It was a regular Tuesday at Delhi University. The sun was out, the chaos of students filled the air, and the courtyard was alive with the smell of chai, samosas, and ambition.

Avantika adjusted her bag, still chatting with her friends about an upcoming project when she slowed to a halt.

There it was.

Parked like a sleek panther outside the college gates — a glossy black SUV, window tinted, engine quietly humming like it didn't know it was meant to sit still.

But what stole the air from her lungs wasn't the car.

It was the man leaning casually against it.

White shirt. Crisp. So white it practically glowed under the Delhi sun. Navy blue pants, tailored so perfectly it made her blink twice. Aviators perched on his nose like he belonged on a GQ cover, not a university campus.

And then he smiled.

That boyish, heart-thieving smile.

"Is that...?" her friend Meher squinted.

"Bro... he looks like one of those Netflix India original characters," said Ayaan, her classmate, sounding personally offended.

Avantika didn't reply. She was too busy trying to process how he looked so... effortless.

Abhimanyu straightened as she neared, walking up with his usual confidence but a softness that only she ever seemed to unlock. He opened the passenger door without a word and looked at her.

She raised an eyebrow.

"You know this is not normal, right?"

He grinned. "Is it working?"

"No."

"Yes," her friends chorused behind her, already filming with whispered commentary.

She sighed and climbed in.

The door shut with a solid thud, blocking out the world. Inside, it was blissfully cool. She turned to him, ready to scold, only to freeze again.

In his lap was a plate.

A plate.

Of steaming momos.

He turned to her with all the charm in the world, picked one up, gently blew on it, dipped it in red chutney like a ritual, and held it to her mouth.

She blinked.

"I—are you feeding me?"

"Yes." He didn't even hesitate.

"Why?"

"Because you get cranky when you're hungry. And I don't like cranky dinosaurs."

She groaned, biting the momo anyway, mostly because it smelled incredible.

"Why do you like taking care of me?" she mumbled, mouth full.

He smiled, a little more tenderly now.

"Because you let me."

Her throat tightened for a second, but she didn't say anything. He fed her another, and she nudged his arm.

"You do realize you look like a Bollywood scene right now, right? All sunglasses and confidence and mystery."

"I was going for subtle."

"You parked a luxury SUV outside DU. Subtle died."

He just shrugged and pulled out a tissue, gently wiping the corner of her mouth.

"You look tired," he murmured.

"It's uni, not a spa."

He smiled. "Tell me about class?"

"History of Indian Politics. We covered the Emergency period. I was almost going to yell at the professor."

He looked amused. "Why?"

"Because he called Indira Gandhi a 'misunderstood idealist'. I cannot."

He chuckled, setting the now-empty momo plate on the console. "You're going to become a menace in Parliament one day."

"That's the dream," she said proudly.

"So what now?" he asked, hands on the wheel.

"I wanted to go to the library near CP. I've got a paper due, and they have this rare compilation of partition testimonies that I really want to dive into."

He blinked. "That's... heavy."

"History is heavy. Doesn't mean I don't enjoy it."

He looked at her for a moment longer, like he was seeing her in a new light. Then he turned the key and pulled away from the curb.

"Then to CP we go."

The car pulled into the narrow lane outside the heritage library in Connaught Place. Abhimanyu got out, walked around, and opened the door for her.

She rolled her eyes. "You don't need to act like a chauffeur."

"I'm not acting," he said with mock seriousness. "I'm just dramatic."

She gave a tiny laugh, the kind that came with a shake of her head and a hidden smile.

Inside, she immediately found the reading room. The library was gorgeous — all old wood, colonial architecture, and the smell of books that had lived through decades of touch. She pulled him along, her voice low but excited, explaining which section held independence-era letters and which one had court records from the Mughal era.

He let her take the lead, walking a step behind her with his hands in his pockets, eyes only on her, not the history around them.

Finally, she found the shelf she was looking for, her eyes lighting up.

"There it is."

He watched her skim the spines like a practiced scholar, pulling down a dusty tome with care and sitting at one of the corner tables.

She didn't notice when he disappeared for a few minutes.

She only realized it when he returned and placed a hot cup of chai beside her.

"Library chai?" she asked, amused.

"From the stall outside. I told the guy it was for a future Prime Minister. He gave it free."

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was radiant.

She worked, scribbled notes, highlighted quotes, while he sat next to her drawing in his sketchbook. Every so often, she'd lean over to check what he was working on — and sure enough, the page slowly filled with her.

Her reading posture. Her messy bun. Her sheer kurti and her bare waist where it slid up slightly as she leaned forward.

She caught him staring and narrowed her eyes.

"Fetish," she muttered.

He flushed. "No! I mean—yes, but not—"

She giggled. And then went back to reading.

The sun had dipped by the time they were in the car again.

"I've never had a boy drop by my university and feed me momos," she said softly.

"Do you like it?"

"I don't hate it."

That was as close to a yes as she gave.

He reached out and took her hand, lacing their fingers together on the console.

She let him.

And maybe she even smiled, just a little, at the way it felt — like they were writing a story neither of them quite knew the end of yet.