I truly hope you all will leave some inline comments (comments beside specific paragraphs or dialogues).

⭐I ask a question at the end of every chapter. If you want try to answer it.

Divya

Should I launch myself from this car like a missile and land on the damn moon where I don’t have to think about staying with a stranger and it’s a man?

This is a fucking nightmare. I didn't sign up for this. Wait. I did. Ugh, stupid me!

I press my palms to my face, take a deep breath, and then snap—

"No… no… haaaah… you’re kidding, right? Haah? Haaaah? Tell me??"

My voice goes up three octaves in panic. My hands flail a bit. I’m having a moment.

"That fucking big-ass house with fucking several rooms has only ONE bed?!"

I point an accusing finger at him, as if he’s personally betrayed all women everywhere.

He blinks at me. His expression?

Like he just accidentally stepped on a landmine and doesn’t know whether to run or apologize.

His mouth opens a little. Then closes. Eyes shift forward.

He doesn’t know what to say.
Good. He better not.
If he says “you can sleep on the couch” I will actually combust.

"I mean I know you are distressed but this is not how you talk to someone… I am your professor… you're cursing a lot, which I will definitely not take nicely. Maybe circumstances have made this situation but… let's just go and we’ll try to solve it."

His tone is calm, stern but not cold. Just… controlled.

And that makes it worse somehow.
Because he’s right

I mean, I… I shouldn’t have snapped like that. He’s the only one who’s helping me right now.

Even if all this feels like a chaotic, surreal fever dream… he’s been there. From the start.

I sigh. The anger simmers down like boiling milk taken off heat.

"...Sorry."
I murmur it more than say it. I look down, suddenly aware of how tense my shoulders are. I release them slowly.

The car is silent for a moment.

God, I hate saying sorry. But sometimes, it’s heavier to carry guilt than to just let it go.

I didn’t mean to yell. Not like that. Not to him.

He doesn't respond .

We reach his home.
Well… my home now too, I guess. For now.

All the loaders are already there, standing around with their hands on their hips, waiting for instructions.

We step out of the car.

"So, where should we place this almirah, desk, and other stuff?" one of the loaders asks.

"Umm… let’s first open the door," he replies, stepping forward.

He unlocks the main gate, strides past the lawn, and opens the front door to the house.

As soon as it swings open, he casually lifts a hand, signaling the men to start carrying everything inside.

I follow behind and mutter under my breath, "I can’t sleep without a bed."

"Me too, Divya," he replies, almost instantly.

I stop walking.

Wait.
What the hell did he just say?

I turn to look at him, slowly.
Did he really mean what I think he meant?
Is he indirectly saying—

No. No no no. He can’t be that kind of pervert. Right?

“Don’t tell me… you plan to share the bed. In the same room.” My voice is sharp, my eyes squinting.

He doesn’t even look at me. Just keeps walking.

“Hmm… I was thinking…”

WHAT.

“YOU PERVERT!!”

The loaders freeze mid-step.

He steps back, looking absolutely stunned.

“What the hell—why the hell are you screaming?! Oh my god! Pervert?? Did you just—” he splutters, waving his hands, trying to get me to calm down.

“I am not going to share a single bed!” I yell, practically jumping in place.

“Oh my goodness .....stop screaming!” he groans, clearly embarrassed as the loaders glance over us.

He hurriedly gestures to the men, silently telling them to keep moving, to just carry everything inside as if there’s nothing to see here. Totally normal.

He turns to me again, flustered. “When did I say I’m going to share the bed? No! Absolutely not! We’ll sleep alternatively in that room.”

I blink. “What?”

He exhales sharply. “Your things are getting arranged in the room.And the other room. It’s being set up like a study too, so you can work there. All the clothes you have can go into my wardrobe—that’s what I was going to say before you screamed bloody murder.”

Oh.

He pauses, then glares. “And pervert? Really? After helping you, getting into this giant mess for your sake, that’s what I get? Pervert?” He gestures to himself with both hands.

“Amazing...”

He looks genuinely hurt now. His eyes drop.

