Avantika lay on her side, wide awake.

The fan overhead hummed a dull lullaby, barely helping with the humidity. The air conditioner let out a sigh every few minutes, the kind that promised cool air but never truly delivered. On the bed beside her, Meher was snoring softly, completely unaware of the minor emotional storm brewing in the next pillow over.

Avantika stared at the bouquet of red and white roses sitting on the desk.A delicate satin royal blue bow adorning the stems.The exact shade ,she wore at the palace today/

They hadn't been there when she and Meher had first entered the room earlier. They'd returned from the palace exhausted, ordered dinner, and collapsed onto the bed while scrolling through reels and tagging each other in memes. At some point, the hotel staff had knocked and dropped off "a gift from an admirer," or so the boy at the door had said with an awkward smile.

Avantika had thought it was a prank at first. Probably from one of the boys in their group.

But then she'd read the note.

You looked like an apsara today. The kind that artists die painting, and poets never do justice writing about. Royal blue suits you. But then again, I have a feeling every colour does.Tell me Apsara,do you fancy a prince,to take care of your every whim.

No name. No initials. No clue.Nothing

Just perfectly arranged roses and handwriting that was absurdly elegant, like someone who'd practiced calligraphy with royal tutors.

She frowned at the note again now, reading it for the hundredth time.

Apsara.

She wasn't even sure anyone in their twenties still used that word unless they were quoting old Bollywood lyrics or writing awkward poetry on Instagram. But the way it was written... it didn't feel like a line. It felt sincere.

And sincere freaked her out more than creepy ever did.

Because sincere meant whoever this was had actually been watching her.

"Royal blue suits you."
That meant whoever this was had seen her in that dress today.

A shiver trickled down her spine. Not the good kind.

She sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. The light was warm and low, casting long shadows across the room. The roses looked too perfect under it—deliberate, almost.

She picked up the note and turned it over again. Blank on the back.

"Creep," she muttered under her breath, but her voice didn't carry much conviction.

Because part of her—some absurd, deeply buried part—wasn't entirely scared.

She was... intrigued.

And that part annoyed the hell out of her.

The next morning, sunlight leaked through beige curtains and birds chirped with an enthusiasm Avantika did not share. She threw a pillow at Meher to wake her up and dragged herself into the bathroom.

"I had a stalker bouquet show up in the middle of the night and I still woke up with puffy eyes," she complained, staring at her reflection.

Meher yawned from the bed. "A stalker bouquet?"

"Roses. Red and white. Anonymous note calling me an apsara."

"Oof. Bold."

"I know, right?"

"Any idea who sent it?"

Avantika shrugged. "That's what bothers me. Not even a 'guess who' or a cheesy quote. Just... that."

"You sure it's not Akhil or Aman playing some dumb prank?"

"Akhil can't spell apsara without autocorrect, and Aman thinks the height of romance is forwarding good morning quotes on WhatsApp."

"Fair point."

They met the rest of the group at the hotel's rooftop restaurant for breakfast.

It was a breezy, sun-washed space with wicker chairs, hanging planters, and a view of Lake Pichola shimmering in the distance. Avantika was dressed in a casual white kurti and denims today—comfort over drama—but she still looked effortlessly put together. Hair tied in a messy bun, silver hoops in her ears, a thin stack of bangles on one wrist.

She poured herself a glass of juice and tried to push the night's mystery out of her head.

Zoya and Akhil were already mid-argument about the itinerary.

Aman was stuffing paratha like he hadn't seen food in three days.

Meher was halfway through her third cup of chai.

And Avantika?

She felt eyes on her.

Again.

She didn't say anything at first. She didn't even look around. She just focused on cutting her toast, letting the instinct simmer in the back of her head like a warning bell. Her skin had learned to recognize being watched long ago. And this—this was definitely it.

After a few more seconds, she casually turned her head to the side.

Across the restaurant, hidden in the farthest corner behind a row of potted palms, two men sat at a table. One had his head down, scrolling through his phone and muttering something into his coffee. The other was staring straight at her.

She blinked.

It was him.

Café Guy.

The one with the intense eyes. The one she'd thrown water on.

The same face. Same thick lashes. Same air of someone who was far too comfortable existing in the background, watching the world like it owed him its attention.

His eyes locked onto hers, steady. Calm.

Like he'd expected her to find him.

Her spine stiffened.

"Oh my god," she whispered to Meher, elbowing her. "He's here."

"Who?"

"The guy. The guy. Water boy."

Meher dropped her spoon. "What?! Where?"

Avantika discreetly pointed with her eyes.

Meher leaned to look and choked on her chai. "Dude, what is this—destiny or a Netflix plotline?"

"I swear to God," Avantika muttered. "If he shows up here tomorrow, I'm checking out of this hotel."

Meanwhile, at the stalker corner table...

Abhimanyu was dying.

Not because Avantika had noticed him again.

But because his brother Abhinav looked like he was two seconds away from strangling him with a paratha.

"I told you this was a bad idea," Abhinav hissed under his breath. "You followed her to her hotel restaurant?! Are you serious?"

"I didn't follow her," Abhimanyu replied calmly, sipping his coffee. "I just happened to come for breakfast."

"At this hotel?"

"Great reviews."

"On a day when she's here?"

Abhimanyu smiled.

Abhinav smacked his forehead.

"I swear, you're giving stalkers a poetic reputation. What the hell were you thinking sending roses to her room last night?"

"She liked them."

"You don't know that!"

"I know her eyes lingered on the note long enough for her to read it five times."

"You know what normal people do when they like someone? They say hello. They ask them out for coffee. They don't play sniper from balconies and sneak flowers into hotel rooms like undercover casanovas!"

"I'm not trying to be normal."

Abhinav stared at him.

Abhimanyu sipped his coffee again and smiled at Avantika across the room, not breaking eye contact.

"She's looking right at me," he said.

"Yeah," Abhinav said dryly. "Probably planning how to poison your Parantha."

Across the restaurant, Avantika exhaled and sat back in her chair.

"Okay, he's definitely the rose guy," she muttered.

"You sure?" Meher asked.

"Royal blue. Apsara. That's the same guy from the café."

"Well, you made an impression."

"I also drenched him."

"Maybe he likes being humiliated.You know some people have a kink to be humilated publically"

Avantika snorted.

But part of her couldn't deny it anymore.

There was something about his presence—eerie, yes, but also magnetic. He wasn't even trying to flirt. He wasn't performing. He was just there, like the calm eye of a storm, unwavering in his gaze. He wasn't checking his phone. He wasn't looking around. He was just... watching her.

No catcalls. No smirks. Just silence and steady admiration.

And somehow, that was more dangerous.

"Okay," Avantika muttered, setting down her fork, "I need to talk to him."

Meher's eyes widened. "What?"

"I need to know who he is and what his deal is. Because if he shows up again tomorrow, I might have to call the cops or marry him. And I'm not emotionally prepared for either."