SARA POV
The night had wrapped the hostel in a soft, peaceful silence.
Inside Room 212, only the sound of flipping pages and the faint ticking of the wall clock could be heard.
Sara sat cross-legged on her bed, books spread around her like a small fortress. She was wearing a light blue knee-length frock with long, puffy sleeves. The soft fabric flowed gently around her, making her look delicate — almost fragile. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulders, slightly messy from studying, yet somehow making her look even more breathtaking.
Zainab and Noor were whispering on the other bed, occasionally glancing at her.
"She studies like the world depends on it," Zainab murmured dramatically.
Noor smiled softly. "Maybe it does."
Before Sara could respond, her phone began to vibrate on the bed.
Ammi ❤️
Her expression changed instantly. The tiredness in her eyes melted into warmth.
She looked at her roommates. "I'll just take this outside."
"Tell aunty we said salam!" Noor called sweetly.
Sara nodded and quietly stepped out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.
She walked downstairs, through the dim hallway, and into the hostel garden. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of jasmine. The moonlight bathed the trimmed grass and flower beds in silver light.
She stood near a small bench and answered the call, putting it on speaker.
"Assalamualaikum, Ammi."
"Walaikum assalam, meri jaan," her mother's tired yet loving voice filled the quiet garden. "How was your day?"
Sara smiled, though her eyes softened with emotion.
"It was good… big campus. Very big," she said softly.
And it truly was.
Royal Heights Institute was nothing like her old school in Karachi. The tall glass buildings, the perfectly trimmed gardens, the confident students who looked like they belonged to another world — it all felt like a dream she was afraid to wake up from.
"I hope you're not feeling alone," her mother asked gently.
Sara swallowed.
She was only seventeen. A 10th-class student with quiet dreams and a heart full of hope. Her father had passed away before she was even born. She had grown up knowing him only through old photographs and the tearful stories her mother would tell late at night.
Her mother was her entire world.
A strong single woman who worked part-time jobs day and night just to pay the bills. Life had never been easy. But her mother believed one thing firmly — education could change destiny.
That belief was the reason Sara was now in Islamabad, far away from home.
"I'm fine, Ammi," she whispered. "I'll study hard. I promise. I won't waste your sacrifices."
On the other end, her mother sniffed softly. "You don't have to carry everything alone, beta."
Sara smiled at the sky. "I know."
She didn't know that someone else was listening too.
Just a few steps behind her, partially hidden by the shadow of a tree, Amal stood still.
He hadn't meant to overhear.
He had just stepped outside for air.
But when he heard her voice — soft, trembling yet strong — he couldn't move.
He listened to every word.
About her father.
About her mother's struggles.
About Karachi.
About promises whispered under the night sky.
Something unfamiliar stirred inside his chest.
Respect.
pain.
And something dangerously close to admiration.
When the call finally ended, Sara exhaled slowly and turned around—
And collided straight into a solid chest.
She gasped.
Her balance slipped.
But before she could fall, strong hands caught her.
One arm wrapped around her waist.
The other steadied her shoulder.
Her breath hitched.
Amal.
His face was only inches away. The moonlight traced the sharp line of his jaw, his intense eyes softer than she had ever seen them before.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
His hand was still resting at her waist.
She could feel the warmth of his touch through the thin fabric of her frock.
Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
"I—I'm sorry sir," she stammered, trying to step back.
But his grip tightened — not forcefully, just enough to keep her from stumbling.
"You should look where you're going," he said quietly.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
Her eyes lifted to meet his.
There was no coldness tonight.
Only something unreadable.
"Were you… listening?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
A pause.
"Yes."
Honest.
Direct.
Her cheeks flushed instantly. "That's not polite."
"And neither is standing alone in a garden at this hour," he replied, his thumb unconsciously pressing slightly against her waist before he seemed to realise how close they were.
They both froze.
The air between them changed.
Her hands instinctively moved to his chest for balance.
Big mistake.
She could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under her fingertips.
He inhaled sharply.
For someone who couldn't tolerate being touched by any girl…
He wasn't stepping away.
In fact, he was still holding her.
Like letting go was harder than it should be.
"Sara," he murmured, her name sounding different tonight. Softer.
Her lashes fluttered.
"Yes?"
"You're not as strong as you look."
Her breath caught.
"And you're not as heartless as you pretend to be sir," she whispered back before she could stop herself.
Silence.
Heavy.
Electric.
For a second, it felt like the entire world had disappeared — no hostel, no expectations, no past.
Just the two of them under the moonlight.
Then suddenly, reality returned.
