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The crisp, brilliant morning sunlight of the winter didn't just filter through the massive, floor-to-ceiling glass windows; it flooded the room, bouncing off the pristine, untouched snow outside and casting a soft, ethereal glow across the wooden floorboards of the secluded Airbnb.
On the massive king-sized bed, buried under a mountain of thick, luxurious down comforters, a man was fast asleep. And despite being completely dead to the world, a faint, contented smile was plastered across his face.
Across the room, standing near the rustic wooden dresser, was Shradha. She was dressed in a cozy, oversized cream-colored knit sweater and a pair of fitted blue jeans, vigorously towel-drying her damp hair.
She stopped drying her hair, looked at the digital clock on the bedside table, and then looked at the sleeping Prince of Cricket.
"Wake up, Aarav," Shradha called out, her voice a melodic, teasing hum in the quiet room. She walked over, lightly tapping the lump of blankets. "You have been sleeping for the last ten hours! The jet lag should be completely over by now. Come on, sleepyhead, wake up."
Aarav didn't open his eyes. He just let out a low, incredibly comfortable groan, fumbling blindly in the air with one large, muscular arm.
His hand found the sleeve of her sweater. With a sudden, deceptively strong tug, Aarav pulled.
"Ah—!" Shradha let out a short yelp of surprise as her balance vanished. She tumbled forward, landing directly onto the mattress and right onto his chest.
Instantly, Aarav's arms wrapped securely around her waist, pinning her to him under the warm blankets. He buried his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the fresh scent of her shampoo.
"Let me sleep, Shradha," Aarav mumbled into her skin, his voice thick, raspy, and entirely unapologetic. "I need to sleep. I am on my vacation, love."
Shradha couldn't help but laugh, a bright, bubbly sound, as she tried and failed to pry his massive arms off her. She rested her chin on his chest, looking down at his closed eyes. "We are in Hokkaido, Aarav. There is a literal snow-capped mountain outside our window, and you want to spend the whole day in bed?"
Aarav cracked one dark eye open, a lazy, incredibly charming smirk playing on his lips. "When you're the one lying next to me... yes. The mountain can wait."
If the world could see the undisputed, terrifying King of the 22 yards right now, they wouldn't believe it.
The last three weeks had been an absolute, unadulterated blur of historic magnitude. The victory at Patra City had sparked nationwide celebrations that made Diwali look like a quiet Tuesday. There were open-top bus parades, endless felicitations, and meeting the Prime Minister.
And right in the middle of that glorious, chaotic hurricane, the Pathak and Tendulkar families had immediately gone to war not with each other, but with a highly sought-after Panditji. Almanacs were opened, astrological charts were drawn, and endless, highly animated discussions over finding the absolute most auspicious date for a engagement ceremony took over their lives.
Aarav and Shradha were thrilled, of course. But between the sheer volume of the post-World Cup noise, the billions of eyes constantly on them, and their mothers debating floral arrangements and guest lists at 2 AM, they were left both physically and socially exhausted.
They needed to disappear.
So, they flew to Japan.
Yesterday, they had landed at New Chitose Airport in Sapporo, slipping completely under the radar. There were no cricket fans waiting for autographs, no cameras flashing in their faces. For the first time in months, they were just a normal couple.
Astra's elite concierge service had arranged a top-of-the-line, luxury motorhome a massive, heated camper van waiting for them at the airport. Aarav had taken the wheel, and together, they had driven out of Sapporo, venturing deep into the powdery white wilderness of Hokkaido.
They drove through towering pine forests blanketed in thick snow, eventually arriving at this stunning, secluded A-frame wooden cabin. It was an architectural masterpiece, featuring a massive glass facade that looked directly out onto the majestic, snow-covered peak of Mount Yotei.
For dinner, they had ventured into a quiet local village, sitting in a tiny, wooden-paneled restaurant. They devoured steaming bowls of authentic, rich Sapporo ramen and Hokkaido's famous spicy soup curry, the heat of the broth perfectly combating the freezing Japanese winter.
"You're smiling again," Shradha whispered, tracing a finger lightly over Aarav's jawline, pulling him out of his thoughts.
Aarav opened both eyes, the sleep finally fading, replaced by a deep, unwavering affection as he looked up at the love of his life. "Just thinking about last night."
Shradha's eyes crinkled with amusement as she propped herself up on her elbows. "Which part? The delicious soup curry, or the part where you completely embarrassed yourself?"
Aarav groaned playfully, rolling his eyes. "I didn't embarrass myself. I made a minor, temporary miscalculation regarding the thermal dynamics of the Hokkaido atmosphere."
