The Houses Opposite Each Other Before Harry Bullar and Smriti Mandhana became part of each other's lives, there were two families living on opposite sides of the same quiet road. Villa Eight belonged to the Bullars. It was rarely silent. The front door was almost always open, the dining table was never meant for only the people who lived there, and every conversation somehow became louder than necessary. Mr. Bullar was the kind of father who hid his concern behind humour. He enjoyed telling stories about his daughters, especially the ones they repeatedly asked him not to tell. He believed family problems could be solved with patience, tea and a conversation long enough for everyone to forget why they had been angry. Mrs. Bullar was the centre of the house. She knew who had eaten, who had lied about eating and who was upset even before they understood it themselves. She could stop an argument with one look and restart it with a single innocent question. Her affection was never dramatic. It appeared in additional food on a plate, medicine placed beside a glass of water and lights left on until every daughter returned home. Their eldest daughter, Harry , carried the house without admitting she was carrying anything. She was a cricketer, a captain and a woman accustomed to making decisions before others had finished explaining the problem. Her temper arrived quickly, loudly and without warning. People often remembered that first. They remembered the raised voice. The impatient instructions. The sharp answers. What they rarely stayed long enough to notice was everything that followed. Harry would scold the watchman for carrying something heavy and then carry it herself. She would shout at the children during practice and secretly replace a broken bat before the next morning. She would complain about responsibility while accepting more of it than anyone had asked her to. People remembered her storms. Only her parents knew how peaceful she became once the

Smriti has just landed her biggest contract yet: renovating a historic, crumbling mansion in the hills. The catch? The firm she's forced to work with is run by Harman, a woman who treats a sledgehammer like a magic wand and thinks "aesthetic" is just a fancy word for "expensive."

Due to Smriti and Jemimah's curiosity they became a part of a Crime Scene and later dragged Harman with them to help them out of the situation !!! (Yeh sirf ek fanfiction h toh kripya kr ke isse dil pe na le, kahi aur lein...Thank You. {This is just a work of fanfiction, so please don't take it to heart. Take it somewhere else instead... Thank You.})

One photo. One rumor. One fake relationship. Vice-Captain Smriti Mandhana is caught in a scandal just before the Women's World Cup. To save her and the team, Captain Harmanpreet Kaur pretends to be her girlfriend - but pretending soon starts feeling dangerously real. A sapphic romance of cricket, lies, and unexpected love.

On the field, they're unstoppable. Off the field, they're navigating the game of love-and it's anything but easy. A Harmandhana Story ft. Radhemah and IWCT

Love wasn't in their plans; fortunately, fate didn't ask for their permission. An IWCT Fanfiction

S > I left the field five years ago when the only heartbeat that mattered stopped in my arms. I promised I'd never let anyone get that close again-until I was assigned to protect a woman who refuses to stay in the shadows. H > My father calls this protection; I call it a gilded cage. I've spent thirty-seven years breathing filtered air and watching the world through bulletproof glass. Then he hired a ghost to guard me, and for the first time, I actually feel like I'm in danger of losing my heart. A Harmandhana Story.