The library wore silence like a silk scarf—light, whispery, almost fragile. The air held a sleepy kind of stillness, sunbeams slipping through old wooden windows, scattering golden dust across the shelves.
Simran sat tucked into the farthest corner, books spread around her like a protective circle. Her brows were knitted in focus, pen dancing over paper as she scribbled notes, headphones loosely hanging around her neck, the faint echo of music humming. It was one of those rare moments she actually felt alone—not lonely, but peaceful.
And then, it shattered.
"Why does it feel illegal to find you alone?"
That voice. Smooth. Familiar. Infuriating.
Zain
He stepped into her sunlight-drenched corner like he owned the place—like the universe kept throwing him into her orbit just to mess with her pulse. His hoodie sleeves were rolled up, exposing tanned forearms, one hand lazily pushing his hair back as he tilted his head.
She didn't even bother replying. Her pen paused mid-sentence, but she refused to look up.
"There's literally one chair left in this whole goddamn library," he said, scanning the space dramatically, "And surprise, it's here. Destiny's a bit clingy today."
Without waiting for permission, he pulled the lone chair next to her. Then frowned. It was wobbly.
"Actually… no."
Before she could protest, he dragged it aside and sat behind her instead—legs spread, his frame tall and close, too close. One of his knees brushed her lower back as he leaned forward, peeking over her shoulder at her notes.
Simran stiffened.
"What are you writing, baby girl?" he murmured, voice so close she could feel it skimming her neck.
"Don't call me that," she muttered, ears turning red.
He ignored her. "You always curl your 'y' like that? Looks like it's doing a backflip."
She smacked the notebook shut.
"Zain," she warned, without turning around.
"Yes, sunshine?"
That made her whip her head back.
"I'm not—"
But she stopped. Because the way he was looking at her—it wasn't playful this time. It was slow. Intense. His gaze flicked down to her lips for a second too long. And then back to her eyes. Like he was trying to figure out what part of her made his heart beat faster.
And just when the moment stretched too tight, he smiled.
"You've got ink on your cheek," he said softly.
Before she could swipe at it, he leaned in. Thumb brushing her cheekbone—deliberately slow. Her breath caught. Her heartbeat nearly skipped out of her chest.
"Got it," he whispered. But his thumb lingered.
She stood up so fast her chair almost toppled. Her backpack hit the floor. "I have to go," she said quickly, voice too high.
Zain didn't move. Just watched her, lazily, eyes hooded. "You forgot your pen."
She turned. "Keep it."
But he wasn't holding the pen.
Between his fingers… was her silver hairpin. The one she hadn't even realized had slipped out.
"I think I'll keep this," he said, voice low. "Until you ask nicely for it."
Simran stared at him, cheeks blazing, then spun on her heel and walked off, every nerve in her body still lit up like fireworks.
She didn't see the figure leaning against the bookcase in the next aisle—arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Junaid.
He watched the entire scene unfold. His eyes followed her retreating figure, jaw set, grip tightening around the notebook in his hand.