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The chaotic energy of a film crew is exhausting. When Gaurav Kapur and the OakTree Sports vans finally rolled down the long gravel driveway and out of the estate gates on Wednesday evening, Aarav had let out a massive sigh of relief. The house had returned to its natural, pin-drop silence, nestled against the dark Bavarian pines.
But by Thursday morning, that silence had become deafening.
Shradha's flight from London Heathrow to Munich was scheduled to land at 8:00 PM. She had managed to secure a coveted three-day weekend—Friday, Saturday, and Sunday—giving them a solid 72 hours of uninterrupted, off-the-grid privacy before the cricket and medical worlds pulled them back.
Aarav had woken up at 7:00 AM. That meant he had thirteen hours to kill.
For a man known for his icy, robotic focus in front of 100,000 screaming fans, Aarav Pathak was currently putting on an embarrassing display of impatience.
By 11:00 AM, he had reorganized his entire kit bag twice. By 1:00 PM, he was pacing the length of the immaculate green lawn, checking the flight tracker app on his phone as if staring at the tiny airplane icon would make it fly faster across the English Channel. By 3:00 PM, he was wandering aimlessly through the mansion. He went from the massive dining area, tracing the edge of the mahogany table, to the main hall, where he threw himself onto the plush leather sofa. Ten minutes later, he migrated to the first-floor master suite, flopping face-down onto the bed.
Eventually, Hüter, the estate manager, walked into the living room to find the Vice-Captain of the Indian cricket team literally rolling on the thick Persian rug on the floor, staring blankly at the ceiling chandelier.
"Is everything satisfactory, Mr. Pathak?" Hüter asked, raising a polite, highly trained eyebrow.
Aarav stopped rolling and sighed heavily. "Hüter, is time moving backward today? Check the clocks."
"It is currently 4:15 PM, Sir," Hüter replied, hiding a small, knowing smile. "Shall I ask the chef to prepare an early dinner?"
"No, give the chef the weekend off. I've already prepped the kitchen. I'm cooking tonight," Aarav said, pushing himself up off the floor. "Just... make sure the fireplace in the main lounge is ready to be lit later."
"Certainly, Sir."
The moment the clock on his phone finally flipped to 7:00 PM, Aarav grabbed his keys.
He didn't take the practical Mercedes SUV. He walked into the climate-controlled garage and hit the unlock button on the Lamborghini Urus. The sleek, aggressive, matte-black super-SUV roared to life, its twin-turbo V8 engine echoing against the concrete walls.
Aarav drove out of the estate, the cool, crisp German evening air rushing past his windows.
He had a few stops to make before hitting the autobahn toward Munich Airport. He pulled into a high-end Bavarian florist he frequented. He didn't want a generic, overly produced arrangement. He handpicked two dozen deep, velvety red roses and instructed the florist to interweave them with sprigs of fresh, fragrant lavender. The lavender was a specific choice—it was a calming scent, exactly what Shradha needed after surviving the chaotic, sleep-deprived wards of her London hospital.
Next, he stopped at a premium organic café. He bought a massive, insulated cup of rich, dark hot chocolate. Then, looking at the display case, his protective instincts kicked in. Hospital food is terrible. Plane food is worse. She's probably starving. He ordered a fresh, vibrant avocado and grilled chicken salad, packing it into a neat takeaway box. Just a little something to hold her over during the forty-minute drive back to the estate, before he cooked the actual feast.
With the passenger seat loaded with flowers and food, Aarav pushed the Urus onto the highway, letting the speedometer climb as the sun dipped below the German horizon.
8:25 PM.
Aarav stood near the arrival gates of Munich International Airport. He had a black cap pulled low and the collar of his dark jacket turned up to avoid drawing attention.
His eyes were glued to the sliding frosted glass doors. People poured out—businessmen, tourists, families.
And then, the doors slid open again.
Aarav's breath hitched. Shradha walked through.
She looked absolutely exhausted, pulling a small, black carry-on suitcase behind her. She was dressed for comfort—a pair of simple, perfectly fitted blue jeans, a soft cream-colored knit top, and a long, tailored camel coat draped over her shoulders. Her dark hair wasn't tied up in its usual strict hospital bun; it was falling loosely over her shoulders in natural, messy waves.
She looked up, scanning the crowd. The moment her eyes found him, the exhaustion vanished from her face, replaced by a smile so radiant it could have lit up the entire terminal.
Aarav didn't care about his persona. He didn't care who was looking. He broke into a jog, closing the distance between them in seconds.
Shradha let go of her suitcase handle completely. She threw her arms open, stepping into him.
Aarav wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her clean off the airport floor as her momentum carried her into his chest. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing out a long, shuddering sigh of pure relief.
"I thought this week would never end," she mumbled against his skin, her arms locked tightly around his neck.
"I thought today would never end," Aarav whispered back, kissing the side of her head, completely ignoring the bustling crowd around them. "You're here."
He set her down gently but kept one arm firmly wrapped around her waist. He reached down and grabbed the handle of her suitcase with his free hand.
"Come on," he smiled, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. "Let's get you home."
They walked out to the VIP parking lot, the chilly Bavarian wind immediately biting at them. When they reached the Urus, Aarav opened the passenger door for her. Before she could sit, he reached into the car and pulled out the bouquet.
"For the Doctor," Aarav said, handing her the mix of roses and lavender.
Shradha gasped softly, burying her face in the flowers. "Aarav, they are beautiful. And lavender? You remembered it helps me sleep."
"I remember everything about you," he grinned, leaning into the car to grab the second surprise. He handed her the steaming cup of hot chocolate. "And this is to thaw you out."
