For two straight years, Rohan Malhotra and his best friend Arjun had lived like brothers in a one-room flat that barely had space to breathe. They survived deadlines, skipped rent payments, and shared one broken ceiling fan and one big dream—to make it in Mumbai.
But tonight, that dream cracked.
"I'm done, Rohan. I'm going home," Arjun said, dragging his old duffel bag out from under the bed.
Rohan stirred his tea absentmindedly. "We said we'd wait two more days."
"I've been waiting for two years."
Rohan sighed. "Just two more days, man. I've got a client pitch on Monday. Mr. Singh hinted at a promotion. We're finally close."
Arjun zipped the bag sharply. "You're always close, Rohan. 'Just one more week,' 'Just one more project.' You don't get it. I'm tired. I want to go back, eat my mom's food, breathe air that doesn't smell like gutter and desperation."
"So go," Rohan snapped. "But don't expect me to come crawling behind."
Arjun paused, eyes narrowing. "You know, for a guy who barely speaks, you sure know how to burn bridges."
"Better than sitting on a sinking one."
That was it. Arjun didn't say another word. He grabbed his keys and walked out.
Rohan didn't stop him.
🌧️ Somewhere on the Streets of Mumbai
The city welcomed Rohan with thunder and unfiltered rain. Wind whipped his shirt against his skin as he wandered the streets—nowhere to go, pride too loud to return home.
His phone buzzed. Arjun. He declined the call.
Hotel after hotel turned him away. "All full, sir. Storm bookings."
By the time he reached a sleek business hotel with glowing blue lights and marble steps, he was drenched head to toe. His backpack leaked. His hair dripped into his eyes.
"Any rooms?" he asked the receptionist.
The man behind the counter gave him a tight smile. "Only the executive suite, sir. Two beds. It was reserved, but the guest hasn't shown up yet. We're releasing it due to the weather emergency."
Rohan stared at the rate on the screen.
Half his savings.
"I'll take it."
The receptionist nodded. "Room 709. Top floor."
🛏️ Room 709, 11:43 PM
Warm lighting. Fresh linen. Two queen beds. Rohan stepped inside and dropped his bag like a war trophy. It was far too classy for him—vanilla air freshener, glossy wood panels, actual hand towels.
He peeled off his soaked jacket, flung it over a chair, and sat at the edge of the bed near the window.
"Nice," he muttered. "Alone, finally."
He leaned back, let the silence sink in.
CLICK.
The door opened.
Rohan sat up straight.
She walked in like she owned the sky.
Long hair tied up in a messy bun, blazer soaked, heels clicking against the hardwood floor. She froze when she saw him.
"You're not room service."
Rohan blinked. "You're not rain."
"Excuse me?"
"Sorry. I… thought I was alone."
She stared. "This is my room. I booked it two weeks ago."
Rohan opened his mouth to argue, but the phone on the nightstand rang first.
"Sir, ma'am," the receptionist's voice buzzed through. "Apologies. Due to the rain and emergency bookings, we've placed you both in Room 709. It's the last room available. Complimentary breakfast for the inconvenience. Thank you."
The girl—Ishita Rajawat, as he would learn later—sighed loudly.
"So now I'm sharing a suite with a stranger. Fantastic."
"Don't worry," Rohan muttered. "I wasn't dying to be here either."
"Clearly. You look like you lost a wrestling match with a pothole."
"And you look like you're judging me from behind five layers of makeup."
She cracked the tiniest smirk, tossed her clutch on the dresser, and walked barefoot to the other bed.
"Fine. Stay on your side. No talking. No weird breathing."
"I wasn't planning on becoming your friend."
"Good. You're not my type anyway."
"Same."
And just like that, two strangers—wet, bitter, and equally annoyed—slid under different blankets in the same hotel room.
Outside, the storm continued.
Inside, something had just begun.