The scorching UAE sun gleamed against the polished windows of the team bus as it pulled up to the luxury hotel. Fans were already crowding outside, waving banners, chanting names, their eyes wide with anticipation. It was the ICC Champions Trophy, and Team India had just landed.

Shubman Gill adjusted his sunglasses, looking out at the sea of people pressing against the barricades. He was used to the frenzy by now—screams, phones in his face, fans begging for selfies, girls yelling they loved him. It was all part of the life.

The bus doors open, and one by one, players stepped down, smiling and waving. When it was his turn, Shubman walked out casually, greeting the fans with a polite nod. That’s when he saw you.

You weren’t screaming. You stood there quietly, just beyond the crowd, holding out a jersey with both hands. You had the softest features he’d seen all day—no makeup, no flashy signs. Just you, and a pair of hopeful eyes.

“Shubman,” you said gently, your voice barely audible over the chaos. “Could you please sign this?”

He stopped. Something about the way you asked made him pause.

She’s different, he thought. Not here for attention. Not loud. Just… calm.

He stepped toward you with a small smile. “Of course,” he said, taking the jersey and signing it with a flourish.

“Thank you,” you said sincerely, looking up at him. And then, you did something he didn’t expect—you reached into your bag and pulled out a rakhi.

For a second, he froze.

Wait… a rakhi?

He glanced around—most girls here either blushed or flirted with him, giggling with their friends. No one had ever approached him like this.

“This is for you,” you said simply, holding it out. “I’ve admired you for years… not like a crush. Like a brother.”

He was stunned. “You… you want to tie me a rakhi?” he asked, voice softer than usual.

You nodded, eyes genuine. “Only if you’ll allow me.”

“No one’s ever done this before,” he murmured, then slowly extended his left hand. “I’d be honored.”