The Holi party was at a sprawling rooftop in Bandra—open-air, fairy lights strung across bamboo poles, thandai flowing freely from steel tumblers, and a DJ spinning upbeat remixes of old Holi songs. The crowd was already a riot of color—people laughing, smearing gulal on each other’s faces, dancing barefoot on the fake grass laid out for the occasion.

Ishani had dressed simply but deliberately: a fitted white cotton shirt (one of Virat’s, stolen from his closet weeks ago, sleeves rolled to her elbows) tucked into high-waisted denim shorts that showed off her long legs. She’d left her hair loose—dark waves already catching the first flecks of pink and green powder people were throwing around. No heavy makeup—just kohl-lined eyes and a swipe of nude gloss that would soon be ruined.