"You are literally the best human on the planet," she declared, taking a long, happy sip of the hot chocolate, her eyes fluttering shut as the warmth hit her chest. She slid into the plush leather seat.
Aarav walked around, put her bag in the trunk, and climbed into the driver's seat. Before he started the engine, he picked up the neat brown paper bag from the center console and placed it on her lap.
"And this," Aarav instructed, "is a chicken and avocado salad. I figured you've been living on stale hospital sandwiches and dry airplane crackers all day. Eat it on the way back so you don't pass out."
Shradha looked at the salad box, then looked at him, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
"A salad?" she asked, her tone dripping with playful offense.
"Yes, a salad. Packed with nutrients. Eat."
Shradha picked up the box and placed it firmly back onto the center console. She took another sip of her hot chocolate and looked at him, a mischievous, affectionate twinkle in her eye.
"I am not eating a cold leaf of lettuce, Aarav Pathak," she stated, leaning across the console and resting her hand on his thigh. "You told me you prepped the kitchen. You told me you were making your special mushroom risotto and garlic bread from scratch."
"I am," Aarav chuckled, starting the Urus's engine with a roar. "But that will take forty minutes to drive back, and another thirty to cook. I don't want you starving."
"I will gladly starve for another hour," Shradha insisted, tracing a line on his jeans with her thumb. "I haven't had food cooked by your hands. If you think I'm ruining my appetite with an airport salad when my personal Michelin-star chef has dinner waiting at home, you are highly mistaken."
Aarav laughed out loud, putting the car into gear. "Alright, fine. No salad. But if your stomach starts growling on the autobahn, you only have yourself to blame."
"I'll survive," she smiled softly, settling back into the heated leather seat, shifting closer to the center console so she could rest her head near his shoulder as he drove.
She closed her eyes, the scent of the lavender bouquet mixing with his familiar cologne. "72 hours," she whispered into the quiet, luxurious cabin of the car. "No phones. No alarms."
Aarav reached over, taking her free hand in his, intertwining their fingers as he steered the beast of a car onto the highway.
"Just us," Aarav promised, his thumb gently caressing the back of her hand. "Welcome to Germany, love."
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The matte-black Lamborghini Urus chewed up the gravel as it wound its way up the long, winding driveway of the Pathak Estate. Dense, towering Bavarian pine trees flanked the road, their dark silhouettes contrasting against the moonlit sky.
Shradha leaned forward in the passenger seat, her hands pressed against the cool glass of the window. As the trees parted, the estate came into view. It was a breathtaking structure of dark timber, natural stone, and massive floor-to-ceiling glass panels that glowed warmly from the inside, standing defiant against the cold German wilderness.
"Aarav," Shradha breathed, her eyes wide. "This isn't a house. This is a villain's lair from a James Bond movie."
Aarav chuckled, pulling the SUV smoothly into the illuminated portico. He killed the engine, and the sudden silence of the forest wrapped around them. "It's just a cabin, Doc. A very oversized, highly secure cabin."
"Are there staff inside?" she asked, suddenly feeling underdressed in her jeans and knit top.
"I gave them the weekend off," Aarav said, turning to look at her, the dashboard lights casting a soft glow on his face. "Hüter, the estate manager, is in the gatehouse down the road for security. But inside the house? It's just you and me for the next seventy-two hours. Complete lockdown."
Shradha's shoulders dropped, a profound sense of relief washing over her. No paparazzi. No fans. No hospital supervisors. Just absolute, unadulterated privacy.
Aarav hopped out, grabbed her small suitcase, and opened her door. The crisp, pine-scented air bit at their cheeks, but the moment Aarav pushed open the heavy oak front doors, a wave of glorious, central-heated warmth enveloped them.
The interior was stunning, vaulted ceilings, a massive stone fireplace in the sunken living room where a fire was already crackling, and plush, oversized furniture.
Aarav dropped the bag and helped her out of her camel coat, hanging it up. He turned back to her, wrapping his arms loosely around her waist. "Welcome to Germany," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Are you hungry, or do you want to sleep?"
"I am starving," she admitted, leaning into his chest. "You promised me food cooked by your own hands. But I want to help."
Aarav raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. "You? Help in the kitchen? Last time you helped, you nearly burnt down my London apartment making toast."
"Hey!" she swatted his chest indignantly. "I am a woman of science! I can follow a recipe. Plus, it's romantic. I saw it in a movie once."
Aarav laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that filled the empty mansion. "Okay, Julia Child. To the kitchen."
The kitchen was a chef's dream, acres of black marble countertops, copper hanging pots, and industrial-grade German appliances.
Aarav handed her a black apron that went down to her shins. He tied his own around his waist, rolling up the sleeves of his t-shirt, instantly slipping into his element.
"So, what's the menu?" Shradha asked, rolling up her sleeves, looking incredibly determined. "Are we making schnitzel? Bratwurst?"
"We are in Germany, but our souls need comfort," Aarav smiled, pulling ingredients from the massive refrigerator. "We are making a fusion of vibes. We have a heavy, rustic German ambiance, but we are eating simple Indian soul food. Dal Tadka, a quick Paneer Bhurji, and hot Rotis."
"Perfect," she clapped her hands. "What is my highly skilled task?"
Aarav placed a large stainless steel bowl in front of her, followed by a container of whole wheat flour and a jug of warm water. "You, Doctor, are in charge of the dough for the rotis."
Shradha stared at the flour. "Just flour and water? No exact measurements?"
"It's about feeling the texture," Aarav grinned, moving to the stove to start chopping onions with terrifying, rapid-fire precision. "Just add water slowly and knead."
