Later that evening, she found herself in the library—not by plan, but by instinct.
The day had already given her too much. The practicals. The moment. The brush of fingers that lingered just a little longer than they should have. She needed the quiet to realign her thoughts—to let silence sort what words never could.
She didn't expect him to be there.
But there he was.
A few tables away. Same lab coat folded neatly beside him. Same sleeves rolled up. Same stillness she'd memorized without trying.
They didn't look at each other.
They never did.
But his presence was as tangible as the weight of the textbook in front of her. Unannounced but unmistakable.
She took her seat—her usual spot—and let the pages open themselves. Her pen moved out of habit, underlining things she already knew. Her thoughts, however, weren't on the words. They were on the moment that had passed between them, earlier.
The slide.
The breath.
The second that had stretched like eternity, only to dissolve like it never happened.
And yet, it had.
She could still feel it in her fingertips.
Across the room, he didn't glance her way. Not even once.
But his pen had stilled. And the way he exhaled softly, as if gathering himself, didn't go unnoticed by her.
It wasn't a scene made for anyone else.
It was just a quiet library, two bodies within its hush, sharing air and unsaid thoughts.
Time ticked forward.
It was late—11:45 PM. The library lights were dim, shadows curling around shelves like sleepy whispers. Only two people remained: her, and him.
She stood up to leave, heavy-eyed and drained. She hadn't brought her bag, and the books in her arms weighed more than her energy could carry. It was almost inevitable—they slipped from her grip and scattered across the floor.
She looked up, exhaling sharply, trying to gather herself. Too tired to even be frustrated. She let out a small groan, knelt to pick them up—
—and that's when he stepped out of the library.
Without a word, he crouched beside her, helped her gather the books. She nodded in acknowledgement, nothing more. She walked away, dragging her feet, shoulders sagging under exhaustion. He watched her, a small smile forming—it was the first time he'd seen her like that.
He walked to his car, unlocked it, and drove off toward the college gate. But in his rearview mirror, he saw it happen again.
Her books fell—again.
This time, she just stared at them on the road, then slowly sank to the ground, unmoving.
Amused and concerned, he turned the car around, pulled up beside her, and stepped out. He helped her to her feet, and once again, they picked up her books—together.
Then he insisted on driving her to her hostel. She thanked him quietly, reached for the back seat door—but he gently caught her arm, looking into her barely open hazel eyes. Her hair was tied in a loose, messy bun, strands falling across her face. She didn't fix them. She didn't care to.
He blinked, stepped back into himself, and told her to sit in the front seat instead. She didn't protest. He helped her in, careful that she didn't bump her head.
The drive took less than five minutes, but she fell asleep along the way. Deeply. He glanced at her once—then again—and kept his eyes on her for a solid two minutes when they arrived. Then, gently, he woke her up.
She thanked him, stepped out, and nearly tripped—twice. Almost bumped into a wall. Aditi, waiting outside, caught her just in time.
She gave him a nod. And as she helped her friend inside, he watched. Silent.
Aditi looked back once.
She had noticed.
He had been looking at her friend too long.
And she wasn't about to ignore that.