The next day, I wake up as fresh as a daisy... well, a daisy that tripped over its own stem, spilled toothpaste on its kurti, and somehow managed to step into a bucket before 9 a.m.

But still.....Fresh.

After a full day of sulking, overthinking, and narrating imaginary comebacks to the man with the devil's jawline, I've officially decided: enough drama. No more internal monologues starring me as the tragic heroine. No more pacing around like I'm in a Bhansali film. Just a normal, non-chaotic evening walk with friends.

Simple. Peaceful. Safe.

Or so I thought.

We're strolling down the quiet lane near the neighborhood park—me and riya. The air smells of jasmine and roasted peanuts. Laughter bounces between us like bubbles. I'm just beginning to enjoy the cool breeze tugging at my freshly ironed kurti when—SCREECH.

A high-pitched, bone-jarring sound cuts through the calm.

I whip my head around just in time to see a black car speeding around the corner like it's auditioning for Fast & Furious: Mumbai Drift. My heart jumps to my throat.

Right in the middle of the road, curled up like a tiny ball of orange innocence, is a cat.

A baby cat.

My feet move before my brain can protest.

"NOOOO—!"

I sprint forward, arms flailing, almost tripping over my own shadow. In one dramatic lunge, I scoop the kitten into my arms and crash back onto the sidewalk like a badly coordinated superhero.

My heart is thudding. The cat mewls, confused but alive. I exhale shakily, clutching it like I've just saved Simba from a stampede.

The car skids to a halt inches away, tires screaming against the pavement.

Behind me, Riya shrieks, "Tripti! Are you insane?!"

"Only on weekdays!" I pant, handing the bewildered kitten to her.

My dupatta is halfway off, my specs are hanging by one ear, and I've landed straight into a patch of dirt—but I'm alive. The cat's alive.

And now I'm furious.

Fueled by adrenaline and pure righteous indignation, I march up to the car.

The driver steps out first—a nervous-looking man in black. His face is pale, panicked. "Ma'am, I didn't see—"

But I've already hit full dramatic mode.

"You blind?!" I bark, arms flailing. "There was a living soul in front of you! What were you driving—an ego on wheels?!"

Before he can say another word, the back door opens.

And out steps him.

Tall. Unapologetically confident. Dressed in black like it's a warning label. A faint scar slicing across his sharp jaw.
Him.
The brooding, arrogant, infuriating man who insulted my specs, my dignity, and apparently, basic humanity.

I blink.

"Of course it's you," I mutter, like the universe has a sick sense of humor.

His cold gaze narrows as he steps forward, one hand casually sliding into his pocket like he owns the sidewalk.

"You again," he says, his voice a low rumble of irritation, like I'm a bad rash that keeps returning.

I fold my arms, raising an eyebrow. "Don't act so surprised. I'm a public menace. We're everywhere."

He exhales sharply, clearly annoyed. "You want to get yourself killed next time, go ahead. But don't do it in front of my car."

I gasp, stepping forward, heat rising in my cheeks. "Oh, I'm so sorry—was my attempt to save a life interrupting your joyride through residential areas? Were you late for a photo shoot with your ego?"

His lips twitch into something resembling a smirk—infuriating, smug, dangerous. "Get lost."

"Oh, I will," I shoot back, voice rising. "But first, maybe take a crash course in decency. You know—what normal people do when they see a kitten on the road? They slow down. Or is compassion too middle-class for your taste?"

That lands.

His smile vanishes.

The air turns colder. He takes one deliberate step toward me.

Then another.

Until he's standing right in front of me—close enough for me to count the flecks of fire in his eyes. Close enough that I have to tilt my chin to meet his gaze. His shadow swallows mine like a challenge.

My heart races.

Not from fear.

From something far more dangerous.

He doesn't say a word. Just stares—intense, unreadable.

And I stare right back.

Because if he thinks I'm going to flinch first, he clearly hasn't met me properly.

"I'm warning you," he says, his voice low—so low it practically growls out of his throat. It's the kind of voice that sounds like it eats hope for breakfast. "Say one more word, and I'll show you exactly who I am."

Oof..... Dramatic much?

My throat goes dry. My palms itch. My heartbeat thunders like a dhol at a Ganpati visarjan.
But I don't flinch....Not an inch.

I meet his eyes. And for once, my voice doesn't squeak like a terrified mouse.

"You already have," I say, my words quiet but scorching. "And trust me... it's not impressive."

For a moment—one heart-stopping moment—we just stare. Me, five foot something of fury and mango-stained dignity. Him, all six feet of rage, shadows, and God-complex.

The kitten mews in the background like an alarm clock no one's listening to. Riya and Neha are whispering like they're watching a crime show unfold. The driver is shifting from foot to foot, probably wondering if he should run or offer me medical insurance.

But he? He's only looking at me.

And I know, in my bones, in my awkwardly sweating armpits, in my mango ice cream–damaged soul...

Whatever this weird thing is between us—it's not ending here.

Nope. This is the opening scene of a very dramatic, very emotionally unstable saga.

The car engine still hums behind him, but the real noise is in my head.

Okay, Tripti, back away. Slowly. With grace. Like a heroine. Don't ruin it.

Also, don't trip on your own dupatta.

Or sneeze. Or fall. Or blink weirdly.

WHY ARE YOU BLINKING WEIRDLY?!

"Get lost," he growls again, like a villain who just threw his cape. "Don't ever cross me again."

I could leave.

I should leave.

A normal person would've left. Preferably with their pride and spine intact.

But nooo.....I'm Tripti.

The girl who talks back to shopkeepers when they give her plastic bags. The girl who once yelled at a pigeon for pooping on her.

So of course I step closer.

