On the third day, Nikhil was there again. And on the fourth. The fifth. The sixth. The seventh.
By the eighth day—after a full, uninterrupted week of this relentless nickname warfare—Aarav finally broke.
It had been seven whole days of psychological torture.
Sunshine had been infuriating.
Meow had been bizarre.
Muffin had been a personal attack.
And each new nickname—because of course Nikhil came up with a fresh one every single morning like this was some kind of twisted creative writing exercise—landed with surgical precision. Small, consistent taps. Like the malleus hitting the tympanic membrane again and again and again until Aarav's patience developed a perforation.
His composure—already fragile—had been hanging by a thread.
And today, that thread snapped.
It was a Monday morning. The sky was a bleak, dull grey, heavy with the promise of rain. The air felt thick, like the calm before a storm that hadn't decided whether it wanted to be dramatic or just miserable.
It matched Aarav's mood perfectly.
Nikhil, meanwhile, was already in his self-designated spot—leaning against the wall like a smug, overgrown gargoyle who had discovered human emotions and decided to weaponize them.
Aarav's gaze flickered up, resignation settling in before irritation followed close behind.
He saw him.
Of course he saw him.
He took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself. The plan was simple. Ignore. Walk past. Pretend Nikhil was nothing but a decorative pillar with a personality disorder.
He made it two steps.
Two.
Nikhil's voice came, smooth and sweet in that fake, cloying way that had become his signature.
"Looks like it's going to rain today, shortcake. You should take an umbrella."
Shortcake.
Shortcake.
Something inside Aarav didn't just snap—it shattered.
The dam broke.
The storm hit.
He whirled around so fast Karan actually flinched, caught completely off guard by the sudden movement.
All pretence of cold indifference—which, frankly, had been failing spectacularly anyway—evaporated. Gone. Replaced entirely by raw, incandescent fury.
His hands clenched at his sides, fingers curling so tight they trembled.
For a second—just one—no words came out.
Then he moved.
Quick, sharp steps that ate up the distance between them until he stood barely a foot away, forced to tilt his head up to meet that stupidly calm, stupidly amused face.
"What is your problem?!" he shouted, voice ringing through the entrance.
Heads turned.
Of course they did.
People were coming out now, drawn in by the raised voice which clearly promised a scene. This was about to become very, very public.
Aarav did not care.
"What do you want from me?!" he demanded, voice rising, frustration spilling over unchecked. "What would it take for you to just—fucking—stop bugging me?!"
He was practically vibrating with rage now, every bit of restraint he'd been clinging to over the past week dissolving into nothing.
And he didn't stop.
"Oh, no—don't even try to speak," he snapped, not giving Nikhil a chance to get a word in. "First it was sunshine. Then meow. Then muffin. Then whatever other godforsaken monstrosity of a pet name your sick, twisted mind could come up with that day! What makes you think you have the right—any right—to do any of this?!"
Nikhil's smirk had faded.
Not into annoyance or anger.
Into something else entirely.
Attention.
Pure, undivided, fascinated attention.
Aarav didn't notice.
"Is this a joke to you?" he continued, voice sharp, cutting. "Do you think I'm a joke? Some kind of 'press to annoy me' button for your amusement?"
Still nothing from Nikhil.
Not even a flinch.
Aarav pushed on, relentless.
"You think you're so cool, don't you?" he sneered. "You think you're some sort of anti-hero rebel for defying the system? For 'dismantling' hierarchy?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "I can see it in your eyes. You think I'm ridiculous."
His finger jabbed into Nikhil's chest.
Hard.
"But you know what?" he went on, eyes blazing, lashes trembling with the force of his anger, hands shaking just slightly. "You're nothing. You're none of those things. You're not a rebellious anti-hero—you're not dismantling anything. You know what you actually are?"
A beat.
"A spoiled, entitled brat who has never been told no in his entire godforsaken life. A pathetic, irritating child in an adult's body."
His voice dropped, each word deliberate, final.
"You're nothing but an overgrown manchild."
Silence fell.
Thick. Heavy. Almost tangible.
The entire entrance had gone still, frozen mid-motion, but every single pair of eyes was locked onto them.
Waiting.
Watching.
Eating this up.
Aarav stood there, breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly, the adrenaline still coursing through him.
Nikhil looked down at him.
Really looked.
At the flushed cheeks, the red-rimmed eyes, the frustration that had tipped just shy of tears. At the way his entire smaller frame trembled—not weak, but overwhelmed.
He had been yelled at.
Absolutely demolished.
By any normal standard, he should've been angry.
Offended.
At the very least, mildly insulted at all the things the senior said.
He felt none of those things.
Instead, something else settled in his chest.
Warm and satisfying.
And something softer he didn't quite have a name for yet.
He leaned down, closing the distance just enough that his mouth hovered near Aarav's ear.
His voice, when he spoke, was low and quiet.
Meant only for him.
And it was stripped—completely—of that teasing edge.
"Finally," he murmured, a real smile tugging at his lips, softer, genuine in a way it hadn't been before. "There it is."
A pause.
"There you are."
The words hung between them.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
But they hit harder than anything else he'd said all week.
Aarav stilled.
For a second, the anger faltered—just enough for confusion to slip in.
Because that—
That was not the reaction he had expected.
It was not an apology or even a comeback.
Not even more mockery.
Just… that.
He blinked, momentarily blank, the fury draining just enough to leave him disoriented.
Nikhil straightened, smile lingering—not smug this time, but satisfied.
He stepped back first.
Hands slipping casually into the pockets of his apron like this hadn't just been the highlight of his week.
And then he turned.
Walked away.
Just like that.
Leaving behind a stunned, silent Aarav standing in the middle of a crowd that suddenly remembered how to breathe.
And for the first time—
Though he wouldn't admit it, not even to himself—
Nikhil felt like he hadn't just won a petty ego game.
He'd gotten something better.