Hrithik despised Shah Rukh.

Not in the petty, eye-rolling way. No. He hated him in the way fire hates gasoline—one spark away from total destruction.

It wasn’t just Shah Rukh’s arrogance, the way he strutted onto every set like he owned it. It wasn’t just the way everyone—directors, co-stars, the damn cameramen—hung onto his every word, every smirk, every effortlessly delivered line. It was the fact that Shah Rukh knew exactly how to get under Hrithik’s skin. And he loved doing it.

"Must be exhausting," Shah Rukh drawled one evening, leaning casually against the trailer door. "Trying so hard to be perfect all the time."

Hrithik clenched his jaw, fingers curling into fists. "Must be exhausting," he shot back, "pretending you don’t care about anything when we both know you do."

That wiped the smirk off Shah Rukh’s face. For a second, just a second, something flickered in his eyes—something raw. But then it was gone, replaced by that irritating, smug grin. "Careful, Roshan. You almost sound like you understand me."

Hrithik scoffed. "I’d rather jump off a cliff."

"Then why do you keep looking at me like that?"

Hrithik didn’t have an answer. Not one he was ready to admit.