Shradha took a deep breath. "I perform complex venous catheter insertions. I can knead dough."
Ten minutes later, the kitchen smelled heavenly. Aarav had the Dal bubbling away, the scent of ghee, cumin, and dried red chilies filling the air as he prepared the Tadka.
He turned around to check on his sous-chef.
Shradha was in distress. Her hands were completely coated in a sticky, web-like mess of flour and water. She was trying to pull her fingers apart, but the dough was clinging to her like wet cement.
"Aarav," she whined, holding up her sticky hands like a surrender. "It's a monster. It's absorbing my fingers. I think I added too much water."
Aarav burst out laughing, wiping his hands on a towel and walking over to her. "You didn't add too much water, you flooded the poor wheat," he teased, standing right behind her.
He didn't take the bowl away. Instead, he stepped flush against her back, wrapping his arms around her. He reached out, his large, warm hands covering hers.
"Let go of the tension," he whispered, his chin resting near her temple. He guided her hands, dipping them into the dry flour container and sprinkling a generous handful over the sticky mess.
Shradha's breath hitched. With his chest pressed against her back, his heartbeat steady and strong, the simple act of kneading dough suddenly felt incredibly intimate. She could feel the hard muscles of his forearms flexing as he gently guided her fingers, folding and pressing the dough until it began to form a smooth, soft sphere.
"See?" Aarav murmured softly, his breath fanning her cheek. "You just have to be gentle with it. It's a rhythm."
Shradha turned her head slightly to look at him. Their faces were inches apart. His dark eyes were soft, completely devoid of the aggressive intensity he carried on the cricket pitch.
"You're distracting me," she whispered, her gaze dropping to his lips.
"I'm teaching you," he smiled, an impossibly fond expression on his face.
Shradha, suddenly feeling a mischievous spark, pulled one of her hands free. Her index finger was completely coated in dry, white flour. Without warning, she reached up and tapped him directly on the tip of his nose.
Boop.
Aarav froze. He looked cross-eyed at the white smudge of flour sitting perfectly on his nose.
Shradha burst into a fit of bubbly giggles, trying to wiggle out of his arms to escape his retaliation. "You had a little something right there, Chef!"
"Oh, so it's a war you want?" Aarav's eyes narrowed playfully.
Before she could run, he grabbed her by the waist, spinning her around to face him. He took his own flour-dusted hand and swiped it smoothly across her left cheek, leaving a distinctive white war-paint streak.
"Aarav!" she shrieked, laughing so hard she had to hold onto his shoulders. She retaliated, trying to rub her doughy hands on his clean white t-shirt.
Aarav caught both her wrists easily with one hand, holding them gently against his chest to stop her. With his free hand, he reached up. He didn't wipe the flour off her cheek. Instead, he cupped her jaw, his thumb gently tracing the line just below the white smudge.
The laughter died down, evaporating into a sudden, thick, magnetic silence.
The stove bubbled softly in the background. The only other sound was the crackle of the fireplace from the living room.
Shradha looked up at him, her chest heaving slightly from the laughing fit. The messy bun, the flour on her cheek, the oversized apron—she looked ridiculously beautiful.
Aarav leaned down slowly, his gaze locked onto hers. He kissed her. It started soft, a gentle pressing of lips, tasting of smiles and domestic warmth. But as Shradha leaned into him, letting her hands rest flat against his chest despite the flour, the kiss deepened. It became hungry, fueled by the sheer relief of finally being alone, hidden away in a forest in another country, with nothing but time on their hands.
Aarav's hand slid into her hair, holding the back of her head as he kissed her until her knees felt weak.
When he finally pulled away, resting his forehead against hers, they were both breathing heavily.
"The Dal is going to burn," Shradha whispered, her eyes still closed, a lazy, incredibly happy smile on her lips.
"Let it," Aarav murmured, pressing a kiss to the flour on her nose. "I'll just order pizza from Munich."
They managed to save the Dal. The rotis, however, were a comical disaster. Shradha had insisted on rolling them out herself. The results were maps of various obscure countries rather than perfect circles, but Aarav cooked them on the open flame perfectly anyway.
Instead of sitting at the massive, formal ten-seater dining table, Aarav carried the plates to the sunken living room. He placed them on the thick wooden coffee table right in front of the roaring stone fireplace.
They sat on the plush, faux-fur rug on the floor, cross-legged, leaning against the base of the sofa.
Aarav had poured two mugs of the rich, dark hot chocolate he had picked up earlier, reheating it to perfection. Outside, the wind howled through the Bavarian pines, beating against the thick glass, but inside, the fire cast dancing, golden shadows across the room.
"Okay," Shradha said, tearing a piece of her oddly-shaped roti and dipping it into the Paneer Bhurji. She took a bite and let out a dramatic groan of satisfaction. "I take back everything. Even my deformed rotis taste like a Michelin-star meal when you make the curries. This is heaven."
Aarav smiled, eating his own food, perfectly content. "It's the ambience. And the company."
"And the chef," she pointed her roti at him.
They ate in a comfortable, easy silence for a while, the warmth of the fire and the hearty food thawing the chill from their bones.
"So," Shradha shifted, leaning her shoulder against his arm as they ate. "No cricket talk. But tell me... how did it feel? Lifting the trophy again?"
Aarav looked at the flames dancing in the hearth. The manic energy of Ahmedabad felt like a lifetime away. "It felt... heavy," he admitted honestly, his voice quiet. "Before match it was dead silent. I realized that if we lost, people wouldn't blame the players. They would blame the captain. The weight of that expectation... it's intoxicating, but it's terrifying."