“It’s a good thing these loaders don’t know much English,” he mutters under his breath.

I stare at him in silence.
Okay… maybe… maybe I overreacted just a tiny bit.

He exhales again, slower this time. Calmer.

“You don’t have to alternate. Just use my room,” he says, turning away. “I’ll take one of the other rooms tonight.”

His tone isn’t cold… but it’s distant now. Wounded pride,definitely.

★★★
After Two days

“I won’t repeat myself, Divya,” he says firmly, standing in the doorway of his room—my temporary room now.

“For the next two years, all your educational expenses are on me. Money, books, anything. If you need to buy something, tell me. If it’s necessary, we’ll get it.”

His voice is calm but commanding. Almost like… a professor in class, laying down ground rules. But it's too cold. Distant.

I look at him, try to read something on his face, anything—but he’s not meeting my eyes.

“But… I mean, in three days I’ll go to the bank,” I say softly, trying to sound composed. “They’ll release the money. I can handle things—”

He cuts me off.

“Even if you get the money,” he says, eyes fixed on the floor, “you don’t need to hoard it for future plans. Money is meant to be used carefully, not anxiously.”

His voice isn’t angry. It’s… practical. Detached. Like we’re discussing bills, not life.

He still doesn’t step fully into the room. Just stands there at the threshold. A line I’m starting to feel more and more between us.

Why does it bother me that he’s been avoiding me these last two days?
It shouldn't.
But it does.
A little more than I want to admit.

Feels like… if I argue more, I’ll just end up annoying him.
And honestly, he’s right.
Because of him, I have a roof over my head. A chance to breathe.
I should be grateful—for now.
When two years are over, I’ll return everything. Quietly. Fully.

“…Okay,” I mumble, eyes still on the notes my friend gave me. “But… I’ll start my part-time job again.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Fine. But not more than three days a week.”

I nod slowly. “Okay… and—and I’ll pay you back after two years,” I add, peeking up at him through my lashes.

He lets out a soft scoff. “Pay me back? If I really wanted repayment, Divya....., I wouldn’t have helped you in the first place.”

The way he says it—gentle, but final—makes something ache quietly in my chest.

“Now,” he continues, his voice lighter as he turns to leave, “go through your notes. I’m going.”

He walks away before I can say anything else.

And I just sit there, staring at the scribbled pages.

Why does it feel like… we’re further than before, even when we’re under the same roof?

He walks out of my room without looking back. No sound of frustration. No slammed doors. Just… quiet retreat.

I hear the faint echo of his steps heading downstairs.
That’s where he stays now.
A new room.
One he barely used before.

He bought a bed today. A mattress too.
Because of me.

…Maybe I really am becoming a burden.
He doesn’t even have an AC in that room.
And this weather—it’s cruel, unforgiving.

I hug my knees on the bed, notes forgotten beside me.
How many more sacrifices will he make before I break something I can’t fix?

Should I stop him? Should I say something?
But what can I even say?

Time Skip – Hours Later

My eyes blur over the same paragraph for the third time. The formulas on the page no longer make sense. I blink slowly, lean back, and finally glance at the clock.

1:03 AM.
Ugh. No wonder my head’s heavy.

I reach for my bottle. Empty.
Great. Let’s just fill it up.

I drag myself out of the room, quietly padding down the stairs. The kitchen is just a few steps away—but somehow… my feet betray me.

I stop.

This isn't the way to the fridge.
This is his room.
His door.

What the hell? Why did I walk here?

I stare at the closed door, heart annoyingly louder than necessary.
Go fill your bottle, idiot…
But I don’t move.

Just say it. Say sorry for that day. For calling him that word. For screaming like a psycho when he was literally just helping…

But it’s passed 1 AM

And what if he’s asleep?
Although—last night he was awake till 3. I remember the sound of his chair squeaking downstairs.

I hesitate.
My hand half-lifts toward the door.
Then I freeze.

Should I knock? Should I walk away?
Or should I—?

My fingers curl into a fist, hovering just centimeters from the door. I’m about to knock—really, I am—but then I freeze.

