The house buzzed with quiet excitement.

Decorations were still half-hidden, ribbons tucked away, gifts waiting patiently to be revealed later. Today was special.

Today was Kabir Rajput’s birthday.

Morning sunlight slipped through the curtains as Kabir stirred awake. He stretched lazily, checked the time, then reached for his phone. A few unread emails blinked on the screen—work, wishes, reminders of a life that never truly paused.

He smiled softly.

After freshening up, Kabir pulled on a casual hoodie and shorts, his hair still slightly damp, comfort over formality. He stepped out of his room and nearly bumped into the maid, who was carefully cleaning the flower vases in the hallway.

“Good morning,” Kabir said warmly.

The maid looked up, surprised, then smiled.
“Good morning, beta.”

Polite. Friendly. Effortlessly kind—that was Kabir.

He headed downstairs, following the unmistakable aroma of spices and something sizzling.

Straight to the kitchen.

Inside, Kashish sat on a high stool near the counter, chin resting on her hand, eyes full of admiration.

Rajveer Rajput stood at the stove, apron tied clumsily, focused like a man on a mission.

“I’m telling you,” Rajveer said animatedly, stirring the pan,
“I met this chef last week, and the dish he made—outstanding. I became his fan on the spot.”

Kashish smiled, amused.
“And now you’re trying to recreate it?”

“Exactly,” Rajveer said proudly.
“For my Jaan.”

That’s when Kabir walked in, leaning casually against the doorway.

“Good morning, beautiful people.”

Kashish turned instantly, her face lighting up.

She stood, walked over, and kissed Kabir’s forehead.

“Good morning, baccha,” she said softly.
“And happy birthday.”

Rajveer stepped forward and pulled Kabir into a tight hug.

“Happy birthday, my dear son,” he said, patting his back.
“Now tell me—what do you want for lunch?”

He grinned.
“Today, your papa will cook.”

Kabir laughed.
“Papa, you know whatever you cook is my favorite.”

He walked closer to the stove, curiosity winning.

“First, let me taste this.”

Before anyone could stop him, Kabir grabbed a spoon and tasted straight from the pan.

Kashish gasped.
“Baccha! Don’t eat from the karai!”

Kabir raised an eyebrow, chewing thoughtfully.

“Why?”

Kashish shook her head dramatically.
“They say whoever eats directly from the karai—”
“—their marriage happens in heavy rain.”

Kabir burst out laughing.

“Mom, nothing like that will happen,” he said confidently.
“That’s just a myth.”

Ignoring her protest, he dipped the spoon again and held it out toward her.

“Here. You taste too.”

Kashish hesitated.

Rajveer watched, amused.

Finally, she gave in and tasted the dish.

Kabir grinned.
“See? No thunder. No rain.”

The kitchen filled with laughter.

Outside, the decorations waited.
The day was just beginning.

And somewhere ahead, this birthday would change more than Kabir expected.

The black vanity van stood parked near the set, engines humming softly in the background. Crew members moved around with purpose, lights being adjusted, cameras tested.

Kabir Rajput stepped out of the van, confidence effortless in the way he carried himself.

Today wasn’t just his birthday.

Today was a shoot day.

A bike shoot.

His PA, Myra, followed closely, tablet in hand, voice quick and efficient.

“Okay, Kabir—first look in ten minutes,” she said.
“Then the bike entry shot, helmet sequence, and after that the slow-motion walk.”

Kabir nodded, already slipping into work mode.

“And remember,” Myra added, “the director wants intensity. Less smile. More edge.”

Before Kabir could reply, the van door opened again.

Yuvaan walked in.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black. His presence alone shifted the air.

Bodyguard. Best friend. Constant shadow.

Kabir glanced at him and smiled.

“Myra, excuse us for a minute.”

Myra hesitated, then nodded.

As she walked out, her eyes flickered briefly toward Yuvaan.

Just for a second.

A quiet crush.

Yuvaan noticed.

He gave no reaction.

Stone-faced. Professional. Untouchable.

The door closed.

The moment it did—

Yuvaan stepped forward.

“Happy birthday,” he said flatly.

Before Kabir could respond—

Punch.

Right in the stomach.

Not hard.

Not soft either.

Kabir groaned dramatically, doubling over.
“Bro—what the hell!”

Yuvaan smirked.

“Tradition.”

Then he pulled Kabir into a tight hug, patting his back.

“Happy birthday, idiot.”

