Not In The Script...

Chapter- 15: Don't Call It That

The morning after felt unreal.

Warm light filtered through the sheer hotel curtains, turning the room into something gold-tinted and fragile.

Shubman woke up first.

Yash was still asleep, tangled in the sheets, mouth slightly open, one hand curled against Shubman’s bare chest. They hadn’t undressed last night — not really — but somehow it still felt like the most intimate thing Shubman had ever done.

No pressure.

Just quiet breathing and the slow rhythm of hearts syncing.

Shubman brushed his thumb gently along Yash’s wrist, where his pulse fluttered beneath the skin.

He didn’t want to move.

Didn’t want the moment to end.

Yash woke with a small stretch and a low groan.

His eyes fluttered open, unfocused, then softened when they landed on Shubman.

“…Hi,” he said, voice thick with sleep.

Shubman smiled. “Hi.”

They lay like that for a while — not speaking, just existing.

Then Yash whispered, “I didn’t dream it, right?”

“No,” Shubman said. “You kissed me. You absolutely didn’t dream that.”

Yash smirked. “You let me.”

“I wanted you to.”

They got up slowly. Brushed their teeth together at the sink.

Yash used Shubman’s brush by accident.

Neither of them minded.

There was something surreal about watching Yash rinse his mouth and then smile at him in the mirror, toothpaste still on his lip.

Something that made Shubman feel like this could last.

Later that day, they had no media appearances.

No cricket. No press. No handlers.

Just a room. A view. And time.

They played music. Ordered room service. Ate in bed.

And sometime between songs and laughter, Shubman reached over, caught Yash’s face in his hand, and kissed him again — deeper this time, with less hesitation.

Yash climbed into his lap.

Shubman’s hands pushed under the hem of Yash’s shirt, skin on skin, warm and slow. He wanted to take it further. Not all the way — but further.

Yash let him.

Let their bodies press close, breaths sync, fingers skim bare backs and the sharp lines of hips.

For the first time, it felt dangerous.

In a good way.

Then it happened.

Casually. Stupidly. A sentence thrown out mid-laughter.

They were lying side-by-side, recovering from nearly making out against the headboard, when Shubman said:

“Whatever this thing is — it’s addicting.”

Yash froze.

Just a second.

Then he sat up, slowly, adjusting his shirt.

Shubman noticed immediately.

“What?” he asked, already knowing.