"Is that how you operate?" I say, voice tight. "With threats and brooding glares and enough attitude to power an entire season of a K-drama? You think that's impressive? It's pathetic."

Oh no.....I'm doing the speech.
Someone stop me.

"You walk around acting like you own the world," I continue, "but deep down, I think you're just... hollow. A sad little man in an expensive car, running from feelings like they owe you rent."

I swear, somewhere in the sky, a thunderclap goes off. Probably in sync with the dramatic music score playing in my head.

He doesn't say a word. But I see it—the flicker in his eyes. Rage. Something wounded. Something old.

Then— He shoves me.

I'm not ready. Like, at all.

Physics kicks in.

My arms windmill, my specs fly off (traitors!), and I crash onto the pavement with a very loud and very unladylike "OOMPH!"

Nice going, Tripti. Very graceful. Definitely won this argument. Yup. Who needs dignity when you've got scraped elbows and dirt in your mouth?

Gasps echo around us like we're in a bad reality show.
I hear Riya shout, "TRIPTI!"
The cat meows again—possibly out of concern, possibly out of judgment.

I push myself up slowly, hands scraped, kurti dusty, hip throbbing like it's cursing at me in Hindi.

And he... he stands over me. Like some terrifying Greek god from hell.

"If I ever see you again," he says, his voice the temperature of Pluto, "it'll be the end of you."

And then?

He walks away.

Just like that.

Like I'm invisible. Like I'm gum on the bottom of his designer shoes.

I sit there for a beat, still on the ground, glasses lying to the side like wounded soldiers.

Then I mutter to myself, "Wow. He really said 'villain arc unlocked.' Cool cool cool."

I crawl over, retrieve my specs (which now smell faintly of road and humiliation), and stand up, wobbling slightly.

Tripti's inner monologue, take 348:
"Note to self: never sass a man who looks like he does cardio by hunting souls for sport."

I dust myself off, straighten my dupatta, and glare at the empty spot where his car used to be.

"Next time," I mutter, mostly to the stray cat now purring innocently in Riya's arms, "remind me not to play the angry feminist when the villain has muscles and no patience."

But even as I say it—aching, humiliated, breathless—I feel it.

This isn't over.

He might've walked away.

But I?
I'm just getting started.

The others rushed toward me like I'd just been struck by lightning.
Which, honestly, wasn't far from the truth.

Riya was the first to reach me, dropping to her knees like a panicked nurse in a daily soap. She scooped up my poor specs from the pavement with trembling hands.
"Tripti... are you okay?" she asked, her voice barely holding together.

I didn't answer right away.
I was still staring at the space where he'd stood—where that storm of a man had towered over me like I was nothing but dust.

And then, quietly—barely above a whisper—I said it.
More to myself than to her.
"He's not a man. He's a storm. And I'm not walking into it."

Note to self: When thunder walks on two legs and smells like danger and black coffee... run, Tripti. Just run.

I stood up slowly, brushing gravel off my knees, my hip already protesting the movement. But my chin? Oh, it was higher than my eyebrows.
I wasn't broken.
Just... rattled. Like a decorative diya after Diwali.

Congratulations, Tripti. You just got pushed by a villain. Physically. On a public road. While holding a kitten. Iconic.

Back home, I shut the front door behind me with a soft click, then leaned back against it, like I'd been holding my breath for centuries.
My heart was still a disco ball—thumping erratically, spinning with leftover adrenaline.

The push.
His voice.
The way the words "It'll be the end of you" had slithered down my spine like ice water poured straight into my soul.

I kicked off my sandals, ignoring Sneha's usual snark about street germs and Bhabhi's questions about why I looked like I'd just come back from war.

"Not now," I mumbled, heading straight to the kitchen like a ghost in a kurti.

I poured myself a glass of water with trembling fingers and downed it like it was holy nectar.

Then, I sat at the dining table.
My palms still tingled.
My hip ached.
And my brain?
Oh, it was doing cartwheels and quoting Shakespeare.

To feel or not to feel? That is the question. But also—WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!

Because here's the truth:
He wasn't the mysterious, tortured hero from the stories I used to read under my blanket with a torchlight.

No.
He wasn't fiction.

He was a loaded weapon with a short fuse and a terrifying sense of entitlement.

He wasn't some "bad boy with a heart of gold."

He was just... bad.

And I? I was not about to stand near the trigger.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and whispered to myself, "I'm not made for that kind of madness."

I thought about all the stories I'd loved.
The ones with soft boys and cozy smiles.
The ones with forehead kisses and long hugs in the rain.
Where love meant warm socks and remembering how you like your chai.

I opened my eyes and looked at my reflection in the glass cabinet.

"I'm a Pookie romance girl," I said aloud, and a tiny, wobbly smile crept onto my lips.
"I like vanilla love stories. I want dorky text messages and someone who carries tissues because I always cry at movies—even animated ones."

You hear that, universe? Keep your mafia bosses. I want someone who'll share pani puri with me and hold my hand like it's treasure, not a leash.

That man?

That terrifying, glowering slab of arrogance I met today?

He was the exact character I skip in books. The ones I roll my eyes at.

Obsessive.
Possessive.
Violent.

Even now, I could still hear his voice echoing in my bones—
"If I ever see you again, it'll be the end of you."

Umm... no thanks, Darth Vader. Kindly unsee me forever.

I reached for my specs, still dusty from their flight across the pavement, and gently cleaned them with my dupatta.

"No more drama, Tripti," I murmured. "Let the other girls have their mafia boys and tortured tycoons. You? You stick to men who say 'sorry' when they sneeze too loud."

Then, as I put on my freshly cleaned specs—finally seeing clearly again—I added one final note to self:

If you ever feel drawn to a man who smells like power and speaks like a Bond villain... punch yourself gently and re-read Pride and Prejudice. Twice.