It was the first real day off in what felt like forever. The World Cup had just wrapped up—victory still fresh in the air, celebrations still echoing in his head—but all Shubman Gill wanted now was silence. Peace.

He woke up later than usual, the 7 AM sunlight slipping through the half-drawn curtains. He stretched, his muscles sore but satisfied. He had everything—a nation’s love, a bank account that barely felt real, and the kind of fame people dream about.

But today, he had time.

He padded barefoot to the balcony, hoodie half-zipped, the morning breeze tousling his already-messy hair. Mumbai was quiet in its own way, the kind of quiet that only existed just after dawn. And then, as he leaned over the railing, sipping the warmth of the sun—

He saw you.

You were across the street in the small park, laughing softly, trying to keep up with your overly energetic husky puppy. There was something magical about it. The way your hair caught the breeze, your cheeks still sleepy, your skin glowing in the golden hue of the sun. No makeup, no filters—just you, real and raw.

“What the hell…” Shubman murmured to himself, blinking, trying to convince his brain he wasn’t still dreaming.

He watched as your pup jumped up at you, tail wagging furiously, and you let out a laugh that made his chest tighten. He’d been with stunning women before—models, influencers, even fellow athletes—but this was different.

"She looks like... peace," he whispered, and the words surprised even him.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away. Every little detail was etched in his mind now—the delicate curve of your smile, the way your fingers brushed the husky’s ears, your soft cotton hoodie slightly too big, and how you kept tucking your hair behind your ear as the wind played with it.

"What are you doing to me?" he chuckled under his breath, running a hand through his hair. His heart hadn’t fluttered like this since... maybe never?

He glanced around, took a breath, and said aloud to himself, “Alright, Gill. This is it. You’re walking down there. Not as India’s opening batsman. Not as the guy in every newspaper. Just... as a guy who saw something—or someone—he didn’t want to forget.”

And with that, he grabbed a cap, pulled it low, slipped on his sneakers, and headed for the door.

But as he stood at the edge of the park moments later, heart thumping like he was walking out to face the first ball of a World Cup final, he hesitated. You hadn’t noticed him yet. He watched you toss a small tennis ball, your laugh once again breaking the stillness.

He took a breath, then took a step forward.

“Hey,” he said, voice calm but edged with nervousness.

You looked up, surprised, eyes meeting his. And in that second, something clicked.

“Sorry to bother you… I was just—uh… from up there,” he pointed vaguely at the hotel behind him, “I saw you and your pup. And I figured, if I didn’t at least say hi, I’d regret it all day.”

“I’m Shubman, by the way.” He gave a shy grin. “Not... the cricketer right now. Just a guy out on his morning walk. And I guess I owe your dog for making my morning about ten times better.