The library's fluorescent lights hummed like dying insects overhead as Nandini traced her fingertip along the spine of a worn poetry anthology. The scent of old paper and dust clung to the air, thick enough to taste. She'd been coming to this same corner every Tuesday for the past month—third floor, northeast alcove, where the sun slanted through the arched windows just right at noon. Today, she'd worn the red sundress with the thin straps, the one that made her feel less like a nervous freshman and more like someone who belonged here.

Two tables away, Aryan Sharma leaned back in his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers like he'd done it a thousand times before. His crisp white shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with the kind of effortless strength that came from rowing crew or punching rich kids at boarding school. When he caught her glancing over, he flashed a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes—warm, practiced, dangerous.