Kabir laughed, hugging him back.
“You could’ve just said it.”

Yuvaan shrugged.
“Where’s the fun in that?”

For a moment, the noise outside faded.

Two friends.
No cameras.
No fame.

Just brotherhood.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Kabir, we’re ready!”

Kabir straightened, rolling his shoulders.

Game face on.

Yuvaan stepped back into his usual position—alert, unreadable.

Outside, Myra waited, unaware that behind that closed door, birthday wishes had been delivered the only way real friends knew how.

The shoot floor buzzed with energy.

Cameras rolled. Lights flared. Crew members moved in perfect coordination.

Kabir stood beside the bike, leather jacket zipped halfway, fingers resting casually on the handle. The machine gleamed under the lights—powerful, seductive, alive.

The director raised his hand.
“Action!”

Kabir looked straight into the camera.

His voice was steady. Confident. Magnetic.

He delivered the dialogue flawlessly.

“Cut.”

The director frowned slightly, tilting his head.

“Kabir,” Mr. Bansal called out, stepping closer.
“Be more romantic while saying that.”

Kabir blinked.
“Romantic, sir?”

Mr. Bansal nodded.
“Yes. Imagine you’re in love.”
A pause.
“In love with your bike.”

Kabir glanced at the bike, then back at the director.

“Okay, sir.”

“Action!”

This time, Kabir’s expression changed.

His gaze softened. His touch lingered. His voice dropped—slow, intimate, almost a whisper meant only for the machine beside him.

When he finished—

Silence.

Then—

“Excellent,” Mr. Bansal said with a satisfied smile.
“Perfect shot.”

The shoot wrapped smoothly after that.

Later, Kabir sat inside his vanity van while makeup artists gently removed the layers of foundation and contour from his face. The adrenaline faded, leaving behind quiet exhaustion.

The van door opened.

Mr. Bansal stepped in.

“Kabir, I need to talk to you.”

The makeup artists exchanged glances and quickly stepped out, closing the door behind them.

Mr. Bansal folded his arms.

“You know King’s Restaurant?”

Kabir nodded calmly.
“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Bansal’s eyes gleamed.

“Kabir, you have an excellent offer.”
“They want you as their brand ambassador.”
“A premium campaign. Only you.”
“They want you to be the face of King’s Restaurant.”

Kabir listened silently.

Then he spoke.

“Sir… you know King’s Restaurant is the rival of my father’s restaurant.”

Mr. Bansal waved it off lightly.

Kabir continued, voice firm.

“I can’t do this ad.”
“They don’t share good relations with my father.”
“I won’t betray him.”

Mr. Bansal’s expression hardened.

“Kabir, you’re at the peak of your career.”
“Refusing offers like this isn’t wise.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“Our boss—Nisha Madam—won’t like this.”

Kabir stood up.

“I can’t.”

He picked up his jacket.

“Tell Nisha Madam that I’m not doing this ad.”

As Kabir turned to leave—

Mr. Bansal’s voice dropped.

“You’re young, Kabir.”
“You’re underestimating Nisha Madam’s power.”

Kabir stopped.

“She can blacklist you.”

The word hung in the air like poison.

Kabir stood still.

Then Mr. Bansal placed a hand on his shoulder—gentler now.

“You’re like my son,” he said quietly.
“I don’t want a talented model like you to be blacklisted.”

A pause.

“You also know this industry.”
“Very famous, very hardworking models are waiting for one chance.”

Kabir’s jaw tightened.

Family on one side.
Career on the other.

And no safe ground in between.

This wasn’t just an offer anymore.

It was a test.

The city lights blurred past the car windows as Yuvaan drove steadily toward Rajput Mansion. The hum of the engine filled the silence that had followed them since they left the set.

Kabir leaned back in the seat, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

After a long pause, he spoke.

“Mr. Bansal talked to me today,” Kabir said quietly.
“About an offer.”

Yuvaan glanced at him through the rearview mirror.
“What kind of offer?”

Kabir told him everything.

About King’s Restaurant.
About being their brand ambassador.
About the threat.

Yuvaan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“You should’ve punched his nose,” he snapped.
“How dare he threaten you?”

Kabir let out a tired breath.

“He was trying to intimidate you,” Yuvaan continued angrily.
“Did he forget whose son you are?”

He scoffed.

“Your mother is one of the best chefs in India.”
“Your father owns Rajput Restaurant—world famous for its food, service, and authenticity.”

