They didn't leave immediately after the class ended. The lecture hall emptied around them, conversations fading like waves pulling back from the shore. Aanya was still zipping her bag, a little slower than usual. He sat quietly, watching dust particles float through the slant of sunlight at the window.
He didn't know why he wasn't moving. Maybe he didn't want to.
Maybe she didn't either.
"You ready?" she asked, standing up with a half-smile, adjusting her dupatta like it was a shield.
He nodded, rising to his feet. "Yeah."
They fell into step without thinking, walking side by side through the corridor. The walls echoed with their footsteps, a kind of silence that made room for thoughts. He didn't look at her, not directly, but he was aware of her. The slight shuffle of her feet, the way her fingers played with her scarf when she was thinking. He'd seen it before, but today, it sat with him longer.
At the water cooler, they paused. She leaned against the wall, rubbing the back of her neck, her brows knit like she was trying to solve a puzzle only she could see.
"Tired?" he asked, soft.
"A bit. You?"
He gave a half-smile. "Tired of being tired."
She chuckled lightly. "We sound like old people."
He looked at her then, properly. "Old people don't look this… spirited."
A pause.
She tilted her head, raising a brow. "Was that a compliment?"
"Maybe," he said, amused at himself for not dodging it.
There was a comfortable silence after that. Not loaded, not tense. Just… easy. Like something was slowly opening between them.
She looked around, then said, "You wanna sit outside for a bit? I don't feel like rushing back to the crowd."
He nodded. "Yeah, I'd like that."
They found a quiet spot on one of the old stone benches tucked beneath a tree on the campus lawn. Not many students lingered there. The breeze stirred the leaves above them, casting shadows that danced on the ground.
She sat with one leg curled beneath her, sipping water from her bottle, glancing at the sky like she was reading something only she understood. He sat a little away, arms stretched out along the back of the bench, head tilted back.
"You ever wonder," she began, "if we'll remember these days exactly as they happened?"
He thought for a second. "I think we'll remember the feeling more than the details."
"And what's the feeling right now?" she asked, looking at him.
He hesitated. Not because he didn't know the answer, but because he wasn't ready to say it.
"Still figuring it out," he said instead.
She nodded, accepting the half-truth. "Me too."
Their hands were still apart. Their shoulders weren't touching. But the space between them was shrinking, almost imperceptibly.
It wasn't about touch—not yet. It was about awareness. The kind that grows slowly, like ivy.
She laughed suddenly, at a bird trying to balance on a wire, wings flapping in confusion.
He watched her laugh and felt something shift. Something that had nothing to do with physical closeness and everything to do with being known. Her laugh had become his favorite sound without his permission.
He didn't say it. He just smiled to himself, hoping the feeling would stay a little longer.
They sat like that, beneath a tree that had probably outlived many love stories—quiet, slow, unsure.
But something was growing.
And neither of them wanted to pull away from it.
There was a breeze, but neither moved much. Just enough space between them to breathe—but barely.
She reached into her bag to pull out the same emergency biscuit packet she'd offered him the other day.
"Déjà vu?" she said, tearing it open.
He chuckled, watching her from the corner of his eye. "I knew you'd bring those again."
She held one out for him. "I knew you'd expect me to."
His fingers brushed hers as he took it. Warm skin against warm skin. It lingered just a beat too long. Enough to register. Enough to shift the air.
He looked away first, focusing on the biscuit like it held answers. But the tension didn't go anywhere—it just settled deeper into his chest.
She leaned back, letting her head rest against the tree bark. Her dupatta slipped slightly off her shoulder, and his eyes—traitorous and stupid—noticed. She didn't fix it right away. Maybe she didn't care. Or maybe she didn't realize.
And now he couldn't unsee it.
He shifted slightly, placing both hands on his thighs, trying to ground himself. But his body had a mind of its own. He could feel it—his chest tightening, breath just a bit heavier, mind suddenly too aware of her presence. Her scent. The curve of her arm resting near his. The soft inhale-exhale from her lips.
What the hell is happening to me? he thought.
It's not like she's doing anything. She's just sitting.
You've sat with her a dozen times before. Why does this feel different now?
Why does your pulse feel like it's trying to run away from you?
"Are you okay?" she asked, noticing the quiet shift in him.
"Yeah," he replied too quickly. "Just... zoning out."
She hummed, still watching him.
"It's weird," she said quietly. "Sometimes when I sit near you, it feels like the air changes."
His eyes met hers. Something in him stilled. Something in her… flickered.
"Do you feel that too?" she asked, her voice low. Not teasing. Not bold. Just genuinely unsure.
He held her gaze. "Yeah," he admitted. "I do."
Silence again. But not comfortable this time. Not cold either.
Just alive.
She looked down at her hands, playing with the empty wrapper.
His fingers twitched. He didn't move. He couldn't. If he did—even slightly—it might tip something over. He didn't trust himself right now. Not with her this close. Not with her scent clouding his reason. Not with the memory of her fingers still ghosting over his.
She's not yours, he reminded himself.
This is nothing. Don't make it something.
Don't ruin what's soft and good between you two.
But when her knee brushed against his—just slightly, maybe even by accident—he felt it like a jolt.
And she didn't move it away.
His jaw clenched.
The sexual tension wasn't loud. It wasn't aggressive. It was quiet. Intoxicating. Like the hum of a song you know by heart but never sing aloud.
She eventually stood up, brushing off her kurta, the moment fading like mist.
"You coming?" she asked.
He nodded, getting up slowly, willing the rush of heat in his body to cool down.
She walked a step ahead, casual, unaware—or pretending to be. And he followed, a storm brewing behind his steady pace.
God help me, he thought.
Because I'm starting to want things I shouldn't.