No.

I let out a shaky breath and slowly lower my hand.
Instead, I lean forward until my back rests gently against the wooden door. My palm follows, pressing to my head in frustration as I give a quiet thud.

Why am I like this? So annoying… so stupid…

“Ah…” I sigh, barely a sound.

“Ahh?”

My breath catches.
Two strong hands grip my arms—firm but not harsh—from behind. My balance falters, and my body leans back slightly… right into something solid.

Hard. Warm.
My heels barely touch the ground, toes lifted slightly, and I feel caged between his arms and the door.

My heart launches straight into my throat.

No… no no no…
This is worse than knocking.

I slowly tilt my head up.

It’s him.

Standing behind me.
Holding me.
Looking down with that unreadable expression that makes me want to evaporate.

Please, God, let the floor open up and eat me.

I force myself to stand straight, as if my spine might anchor the storm inside me. But I still can’t look at him.

His voice, calm but edged like a blade, cuts through the air.
"Do you have a habit of eavesdropping?"

My mouth drops open.
"Ouaahhh! What??? Oh my God, no!"

I wave my hands, flustered, words tumbling out like marbles.
"I didn’t hear anything! I swear—"
And yet, it feels like something sharp presses into my chest anyway.

"Of course not! I was here to... to drink water."

His brow lifts, unimpressed.
"This door... is it the fridge?"

Caught. Absolutely caught.

"Umm... I mean..." I stammer.

Fuck. Just say it. Say it, or your heart will blast through your ribcage like a grenade.

I squeeze my eyes shut, voice cracking as it escapes.
"I... I’m sorry!"

Everything stills. Time folds in on itself.

He looks down at me, eyes sharp focusing on me.

"Sorry for what?" His voice is cool, almost detached.

I fumble with my words, my gaze darting everywhere but at him.
"For... for calling you a... per... pervert..."

He looks away, just slightly. But I see it—the flicker of something. Maybe it hurt. Maybe it didn’t. I can’t tell.

Then, flatly,
"Are you done? Go to your room. Goodnight."

He moves to shut the door.

But I reach out, grabbing the edge.
"Waittt!!! You should take my apology!" I protest, brows furrow.

He sighs, half a smirk on his lips, half annoyance.
"You said sorry. Now it’s totally up to me if I want to accept it or not. Go now."

"Goodnight."

"No, no! Wait!"
I push the door open and step inside his room, maybe too quickly, maybe too desperate to fix whatever this thing is hanging between us.

"I shouldn’t have said it like that. I might've hurt you unintentionally," I mumble, eyes darting around the room instead of looking at him.

"It’s just... it’s a little uncomfortable, you know, staying with a man. I mean... I’m a girl. You probably wouldn’t understand. But... I’m sorry. Again."

He stands still, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, he speaks.

"I understand your fear. It’s totally natural," he says, calm and composed, but there’s something firm behind his voice — something protective.
"But I can assure you... I will never cross your boundaries. Nor will I let anyone else cross them not while you're here. Not ever."

I finally look at him.

Why does his voice feel so comforting, like a blanket pulled over me on a cold night?

But there’s something else too  something heavier in the way he said that. Like he knows. Like he really knows what fear feels like of a girl.

And he's trying, really trying, to make sure I never feel it here.

I nod faintly, unsure what else to say.
"Okay… goodnight. Sorry for disturbing you again."

He doesn’t respond immediately. Just looks at me, quiet and still.
And then he nods — once.

"You are feeling alright now...?" he asks, his voice quieter, more tentative than before.

I glance back at him. He’s still standing there in the doorway, half in shadow, watching me. Not with judgment. Just... concern in his face .

Sometimes he is unreadable sometimes he is clear like glass.

"Yes,"

Why does his voice sound so gentle now?

"Goodnight," he murmurs.

"Goodnight,"

He close the door .

I grab the water bottle from the fridge and press it to my face. The cold seeps into my skin, calming the heat rising in my cheeks and chest. Okay... breathe. Calm down.

