Arohi's POV
I always sit second row, far right.
Not because it's better.
Because it's neutral.
Close enough to observe, far enough to remain untouched.
But today, I arrived early.
Not for the professor.
For the seat.
His seat.
Second row, far left.
By the window.
Filtered light. Neem tree swaying like it knows something I don't.
I sat down.
Not in his chair.
Beside it.
And waited.
He walked in five minutes later—hair damp from the rain, hoodie half-zipped, a book tucked under his arm like he wasn't sure why he'd brought it. He paused when he saw me. I didn't look up. Just shifted slightly to the right—leaving the window-side chair open.
He hesitated.
Then sat.
I didn't speak.
Didn't glance.
Just opened my notebook and began underlining something irrelevant.
I could feel him trying to focus.
Failing.
His elbow was close.
Too close.
I leaned in.
Not enough to touch.
Just enough to remind him I could.
"Did you revise last night?" I whispered.
He nodded. "Yeah."
I smiled.
Third time this week.
I was keeping count.
"I didn't," I said. "Thought I'd borrow your brain today."
He swallowed. "That's not how it works."
I tilted my head. "You sure?"
He looked out the window.
The neem tree was still swaying.
But he wasn't breathing the same way.
I scribbled on my notebook and nudged it toward him.
You look uncomfortable. That's new.
He stared at the words.
Then at me.
And I saw it happen.
The shift.
He looked at me like I was something he hadn't prepared for.
Like I'd rewritten the rules without warning.
And I looked back.
His hoodie was navy—slightly oversized, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Beneath it, a white crew-neck t-shirt peeked out, clean and simple. His jeans were faded, not in a careless way, but in the way that suggested he'd worn them into comfort. His shoes were scuffed. His fingers ink-stained.
And his face—
Sharp jawline, softened by the way his hair curled slightly at the ends.
Eyes darker than I remembered, framed by lashes too long for someone who never noticed them.
His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something but thought better of it.
He looked beautiful.
Not in the way people say it casually.
In the way that unsettles you.
Because you weren't supposed to notice.
I picked up my pen and wrote beneath his line.
You're sitting in my seat.
I read it.
Then wrote:
I know.
No apology.
No explanation.
Just truth.
I didn't hear the rest of the lecture.
Didn't take notes.
Didn't need to.
Because for the first time, I wasn't across from Vedant Kapoor.
I was beside him.
And the window wasn't mine anymore.
It was ours.
And I hated how much I liked that.