The overhead fan clicked rhythmically, useless against the late afternoon heat that clung to the empty classroom. Professor Viraj Deewan leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, watching the last few students shuffle out the door. His expression gave nothing away—never did. Sharp jawline, tailored shirt sleeves rolled just below his elbows, and a gaze that could freeze a man mid-step. The college feared him. Rumors whispered he’d ruined careers for less than a misplaced comma in a report.

Aanya lingered near the windowsill, pretending to organize her notebook. The others had cleared out fast—no one wanted detention with *him*—but she moved deliberately slow, fingers tracing the spine of her physics text like she was memorizing the grooves. Eighteen, with ink-dark hair slipping free from her braid, and a knee length skirt that somehow looked softer on her than anyone else. Innocent wasn’t the right word. It was the way she bit her lower lip when concentrating, the way she never quite met his eyes in public.