The campus library was nearly empty that evening. Tall wooden shelves stood like silent guardians, their dusty books untouched by most students. A golden lamp flickered at the center table where Ahaana sat, arms crossed, brows furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line.
She hated group work. She hated working with strangers even more. And *him*?
She glanced at the clock, annoyed. *Late.*
Vikram strolled in five minutes later, looking like he had just stepped out of a perfume ad—buttoned-down shirt, sleeves rolled neatly, a faint, mysterious scent trailing behind him.
"Time doesn't move the same way for people like me," he said, setting his books down beside hers.
"Yeah, people like you—rich, arrogant, and allergic to clocks," Ahaana shot back without looking up.
Vikram smiled as he sat. "You've got quite the mouth on you."
"And you've got quite the ego," she said, flipping a page in her book. "Don't think I'll fall for your little smirk-and-stare routine."
"I wasn't expecting you to," he said calmly. "You're different."
Ahaana finally looked up, curious despite herself. "Different how?"
"You haven't tried to impress me," Vikram said, his voice lower now. "You haven't even tried to be polite. It's…refreshing."
She blinked, caught off guard. Her voice softened, just a little. "Well, I'm not here to impress anyone. I'm here to graduate."
Vikram tilted his head. "Do you always carry your anger like a shield?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Do you always carry your charm like a sword?"
There was silence between them. But it wasn't cold. It was charged.
Then Ahaana exhaled sharply. "Let's just finish the project. The topic is cultural myths, right?"
Vikram nodded. "Ironically fitting, don't you think?"
Ahaana raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
He shrugged, playing it off. "You seem like someone who believes in monsters."
Her lips curved, not in a smile, but in something darker. "I don't believe in monsters. I *know* they're real."
There was something in her voice—like pain wrapped in steel. Vikram leaned in slightly, sensing there was more.
But she turned the page and said, "Let's divide the work. I'll handle the research on Indian folklore. You take European myths."
He nodded, sensing the shift. She was done talking.
For now.
---
Later that night, Vikram stood on the rooftop of the library, staring at the moon as the wind whispered around him. The night always made him feel more alive—or whatever version of *alive* he still was.
Ahaana Roy.
There was something raw and restless in her. Like a volcano waiting to erupt. She hated attention but couldn't help drawing it. She pushed people away but looked like she was desperate for someone to stay.
He didn't understand why he cared.
He had met hundreds of people over the decades. None like her.
Inside her was pain. Deep pain. And maybe—just maybe—that's why she fascinated him.
Because pain was something he understood too well.
---
The next day, Ahaana sat in her dorm room, staring at the old photograph in her hand.
It was faded. A woman with soft eyes held a baby close to her chest.
Her mother.
Gone before Ahaana ever spoke her first word.
She couldn't even remember her voice.
A knock broke her thoughts. Her roommate peeked in. "Some guy named Vikram dropped this for you."
Ahaana frowned as she opened the small note.
> *"Library. 5 PM. I promise not to be charming. – V."*
She rolled her eyes but couldn't stop the smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
---
At five, she showed up.
"Glad to see you're punctual this time," she said, sitting across from him.
"I told you," Vikram said with a grin, "I learn quickly."
This time, they didn't argue. They worked. They talked. And something small, something fragile, began to grow between them.
Like fire and ice—different, dangerous—but somehow beginning to melt into each other.
They didn't know it yet.
But fate had already started writing their story.