Of course. Of course this had to happen to me.
My stupid car decided to stop in the middle of the highway, at night, in the middle of nowhere. One day I am late in returning from hospital and this happens.

"Really, Saanvi?" I muttered under my breath, staring at the dead engine like it had betrayed me personally. "All those motivational quotes I posted on Instagram about life not stopping... and here you are. Stopped."

I jabbed at my phone, but my mechanic wasn't answering. Perfect. Just perfect. 

Parents? Nope, not an option. If I even dared to call them at this hour, Mom would lecture me for driving alone, Dad would threaten to send a driver for the rest of my life, and both would panic like I was stranded in the Amazon rainforest instead of Ahmedabad's highway.

I hugged my dupatta tighter around me, looking around nervously. The streetlights flickered, the air smelled of dust and faint smoke, and not a single car had passed in ten minutes. It was just me, my useless car, and my overactive imagination replaying every crime headline I'd ever read.

Just this morning I had read about the Deshmukh murder case—how a fifteen-year-old girl and even her dog were brutally killed while her parents were away. The Deshmukhs were one of the most influential families in Gujarat, and if they weren't safe, then how could someone like me be?

And don't even get me started on the police. Every time there's a big case, they rush to make statements, show off their "we're working day and night" face on TV, but the crimes never stop, do they? They're always "investigating," "close to catching the culprits," but somehow the culprits roam free long enough to make headlines again. Safety, ha. It's all a joke.

Honestly, I don't remember the last time I felt like the police were actually for people like us. Half the time they're busy guarding politicians' bungalows or standing at ribbon-cutting ceremonies. 

But when a girl like me gets stranded on a deserted road in the middle of the night? Of course, no patrol van in sight. Typical.

I kicked a small stone with my heel, muttering under my breath. "Useless. The whole lot of them."

And of course, right when I was in mid-rant mode, a pair of headlights cut through the darkness. A big car—looked like one of those Defenders—was rolling down the highway, its engine a low, steady growl. My stomach dropped. Great. Just what I needed.

I froze, clutching my dupatta tighter. Do I wave for help? Do I just stand here and pretend my car hasn't died on me? 

Because let's be real—what are the chances this person is an actual Good Samaritan and not another creep waiting for an excuse to play hero?

Uff, this was straight out of a Bollywood thriller—lone girl, broken car, midnight highway, and now... headlights cutting through the darkness like some villain's entry scene. Great. Just great. 

Of course my life had to look like a low-budget Vikram Bhatt thriller, not a glossy Karan Johar romance with violins and slow-motion heroes.

But then again... Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe the person in that Defender was just another tired office-goer heading home. Maybe he'd stop, help me push the car to the side, and drive away without even asking my name. Not every stranger is a headline waiting to happen, right?

For half a second, I let myself breathe. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be a nightmare. Maybe my luck would turn.

The car rolled to a stop right behind mine. My heart began hammering. The driver's door opened, and out stepped a man.

And not just any man.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and the way he moved—it was like the road itself made space for him. His black shirt clung to him in all the right places, sleeves rolled up just enough to show forearms carved with muscle. 

Even in the dim streetlight, I could see the veins running along them, standing out like they had their own rhythm.

The kind of veins you see on fitness posters and immediately know—this man can throw a punch that'll end you.

And then there was his walk. Steady. Unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world, but also like the ground itself was lucky he stepped on it. His face was half-shadowed, but what I could see... sharp jaw, lips pressed in a straight line, and those eyes.

Dark. Very dark. The kind of eyes that don't just look at you, they look through you. Like he was reading every nervous flutter in my chest.

Of course, my stomach had to betray me with stupid butterflies. Really, Saanvi? Really? The man could be a kidnapper, and you're noticing forearm veins?

Because let's be honest: men like him are either the hero who saves the girl... or the stalker who ruins her life.

And as he walked toward me, his stride confident, his gaze locked on mine, I couldn't decide which one he was going to be in my story. He stopped just a few feet away, his shadow long under the flickering streetlight. And then, finally, he spoke.

