You were just a simple girl. No designer clothes, no camera-ready makeup. Just soft features, clear eyes that seemed to hide unspeakable exhaustion, and a presence so quiet it almost disappeared.

At the 24/7 convenience store, you stood in line behind a man who looked strangely familiar.

It was Gautam Gulati—actor, model, heartthrob of millions, and winner of Bigg Boss Season 18. He looked just as he did on-screen—hot, stylish, confident. He had two beer bottles in hand, a pack of cigarettes, and a few other things. As he reached into his jeans pocket at the billing counter, his expression subtly changed.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “I forgot my wallet.”

The cashier raised an eyebrow, clearly recognizing him.

You didn’t blink. You simply stepped forward and handed over your card, quietly saying, “Add his to mine.”

Gautam turned sharply, stunned. “Wait—what?” he asked.

You offered a small, tired smile. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

His brows furrowed. “I can pay you back. I just… I wasn’t expecting to forget my wallet like that. I’m not used to this.”

“I don’t need it back,” you said softly, looking away.

He stared. No fan-girl excitement. No selfie requests. Just… stillness. You hadn’t even acknowledged who he was.

But then something else caught his eye.

As you reached to take your bag, the sleeve of your top slipped just slightly—revealing thin, red cuts on your forearm. His gaze dropped to the counter.

A syringe. Two bottles of sedatives. Painkillers. Bandages.

His chest tightened.

She’s not sick. She’s hurting… every damn day.

For a man constantly surrounded by cameras, noise, women who only wanted the glimmer of his fame… this moment was different. You didn’t want anything. You gave, when no one ever did for him.

He instinctively reached out, his fingers brushing your wrist. You flinched slightly, but didn’t pull away.

“Come with me for a second?” he said gently, voice low—almost unlike himself.

You followed as he led you toward a quiet corner outside the store.

There, under the faint glow of a streetlight, he turned to face you. His eyes scanned your face—your lashes lowered, the soft bruise near your collarbone now clearly visible.

“Who did this to you?” he asked, trying to keep the sharpness out of his voice. “Is it still happening?”

You didn’t answer. Your silence said everything.

Gautam felt a strange heat rise in his throat—not anger, not lust. Protectiveness.

He stepped closer, brushing your cheek softly with his thumb. His voice, always rough and confident, now dropped to a tender whisper.

“You helped me… without knowing me. No expectations. No cameras. No drama. Just… kindness.” He swallowed. “And here you are… bleeding silently.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide, confused.

And then—he leaned in. Gently. Carefully. His lips pressed to yours in the softest kiss he had ever given. Not demanding. Not hungry. Just... reverent. Like he was afraid you’d break if he held you too tightly.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“You don’t have to go through this alone,” he murmured. “Not anymore.”

You blinked, tears caught at the edge of your lashes.

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “You have no idea what you just did to me back there,” he whispered. “You reminded me I still have a heart.”