( Vihaan's POV )
The hallway outside the science club was quiet — a rare kind of quiet that happened only when the final bell had rung and everyone had already vanished. Vihaan stepped out of the clubroom, still thinking about oxidation states and silently proud of how he'd wrapped up the day's presentation without fumbling. He eased the door shut, reliving the triumphant moment he'd explained redox reactions without tripping over a single term when—
"Hey!"
Vihaan flinched so hard he nearly tripped over his own feet. A sharp breath escaped him as he spun toward the voice, hand flying to his chest like some melodramatic soap opera aunt.
Kavin stood there with an unapologetic grin, clearly amused.
"Oh god—were you always this jumpy, or do I have a gift?"
"You scared the life out of me," Vihaan said, trying to sound annoyed, though the edges of his words were already softening into reluctant amusement.
Kavin just shrugged, still grinning. "I waved at you from a perfectly non-threatening distance. It's not my fault you were busy speed-walking like you were escaping a crime scene."
"Next time wear a bell."
"Or," Kavin offered, "you could just stop day-dreaming about titration curves."
Vihaan rolled his eyes, cheeks a little too warm.
"Well, you do have the stealth of a cat. Or a thief."
"Thief's a bit harsh," Kavin said, mock-offended. "I'm just efficiently silent."
Vihaan shook his head, biting back a smile. There was something infuriatingly smooth about Kavin. Like he walked around with a silent background score that only he could hear.
They walked side by side, their footsteps echoing faintly in the empty hallway.
"So, about the ceramics workshop," Kavin said casually.
Vihaan glanced over. "Right. I meant to ask—where is it even held? No one told me."
That earned him a tiny pause, and then Kavin's face lit up in a way that felt... suspiciously pleased.
"It's in the auditorium," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, trying to sound nonchalant and failing spectacularly. "I figured you knew."
Vihaan didn't reply right away. Instead, he noticed the way Kavin's lips tugged at the corners. Not quite a smile. More like... a secret.
Why did that look stir something?
His mind flickered — annoyingly — back to the day of the rainstorm. Images of the rain-soaked shed flashed—Kavin's damp curls, rain hammering overhead, the narrow space between them. He'd gone pink then too. And afterward he'd replayed the entire scene like a glitchy GIF, wondering why it flustered him. His smile back then had been a little different, more tentative. But still...
Why had that moment rattled him so much?
He cleared his throat. "Right, the auditorium. Got it."
Kavin nodded. "Great. See you there, then?"
Vihaan gave him a nod in return — firmer than he felt. "Yeah."
As they parted ways, Vihaan couldn't help but glance back just once. Kavin was already walking off, shoulders loose, humming something under his breath.
---
The clink of plates was the background music to his evening.
Vihaan set the table with practiced ease, aligning the spoons and napkins with surgical precision. His mother bustled around the kitchen, flipping rotis with one hand and whisking raita with the other while humming an old Bollywood tune that made the ladle sway like a conductor's baton. She placed the last roti in the bamboo cane dabba and turned just as his phone buzzed.
Incoming video call: Dad. Vihaan accepted; his father's familiar smile bloomed on-screen. Behind him, a window revealed overcast Munich skies—5 p.m. there, enough daylight for a desk cluttered with blueprint tubes.
"Look at my two favourites," Dad said, voice warm. "What's on the menu? I'm starving."
"Baingan bharta and rotis with Toor Dal and Rice," Vihaan replied with a smile, angling the phone so his father could see the spread.
"Baingan bharta?" Dad clutched an imaginary heart. "Torture. Your mom makes the best."
Mom slid into view, wiping flour from her cheek. "That's because you eat anything burnt and call it gourmet."
Vihaan watched the familiar banter ping-pong between them, chest loosening. They'd always been like this—his parents teasing, but so tuned to each other that even sarcasm sounded like affection.
"Prep going okay, kiddo?" Dad asked, shifting focus back to Vihaan—genuinely curious, not interrogative.
"I'm keeping up," Vihaan answered truthfully. "Doing mock tests every other day. Pace feels…manageable."
"Good. Remember breaks are part of studying. A tired brain stores nothing." He tapped his temple. "Scientifically proven."
Mom shot him a smug look. "That's what I keep telling him."