"Need help?"

Oh. My. God.

That voice. Deep, smooth, and just the right kind of rough around the edges. The kind of voice that could either sell you insurance on the phone or convince you to commit a crime without even realizing it. Dominating, confident... sexy.

For a split second, a strange thought hit me—I'd heard that voice before. Somewhere. But before I could chase the memory, I brushed it off. No way. My brain was just being filmy at this point.

But hearing his voice, my mouth went dry. "Uh... yes," I managed, sounding way less cool than I wanted to.

He nodded once, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and without another word, walked past me to check my car.

Butterflies. Stupid, fluttery butterflies had the audacity to start a garba in my stomach as I watched him bend slightly, his shirt stretching over his back, veins on his forearms shifting as he ran his hand over the hood.

Seriously, Saanvi. Pull yourself together.

He glanced back at me, his dark eyes unreadable, then said, almost casually, "Not safe for girls to be out at this hour."

And. Just like that, my butterflies collapsed. Gone. Dead.

I blinked, my jaw tightening. "Excuse me?"

Of course. Of course. A man like him had to go there. Why do they always go there? One second they're mysterious, brooding, maybe-even-hot, and the next—bam—out comes the hidden pravachan about how girls shouldn't be out at night.

Seriously, what is this obsession men have with controlling women's movements? 

Like, bhai, you can roam around at 2 a.m. without anyone questioning your choices, but the second it's a girl, suddenly the world is a dangerous place and we need to stay locked in like caged birds. It's not about "safety"; it's about control, and I've seen enough of it in college, on social media, and even in my own house when my dad lectures me for coming home after ten.

Misogyny in a black shirt and rolled-up sleeves is still misogyny. Veins and jawlines don't change that.

I crossed my arms, trying not to let the irritation in my chest spill out as actual words. "So, let me get this straight," I said, my tone clipped. "You're out here, roaming the highway at night, perfectly fine. But me? I'm committing a crime by existing outside my house after sunset?"

His eyes flickered, like he hadn't expected a pushback. "That's not what I meant," he said, voice still maddeningly calm.

"Oh really? Because it sounded exactly like what you meant." My hands gestured in the air, my sarcasm dial on full blast. "The classic line—'ladkiyaan raat mein safe nahi hoti.' Congratulations, you just won the award for the most unoriginal advice ever."

He straightened, shutting the car hood, and turned fully toward me. His gaze didn't waver, didn't soften. "I said it because it's true. The world isn't fair. Men don't face the same risks you do."

I narrowed my eyes. "So instead of fixing the world, the solution is to fix women into cages?"

For the first time, I thought I saw the faintest trace of a smile—though it wasn't amused; it was more like he found my temper... interesting. "No," he said simply, voice low. 

"The solution is simple—you're not going anywhere in this car tonight. So I'll drop you home."

The audacity. The audacity. This man, this stranger with muscles and midnight eyes, thought he could just decide my fate like some filmy hero with a savior complex? Drop me home? Like I was some parcel he needed to deliver safely before sunrise?

My brain screamed at the sheer arrogance. But my stomach... traitor that it was... whispered the inconvenient truth: what if he was right? 

The car was deader than my dating life, and who knew when another vehicle would pass this godforsaken stretch of road? In an hour? Two? Maybe never?

Ugh. He was infuriatingly logical, and I hated it.

I crossed my arms. "Thanks for the offer, but I have an alternate solution."

One of his brows lifted, a flicker of curiosity breaking his stoic mask. "And what's that?"

I pointed at my car. "You push it. I'll steer. Teamwork. Problem solved."

For the first time since stepping out of that Defender, his lips curved into something that was almost—almost—a smile. A low laugh escaped him, rough and unhurried, like he hadn't laughed in years and had just remembered how.

God help me, it did something stupid to my stomach again.

