London in December had always been on his list, but this time it wasn’t about sightseeing. After the high of the ICC Champions Trophy, Shubman just needed to breathe. No cameras, no cricket, no pressure—just the cold air, warm lights, and some quiet. The streets were glittering in gold and red, carols playing faintly from cafes, lovers wrapped in each other’s arms, the Thames reflecting the city’s holiday glow. It was beautiful. But strangely… empty.

His phone buzzed. He chuckled as he answered, “Bhai, I swear, if you call me one more time about that catch, I’ll block you.”

He laughed lightly as he walked, barely noticing the woman coming from the other direction until—bam—shoulders brushed hard, and his phone flew out of his hand, crashing onto the sidewalk.

“Shit,” he muttered, stepping forward—only to pause when he saw someone already crouching to pick it up.

You.

His mind went blank.

You straightened slowly, the cracked phone in your hand, looking right at him—your wide eyes locking with his. Everything around him dimmed. The lights, the noise, the winter air—gone. All he could see was you.

Your soft brown hair falling in waves, your delicate features untouched by makeup, the white off-shoulder sweater clinging softly to your frame, the black pleated skirt dancing around your tights. The cold had painted your lips a soft, natural pink, and your breath fogged slightly in the air between you two.

“I—I’m so sorry,” you stammered, extending the phone. “I wasn’t looking. God, I’m really sorry about the screen. I’ll pay for it, I swear—”

Shubman blinked. Was this real?

He reached for the phone but didn’t take it immediately. His fingers brushed yours. His voice, when it came out, was softer than usual. “It’s just a phone,” he said, his lips curling into a small, almost amused smile. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, still flustered. “Yeah. I mean, yes, I’m fine. But your phone’s not.”

He took the phone now, eyes not leaving yours. “Let it go. I’ve got like, three more.” He chuckled lightly. “But I don’t think I’ve ever been hit by someone this gorgeous before.”

Your brows shot up. “Wait—you’re… Shubman Gill, right?”

There it was. Recognition. But it didn’t feel like the usual fan moment. There was curiosity in your eyes, not fangirling. And that made him stare a second longer.

“I am,” he said, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under your gaze for the first time in ages. “But tonight, I’m just a guy walking in London. Crashing into pretty girls and breaking phones.”

You laughed nervously. “Well… Merry Christmas to your phone, I guess.”

“Merry Christmas to me,” he said before he could stop himself. “Because if I hadn’t dropped it, I wouldn’t have met you.”

You blinked.

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly feeling like a teenager. What the hell was going on? He’d met supermodels, dated actresses. But something about this—you—was different. Unfiltered. Warm. Real.

He cleared his throat. “Look, I don’t usually do this, but… would you maybe… want to grab a coffee? There’s a place right there. You don’t have to say yes—I just…”