The Uber Encounter
"Fatima orders an Uber home from a disastrous date, never expecting the driver to be handsome tech entrepreneur Danish—driving for 'research' on his new app. The ride becomes the journey of a lifetime."
The Uber Encounter
"Well, that was a disaster."
Fatima slumped into the backseat of her Uber, not bothering to check if the driver was paying attention. The man she'd just spent two hours with had talked exclusively about himself, his cryptocurrency portfolio, and his opinions on why Pakistani women should be "more traditional."
"Bad date?" The driver's voice was warm, amused.
She looked up—and promptly forgot her misery.
The man behind the wheel was gorgeous. Proper, unfairly gorgeous, with warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners and a smile that should require a license.
"That obvious?" she managed.
"Well, you smell like expensive perfume, you're dressed beautifully, and you look like you want to throw someone into traffic. Classic bad date energy."
Fatima laughed despite herself. "Are all Uber drivers this observant?"
"I'm not usually an Uber driver." He pulled into traffic. "I'm Danish. I run a tech startup and I'm doing this for market research. Needed to understand the driver experience for an app we're building."
"A tech bro who's actually doing field work? That's rare."
"I try to be thorough." His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. "So, want to tell me about this terrible date? I charge extra for therapy but my Yelp reviews are excellent."
Somewhere between Knightsbridge and Kensington, Fatima stopped thinking about her bad date entirely.
Danish was easy to talk to—funny, self-deprecating, genuinely interested in her work as an architect. By the time they hit traffic near Earl's Court, she'd told him things she'd never told anyone.
"Here's my real question," he said, stopped at a red light. "If that guy was so awful, why did you even go out with him?"
"My mother sent him. Rishta aunty network." She sighed. "I'm thirty-one and unmarried. In my family, that's basically a tragedy."
"I'm thirty-four and my mother has started forwarding me biodata by email. Like I'm going to find my wife in my spam folder."
"Maybe you will. 'Hot singles in your area want to send you rishta proposals!'"
His laugh was warm. "Fatima, you're the most interesting passenger I've had all night. Actually, you're the most interesting person I've met in months."
The car stopped. She looked outside—they were at her flat.
"This is me," she said, not moving.
"So it is."
Their eyes met in the mirror again, and the air in the car shifted.
"This is crazy," Fatima whispered.
"Probably."
"We just met."
"We did."
"I don't do this. Ever."
"Neither do I." Danish turned to face her properly. "But I also don't believe in ignoring something that feels this significant. So here's my proposition: you can go inside and we can exchange numbers and do this properly, with dates and family introductions and appropriate waiting periods. Or..."
"Or?"
His voice dropped. "Or you can invite me up for chai. And we can see where this goes."
She invited him up.
The chai never got made.
The moment her door closed, Danish had her pressed against it, his mouth claiming hers with a hunger that made her knees weak.
"Tell me to stop," he breathed against her lips. "If this is too fast—"
"Don't you dare stop."
He groaned, lifting her easily. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her to the sofa, laying her down with surprising gentleness.
"You're beautiful," he murmured, tracing her face. "Bohot khubsurat. I can't believe you were going to waste yourself on that ullu ka pattha."
"Less talking about him. More kissing me."
"As you wish."
His mouth traced down her neck as his hands found the zipper of her dress. When it fell away, Danish swore softly.
"I think I believe in fate now," he said, looking at her. "What else could have put you in my car tonight?"
"The Uber algorithm?"
"Shut up and let me worship you."
He made good on the promise. His mouth was everywhere—her collarbone, her breasts, her stomach—before settling between her thighs. Fatima cried out as his tongue found her, skilled and relentless.
"Danish—"
"That's it. Let me hear you."
She came on his tongue, then again on his fingers, and when he finally slid inside her, Fatima thought she might shatter entirely.
"Meri jaan," he gasped, moving within her. "I'm not letting you go after this. You know that, right?"
"Good. Because I'm not—oh—not going anywhere."
They fell apart together, and afterward, tangled on her sofa, Fatima started laughing.
"What?"
"I'm just imagining telling my mother how we met. 'Well, Ammi, he was my Uber driver...'"
Danish grinned. "We'll say we met at a tech event. Very professional."
"You want to meet my mother?"
"I want to meet everyone." He kissed her forehead. "I meant what I said. This feels significant. I'm not walking away from that."
"You're supposed to be running a startup. You don't have time for a relationship."
"I'll make time." His eyes were serious. "Some things are worth rearranging your life for."
Six months later, Danish's app launched to critical acclaim—and included a dedication to "F, who proved that the best connections aren't algorithmic."
Their wedding invitation included their Uber rating for each other: five stars.