He turned to look at her, the flickering firelight reflecting in his dark eyes. "But when we win... the relief was better than the joy. Knowing I didn't let them down. Knowing I didn't let you down."
Shradha put her plate aside. She reached out and took his hand, lacing her fingers through his. "You could never let me down, Aarav," she said fiercely, her eyes entirely sincere. "Even if you scored zero and got knocked out in the first round... you're still the guy who flew to London just to make me dinner. You're still the guy sitting on a rug with me right now. The trophies are amazing, but they aren't why I love you."
Aarav felt a profound tightness in his chest. In a world where his value was measured in strike rates, bowling speeds, and championship titles, she was the only place where he just got to be enough.
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "What did I do to deserve you?" he murmured.
"You bought me hot chocolate," she grinned, reaching for her mug. "And you tolerate my terrible roti-making skills. It's a very low bar, Captain."
Aarav chuckled, pulling her against his side so her head rested perfectly in the hollow of his shoulder. He threw a thick, knitted throw blanket over their legs.
"Seventy-two hours," Aarav said, staring into the fire, his arm wrapped securely around her. "My phone is off. The world doesn't exist past those glass doors."
Shradha snuggled closer, breathing in the scent of him and the woodsmoke. Her eyelids were getting heavy. The food, the warmth, and the absolute safety of his arms were acting like a powerful sedative.
"Don't wake me up before noon tomorrow," she mumbled sleepily.
"I'll wake you up in the morning with breakfast in bed as we have our date from tommorw," Aarav promised, pressing a kiss to her hair.
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At 7:30 AM, the sunlight pierced through the towering pine trees surrounding the Pathak Estate, filtering through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains of the master suite. It painted a warm, golden stripe across the massive bed.
Aarav Pathak woke up to the sensation of complete, utter stillness.
There was no itinerary flashing on his phone. No morning text from Ashish Nehra about bowling workloads. No media manager knocking on the door.
He shifted slightly against the high thread-count sheets. His right arm was currently trapped under a very comfortable, very stubborn weight. Shradha was sleeping deeply, her body curled into his side. She had stolen most of the duvet during the night, wrapping herself in it like a burrito, leaving Aarav with just a sheet. Her head rested on his chest, her dark hair spilling in chaotic, beautiful waves across his collarbone.
Aarav didn't try to pull his arm free. He simply lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing. He reached up with his free hand and gently pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
"Mmm..." Shradha stirred, nuzzling her face deeper into his chest, entirely reluctant to leave the warmth of sleep.
"Good morning, Doc," Aarav whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
Shradha let out a long, protesting groan. She didn't open her eyes. "Tell the sun to turn off. I am on vacation."
"The sun doesn't take orders from me, unfortunately," Aarav chuckled, his chest vibrating beneath her. "But it's Friday. Day one of the grand tour. We have roads to conquer."
That finally sparked some life into her. She blinked her eyes open, squinting against the light, and tilted her head up to look at him. The sleepy, completely unguarded smile that spread across her face was enough to make Aarav's heart skip a beat.
"Friday," she mumbled, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand like a child. "No hospitals. No textbooks."
"And no paparazzi," Aarav added, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Just you, me, and a map."
They spent the next twenty minutes just lounging in bed, basking in the luxury of doing absolutely nothing. Finally, the excitement of the impending road trip overpowered the comfort of the mattress.
They rolled out of bed and began their morning routine.
The first rule of the weekend had been established the night before: The Digital Detox. Their primary smartphones—the ones flooded with WhatsApp messages from Managers, emails from Astra Corp executives, and thousands of Instagram notifications—were powered down and locked in the estate's safe.
Instead, Aarav pulled out two sleek phones. "Family and absolute inner circle only," Aarav said, tossing one to Shradha. "Your parents, my parents, Sara, Gill, and Abhishek. That's the entire contact list. If the BCCI wants me, they'll have to send a carrier pigeon."
Shradha laughed, slipping the phone into her pocket. "I love it. Total blackout."
June in Germany was a beautiful contradiction. The sun was warm, but the breeze sweeping off the distant Alps carried a distinct, crisp chill.
They dressed for comfort and safety. Shradha wore a pair of well-fitted, dark denim jeans, a snug white turtleneck sweater, and a thick, stylish black leather riding jacket that Aarav had bought for her. She tied her hair into a secure, low braid that wouldn't tangle in the wind.
Aarav opted for a similar aesthetic black tactical riding pants, a grey henley shirt, and a heavy, reinforced leather biker jacket that made his broad shoulders look even more imposing.
"Ready?" Aarav asked, throwing her a pair of black leather riding gloves.
"Born ready," she smiled, pulling them on.
Aarav led her down the marble hallways, past the grand living rooms, and opened the heavy steel door leading to the estate's primary garage.
The garage was essentially a billionaire's toy box. A matte-black Lamborghini Urus sat in one corner, a vintage Porsche in another. But sitting right in the center, gleaming under the fluorescent lights, was their chariot for the weekend.
The BMW K 1600 GTL.
It wasn't just a motorcycle; it was a luxury yacht on two wheels. Painted in a sleek, metallic storm-grey, the massive touring bike was equipped with everything a rider could dream of: plush, heated leather seats with backrests for both the rider and the pillion, side panniers and a massive top case for luggage, an adaptive xenon headlight, and a six-cylinder engine that purred with terrifying, controlled power.
Shradha's jaw dropped. "Aarav... that is a spaceship, not a bike."
"It's the ultimate grand tourer," Aarav grinned, walking over to the beast and running a hand over the fuel tank. "We are going to be on the road for hours. A sports bike would break our backs. This thing? It's like sitting on a sofa that goes 250 kilometers an hour."