"Right. A miscalculation," Shradha giggled.
After dinner the previous night, they had decided to take a romantic walk through the snow-covered village streets. The temperature had dropped to a biting negative eight degrees Celsius.
Shradha had bundled herself up like a marshmallow a thick puffer jacket, a wool scarf wrapped three times around her neck, gloves, and a beanie. Aarav, running purely on the residual adrenaline of being an elite, hot-blooded athlete, had stepped out wearing just a stylish, but remarkably thin, denim-lined jacket over a t-shirt.
"I'm fine," he had declared confidently when Shradha handed him a scarf. "I face 150-kilometer-per-hour cricket balls for a living. A little cold breeze isn't going to kill me."
They had walked hand-in-hand through the quiet, picturesque streets. The falling snow caught the warm, yellow glow of the streetlamps, creating a scene straight out of a cinematic masterpiece. Eventually, they stumbled upon a classic, brightly lit Japanese vending machine standing alone on a snowy corner.
Aarav had enthusiastically slotted some yen coins into the machine, pressing the buttons for two cans of hot cocoa.
As they stood there in the absolute, beautiful silence of the snowy night, holding the warm cans, Shradha had noticed it.
Aarav's jaw was clenched tight. His broad shoulders were hunched up near his ears. And despite his best efforts to suppress it, his entire body was executing a very distinct, involuntary shiver.
"Are you cold, Aarav?" Shradha had asked, taking a sip of her hot chocolate, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
"No," Aarav had lied through his chattering teeth, trying to look incredibly stoic. "It's quite refreshing, actually."
Shradha had just stared at him, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. She watched as a violent shiver wrecked his frame.
"You are literally vibrating, you idiot," she had laughed, her breath pluming in the freezing air.
Aarav's macho facade had instantly crumbled. "Okay, fine! It's freezing! I can't feel my fingers. I think I have frostbite."
Laughing uncontrollably at his dramatic surrender, Shradha had stepped close to him. She unzipped the deep pockets of her thick puffer jacket, grabbed his freezing, massive hands, and stuffed them deep inside her pockets alongside her own warm, gloved hands.
They had stood there under the glow of the vending machine, the snow falling softly around them. Aarav had leaned his forehead against hers, the cold completely forgotten, completely lost in the sheer, overwhelming realization that he had everything he ever wanted, right there in his arms.
"I was just checking my cold tolerance," Aarav argued now, pulling her out of the memory and back to the sunlit morning bed, wrapping his arms around her waist again.
"You are ridiculous," Shradha laughed, resting her head comfortably against his chest. She looked out the massive window at the breathtaking view of the snow-capped mountain. "It really is beautiful here, Aarav. It's so... quiet."
"That's exactly why we're here," Aarav murmured, his hand gently stroking her hair.
He looked out the window too. There were no stadiums. There were no cameras. There were no reporters outside their door, and no Panditji calculating planetary alignments in their living room. For the next ten days, the Prince of Cricket didn't exist. There was only Aarav and Shradha, a camper van, a snow-covered mountain, and a lifetime of peace ahead of them.
"So," Aarav whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. "Are we getting out of this bed today, or what?"
Shradha smiled against his chest, closing her eyes.
"Maybe in another hour," she whispered back. "You are on vacation, after all."
-------------------------
The luxury motorhome hummed a low, powerful purr as it carved its way through the pristine, snow-drenched winding roads of the Daisetsuzan National Park.
Aarav sat behind the wheel of the massive RV, casually steering with one hand. He was dressed for the weather—a thick, black North Face parka over a dark turtleneck, his jawline sharp against the snowy glare outside.
In the passenger seat, Shradha was curled up, her knees pulled to her chest under a soft woolen blanket. She had a steaming travel mug of coffee in her hands, her eyes wide as she stared out the window at the towering, frosted birch trees passing by.
"It literally looks like Narnia," Shradha whispered, her breath fogging up the glass slightly.
"Just wait until we get to the campsite," Aarav smiled, glancing over at her. He reached across the center console, his large, warm hand resting naturally over her blanket-covered knee, giving it a gentle squeeze.
That simple, mindless touch sent a familiar, pleasant jolt straight to Shradha's stomach. Even after years, the sheer physical gravity of him had that effect on her.
An hour later, Aarav pulled the motorhome off the main highway, navigating down a cleared dirt path flanked by dense pine forests. They emerged into a stunning, open clearing that sat right on the edge of a frozen, snow-covered lake.
