It was one of those Delhi afternoons when the sky couldn't decide whether to cry or sulk. Monsoon clouds loomed like nosy aunties, full of judgment and thunder.
Shia stood by the North Campus gate, pink umbrella in one hand like a prop in a melodrama. Her car rested beside her, a rear tire sagging with suspiciously convenient defeat. Anyone who looked closely might notice the valve was untouched.
But most people didn't.
She was alone. Her driver was stuck somewhere in Defence Colony. Her WhatsApp group had vanished on her. And the rain was flirting with gravity.
Then came the growl.
Rohan's Stinger rumbled up like the opening line of a song Delhi hadn't heard before. Helmet tucked under his arm, rain glistening on his jacket, he slowed, brow raised.
"You stranded or rehearsing for Dilli Ki Dulhan?" He smirked.
Shia twirled her umbrella. "Emergency. Tire down. Driver MIA. Universe testing my patience - and my waterproof mascara."
He crouched. A brief glance at the tire. Then up, skeptical.
"You know this is more drama than mechanical failure, right?"
She gasped, mock-offended. "How dare you question a woman in distress?"
Rohan grinned. "Alright, Miss Breakdown Queen. Let's play knight in dripping armor."
She hesitated - just long enough to decide.
"If I get soaked," she said, swinging one leg over, "you're buying me chai."
"Deal. Extra masala."
The stinger roared beneath them - a raw, unfiltered sound that didn't care about polish or perfection.
Shia gripped Rohan's waist as the first monsoon drops began to fall - cool, sharp, intoxicating.
Her heart thumped - not from speed, but from something even faster: a thrill she hadn't known she was missing.
She had driven these roads a hundred times before. In chauffeur-driven comfort. Leather seats. Tinted windows. Playlists that were curated to impress.
But none of them ever felt like this.
This was messy. Loud. Free.
They zipped down North Campus's tree-lined avenues, the rain turning windshields into watercolor. Past Kamla Nagar's buzzing tea stalls, through intersections blinking under silver skies, splashing through puddles that glittered like mirrors.
Delhi, unfiltered, wrapped around them like a secret they were in on together.
Shia squealed as a puddle sprayed her sandals. She laughed - nothing polite or picture-perfect. Just honest, soaking, rain-sidewalk joy.
Rohan grinned beneath his helmet, the kind of smile you can feel even when you can't see it.
"Careful, Oberoi!" he shouted over the rain. "This ride doesn't come with insurance!"
She shouted back, grinning like lightning, "Neither do memories!"
By the time they reached Greater Kailash, her hair clung to her cheeks, her kurta stuck to her skin, and her heart floated somewhere between her ribs and the clouds.
It was reckless. It was ridiculous. It was hers.
For once, she didn't care what she looked like, what people thought, or whether her mascara was streaking like tragic poetry.
She felt seen - not as the Oberoi heiress, or the campus mystery.
Just Shia.
A girl on the back of a motorbike, riding through chaos and rain toward something beautifully unknown.