He popped open the top case and pulled out two matte-black, high-end Shoei modular helmets equipped with built-in Bluetooth intercom systems.
"Here," Aarav handed her one. "Put this on."
But before she could, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two pairs of sleek, clear-framed glasses. They looked like stylish designer spectacles, but a faint, microscopic blue light pulsed near the hinges.
"What are these?" Shradha asked, taking a pair. "I don't need prescription glasses."
"They aren't prescriptions," Aarav smiled, slipping his pair on. "These are the latest Gen-2 prototypes from Astra's R&D lab. They have a micro-camera built into the bridge. They connect directly to our private, encrypted cloud server via satellite link."
He tapped the frame of his glasses twice. A tiny green light blinked. "They record exactly what you see. First-person Point of View. No need to hold up a vlogging camera or a phone. We just live in the moment, look at the beautiful scenery, and the glasses record our entire road trip. It captures the audio, the visuals, everything. We can watch our own memories like a movie tonight."
She slid the glasses on. They were incredibly light. She pulled the helmet over her head, clicking the visor down.
Aarav hopped onto the massive BMW, effortlessly balancing the heavy machine. Shradha climbed on behind him. The pillion seat was wide, heated, and incredibly comfortable, with a wraparound backrest that made her feel entirely secure. She wrapped her arms tightly around Aarav's waist, pressing her chest against his back.
"Coms check. Can you hear me?" Aarav's voice came through crystal clear in the tiny speakers inside her helmet.
"Loud and clear, Captain," she replied, her voice filtering into his ears.
Aarav pressed the ignition. The six-cylinder engine roared to life, a deep, guttural symphony of mechanical power.
"Hold on tight," Aarav warned.
He kicked it into gear. The heavy garage doors rolled up, revealing the bright Bavarian morning. The BMW surged forward, accelerating smoothly down the gravel driveway, leaving the fortress of the Pathak Estate behind. The 72-hour adventure had officially begun.
The crisp morning wind hit them the moment they turned onto the winding, tree-lined country road. The smell of pine and damp earth was intoxicating. Shradha squeezed Aarav's waist, a wide, invisible smile on her face behind the tinted visor. She was looking at the world, the perfect blue sky and the blur of green trees.
They didn't want a heavy, formal hotel breakfast. They wanted to feel the local pulse.
Aarav drove into a small, picturesque town about twenty kilometers from the estate. It looked like something out of a fairytale, cobblestone streets, houses with slanted roofs and wooden balconies overflowing with vibrant red geraniums.
He parked the massive BMW near a small plaza. The smell of freshly baked bread and roasted coffee guided them.
They took off their helmets but kept the Astra glasses on.
"Wait here," Shradha said, taking charge. "I want to do this. I'll go get the food. You guard the spaceship."
Aarav chuckled, leaning against the bike with his arms crossed. "Alright. But do you speak German?"
"I speak the universal language of pointing at delicious things and smiling," she winked, walking towards a charming local Bäckerei (bakery) with a bright yellow awning.
Aarav watched her walk away, a soft smile on his lips. Through his glasses, the camera recorded the simple joy of watching the woman he loved navigating a foreign town.
Ten minutes later, she emerged victorious. She carried two large paper bags and a cardboard tray with two steaming cups of coffee.
"Success!" Shradha announced, placing the loot on the wide pillion seat of the bike. "I got two massive Laugenbrezel (soft pretzels), some kind of delicious-looking plum pastry, and two black coffees. The lady behind the counter was so sweet. She called me 'Liebchen'."
They didn't look for a cafe table. They sat right there on the curb next to the motorcycle, bathing in the mild morning sun.
Aarav tore off a piece of the warm, salty pretzel. It was soft on the inside and perfectly crusty on the outside.
"This is amazing," Aarav mumbled, chewing happily.
Shradha laughed, taking a sip of her hot coffee. She looked around the quiet, idyllic square. An elderly couple walked a golden retriever past them. A teenager rode by on a bicycle.
Not a single person stopped to stare. Not a single phone was raised to take a covert picture.
"It's so quiet," Shradha whispered, leaning her shoulder against his arm. "Back in India, if you sat on a curb near a bike, there would be a mob of five thousand people within three minutes and the Riot Police would have to be called."
"That's the beauty of Europe," Aarav said, looking around. "To them, I'm just a guy with a nice bike. The anonymity... it's the greatest luxury I can't buy back home."
He looked at her, his eyes warm behind the clear frames of the smart glasses. "And I get to enjoy a street breakfast with my fiancée without my security detail breathing down my neck."
Shradha bumped her shoulder against his. "I could get used to this."
"Eat up," Aarav smiled, finishing his coffee. "Because the quiet part is over. We are hitting the highway next."
They cleared their trash, strapped their helmets back on, and merged onto the slip road that led to the Autobahn.
The German highway system is legendary worldwide for its unrestricted speed zones. For a man who lived his life operating at 150 kmph on a cricket pitch, the Autobahn was the ultimate playground.
Aarav merged the BMW onto the right lane, cruising smoothly at 120 kmph. The bike felt incredibly stable, gliding over the asphalt.
"You comfortable back there?" Aarav asked through the intercom.
"Very," Shradha replied. "This seat is like a heated armchair. I could fall asleep."
"Don't fall asleep just yet," Aarav chuckled. He spotted the famous circular white sign with five black diagonal lines. End of all speed and overtaking restrictions.
"Hold on tight, Doc," Aarav said, his voice dropping an octave. "Let's see what the Germans built."
Shradha instinctively tightened her grip around his torso, pressing her helmet against his back to minimize drag.
Aarav rolled the throttle back.