It was a premium RV campsite. The air was incredibly crisp, smelling of pine needles and distant woodsmoke. Scattered across the clearing were a dozen other camper vans and high-end winter tents, occupied mostly by groups of young, stylishly dressed Japanese locals enjoying the weekend. String lights hung between the trees, casting a warm, magical glow over the powdery snow.
Aarav parked the RV perfectly, securing the handbrake.
"Alright, Doctor Tendulkar," Aarav grinned, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Welcome to our five-star outdoor hotel."
They bundled up, stepping out of the warm cabin and into the biting, negative-five-degree air. Their boots crunched satisfyingly into the ankle-deep snow.
As Aarav walked around to the exterior storage compartments to pull out the awning and the portable fire pit, a group of three young Japanese men from a neighboring tent approached them. They were carrying a small wooden crate and smiling warmly, though they looked slightly hesitant.
Shradha stepped slightly behind Aarav, offering a polite but confused smile.
"Konnichiwa," one of the men greeted, bowing slightly. He pointed to his own campsite, then to the wooden crate. "Ah... English? We... welcome gift."
Shradha panicked mildly, her mind entirely blank. She looked at Aarav, expecting him to resort to universal hand gestures.
Instead, Aarav didn't miss a beat. He stood up straight, offered a respectful bow in return, and opened his mouth.
"Konnichiwa. Hajimemashite. Kangei shite itadaki, hontou ni arigatou gozaimasu," Aarav spoke, his voice dropping into a smooth, fluent, perfectly accented Japanese register. (Hello. Nice to meet you. Thank you so much for the welcome.)
The three Japanese men's eyes widened in genuine surprise and delight. They immediately launched into a rapid, enthusiastic stream of Japanese, laughing and handing over the crate.
Aarav chuckled, engaging in the conversation effortlessly. He nodded, gesturing to the RV, then to Shradha. "Kore wa boku no konyakusha no Shradha desu. Watashitachi wa Indo kara kimashita."(This is my fiancée, Shradha. We are from India.)
The men bowed to Shradha with bright smiles, saying, "Omedetou gozaimasu!" (Congratulations!). Aarav accepted the crate, bowed once more, and exchanged a few final, polite pleasantries before the men waved and walked back to their tent.
Shradha just stood there in the snow, blinking. Her mouth was slightly open.
Aarav turned around, holding a crate of what looked like premium Japanese sweet potatoes and a bottle of local plum wine. He caught her expression and raised a single, arrogant eyebrow.
"What?" he blinked.
"You..." Shradha pointed a gloved finger at him. "You speak fluent Japanese?"
"I speak passable Japanese," Aarav corrected modestly, setting the crate down on the fold-out camping table.
"Since when?!"
Aarav chuckled, walking over to her. He brushed a snowflake off the tip of her nose. "Since a long time. When I watch anime, it was tiresome to read subtitle so, I learned Japanese."
Shradha just stared at him.
She grabbed the lapels of his thick parka, pulling him down slightly so she could look him dead in the eye.
"You are ridiculously attractive," she stated, entirely deadpan. "It is actually unfair."
Aarav let out a deep, booming laugh that echoed across the frozen lake. He wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her effortlessly off the ground and spinning her around in the snow until she shrieked and laughed with him.
"Put me down, you giant!" she giggled, kicking her boots.
He set her down, pressing a lingering, freezing kiss to her lips, tasting the cold mountain air on her skin. "I'll accept the compliment. Now, are you hungry?"
"Starving," she admitted.
"Good. Because tonight, I'm cooking."
Aarav set up the outdoor camping station with military precision. He had a portable gas stove, a heavy cast-iron skillet, and a traditional Japanese Nabe (hot pot) bowl. From the RV's fridge, he produced ingredients that looked like they belonged in a Michelin-star kitchen: deeply marbled cuts of chicken, fresh shiitake mushrooms, leeks, and tofu.
Shradha, feeling slightly useless, picked up a cutting board and a knife. "Let me chop the vegetables at least. I feel bad just watching you."
Aarav looked at her, an amused glint in his eye. He knew her culinary skills peaked at making decent instant noodles. "Are you sure? Leeks can be tricky."
"I am a literal doctor, Aarav," Shradha rolled her eyes, picking up a leek. "I know my way around a scalpel. I can chop a vegetable."
Two minutes later, she was struggling. The knife was duller than she expected, and the leek was rolling around the board.
Before she could accidentally nick her finger, she felt a solid, incredibly warm wall of chest press against her back.
Aarav stepped right behind her. He wrapped his long, muscular arms around her sides, his chest flush against her back. He reached down, his large, calloused hands gently but firmly covering her smaller, gloved hands.
