Ayan didn't look at him all day.
Not once.
He sat through lectures like a statue, his posture perfect, his focus a weapon.
The message was clear: last night never happened.
Kairo didn't push.
Not openly.
But silence can press harder than words—and Kairo knew how to make it suffocate.
He passed Ayan a stack of flyers during their shift. Fingers brushed.
Just a whisper of contact, gone before it could be real.
But Ayan felt it like a brand under his skin.
Later, in the hallway, Kairo leaned past him to pin a poster, his breath ghosting over Ayan's ear. Not touching. Not saying a word. Just close enough for warmth to bleed into the chill.
Ayan stood rigid, jaw clenched so hard it ached.
> "You really don't know boundaries, do you?"
Kairo smiled—not playful, not loud. Just a small curve that shouldn't have felt like fire.
His voice was low when it came, silk stretched over steel.
> "Funny. For someone who hates me, you notice every time I cross one."
The words slid under Ayan's skin like a blade.
He wanted to bite back. To carve that calm out of Kairo's face.
But his throat locked.
So he turned.
Walked away with steps sharp enough to echo.
Like running without running.
Behind him, Kairo watched—still, quiet, his eyes holding the kind of heat storms were born from.
And as Ayan's figure vanished down the hall, Kairo let the thought bloom, dark and certain:
One day, you'll stop walking away.
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