I turn and start walking toward the stairs, barefoot and slow, the quiet hum of the fridge fading behind me.

He’s like cold ice.

the bottle still pressed to my cheek. Trying so hard to act tough, distant... but it's so easy to melt him down.

I smile to myself. A small, secret smile. His heart... it's warm. The kind of warmth that could thaw someone’s frozen world.

He didn’t have to say those words back there about boundaries, about keeping me safe but he did.

He meant it. Not just as some formality, not like an empty promise. He meant it. I can sence .

He’s going to take responsibility for me now.

For two years. It should terrify me, this idea of depending on someone again.

I’ve always wanted to break free from my father’s control, carve out a life that’s mine, no strings, no expectations. Freedom.

But with him... it doesn’t feel like control. It doesn’t feel like a cage.

It feels like... I can trust him.

Like even if he doesn’t say it, I’m not a burden to him.

He’s not just fulfilling a duty. He’s doing it with care. With intention.

And somehow... that makes my heart ache a little.

What kind of man are you... to make me feel safe in a place I barely know?

I reach the top of the stairs, my room just a few steps away. But my thoughts are still downstairs—with him.

★★★

“Aahh… ahhh…” I yawn and stretch my arms above my head, bones cracking like popcorn. Ugh, morning again.

I drag myself out of bed and glance at the time.

7:40 AM.

Panic doesn’t even bother me anymore—just a resigned sigh as I shuffle to the mirror. One look and—

Ohhh no... not again.

My pimple marks are everywhere. Some fresh, some fading, but all of them working together like they planned an uprising on my face.

My skin's tanned more than usual, thanks to this damn heatwave, and the uneven tone makes it look worse. I touch a spot on my cheek gently.

Great. Just great.

I dig through my little pouch of makeup, but it’s mostly empty—barely a BB cream that’s drying up and one lipstick stub that’s seen better days.

I look ugly.

The words settle heavy in my chest. How am I supposed to walk through college like this? Face people?

With a sigh, I move to open the window, letting in a bit of morning air.

It’s cool—surprisingly nice against my tired skin. The sunlight pours in, but not harshly, and I lean forward, glancing down at the main gate.

Then I see him.

My mouth parts slightly.

He’s out in the lawn, near the gate, wearing tight black gym clothes. They hug his form, outlining every muscle. His shirt clings to his back like second skin, and his arms flex as he stretches.

His hair's a bit messy...probably from the workout...but it somehow adds to the way he looks. Strong.

Collected. Like someone carved out of night and stone.

What the hell... Is this allowed? At 7:40 in the morning? I blink a few times, almost to confirm he’s real and not a figment of my sleep-deprived imagination.

I pull the curtain just a little, not fully closing it but enough to feel like I’m hiding.

How can someone look so... composed?

My fingers twitch near my face. Maybe if I tie my hair properly and avoid eye contact, no one will notice the mess I am today.

But even with that thought… my eyes keep drifting back through that small slit in the curtain.

To him.

"Am… am I the real pervert here? Just—standing and staring at him like that?” I mutter under my breath, backing away from the window like I’ve been caught even though no one’s looking.

“Fuck!” I hiss, pressing my palms to my cheeks they’re burning.

I storm into the bathroom, tossing my towel onto the hook and turning the tap. Cold water rushes out in a clean stream, and I step under it .

The sudden chill bites into my skin, but god, it feels good—refreshing, like washing off layers of guilt and heat and that stupid lingering image of him in black gym clothes.
I close my eyes, letting the water run over me.

But the moment I try to just focus, that image plays again—his board shoulders, the toned back, the way the fabric clung to his muscles.

My breath catches, shame curling in my gut like smoke.

I look down at myself, my lips pressing into a tight line. Then I notice

Why… am I so wet… down there…

The realization makes me flinch.

─────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────────────

⁉️Ahem... so, tell me....who's the real pervert here, Divya or Praveer?

Are you enjoying my book or not? Flood this chapter with your comments!

Target vote : 30
Comment: 25

Next Update on next Friday
Bye!