The campus library after dark was a different world. Shadows stretched long across the floor, the hum of fluorescent lights the only sound left. The last of the students shuffled out, leaving only Ananya—and unfortunately, Riyan—behind.
"Closing time in ten minutes," the librarian warned before disappearing down the aisle.
Ananya shot Riyan a pointed look. "See? If you hadn't wasted two hours doodling basketball plays on your notes—"
"Correction," he interrupted, leaning back with a grin, "they were strategic diagrams. You just don't appreciate art."
She groaned. "We're never going to finish this at this rate."
As if the universe wanted to punish her, the lights flickered—and went out.
Total darkness swallowed the room.
Ananya gasped, clutching her notebook. "What just—"
"Relax," Riyan's voice came from the other side of the table, low and calm. "Backup generator usually kicks in… eventually."
A minute passed. Still nothing.
Her pulse quickened. She hated the dark. Always had. She tried to mask it, but her shaky breath betrayed her.
"Hey," Riyan said softly. A lighter flared, casting his face in a warm, golden glow. For the first time, the cocky grin wasn't there. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," she lied, too quickly.
He tilted his head. "You're a terrible liar, bookworm."
The flame flickered between them, shadows dancing. He leaned closer across the table, the faint scent of cologne and paper-thin bravado wrapping around her. "Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."
Her heart hammered. She hated that it did.
The silence stretched—too close, too charged. She dropped her gaze, forcing her voice steady. "We should… focus on the project."
"Sure," he said, but his tone carried a smile she could feel in the dark.
When the lights finally blinked back on, she nearly jumped. Riyan was still watching her, pen in hand, as if nothing had happened. Except everything had. The air between them had shifted—dangerously so.
Ananya forced her eyes back to her notes. "Back to work."
"Of course," he said, scribbling something onto his page. A beat later, he slid it across the table.
She frowned, reading the messy scrawl: Relax, bookworm. You're safe with me.
Her chest tightened. She wanted to roll her eyes, wanted to snap back—but instead, she tucked the note into her book, hidden, her cheeks burning.
This project was supposed to be a nightmare. So why did it suddenly feel like the most dangerous kind of dream?