Shradha's breath hitched. The sudden, overwhelming proximity of him, the scent of his cologne mixed with the woodsmoke, sent a furious swarm of butterflies erupting in her stomach.
"You're holding it too tight," Aarav murmured, his voice a low, raspy rumble directly next to her ear.
He didn't take the knife away. Instead, he guided her hands. He adjusted her grip on the handle, pressing her fingers into the correct, safe culinary claw on the vegetable. Moving together, his strength guiding hers, they chopped the leek into perfect, uniform slices.
"See?" he whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "Just let the blade do the work."
Shradha couldn't focus on the leeks. She could feel the steady, rhythmic thud of his heart against her shoulder blades. She turned her head slightly, her nose almost brushing his cheek.
"You're doing this on purpose," she accused breathlessly.
Aarav smirked, his dark eyes shifting to meet hers from inches away. "Doing what?"
"Distracting me."
"I'm just helping the good doctor with her incisions," he teased, his gaze dropping to her lips before he leaned in, stealing a soft, incredibly tender kiss right there over the cutting board.
He finally pulled away, much to her disappointment, taking the knife from her hands entirely.
"Sit," Aarav commanded gently, pulling out a canvas camping chair right next to the crackling fire pit. He grabbed the woolen blanket from the RV, draping it meticulously over her shoulders and tucking it around her legs. "I've got the rest."
Shradha sat by the fire, pulling the blanket tight, absolutely captivated as she watched him work.
Aarav moved with the same fluid, terrifying competence he displayed on the cricket pitch. He seared the chicken in the cast-iron skillet, the meat rendering instantly, sending a heavenly, mouth-watering sizzle and aroma into the freezing air. He deglazed the pan, building a rich, soy-based broth for the hot pot, effortlessly tossing the vegetables in.
He didn't look like a pampered billionaire. With his sleeves pushed up, revealing his muscular forearms, illuminated by the orange glow of the campfire, he looked entirely in his element.
Twenty minutes later, he handed her a steaming, ceramic bowl of the Chicken hot pot, complete with the melt-in-your-mouth Chicken and vegetables. He poured two cups of the warm plum wine the neighbors had gifted them.
He sat down on a log right next to her chair, their knees touching.
Shradha took a sip of the broth. Her eyes widened comically.
"Aarav," she groaned, closing her eyes in pure culinary bliss. "This is... this is unbelievable. This is better than the restaurant yesterday."
Aarav chuckled, taking a sip of his wine. "I told you. I have severals talents."
They ate in a comfortable, deeply intimate silence. The only sounds were the crackle of the burning pine wood, the soft murmur of Japanese from the neighboring tents, and the wind rustling through the snow-laden trees.
It was a world away from the 100,000 screaming fans at the Narendra Modi stadium. There were no cameras here. There was no pressure. There was just the snow, the fire, and them.
When they finished eating, Aarav took her empty bowl, setting it aside on the table.
He turned back to her, slipping his hands under her blanket. He found her cold hands, enveloping them entirely in his massive, incredibly warm ones, rubbing his thumbs soothingly over her knuckles.
"Thank you," Aarav said quietly, his dark eyes reflecting the firelight.
"For what?" Shradha asked, tilting her head. "I literally just sat here and let you feed me."
"For this," he said, looking around the quiet, snowy forest, and then back at her. "For taking me away from the noise. For finishing your degree so you never have to leave again. For just... being here."
Shradha's heart melted completely. She pulled her hands out of his grip, reached out, and framed his face. His cheeks were cold from the wind, but his skin was soft.
"I'm never leaving again, Aarav," she promised softly, her thumbs tracing his cheekbones. "I'm right where I belong."
Aarav leaned into her touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second before he opened them. The sheer, overwhelming depth of love in his gaze was enough to make her breath catch.
He leaned forward, closing the distance, and kissed her. It wasn't a quick, teasing peck like before. It was deep, slow, and devastatingly tender, communicating all the things the Prince of Cricket rarely ever said out loud.
When they finally broke apart, Shradha rested her forehead against his, both of them smiling stupidly into the cold night air.
"So," Shradha whispered, her eyes shining with mischief. "Since you speak Japanese and cook like a Michelin-star chef... what other hidden domestic skills do you have?"
Aarav smirked, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her off the chair entirely, settling her sideways onto his lap.
"Well," Aarav murmured, pressing a kiss to her jawline, making her shiver. "I'm also exceptionally good at keeping you warm in negative-five-degree weather."
Shradha laughed, burying her face comfortably against his neck.
