Your phone buzzes just as the stylist runs a bit of heat-protect serum through your freshly blow-dried hair. You’re in the middle of getting soft waves for your pre-wedding shoot trial. Soft glam, nothing too bridal. The salon smells faintly of coffee and hair spray, the playlist cycling through Arijit Singh and indie acoustic covers. You’re distracted, your mind half on your hair, half on the calendar. Ten days till the wedding.

You don’t even need to check your screen. You know. It’s him. Ishaan Sanghvi. Your fiancé. The one you’ve loved through semester breaks, family functions, long-distance phases, and your worst self-doubts. He’s the kind of guy who texts you his mom’s recipes and asks which shade of gold you like for the mandap decor. Who plans your honeymoon with a spreadsheet and still writes “Miss you” in the notes section. You two are obsessed with each other. The kind of love that feels lived-in, rooted, but electric. Every moment apart feels like it stretches time.

You answer, already smiling. “Hello?” “What are you doing, Mrs. Sanghvi?” Ishaan’s voice is like a warm pull on your chest. He stretches out the name like he’s testing how it feels, trying it on for real. “Don't call me that yet,” you tease, voice low. He groans dramatically. “Ugh, technicalities. You know what’s technically annoying? This ridiculous no-seeing-each-other-till-wedding-week rule your brother came up with. What is this, an Ekta Kapoor drama?”

You laugh under your breath, careful not to smudge your lip balm. “You agreed to it, remember?” “Under duress. I thought it meant like... three days. Not two whole weeks of emotional torture. This is straight-up fiancé exile.” You roll your eyes, glancing around at the other girls scrolling through Pinterest inspo. “Bhaiya’s being sentimental, okay? He thinks it'll build excitement.”

“It’s building ulcers. I saw your haldi lehenga over FaceTime and nearly lost it. Do you know how hard it is to be in love with someone you can’t even hug after a fitting?” You smile, biting your lip. There it is again. That voice, that tone he uses only with you. Light and flirty, with just enough honesty underneath to make your heart melt. “Also,” he adds more softly, “I miss your face. Like, actual withdrawal. I went to Starbucks and almost ordered your drink by habit. The barista thought I was dumped.”

You burst into laughter. “Poor baby.” “Exactly. So come out. Just five minutes. I’m literally parked outside. I brought you an iced Americano and that almond cookie you pretend not to like but always steal from me.”

Your brows lift. “You’re here?” “Yes. In a car. Waiting like a sad DDLJ-era lover with no train to run after. Except I have AC and Spotify.” He pauses, then adds in a more coaxing tone, “Please? One hug. One look. Then I’ll disappear like a well-behaved boy.” You glance at your hair in the mirror, flicking a curl with your fingers. “You know if Bhaiya finds out, you're done for, right?”

“Worth it. I’d rather face your brother’s wrath than go another hour without seeing you. Come on, jaan. Give me five minutes of real-time you instead of blurry video calls and stolen selfies.” You exhale, heart racing. He always knows exactly what to say. He’s not just romantic. He’s yours. Loudly, playfully, and unapologetically. “Okay, okay. But if anyone sees us, I’ll say you were my Uber driver."