"You want me to push a dead car down a deserted highway at midnight?" he asked, shaking his head slightly, as if he couldn't believe I was real.

"Yes," I shot back, chin raised. "Better than me accepting a ride from a stranger who thinks women should stay indoors after sunset."

That earned me a proper laugh this time, deep and genuine. And worse—he looked at me like he was enjoying this, like my defiance was... entertaining.

He leaned one hand against the hood, veins shifting under his skin, and tilted his head at me with a mocking sort of calm.

"How about this," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You push... and I'll steer."

My jaw dropped. My face went hot, and I knew—I knew—I was turning red. Great. Not only was I stranded on a dark highway, now I was being roasted by a stranger with popping veins which were giving me butterflies.

My brain screamed: Push the car? In this kurta? In these sandals? With these arms that can barely lift a grocery bag?

But out loud, all I managed was a strangled, "Excuse me?"

He smirked. Actually smirked. "Exactly. Excuse me. So now you understand how ridiculous your idea sounded."

Ugh. I wanted to fling my dupatta over his smug face—or better yet, put my surgeon skills to use and slice that smirk right off. But then the Hippocratic oath kicked in... or maybe just common sense, whispering that he'd probably strangle me before I even got the scalpel out. 

Why did the universe hate me this much? If there was ever proof that Fate was a bored scriptwriter, this was it.

And then, as if he hadn't just flipped my world upside down, he glanced at his watch and said coolly, "I'll give you three minutes. Think straight. Decide. Push your car and wait for a miracle... or take the ride."

Three minutes. He actually gave me a deadline. Like my life was some kind of exam and he was the invigilator.

I paced a few steps away, muttering under my breath. 

Push the car? Impossible. Wait for another ride? Might as well build a hut here and live. Go with him? Stranger-danger, hello. But also... muscles, deep voice, Defender, possible psychopath, possible hero. Ughhhh, why me?

By the time I turned back, his arms were folded, and he was watching me like I was a particularly amusing puzzle he was in no rush to solve. 

And annoyingly enough, he looked ridiculously sexy just standing there—like the kind of man who could pull off being a tough-as-nails police officer in some roleplay scenario. 

The worst part? My brain actually went there. Seriously, Saanvi? You're stranded on a creepy highway at midnight and you're thinking about roleplay? Pagal che, tu. Absolutely pagal.

My shoulders slumped. I exhaled through my nose, defeated by logic, fate, and his stupid sarcasm.

"Fine," I muttered, glaring at him like it was his fault my car died.

His lips curved into that infuriating almost-smile again. "Good girl."

Oh. My. God. x 2

The way those two words rolled off his tongue—it shouldn't have been legal. Deep, husky, dipped in that quiet authority of his. It sounded... good. Too good. 

The kind of "good girl" that belonged in a very different context, one I had no business craving in the middle of a deserted highway.

And yet, my stomach did this stupid flip. Ugh, traitor body.

I clenched my jaw, heat crawling up my neck. Who did he think he was? Saying "good girl" like he owned the phrase, like I was some obedient puppy finally listening to him. Excuse me? Wrong place, wrong time, wrong man.

I wanted to snap back, to tell him exactly where he could shove his "good girl.", you know, where the sun doesn't shine but, my better judgment—the tiny sane part of my brain not distracted by broad shoulders and sinful baritone—screamed at me to shut up and survive.

So I did. I bit my tongue, glared at him one last time for good measure, and followed him to his car. Every step, my brain was a mess of contradictions. 

Sexy? Yes. Dangerous? Definitely. Safe? God, I hoped so.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

And that's the end of Chapter 2! ✨
Saanvi and Kabir's banter is just starting to heat up, and trust me... this ride has only begun. 👀

If you enjoyed the chapter, don't forget to vote, comment, and share—your support really helps me keep going (and keeps Kabir and Saanvi alive in my head 😅). I'd love to know what you thought about their dynamic so far—whose side are you on right now?

Stay tuned for Chapter 3, where things get even more interesting. 😉