As the snow began to gently fall again, coating the Hokkaido forest in a fresh layer of white, the undeniable King and Queen of Indian cricket sat quietly by the fire, completely and utterly lost in their own perfect world.
----------------------
The transition from the snowy, isolated wilderness of Hokkaido to the hyper-modern pulse of Tokyo was a jarring but exhilarating shift. But Aarav and Shradha weren't staying in the neon-drenched capital. Their itinerary demanded a different kind of pace.
They stood on the pristine platform of Tokyo Station, waiting for the Shinkansen—the legendary Japanese bullet train.
Shradha was practically vibrating with excitement. She was dressed in a chic, oversized beige trench coat over a white turtleneck, a pair of dark sunglasses perched on her head. Aarav stood right beside her, casually holding both of their sleek travel duffels, looking effortlessly intimidating in a tailored black overcoat.
"I've read about these," Shradha said, peering down the tracks. "They reach speeds of 320 kilometers per hour. That's double the speed of your fastest delivery, Aarav."
A sleek, aerodynamic white and blue nose breached the curve of the tracks. The Shinkansen glided into the station with a futuristic, almost entirely silent hum, stopping with millimeter perfection right at the designated boarding markers.
They boarded the Green Car (first class), settling into the massive, plush reclining seats. As the train departed, the acceleration was so smooth it was almost imperceptible until they looked out the window. The sprawling urban density of Tokyo began to blur into a rapid, continuous stream of colors. Within minutes, they were slicing through the Japanese countryside at a velocity that defied belief.
Aarav reached across the wide armrest, lacing his fingers through Shradha's. She rested her head on his shoulder, utterly captivated by the blurring landscape.
"Excuse me... um, sumimasen?"
Aarav and Shradha looked up. Standing in the aisle were three young Japanese people a guy and two girls, likely university students. They were dressed in trendy streetwear, looking incredibly nervous but remarkably polite. They were bowing slightly, their hands clasped.
The guy stepped forward, holding his smartphone tightly. He looked at Aarav with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"Are you... Aarav Pathak?" the young man asked in broken, heavily accented English. "From India? Cricket... the Prince?"
Shradha smiled, sitting up slightly. It never ceased to amaze her. Even in a country where baseball was a religion and cricket was barely an afterthought, the sheer global magnitude of the World Cup had breached the borders.
Aarav offered a warm, genuine smile, uncrossing his legs.
"Hai, sou desu," Aarav replied smoothly in flawless Japanese. (Yes, that's me.)
The trio gasped in unison. The two girls covered their mouths, their eyes turning into absolute saucers, while the guy looked like he was about to pass out from sheer excitement.
"Nihongo ga hanaseru n desu ka?!" one of the girls squeaked. (You can speak Japanese?!)
Aarav chuckled, his thumb gently stroking the back of Shradha's hand. "Sukoshi dake desu. Kyou wa kanojo to ryokou shite imasu."(Only a little. I am traveling with my girlfriend today.)
He gestured to Shradha, who offered a bright, friendly wave.
The fans immediately bowed deeply to Shradha. "Konnichiwa! Kirei desu ne!" they whispered to each other, complementing her beauty, before turning their attention back to Aarav.
With the utmost politeness that defines Japanese culture, the young man hesitantly held up his phone. "Shashin wo totte mo ii desu ka?"(May we take a picture?)
"Mochiron," Aarav nodded. (Of course.)
Aarav stood up, adjusting his overcoat. He posed with the three of them in the aisle, wrapping a friendly arm around the young man's shoulder. They took two quick selfies. The fans didn't linger, they didn't scream, and they didn't crowd him. They simply bowed at a perfect 45-degree angle, repeatedly saying "Arigatou gozaimasu!" (Thank you very much!), and quickly retreated back to their seats, whispering excitedly among themselves.
Aarav sat back down, instantly pulling Shradha's hand back into his.
Shradha was staring at him, her chin propped on her free hand, a highly amused, thoroughly impressed smirk on her lips.
"What?" Aarav asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You speaking Japanese," Shradha murmured, shaking her head. "It's so incredibly attractive it should be illegal. 'I am traveling with my girlfriend today.' You're such a show-off."
Aarav's eyes darkened playfully. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly whisper. "Just wait until I tell them you are going to be my wife."
Shradha's breath hitched, a furious blush exploding across her cheeks. She shoved his shoulder lightly, looking out the window to hide her face, though the massive smile was impossible to conceal. Aarav just laughed, a deep, rumbling sound, pulling her back against his side as the bullet train rocketed toward their destination.