Yuvaan shook his head.
“Does that Bansal have memory loss?”

His voice hardened.

“He was the one who came to your house.”
“He said, ‘Kabir, I see potential in you.’”
“You worked with him for two years.”

Yuvaan laughed bitterly.

“And now he’s showing his true colors.”
“Such a snake of a man.”

Kabir stayed quiet for a moment.

Then—

“We signed a deal with them,” Kabir said calmly.
“I can’t back off like this.”

He turned toward Yuvaan.

“Let me talk to Mom first.”
“Before I say anything final.”

Yuvaan nodded, his anger settling.

“Yes,” he said.
“Aunty will give you the right decision.”

Then his tone softened.

“But today—forget them.”
“It’s your birthday.”

He smiled faintly.
“Tell me… what did you wish for?”

Kabir chuckled, then looked out of the window at the busy road, lights dancing like moving stars.

“I wish for a life partner,” he said slowly.

Yuvaan raised an eyebrow.

Kabir continued, voice honest, almost vulnerable.

“Someone who loves me endlessly.”
“Someone so madly in love with me that she always wants to be with me.”
“I like attention,” he admitted with a small smile.
“And I’ll cherish her like my heart’s peace.”

His expression grew serious.

“But she should respect my parents before anything.”
“And I’ll respect her parents the same way.”

He paused.

“Whatever she wants to become,” Kabir said firmly,
“I’ll help her become that.”

A soft smile touched his lips.

“Together, we’ll grow.”

Yuvaan stared at him for a second, then laughed.

“Wow,” he said.
“With zero relationship experience, you talk like you’ve been in love a hundred times.”

Kabir shot him a sharp glare.

“Yuvaan,” he said seriously,
“you know no one has ever caught my attention.”

His voice dropped.

“That’s why I’ve been single all my life.”

He looked back at the road ahead.

“I’m just waiting for that one girl.”

The car slowed as the iron gates of Rajput Mansion came into view.

Lights glowed warmly beyond them.

The gates opened.

And as they drove in, Kabir didn’t know it yet—

the girl he was waiting for was already walking her own path toward him.

Kabir stepped inside Rajput Mansion, the familiar warmth wrapping around him instantly. The house buzzed with quiet excitement—decorations half-visible, soft music playing in the background, the promise of celebration lingering in the air.

Before he could take another step—

“Kabir,” Kashish called out from the living room, turning toward him with a smile,
“go freshen up. The party is about to start.”

Kabir nodded obediently.
“Yes, Mom.”

Kashish’s eyes then shifted to Yuvaan, narrowing slightly—but her smile stayed.

“And you,” she said teasingly,
“why didn’t you come this morning, huh?”

She walked closer, adjusting his collar like she had done a hundred times before.

“You know your uncle was asking about you.”

Yuvaan rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Aunty, I was busy this morning,” he replied.
“I had to get his gift, so I couldn’t come.”

He smiled softly.
“But now I’m here.”

Kashish sighed, then patted his cheek affectionately.

“Always full of excuses,” she said, fondly.
“But it’s okay.”

The way she looked at him made one thing clear—

Kashish Rajput didn’t treat Yuvaan like a guest.
She treated him like her son.

Because in every way that mattered—

He was.

Yuvaan was an orphan.

No parents.
No surname that opened doors.
No childhood filled with certainty.

He had grown up in an NGO.

Until one birthday changed everything.

Years ago, when Kabir had turned seven, Rajveer and Kashish had taken him to an NGO to donate essentials. That day, among unfamiliar faces and shy smiles, Kabir had met a boy his own age.

Yuvaan.

Seven years old. Quiet. Watchful.

Kabir had offered him half his birthday chocolate without thinking twice.

They became friends that day.

And they never stopped being friends.

Yuvaan eventually came to stay at the Rajput house. He studied there. Grew there. Laughed there. Fought there.

He belonged there.

Until one year ago.

That evening still echoed in Rajveer’s mind.

“Uncle,” Yuvaan had said respectfully,
“I want to start something new.”

Rajveer had looked at him for a long moment.

Then nodded.

“Go,” he had said simply.
“But remember—this will always be your home.”

And it was.

It always would be.

Kabir paused on the stairs and looked back at Yuvaan and his mother, a small smile touching his lips.

Family wasn’t always about blood.

Sometimes, it was about staying.
Sometimes, it was about choosing each other—again and again.

Upstairs, the party waited.

Downstairs, love already filled the house.