The rooftop was empty.
At 1:37 AM, most of the team was asleep, the city below wrapped in its night-soaked silence. The air was cooler up here, scented with monsoon rain from earlier that evening.
Shubman leaned against the railing, arms crossed, face unreadable.
He didn’t know why he came up here.
Maybe to think. Maybe to breathe.
Or maybe to stop thinking about the way Yashasvi had looked at him before turning away in their room again.
He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight.
“You always sulk in the dark?”
He turned.
Yashasvi stood a few feet away, hoodie zipped up, hands stuffed into the pockets, eyes shadowed and faintly red.
Shubman frowned. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks,” Yash said, walking over. “Means a lot coming from you.”
“You okay?”
“Head hurts. Throat’s trash. Probably got a fever.”
“Then why are you up here?”
“I asked myself the same thing,” Yash replied, then looked out at the view. “But maybe I needed air too.”
They stood in silence for a while. The kind that felt more like a pause than a wall.
Then:
“Why are we doing this?” Yash asked, voice low.
“This… meaning?”
“This pretending. The interviews. The looks. The fake smiles.”
Shubman’s gaze dropped. “Because we have to.”
“But why us?”
Shubman didn’t answer right away.
“Because people see something,” he said eventually. “Even if we don’t.”
“That’s not good enough,” Yash said.
“No,” Shubman agreed. “It’s not.”
Yashasvi swayed slightly, and Shubman reached out instinctively.
His fingers brushed against Yash’s forearm, steadying him.
“You’re burning up.”
“I said I wasn’t feeling well.”
“You should be in bed.”
“You’re the one standing out here at 2 AM like a sad music video.”
Shubman rolled his eyes. “Come on.”
He wrapped an arm around Yash’s shoulder—not thinking, just moving—and guided him toward the stairs.
Yash didn’t resist.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t even lean away.
Back in the room, Shubman dumped him gently onto the bed.
Yashasvi lay back without protest, eyes glassy.
Shubman grabbed water, some pills, and the room thermometer.
“You’re at 101,” he said.
“Nice. Can I die now?”
“You’ll live,” Shubman muttered, pressing the water bottle into his hands. “Drink.”
Yashasvi obeyed.
Then lay back again, sighing softly.
Shubman sat on the edge of the other bed, watching him.
“You’re a pain, you know that?”
“Tell me something I haven’t heard,” Yash murmured, eyes fluttering shut.
There was a pause.
Then, softly: “You’re... kind of impressive.”
Yash blinked his eyes open again. “What?”
“I said—” Shubman looked away. “You’re relentless. Smart. Stubborn as hell. But you work harder than anyone I know.”
Silence.
Yash stared at him.
“Are you dying?” he asked, dazed. “Is this a goodbye speech?”
Shubman smiled—just barely. “Don’t get used to it.”
But Yash didn’t smile back.
Instead, he said, very softly, “Sometimes I wish you were like this all the time.”
Shubman looked at him.
Really looked.
And saw the flush on his cheeks, the faint tremble in his fingers, the vulnerability swimming just under the surface.
“I’m not good at... being like this,” he admitted.
“Why?”
Shubman’s eyes dropped. “Because I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”
“Then feel nothing,” Yash whispered. “But don’t fake it either.”
He turned his head to the side, voice weaker now.
“Can you just... stay for a bit?”
Shubman hesitated.
Then stood, walked over, and sat beside him.
He pulled the blanket higher, adjusted the pillow, gently pushed Yashasvi’s damp curls off his forehead.
The touch lingered.
He didn’t even realize it.
Neither did Yash—at least, not until he whispered, “You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“Touching me like you care.”
Shubman didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Then:
“Maybe I do.”
The words were so quiet they almost didn’t exist.
Yash’s eyes blinked open.
“Say that again.”
But Shubman stood.
“I’m going to get you more water,” he said quickly, already moving.
He didn’t come back for a while.
When he did, Yash was asleep.
And that made it easier to pretend the moment hadn’t happened.
Even if his heart was beating too fast to believe it.
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[End of Chapter 6]
YOU ARE READING
Not In The Script...
RomanceIt was supposed to be fake. But the jealousy felt a little too real. When a staged romance between Shubman Gill and Yashasvi Jaiswal explodes across headlines, they're forced to play along. But as the lines blur, feelings twist into something neithe...