The response was not a jerky, violent explosion of speed like a sports bike. The heavy touring machine surged forward with a terrifying, relentless, locomotive-like power. The six-cylinder engine howled, a smooth, jet-turbine whine that drowned out the wind.
150 kmph. 180 kmph. 200 kmph.
The scenery around them transformed from distinct trees and cars into a continuous, blurred streak of green and grey. The wind resistance became a physical wall, but the aerodynamic fairings of the K 1600 GTL sliced through it beautifully, creating a pocket of still air around them.
"Aarav!" Shradha shouted through the comms, a mix of sheer terror and exhilarating adrenaline lacing her voice.
"You okay?!" he asked, keeping his eyes hyper-focused on the horizon. The speedometer climbed past 210.
"It's so fast!" she screamed, but he could hear the wild laughter bubbling underneath. "I feel like we are flying!"
Aarav pushed it a fraction more. The digital dial hit 232 kmph.
They were covering ground at an astronomical rate. Cars in the right lanes looked like they were standing still as the massive BMW roared past them in the left passing lane.
For five minutes, they held that terrifying speed. There was no room for stray thoughts, no room for cricket tactics or medical exams. There was only the road, the hum of the engine, and the absolute, razor-sharp focus of the present moment. It was a meditation born of pure velocity.
Slowly, as traffic thickened slightly ahead, Aarav rolled off the throttle, letting the engine braking gently bring them back down to a sane, legal 130 kmph.
Shradha let out a massive, shuddering breath over the intercom. "Holy crap," she exhaled, her heart pounding furiously against his back. "That was... that was insane."
"Too much?" Aarav asked, smiling under his helmet, checking his mirrors.
"No," she laughed breathlessly. "It was incredible. But if you tell my dad we went 230 on a motorcycle, he will personally ban you from entering Bandra."
"It's our secret, Chachi," Aarav teased, using Vamika's nickname for her.
"Shut up and drive," she swatted his side affectionately.
After two hours of exhilarating riding, leaving the major highways behind, Aarav navigated the bike deep into the heart of the Bavarian countryside. The roads grew narrower, winding through dense, dark forests of spruce and pine, before opening up into breathtaking, rolling green valleys dotted with small, pristine lakes.
They weren't aiming for Munich or any major tourist hub. Aarav had purposely chosen a route that led them off the grid.
Around 1:00 PM, they crested a hill and looked down upon a village that seemed frozen in the 18th century. It was situated near the edge of a crystal-clear alpine lake. The houses were traditional Bavarian chalets with intricately carved wooden balconies, painted with beautiful frescoes depicting local folklore.
"Aarav, it's beautiful," Shradha marveled, her Astra glasses recording the stunning, unpolluted view.
"Welcome to our home for the night," Aarav said, guiding the bike down the winding path into the village square.
They parked the motorcycle near a central fountain featuring a statue of a saint. As they took off their helmets and heavy jackets, locking them in the bike's panniers, the sheer tranquility of the place washed over them. The air was cool and incredibly fresh.
Aarav pulled out his phone, checking a pre-saved offline map. "The inn is just down this cobblestone street. I booked it a month ago."
They walked hand-in-hand down the narrow alleyway. A few locals, elderly women carrying groceries, a man chopping wood, nodded politely at them.
They arrived at Gasthof Zur Post, a charming, multi-story timber inn that looked like it had been standing there for three hundred years. The wooden sign swung gently in the breeze.
As they walked into the reception area, the smell of roasted meats and old wood greeted them. Behind a heavy oak desk stood a large, jovial-looking German man with a thick, greying mustache, wearing traditional suspenders over a checkered shirt.
He looked up, offering a booming, friendly smile. "Guten Tag! Willkommen!" the innkeeper greeted them loudly. "Haben Sie eine Reservierung?" (Good day! Welcome! Do you have a reservation?)
Shradha stepped slightly behind Aarav, smiling politely but completely lost. She waited for Aarav to pull out his phone and use a translation app or ask if the man spoke English, as was the standard tourist protocol.
But Aarav didn't reach for his phone. Aarav Pathak, a boy born in Mumbai and raised in Gujarat, who spent eleven months of the year playing cricket, casually leaned against the wooden desk.
"Guten Tag," Aarav replied, his voice smooth, confident, and carrying an absolutely flawless, colloquial Bavarian accent. "Ja, wir haben eine Reservierung unter dem Namen Pathak. Ein Doppelzimmer für eine Nacht, bitte." (Good day. Yes, we have a reservation under the name Pathak. A double room for one night, please.)
Shradha's head snapped towards Aarav so fast she nearly got whiplash. Her jaw physically dropped.
The innkeeper's eyes lit up in genuine surprise and delight. It was rare for Asian tourists in this remote village to speak German, let alone with such a perfect local cadence. "Wunderbar! Ihr Deutsch ist hervorragend, mein Herr!" (Wonderful! Your German is outstanding, sir!) the man boomed, turning to check his ledger.
"Danke sehr," Aarav smiled warmly. "Meine Verlobte und ich machen eine Motorradtour durch die Alpen. Ihr Dorf ist wunderschön." (Thank you very much. My fiancée and I are doing a motorcycle tour through the Alps. Your village is beautiful.)
"Ah, eine Verlobte! Herzlichen Glückwunsch!" (Ah, a fiancée! Congratulations!) The innkeeper beamed, grabbing a heavy brass key from a hook on the wall. He handed it to Aarav. "Zimmer Nummer vier. Oben rechts. Genießen Sie Ihren Aufenthalt!" (Room number four. Upstairs on the right. Enjoy your stay!)
