Not In The Script...

Chapter- 12: Let Them Watch

“I want it.”

The room stilled.

Yash whipped his head toward him, stunned.

“What?”

“I want it,” Shubman said again, gaze calm. “I want this fake thing. But not because it’s fake. Because it’s us.”

Yash blinked.

“This is insane.”

“No,” Shubman said gently. “It’s overdue.”

They left the room ten minutes later. No decision made.

Yash stormed down the hallway first, heart racing, mouth dry, phone still off.

Shubman followed.

At the turn of the corridor, he caught his wrist.

Not tight. Not demanding.

Just... there.

Yash stopped.

Didn’t turn.

Shubman stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“You don’t have to say yes.”

Yash stayed silent.

“I just want you to know,” Shubman continued, “that I’m not asking you for this to fix an image. I want it to protect you. And I want it because I want you.”

Yash exhaled shakily.

“I don’t trust easily, Shubman.”

“I know.”

“And I’m tired.”

“I know that too.”

“I don’t want to be used.”

“You won’t be. Not by me.”

Yash turned finally.

And the look on his face was all fire and heartbreak and maybe something softer underneath.

“If I say yes,” he whispered, “don’t lie to me again.”

“I won’t.”

Yash nodded, once.

Then again.

“…Okay.”

The next day, the press photo was set.

Just one shot.

Clean. Simple.

They called it a “clarity post.”
To protect their image.
To show unity.

But when Shubman walked into the studio room and saw Yash already seated under the light, something in his chest eased and hurt all at once.

Yash wasn’t smiling.
But he wasn’t flinching either.

That was enough.

Shubman walked over. He didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him and gently reached for the mic on Yash’s shirt, adjusting it so it didn’t tug at the collar.

Their fingers brushed.

Yash tensed — only for a second — then relaxed.

Photographers moved around them quietly.

“Ready?” one asked.

Yash didn’t speak.

Shubman looked at him, waiting.

Only when Yash nodded, he finally replied:
“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

They sat close on the couch.
Not touching.
But their knees almost did.

The photo was taken quickly — Shubman’s hand resting along the backrest, his body angled toward Yash. Their expressions are soft. Private.

Not romantic.

But… close.

When the shot was done, Yash stood and started to leave.

But Shubman touched his back gently, just between the shoulder blades, and murmured—

“Come with me.”

Yash didn’t argue.

They didn’t speak again until they were in Shubman’s hotel room.
Quiet. Dim. Isolated from the noise.

Yash stood near the window.

“I still don’t know what this is,” he said.

Shubman sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s us. But I'm honest now.”

“And if the media starts twisting it again?”

“Let them,” Shubman said, voice low. “Let them watch. I’m not hiding anymore.”

Yash turned. “Why now?”

“Because,” Shubman said slowly, “you let me in again. After everything. And I don’t want to waste that.”

A beat passed.

Then Yash walked over — careful, slow — and sat beside him.

Close this time.

Their knees touched.

Then their arms.

Shubman looked down at Yash’s hand.

Grazed it.

Waited.

Yash turned his palm up.

Their fingers intertwined.

No kiss.

No drama.

Just silence. And skin.

Warm. Real.

That night, before they slept in the same bed — no sex, just quiet breathing under one blanket — Shubman whispered into the dark:

“Are we okay now?”

Yash didn’t open his eyes.

But his fingers curled tighter around Shubman’s.

“We’re getting there.”
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
[End of Chapter 12]