Chapter 3
Bad Weather
The migraine never really left.
It simply stayed quietly behind your eyes like an unpaid bill.
By Tuesday afternoon, exactly one day after the Mumbai Indians event, your entire body already felt exhausted in that deep, heavy way sleep couldn’t fix quickly anymore.
You should have rested.
Anyone sensible would have rested.
Instead, you were back in office at 8:15 AM with tied-up hair, concealer hiding exhaustion badly, and an iced coffee strong enough to legally qualify as a weapon.
Because apparently successful corporate events generated endless afterwork.
Post-event approvals. Sponsor sign-offs. Media releases. Employee engagement reports. Finance documentation.
And since you had become “reliable,” everyone naturally assumed you could handle all of it.
Your manager stopped near your desk around noon.
“Y/N, the player appearance paperwork needs final confirmation.”
“Done.”
“The sponsor media deck?”
“Sent.”
“The finance summary?”
“Mailing it now.”
“Perfect. Also one of the player representatives might come upstairs later for pending approvals.”
You nodded absentmindedly, eyes still fixed on your laptop screen.
You barely processed the sentence.
Your migraine had sharpened hours ago.
Not unbearable yet.
Just constant.
The kind of pain that made lights look brighter and sounds feel sharper.
You pressed your fingers against your temple briefly before continuing to type.
Your teammate Priya looked over.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
Lie.
You hadn’t slept properly after the match. The stadium lights had worsened the migraine. And because stronger migraine medicines triggered allergies for you, you’d avoided taking them again last night.
So now the headache simply lingered.
Growing.
Your body asking for rest while your mind ignored it professionally.
By evening, rain had started hammering against the office windows.
Mumbai looked blurred outside.
Wet roads. Yellow lights. Traffic crawling endlessly.
Half the office had already left by 7 PM.
You were still sitting at your desk fixing formatting on a presentation nobody would remember in two days.
Your screen brightness felt personally offensive now.
You closed your eyes briefly.
Mistake.
The pressure behind them pulsed harder instantly.
Great.
You reached into your bag for the weak painkillers you could still tolerate and swallowed one dry before continuing to work.
Around 8:40 PM, your manager walked past again.
“You’re still here?”
You stared at him silently for two seconds.
“Yes,” you said finally. “Because work is also still here.”
He laughed like that was funny.
You considered resignation spiritually.
“Actually good timing,” he added. “The sponsor approvals upstairs finished late. Once finance clears one last mail, you can head home.”
Sponsor approvals.
Right.
That explained why executives had been hovering around all evening.
You nodded tiredly.
Your head hurt too much to care anymore.
At 9:25 PM, you finally shut your laptop.
The office floor had gone mostly quiet now except for distant keyboards and rain crashing outside.
You packed slowly.
Every movement felt delayed.
Your migraine had spread into your neck now, exhaustion sitting heavy beneath your skin.
The elevator ride down felt endless.
You checked your phone.
12% battery.
Perfect.
Outside the lobby doors, Mumbai greeted you with violent rain and impossible traffic.
Water shimmered across the roads under streetlights while people crowded beneath tiny shelters trying not to drown emotionally.
You stepped beneath the building awning and opened your cab app.
No rides available.
Of course.
You refreshed again.
Nothing.
A flash of lightning lit the road sharply and pain shot through your head instantly.
You closed your eyes hard.
Breathe.
Just get home.
That’s it.
A black car rolled slowly near the curb.
You barely noticed.
Then the driver seat window lowered.
“You know,” a familiar voice said casually, “normal people usually leave office before midnight.”
Your heart stumbled immediately.
You looked up.
And there he was.
Tilak Varma leaned slightly against the seat, hoodie on again, curls messy, expression softer than it had been during the event.
For one dangerous second, your migraine actually disappeared behind panic.
“What are you doing here?” you asked before thinking.
His eyebrow lifted slightly.
“I work too, you know.”
You blinked.
Right.
Sponsor approvals.
Your office.
Your brain catching up slowly.
“Oh.”
“You didn’t know I was upstairs?”
“Nobody informs freshers about anything. Yeah but they do make freshers do all the work too."
“That sounds tragic.”
“It is tragic.”
A tiny smile appeared on his face.
Rain poured loudly between your silence.
He looked at you properly then.
And the smile faded slightly.
“You really didn’t rest at all, did you?”
The question caught you off guard.
“What?”
“You still look sick.”
You immediately shook your head lightly.
“It’s just migraine.”
Just migraine.
Like the pain had to become smaller before it was acceptable.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“The same one from yesterday?”
You looked away toward the rain.
“Yeah.”
“That’s not normal.”
“Neither is corporate culture.”
That earned a quiet laugh from him, but concern still lingered faintly in his expression.
“You took medicine?”
“The weaker one.”
“Weaker one?”
You sighed softly.
“I’m allergic to most migraine meds.”
His expression changed immediately.
Not dramatic.
Just attentive now.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. They trigger reactions.”
“That sounds horrible.”
“It’s manageable.”
The word slipped out automatically.
Again.
And this time he noticed.
“You say that a lot.”
You blinked.
“What?”
‘Manageable.’”
You frowned slightly.
“I mean… it is.”
“You look like you’re losing a war against fluorescent lighting.”
A laugh escaped you unexpectedly.
Small. Tired.
But real.
Rain splashed harder against the pavement nearby.
You looked back at your phone.
Still no cabs.
Still dying.
He followed your glance.
“No ride?”
“Nope.”
For a few seconds, only rain filled the silence.
Then:
“I’ll drop you.”
Immediate panic hit your nervous system.
“No no, it’s okay.”
“Y/N.”
Your brain short-circuited slightly.
Because this was the first time he had said your name.
Not pharmacy girl.
Not joking.
Just your name. How did he know that! You haven't exchanged names!! Did you?
And somehow that felt far more dangerous.
“You’re standing in heavy rain with a migraine and a dead phone,” he continued calmly. “Please stop pretending this situation is under control.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
Because unfortunately…
he was right.
And somewhere behind the exhaustion, migraine, rain, and city noise…
something about being noticed that carefully suddenly felt terrifyingly comforting. ✨
@draculauras-stuff @maroonphase @
