Playing the Field

It was the kind of London morning you read about in slow romance novels —
gray skies, mist over the river, and cafés humming with soft jazz and the scent of croissants.

Kavya and Shubman sat by the window of a tiny Notting Hill café.
She wore his navy jumper over leggings, no makeup, just lip balm.
He had on a beanie and glasses — enough to keep fans from noticing… for now.

“I think I could live like this,” she mumbled, pulling her warm cup to her chest.

What? Disguised as a sleepy writer in a café corner?”

“Exactly. No media kits. No edit deadlines. Just stories and muffins.”

He reached across the table and stole a piece of her brioche.

“Plot twist,” he said, chewing. “The cricketer falls for the writer. Or is she a runaway media strategist?”

“No, she’s the mystery. He’s the obvious one.”

“Obvious?”

“Please. You’re wearing a BCCI hoodie in Notting Hill.”

They wandered into Daunt Books, a charming Edwardian store with stained-glass skylights and endless shelves.

Kavya disappeared into the travel section.
Shubman skimmed poetry.

A few moments later, she looked up to find him standing across the aisle, holding up a book titled “When Strangers Become Stories.”

“Too on the nose?” he asked.

“Painfully,” she smiled.

They bought it anyway.

On the receipt, the cashier scribbled a small note:

“You both look like a story in progress. Don’t stop writing it.”

They reached their hotel’s rooftop lounge around golden hour — a quiet space with a view of Tower Bridge in the distance, the city lights just starting to flicker on.

As they leaned over the railing, a soft voice interrupted them.

“Excuse me…”

They turned.

A young girl, maybe twelve, holding a notepad and a phone.
She looked nervous.
Her eyes darted between the two of them.

“Sorry, but… can I take a photo with you?”

Shubman smiled, already used to this — but the girl turned to Kavya.

“With you. My sister wants to be a sports journalist. She follows all your BCCI vlogs. She says you’re why girls think they can work in cricket.”

Kavya blinked. Visibly stunned.

“Me?”

“You made it look cool. Real. Not about the boys, just about the game.”

Kavya crouched down, heart thudding as the girl handed her the notepad.

“Can you sign it?”

Shubman watched her — a soft awe on his face as she smiled, signed, and thanked the girl like she’d been doing this all her life.

When they were alone again, he nudged her gently.

“That’s a first, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “And it felt… really good.”

“Get used to it, Kavya Singh. You’re not behind the camera anymore.”

They curled up later on a hotel sofa, city lights below, her head on his chest, the poetry book between them.

“You know what I’ve realized?” she murmured.

“Hmm?”

“This — us — doesn’t need a caption anymore.”

He kissed her hair.

“It never did.”