*For the best experience — play "Lucky Boy" from Bachna Ae Haseeno in the background while reading *
UNCLE (cheerful roar):
"Everything settled now? Time for the next round!
Are you guys ready for Round Two?"
He slammed the switch like it was the buzzer to destiny.
He baam—lights shift, beats drop.
The next track echoes across the mat—
🎶 "Nain preeto de, baija baija..."
It's Lucky Boy.
And like clockwork, she steps forward.
Zara.
The most beautiful girl after Mahi, they'd always say.
Raised in London, body like molten butter, hips curved like poetry.
She wasn't innocence.
She was temptation dressed in gold.
Where Mahi's charm was a monsoon breeze, Zara was dry heat in June—intense, direct, burning.
Her waist rolled like it had its own language.
Each step was deliberate.
Her chest popped, hips swung, back arched like she knew every eye was on her—and she loved it.
The aunties whispered behind dupattas.
Uncles looked down pretending to check their phones.
But the tension was alive.
Even the lights seemed to blush.
She'd been trained in London's best desi fusion school—
she didn't dance; she performed.
Flawlessly. Proudly. Sensually.
And the boys' team?
Crushed.
Two already collapsed on the sidelines, faces pale, egos bruised.
Only one left—
Soumik.
He didn't want to go.
Not because he was scared.
But because his eyes had only searched for Mahi all evening.
Still—
He exhaled. Stepped forward.
Like he owned the screen.
His kurta shifted with each step.
Hair slightly messy, eyes focused—he wasn't there to flirt, he was there to win.
He moved to the rhythm like he was born inside it.
Every beat matched his shoulder rolls, his footwork crisp but casual, arms swinging low then rising sharp—like he was meant to be on a Bollywood set.
The crowd leaned in.
The uncles now really checking their phones—recording.
Zara didn't expect him to keep up.
But he did.
And more.
🎶 Ho kya gazab ki tujhpe meherbaniyan
He slid around her, catching her hip roll with a smooth pivot.
🎶 Main ik nazar daalun jo tujh pe toh
Their faces close, her smirk—his stoic calm.
🎶 Badh jaaye mere saath teri yaariyan
She flipped her hair, and he twirled her with one hand, then let go, stepping back with a grin.
But then—
Zara played her trump card.
The beat slowed.
She slinked closer, gaze locked.
She held his jaw gently, fingertips trailing under his chin.
The crowd went oooh.
Her body swayed inches from his.
Her breath touched his cheek as she circled him.
🎶 Tu baahon mein aa.. ja zara... Lucky boy...
She practically sang it into his neck.
Soumik froze—eyes wide, trying not to react.
He blinked. Twice.
Mahi. Mahi. Mahi.
He repeated her name like a mantra in his head.
But for the sake of the boys' pride—he performed.
He matched her rhythm. Twirled her again.
Then dipped her just as the beat exploded.
Confetti lights burst across the mat.
The song ended—
They stood there—breathless, faces close, almost intimate.
You could hear a pin drop.
Then—
Uproar.
Claps, cheers, uncles shouting "Arre wah!!"
Bollywood-level climax.
But one pair of eyes wasn't clapping.
Mahi.
Cross-legged on the mat.
Narrow-eyed. Fingers digging into the cloth beneath her.
Jaw tight.
Jealousy wasn't her thing—but this?
Soumik glanced her way—guilty.
He tried to signal "Not my fault 🥲"
She gave nothing. Just blinked.
And now the results.
UNCLE (dramatic pause):
"With a small margin—
the winner of this round is…
SOUMIK!! Team Boys!!"
The boys screamed.
Zara smiled like she knew it all along.
Soumik?
He didn't smile.
He looked only at Mahi.
Round Three… would be personal.
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