Two hours later, a private cab navigated through the winding, scenic roads of the Yamanashi prefecture.
They were venturing deep into a traditional, perfectly preserved Japanese village situated near the Fuji Five Lakes. The scenery out the window was straight out of an ancient Ukiyo-e woodblock print.
In the background, looming with terrifying, majestic grandeur against the crisp blue sky, was Mount Fuji. Its iconic, snow-capped cone looked so perfectly symmetrical it felt entirely unreal. Below it lay a pristine, mirror-like lake, reflecting the mountain.
But what caught Shradha's eye were the trees lining the cobblestone paths of the village.
"Aarav, look!" Shradha pointed eagerly. "Are those... cherry blossoms? But it's winter!"
Aarav leaned over, looking out her window, his chest pressing warmly against her shoulder. "They are. They're called Fuyuzakura. Winter cherry blossoms. They bloom twice a year, once in spring and once in the middle of winter. It's a hidden gem."
The cab pulled up to a stunning, traditional Ryokan (Japanese inn) made entirely of dark wood and paper shoji screens.
Waiting at the entrance was the host, a diminutive, incredibly sweet-looking elderly Japanese woman wearing a beautiful floral kimono.
As Aarav and Shradha stepped out of the cab, the old lady bowed deeply.
"Irasshaimase!" she greeted warmly.
Aarav bowed in return, stepping forward. "Konnichiwa. Yoyaku shite ita Pathak desu. Osewa ni narimasu."(Hello. I am Pathak, I have a reservation. Thank you for hosting us.)
The old woman, Miyoko-san, beamed, her eyes crinkling into joyous slits at Aarav's polite Japanese. She then turned her attention to Shradha, her eyes widening in genuine appreciation.
"Oh! Very beautiful!" Miyoko-san said in broken, heavily accented English. She brought her hands together, pointing at Aarav, then at Shradha. "You... husband and wife? Married couple? Very beautiful couple!"
Shradha blushed, panicking mildly as she tried to form a response without knowing the language. She resorted to rapid hand gestures, waving her hands in front of her chest and pointing to her ring finger.
"No, no, not married yet!" Shradha laughed, her hands fluttering. "Soon! Engagement soon!"
Miyoko-san watched the hand gestures, her eyes lighting up in understanding. "Ah! Konyakusha! Fiance! Soon married! Omedetou! Congratulations!"
The old lady reached out, grasping Shradha's hands with surprising warmth, patting them affectionately. She then gestured for them to follow her inside.
The Ryokan was a masterpiece of minimalist aesthetics. Tatami mats, low wooden tables, and the soothing smell of cedar and green tea.
After showing them to their room, Miyoko-san returned carrying a carefully folded package. She presented it to Shradha with a bright smile.
"For you," Miyoko-san said in English, pointing to the fabric. "Tonight... Matsuri. Festival in village. You wear this."
Shradha carefully unfolded the fabric. It was a stunning winter Yukata—a casual, traditional Japanese robe made of thick, luxurious cotton, dyed in a deep, midnight blue with intricate silver cherry blossom patterns embroidered across the silk obi (belt).
"Aarav, this is beautiful," Shradha gasped, running her fingers over the fabric. "Tell her thank you! Thank you so much!"
Aarav translated Shradha's gratitude, bowing respectfully. Miyoko-san laughed, waving her hand dismissively, and offered to help Shradha put it on later that evening.
A few hours later, the winter sun dipped below the horizon, and the quiet village transformed.
Aarav stood in the hallway of the Ryokan, adjusting the collar of his black turtleneck. He heard the gentle slide of the shoji screen behind him.
He turned around. The breath was literally punched out of his lungs.
Shradha stood there, completely transformed. Miyoko-san had helped her into the midnight blue Yukata. The thick fabric hugged her silhouette perfectly, the wide silver obi cinched tightly at her waist. Her hair was pinned up elegantly with a wooden hairpin, a few loose strands framing her face. The deep blue color contrasted spectacularly with her warm Indian skin and dark eyes.
She looked ethereal.
"Well?" Shradha asked, suddenly feeling a bit shy under his intense, unblinking stare. She nervously adjusted the sleeve. "Is it too much?"
Aarav didn't answer immediately. He walked over, his eyes completely dark, absolutely captivated. He reached out, his long fingers gently grazing the curve of her jawline, sending a shiver down her spine.
"You look..." Aarav swallowed hard, his voice dropping an octave. "You look absolutely devastating, Shradha. I don't think I can take you out in public like this. I might have to fight half the village."