"Vielen Dank. Wir sehen uns später zum Abendessen," (Thank you very much. We will see you later for dinner,) Aarav concluded, taking the key and turning back to Shradha.
Shradha was staring at him as if he had just sprouted a second head.
"Shall we?" Aarav asked innocently, gesturing towards the wooden staircase.
Shradha didn't move. She grabbed his arm, her eyes wide. "Aarav. What... what was that?"
"What was what?" he asked, feigning confusion.
"That!" She pointed at the innkeeper, then at Aarav. "You just had a full, fluent conversation in German! You sounded like you were born in Munich! When the hell did you learn to speak German?!"
Aarav chuckled, slipping his arm around her waist and guiding her up the creaky wooden stairs.
He couldn't exactly tell her the truth. He couldn't tell her that a years ago, his System had presented him with a choice of rewards. Instead of boosting his stamina or giving him a new bowling variation, he had selected a highly unique, non-cricketing perk:
It was a skill that made his life as a global sports icon and the CEO of a multinational tech empire infinitely easier. He could negotiate with Chinese hardware suppliers in Mandarin, charm French luxury sponsors in Paris, and now, book a hotel room in a hidden Bavarian village.
"I have a lot of free time on long flights, Doc," Aarav lied smoothly, kissing her temple. "I get bored watching movies. So, I listen to language tapes. Turns out, I have a photographic memory for languages. I pick them up fast."
Shradha stopped on the landing, looking at him with a mix of intense awe and slight exasperation. "You are so annoying," she muttered, though she was smiling. "You bowl 155 kmph, you bat like my dad or even better, you build billion-dollar AI companies, you cook like a Michelin chef, and now you are a polyglot? Is there anything you can't do? It's very bad for my self-esteem."
"I can't fold a fitted sheet," Aarav offered helpfully. "It's physically impossible."
Shradha laughed, pushing his shoulder. "Idiot. Come on, let's see the room."
Room Number Four was an absolute rustic dream. It smelled of aged pine and fresh linens. It had a massive, hand-carved wooden bed covered in a thick, fluffy white duvet. The best feature, however, was a small balcony that opened up to a direct, unobstructed view of the shimmering alpine lake and the jagged, snow-capped peaks in the distance.
They dropped their small backpacks. Aarav walked up behind Shradha as she stood on the balcony, wrapping his arms around her and resting his chin on her shoulder.
"It's perfect," she whispered, leaning back into his solid warmth.
"Just like you," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her neck. "Let's rest for an hour, and then we'll go explore the village."
The afternoon was spent in a state of blissful, uninterrupted normalcy. They walked through the village hand-in-hand, their fingers intertwined. For Aarav, the absence of staring eyes was intoxicating. No one asked for a selfie. No one shoved a microphone in his face to ask about his strike rate or his thoughts on the BCCI selection committee.
To the locals, they were just two young, deeply in love tourists.
With their Astra glasses recording every moment, they visited a tiny, centuries-old church with beautiful stained-glass windows. They skipped stones across the glassy surface of the alpine lake. Shradha forced him to stop at a small local artisan shop, where she bought a hand-painted wooden cuckoo clock for Anjali and Priya and a beautifully carved wooden beer stein for both her father, Sachin and Rajat.
Aarav bought her a delicate, silver edelweiss flower necklace from a local jeweler, fastening it around her neck right there in the street.
They ate ice cream sitting on a wooden bench, laughing as Aarav tried to teach her a few basic German phrases, shaking his head in mock despair as she completely butchered the pronunciation of "Ich liebe dich" (I love you).
"Stick to medicine, Doctor," Aarav teased, wiping a smudge of chocolate ice cream from the corner of her lip. "Your accents are a crime against linguistics."
"Shut up," she giggled, leaning in to kiss him, tasting of chocolate and cold mountain air. "You understood what I meant."
As the sun began to set, painting the sky in violent shades of pink and orange, the evening chill returned with a vengeance.
They headed back to the Gasthof Zur Post for dinner. The tavern on the ground floor of the inn was the heartbeat of the village. It was warm, loud, and smelled incredibly rich. Heavy wooden tables were packed with locals drinking massive steins of beer and eating hearty meals.
The innkeeper spotted them and waved enthusiastically, gesturing to a cozy corner table near a massive, crackling stone fireplace.
But the table wasn't empty. Sitting there was an elderly German couple. The man had a magnificent, thick white beard, and the woman had kind, crinkling eyes. Sitting between them were two hyperactive young boys, no older than six and eight, playing with wooden toy cars.
Aarav and Shradha approached hesitantly.
"Entschuldigung, ist hier noch frei?" (Excuse me, is it free here?) Aarav asked politely.
The old man looked up and smiled broadly. "Ja, ja! Bitte, setzen Sie sich!" (Yes, yes! Please, sit down!) He gestured to the empty wooden bench opposite them.
Aarav translated for Shradha, and they sat down.
What followed was one of the most wholesome, heartwarming evenings of their lives. Thanks to Aarav's flawless translation—acting as a real-time human bridge—they engaged in a beautiful conversation with the local family.
The old man, named Klaus, was a retired woodworker, and his wife, Marta, ran the local bakery (the very same one Shradha had bought breakfast from that morning). The two boys, Lukas and Felix, were their grandsons, visiting from Munich.
When the food arrived, it was a feast of epic proportions. Aarav had ordered a massive platter of Käsespätzle (a rich, gooey German egg noodle dish baked with mountains of local cheese and caramelized onions), alongside hearty potato dumplings, roasted winter vegetables, and thick, crusty dark bread.
"This is incredible," Shradha moaned around a mouthful of the cheesy noodles. "I am going to gain five kilos this weekend, and I don't even care."
