Arohi's POV
I chose the seat across from him.
Not beside.
Not diagonally.
Directly opposite.
It wasn't random.
Vedant Kapoor always sits at the second-row corner table, near the window. Predictable. Efficient.
I used to admire that from a distance.
Today, I wanted to interrupt it.
He looked up when I sat down. Just briefly.
His eyes flickered with something—surprise, maybe. Or suspicion.
I opened my notebook. Blank page. No intention of writing.
I could feel his discomfort.
It wasn't loud.
It was in the way he tapped his pen twice, then stopped.
After a few minutes, I leaned forward. "Vedant, can I ask you something?"
He nodded, cautious. "Sure."
I turned my notebook toward him. "This derivation. I know it's correct, but I don't like how it's explained. Can you walk me through it?"
He frowned. "You don't like how it's explained?"
I smiled.
And he froze.
Not visibly.
But I saw it—the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his eyes held mine too long before darting away.
"I like clarity," I said. "And you're annoyingly good at it."
He blinked. Looked down at the page.
Started explaining.
I didn't interrupt.
Didn't take notes.
Just watched.
He explains like he's afraid of being misunderstood.
Like every word is a bridge he's building carefully, afraid someone might fall through.
When he finished, I said, "You explain like you're trying not to lose someone."
He looked up. "What does that mean?"
I shrugged. "It's a compliment. Sort of."
I smiled again.
Second time.
Same day.
He looked away. Checked his phone.
His fingers were still.
I packed up slowly.
No rush.
No tension.
As I stood, I paused. "Thanks, Vedant."
He nodded, still not meeting my eyes.
"You're not used to me being nice, are you?"
He looked up. "No. I'm not."
I smiled one last time. "Good. Keeps things interesting."
And I walked away.
I didn't look back.
But I knew he was still sitting there.
Notebook open.
Pen in hand.
Thinking about a smile he wasn't ready for.