Shradha let out a breathy laugh, her cheeks tinting pink. She swatted his chest playfully. "Stop it. Come on, I want to see the festival."
They walked out into the crisp, freezing winter night. The village streets were alive. Hundreds of glowing paper lanterns hung between the traditional wooden houses, casting a warm, golden hue over the falling snow and the blooming winter cherry blossoms.
It was a local Matsuri (festival). The air smelled heavenly, a mix of roasting meat, sweet soy sauce, and cold pine.
Aarav kept a protective, territorial arm wrapped tightly around her waist, pulling her close to his side to share his body heat as they navigated through the bustling, joyous crowd.
They bought steaming hot Takoyaki from a street vendor. Aarav laughed as Shradha dramatically burned her tongue on the first bite, subsequently feeding her the cooled-down pieces directly from the skewer, entirely unbothered by the affectionate stares of passing locals.
They stopped at a traditional festival game stall a ring toss. The top prize, sitting on the highest shelf, was a beautifully handcrafted, wooden hairpin with a hanging silk cherry blossom. Shradha had been staring at it for a full minute.
Aarav walked up to the stall owner, slapped a 1000-yen note onto the counter, and took the three wooden rings.
He stepped up to the line. He was a 155-kmph fast bowler whose entire career was built on hitting the base of a middle stump from 22 yards away with millimeter precision. Tossing a wooden ring onto a stationary peg from six feet away was an absolute joke.
Flick. Flick. Flick.
Three rings. Three perfect ringers, executed in less than four seconds.
The stall owner's jaw dropped. Shradha burst into laughter, clapping her hands.
Aarav smirked, accepting the grand prize from the dumbstruck owner. He turned to Shradha, gently tucking the new wooden hairpin into the intricate bun Miyoko-san had created for her, letting the silk cherry blossom dangle perfectly near her ear.
He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her cold nose. "Matches your outfit," he whispered.
They spent the next hour walking hand-in-hand under the glowing lanterns, perfectly content in the anonymous magic of the Japanese winter, completely lost in each other.
The next morning, the high-speed transport swept them away from Fuji and into the mountains of Hakone—Japan's premier Onsen (hot spring) destination.
They checked into an exclusive, ultra-luxury resort. Their suite didn't just have a balcony; it had a private, hot spring bath (rotenburo) built entirely of natural stone, overlooking a massive, snow-covered valley and a rushing river far below.
The contrast was extreme. The air temperature outside was minus two degrees, but the mineral-rich geothermal water steaming in the stone pool was perfectly, indulgently hot.
That afternoon, they stepped out into the freezing balcony in white spa robes.
Shradha shivered violently as the biting cold hit her skin. Dropping her robe, she quickly submerged herself into the steaming, crystal-clear water.
"Oh my god," Shradha groaned softly, leaning her head back against the smooth rock edge, closing her eyes in absolute bliss. The heat seeped into her bones instantly. "This is heaven. Aarav, this is literally heaven."
Aarav dropped his robe, and stepped into the water, the surface level rising slightly. He waded through the thick white steam, sitting down right beside her.
He wrapped his strong arm around her shoulders beneath the water, pulling her back flush against his chest. Shradha sighed, sinking perfectly into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist beneath the surface.
The sensation was intoxicating. The freezing winter air brushing against their wet faces, while their bodies were enveloped in boiling heat and each other's limbs.
They sat in silence for a long time, watching the snow fall over the valley, listening to the rushing river below.
"This is the first time since the World Cup started," Aarav murmured, his voice a low vibration against her back, "that my mind is completely quiet."
Shradha tilted her head back, resting it on his shoulder, turning her face so their noses almost brushed. "I'm glad. You deserve this, Aarav. You carried the weight of the entire country. Now, you just have to carry me."
Aarav smiled, leaning in to press a slow, deep kiss to her lips. The kiss tasted of the hot spring minerals and the cold mountain air.
"I'll carry you for the rest of my life," he whispered against her mouth, a promise that felt as permanent as the stone beneath them.
Feeling entirely rejuvenated, they decided to take a late afternoon walk through the quiet Hakone town, bundled up in their heavy winter coats.
As they walked past a local community park, the distinct, sharp CRACK of an aluminum bat hitting a leather ball echoed through the crisp air.
Aarav paused. He looked over the chain-link fence.
On a snow-cleared dirt diamond, a group of about a dozen Japanese high school boys were having a highly animated, very serious baseball practice. They were wearing thick jackets over their uniforms, shouting encouragements in rapid Japanese.
"Look at them," Shradha smiled, leaning against the fence next to Aarav. "They take it so seriously."
