Krish said, smirking down at you, hands catching your waist like they’d done this a hundred times.

You blinked.

“Dance with me,” he interrupted, already swaying with you.