"I hear you started gardening," Dad added, turning to her.
She brightened, like someone had just watered her. "Yes! The marigolds sprouted, and my basil survived despite the rain." She paused, eyes gleaming. "Vihaan promised to build me a tiny trellis this weekend."
Dad's eyebrows lifted in playful horror. "Manual labour? My scholarly son?"
"I like carpentry," Vihaan protested. "It's—therapeutic."
"Look at him, multi-talented," Dad said proudly. "Soon you'll be performing brain surgery and landscaping side-yards."
They all laughed. Then Mom tapped her watch. "Endorphin time. Jogging track's calling you."
Dad groaned. "The track is cold and judgmental."
"Go, before it gets dark," she insisted, soft but firm. "We'll video you stretching."
"Cruel woman," he said, blowing a kiss. "Love you both."
"Call again soon!" Mom chimed, and with a final wave he ended the call.
The silence afterward felt cozy, like a quilt still warm from sunlight.
"Ceramics workshop tomorrow," Vihaan ventured while stacking plates.
Mom's gaze warmed further. "Sounds exciting. Who roped you in?"
"A friend from the arts club. Kavin."
"Kavin?" She repeated the name thoughtfully. "I like that you're branching out. Different interests, different perspectives—keeps life colourful."
Colourful was one word for it. Vihaan nodded. After dinner, he helped wash the dishes before retreating to his room, determined not to overthink how colourful Kavin's smile made his insides feel.
He stood in front of his closet like it was a high-stakes exam.
It's just a workshop, he told himself.
And yet, thirty minutes later, his bed looked like a tornado had hit it.
He finally settled on a slate grey Henley shirt, soft at the sleeves and fitted just right, paired with clean jeans and white sneakers. Casual, but not clueless. Approachable, but not trying too hard.
Not that it matters, he reminded himself for the fifth time.
---
Chemistry class the next day was a blur. Mostly because every time Vihaan glanced up, Kavin was somehow already looking at him.
During a moment when the teacher's back was turned, Kavin caught his eye and winked — subtle, quick, and far too smug.
Vihaan's stomach did something traitorous.
He nodded back like nothing happened. But he definitely wasn't paying attention to valency anymore.
After class, Kavin strolled up beside him, balancing a water bottle on his head like it was the most normal thing in the world.
"Hey, just in case we get separated in the creative chaos—wanna swap numbers? I'll be your GPS"
Vihaan pulled out his phone without thinking. "Yeah, sure."
"See, now if you do get lost, you can text 'SOS' and I'll come rescue you—probably with a cape made of drop-cloths."
"Rescue at your own risk," Vihaan said, then softened. "Thanks, though, What's the plan between now and four?"
"I have art prep—mixing glazes, checking the kilns. Wanna sneak a preview?"
Vihaan hesitated. "Wouldn't I be intruding?"
"Please. I need someone to admire my secret stash of cobalt blue." Kavin tilted his head. "Plus, I'll walk you to the auditorium later. Personal GPS, remember?"
"All right, GPS," Vihaan said, amused. They exchanged a look that felt like a handshake stretched into something softer.
"Well," Kavin finally said, rocking on his toes, "4 p.m. Don't ditch me."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Numbers exchanged. Smiles that lasted a little too long. And then they parted again.
---
At 4 PM, just a few hours after school had let out, Vihaan was back on his cycle, hair still a little damp from the post-lunch shower. He'd showered, re-combed his hair, nearly reapplied deodorant twice. Ridiculous. But he blamed the July humidity.
He slowed down as the school gates came into view, heart beating a little faster than necessary. The sun had mellowed into honey, casting golden shafts through the trees. The building looked quieter, almost unfamiliar in the afternoon stillness.
Bicycle secured, he crossed the courtyard where tree shadows striped the ground like piano keys. From the auditorium's open side-door drifted lively chatter, the faint metallic clink of tools on kiln shelves, and a drifting scent of clay—cool, earthy, full of possibility.
Vihaan paused on the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. Somewhere inside, Kavin was probably gesturing wildly about glaze viscosity. Somewhere inside, answers might—or might not—exist about why a rainstorm shed and a single wink could upend his pulse.
Either way, he stepped forward.