For kids like Varinya Singh Chauhan, life’s never difficult when you have a mom who’s a police officer and a dad as gentle as the Ganga river. Growing up, Varinya never saw a day of struggle—thanks to her parents, and especially her dadi, who blessed her with the best hair genes in the family.

Varinya was a free spirit—her heart as kind as her dad’s, and her stubborn streak, oh, that came straight from her mom. She always loved tunes; her dadi’s soft melodies used to rock her to sleep. And when she found out her dad once dreamt of being a singer, something in her clicked. It was like the universe whispered to her—this is what you were made for.

So when she joined Lucknow Central University, she saw it as her first real step toward becoming a musician. Everything flowed easily for her—friends, laughter, a little band she formed with her batchmates, late-night jamming sessions, open-mic nights—it was perfect.

Until one day, a protest from the next door department got their music room sealed for renovation. Just two weeks before the college fest.

The department head had waved her hand and said casually, “Use the gym, for now.”

Varinya had shrugged. What’s the worst that could happen?

She learned the answer soon enough.

Random half-naked men walking around with dumbbells and towels while she tried to rehearse—that was the worst. She’d spent days trying to ignore the sound of grunts and clanging weights as her band tried to perfect their setlist.

But today was different.

It was raining. The gym was almost empty. Her bandmates couldn’t make it—blaming the downpour. So it was just her.

Varinya sat cross-legged on the polished gym floor near the wide window, her notebook open on her lap. The soft drizzle outside mixed with the faint echo of rain against the roof. She was humming softly, pen gliding across the paper as she scribbled new lyrics.

A stray droplet splashed on the page, smudging the fresh ink. She frowned and wiped at it—but another droplet fell.

Then another.

“What the—?” she muttered, looking up—

—and froze.

There you were.

A very tall, very masculine man—very naked except for a towel lazily hanging from your hand, shaking your head to get the sweat off your hair. The droplets caught the dim light, falling like glitter.

Unfortunately, that glitter had landed on her notebook.

For a second, her mind short-circuited. Because ignoring how obscenely broad your shoulders were, or the way your back muscles flexed when you moved, or how a bead of sweat traced the line of your spine—

She was still staring.

Then realization struck.

“Excuse me?!” Varinya snapped, jumping up. “You just—ugh—you literally drenched my notebook!”

You blinked, surprised, towel pausing mid-motion.

She scowled, shaking the notebook where droplets of sweat and ink now made a blurry mess. “This is gross! What is wrong with you people? Do you not understand personal space or basic decency?”