As the adults talked, the two young boys grew restless. The younger one, Felix, accidentally dropped his wooden toy car under the table near Aarav's feet.
Aarav bent down and picked it up. But instead of just handing it back, he placed the car on the table. He looked at the two boys, a mischievous glint in his eye. He tapped his fingers on the table. He performed a quick, sleight-of-hand magic trick he had learned from Shreyas Iyer in the Indian dressing room. He made a coin disappear from his right hand and seemingly pulled it out from behind Felix's ear.
The boys' eyes went wide as saucers. "Woah! Magie!" (Magic!) Lukas gasped.
For the next half hour, Aarav completely ignored his dinner and became the ultimate entertainer. He built a ramp out of bread crusts for their toy cars. He did more coin tricks. He let them try on his Astra glasses (deactivating the recording feature), blowing their minds with the faint glowing UI on the lenses.
Shradha sat back, sipping her warm mulled wine, watching him.
The fierce, aggressive fast bowler who had stared down Ben Stokes and broken David Warner's bat was currently on the floor of a German tavern, making engine noises and racing a wooden car against a six-year-old.
Marta, the old grandmother, leaned across the table and patted Shradha's hand. She spoke softly in German, nodding towards Aarav.
Shradha didn't understand the words, but she looked at Aarav for a translation.
Aarav paused his car race. He looked at Marta, listening to her words. A soft, incredibly tender blush crept up the back of his neck. He looked at Shradha, his eyes full of deep emotion.
"What did she say?" Shradha whispered.
Aarav swallowed, clearing his throat slightly. "She said... she said, 'You have a good man there. He has a gentle heart with children. He will make a wonderful father someday.'"
Shradha's breath hitched. A rush of pure, unadulterated warmth flooded her chest. She looked at Aarav, then looked at Marta, and placed her hand over the old woman's, giving it a firm, grateful squeeze.
"Thank you," Shradha said, her voice thick with emotion. She looked back at Aarav. "Tell her I know. Tell her I am the luckiest girl in the world."
Aarav translated softly. Marta smiled, raising her glass of wine to them.
By 10:00 PM, the tavern was emptying out. Klaus and Marta bid them a fond farewell, the two boys giving Aarav high-fives before running upstairs to bed.
Aarav and Shradha paid their bill, thanking the jovial innkeeper, and made their way back up to Room Number Four.
The room was freezing, but the staff had thoughtfully lit a roaring fire in the small stone hearth in the corner.
They changed into their softest, thickest pajamas. Shradha wore a pair of fleece pants and one of Aarav's massive, thick woolen hoodies.
They dragged the heavy duvet off the bed and spread it on the thick rug right in front of the crackling fireplace.
Aarav pulled his iPad from his backpack and set it on the small coffee table. He took off his Astra glasses, tapped a sequence on the frame, and placed them next to the tablet.
"Syncing the day's footage," Aarav said, pulling Shradha down onto the duvet with him.
She curled into his side immediately, resting her head on his shoulder, while he wrapped his arm tightly around her waist, pulling the heavy blanket over their legs. The heat from the fire warmed their faces, casting dancing orange shadows across the wooden walls.
The iPad screen flickered to life. The proprietary Astra software compiled the hours of footage they had recorded throughout the day from their respective POV glasses, stitching them together into a seamless, high-definition cinematic vlog.
They sat in silence, watching their day unfold on the screen.
They watched the POV of Aarav driving the massive BMW out of the garage. They watched the footage from Shradha's glasses as she walked into the bakery, smiling at the lady behind the counter. They watched the terrifying, exhilarating blur of the Autobahn at 230 kmph, the roar of the wind captured perfectly by the audio sensors. They watched themselves holding hands, walking through the cobblestone streets of the village, seen from alternating perspectives.
"It's like a movie," Shradha whispered, utterly mesmerized as the video showed Aarav doing magic tricks for the two German boys at dinner. "Our own private movie."
"It's the first chapter," Aarav murmured, resting his cheek on the top of her head. "We have a lot of blank pages left to fill."
Shradha shifted, turning her body so she was straddling his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. The video played softly in the background, forgotten.
She looked deep into his eyes. In the flickering firelight, the dark circles of his cricket fatigue were entirely gone. He looked completely at peace.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice filled with a profound sincerity. "For today. For the bike ride, for the village, for the cheese noodles. For just... being you."
"You don't have to thank me for loving you, Shradha," Aarav said softly, his hands coming up to cup her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. "This is where I belong. This is my actual real life. The cricket, the business, the fame... that's just the noise outside the window. You are the quiet inside the room."
A tear slipped from her eye, born of pure, overwhelming happiness. She didn't wipe it away. She leaned down and kissed him.
It was a kiss that tasted of hot chocolate, woodsmoke, and absolute devotion. It was slow, deep, and unhurried. There were no press conferences to attend tomorrow, no flights to catch, no fast bowlers to face. There was only the warmth of the fire and the solid, undeniable reality of the man holding her.
They broke apart gently, both breathing softly in the quiet room.
Aarav pulled her down so her head rested squarely on his chest, right over his heart. He pulled the thick duvet up to her shoulders, wrapping his arms around her like a protective shield.
"Sleep, Doc," he murmured, his eyes heavy as the comforting warmth of the fire washed over them. "We have two more days of doing absolutely nothing."
"Mmm... sounds perfect," she mumbled, her eyes already closed, her breathing evening out almost instantly as the exhaustion of the day claimed her.
Aarav watched the fire crackle for a few minutes longer. He listened to the wind howling softly outside the thick wooden windows of the Bavarian inn. He tightened his grip on the girl in his arms, his anchor in the storm.
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