Just then, the batter took a massive swing and got a thick outside edge. The baseball flew over the backstop netting, bouncing across the sidewalk and rolling to a stop right at Aarav's boots.
A young boy in a catcher's mask came jogging up to the fence, bowing apologetically. "Sumimasen! Touku ni tonde shimaimashita!"(I'm sorry! It flew too far!)
Aarav smiled, picking up the baseball. It felt alien compared to a heavy, seam-stitched cricket ball, but the fundamental weight was there.
Instead of just tossing it over the fence, Aarav took a step back. He didn't even take his other hand out of his overcoat pocket. With a casual, effortless flick of his wrist and shoulder, Aarav threw the ball.
The baseball traveled the eighty feet to the catcher on a terrifyingly flat, laser-straight trajectory, hitting the boy's leather mitt with a violently loud THWACK.
The catcher staggered backward, his eyes bugging out behind his mask. The entire baseball team stopped what they were doing and stared at the tall foreigner in the black overcoat.
"Uso daro...?" one of the players muttered. (No way...)
The catcher ripped his mask off, running to the fence. "Anata, yakyuu senshu desu ka?!"(Are you a baseball player?!)
Aarav chuckled, shaking his head. "Iie. Kuriketto desu."(No. Cricket.)
The boys looked confused but entirely mesmerized by the arm strength. The pitcher, a cocky-looking teenager, jogged over. He pointed to the batter's box and yelled something in Japanese, gesturing wildly with his bat.
Aarav turned to Shradha, raising an eyebrow. "They want me to take a swing."
Shradha's eyes lit up with pure mischief. "Do it. Show them what the Prince can do."
Aarav smirked. He unbuttoned his heavy overcoat, handing it to Shradha, stepping onto the field in his fitted black turtleneck and dark jeans. The boys cleared the way, murmuring excitedly as he stepped up to home plate.
The batter handed Aarav a standard, 33-inch aluminum baseball bat.
Aarav grabbed the handle. He frowned, adjusting his grip. It felt ridiculously light compared to his massive, heavy MRF cricket bat. And the grip felt wrong. He instinctively lowered his hands, taking a traditional cricket batting stance, tapping the tip of the bat against the dirt.
The Japanese teenagers started laughing, pointing at his strange stance. You don't tap the plate in baseball; you hold the bat up near your shoulder.
Aarav looked back at Shradha standing behind the fence. He offered her a wicked, arrogant smirk.
"Shradha," Aarav called out casually. "Do you know what baseball essentially is?"
"What?" she smiled back.
"It's cricket with cheats," Aarav declared loudly. "The ball doesn't even bounce. It's literally just a full toss every single time. And they give you a metal stick to hit it with."
Shradha burst into laughter.
The cocky pitcher wound up. He threw his absolute best fastball.
To the high schoolers, it was a heater. To a man who faced Jasprit Bumrah and Mitchell Starc on a daily basis, the ball looked like it was floating through the air in slow motion.
Aarav didn't change his baseball stance. As the ball reached the plate, his cricket muscle memory took over completely. He cleared his front leg, creating a massive arc, and swung the aluminum bat with the exact same terrifying wrist-snap he used for his slog-sweep.
CLANG.
The sound of the aluminum bat connecting with the baseball was deafening.
The ball didn't just fly; it was launched into orbit. It cleared the outfield fence, cleared the tall pine trees behind the park, and disappeared entirely into the snowy mountainside.
The silence on the baseball field was absolute.
Twelve Japanese teenagers stood perfectly still, their mouths hanging wide open, staring at the sky where the ball had vanished.
Aarav casually lowered the bat. He looked at the pitcher, whose eyes were wide with sheer terror.
"Kore ga kuriketto desu," Aarav said smoothly, offering a polite bow. (This is cricket.)
He handed the bat back to the dumbstruck batter, turned around, and walked back to the fence. He took his overcoat back from Shradha, shrugging it on as if he hadn't just destroyed a high school baseball team's entire worldview.
As they walked away from the park, the boys finally snapped out of their trance.
"NANI KORE?!"(WHAT WAS THAT?!)"SUGOI!! KAMI-SAMA DA!"(AMAZING!! HE'S A GOD!)
Shradha was laughing so hard she had to lean against his arm for support as they walked down the snowy street. "You are such a bully!" she gasped, wiping a tear from her eye. "You just ruined baseball for those poor kids!"
"I just gave them a masterclass in hitting a full toss," Aarav shrugged modestly, a deeply satisfied smirk on his face.
He slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her close as the winter sun began to set over the Hakone mountains.
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