She gently pulled back this time, and he let her.
Slowly.
Reluctantly.
"I should go," she said, avoiding his eyes.
He stepped aside but didn't look away from her.
"Goodnight, Sara."
She paused for half a second.
"Goodnight…S-Sir ."
The corridor was quiet when Sara returned to her room, but her heart was anything but calm.
She closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a second.
"Sara?" Noor whispered. "Everything okay?"
"Yes… just Ammi," she replied softly, avoiding their curious eyes.
She sat back on her bed, opened her book again — but the words blurred. Her mind kept replaying the garden.
The moonlight.
His hands on her waist.
The way he had said her name.
She pressed her fingers to her cheeks, trying to cool the warmth rising there.
Why did it feel different tonight?
The next morning, the campus was buzzing with the usual chatter. Students moved between classes, their laughter and voices bouncing off the walls.
She tried to focus. Really. She needed to keep her head down, to survive her first week. But every time she saw him—every time their eyes met—her chest tightened.
And she knew… someone was watching.
She could feel it before she even entered the classroom. That sharp, piercing gaze burning into her back as she walked past the rows of students.
maheen was seated in her usual place near the window, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Her expression was a mixture of fury and calculation.
Then she stepped inside, heart pounding.
The professor was already at the front, reviewing papers. He looked up, and her stomach twisted. His dark black eyes found hers instantly.
There was a moment—a brief, fleeting heartbeat—where it was just the two of them.
The classroom faded around her.
And then she felt it.
The subtle, almost imperceptible shift as maheen's head tilted slightly, eyes fixed on them both.
The sara fingers trembled slightly as she took her seat, strategically placed across the aisle from Sara.
The professor cleared his throat, smooth and controlled. "Let's begin."
His gaze didn't leave her. Not fully. Not for a second.
She could feel the heat of it, the weight of it. And somewhere deep inside, she realized… he noticed that too.
A faint twitch of his jaw as maheen eyes flicked to him. A subtle pause when she made a sharp note on her notebook.
The tension between them was palpable.
The classroom felt smaller, heavier. Every glance, every slight movement, every heartbeat seemed magnified.
She knew she had to survive this… without making it worse.
But one thing was undeniable: the professor wasn't just watching the class.
He was watching her.
And he was also watching maheen.
And that… was both thrilling and terrifying.
AUTHOR POV
In the evening, the library was almost empty.
Sara sat at a corner table, trying to focus on mathematics. The numbers looked complicated, cruel even. She sighed quietly.
"Having trouble?"
Her entire body stiffened.
That voice.
She looked up slowly.
Amal stood there, holding a file, dressed in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves slightly folded. He looked calm, composed — completely professional.
Like last night never happened.
"S-Sir…" she stammered, immediately lowering her gaze.
There it was.
That hesitation.
That invisible wall between them.
He pulled out the chair across from her without asking and sat down. "It's a simple quadratic equation."
Simple for him, maybe.
Not for her.
She pushed the notebook slightly toward him, her fingers brushing the edge of the page nervously. "I… I tried, but I don't understand this step."
He leaned closer to look.
Too close.
She could smell his cologne — subtle, dangerous.
He picked up her pen and started explaining, his handwriting sharp and confident.
"You factor it like this," he said calmly.
She nodded quickly, pretending to understand, but her heartbeat was louder than his explanation.
Why did he seem so normal?
Was she the only one affected by last night?
"Focus, Sara," he said quietly.
Her name on his lips again.
She blinked. "I am, S-Sir."
The word slipped out with hesitation.
He paused.
His jaw tightened almost invisibly.
"S-Sir?" he repeated, his tone unreadable.
She swallowed. "You're my teacher."
There it was again.
That distance.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, studying her face. "And last night?"
Her breath caught.
"That was an accident," she replied quickly, her fingers gripping the edge of the table.
A silence stretched between them.
The air felt heavy.
He lowered his voice. "You don't have to look scared every time I come near you."
"I'm not scared," she whispered.
"Then why do you hesitate?"
Because when you hold me, my heart forgets how to behave.
But she couldn't say that.
Instead, she forced a small, polite smile. "Respect, Sir."
The word hit differently this time.
Respect.
A reminder of roles. Of boundaries.
He looked at her for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
Then he closed her notebook gently.
"Good. Keep it that way."
Professional.
Distant.
Cold.
He stood up, adjusting his sleeves.
"Finish the remaining questions," he instructed.
"Yes, S-Sir," she replied again — softer this time.
He walked a few steps away, then stopped.
Without turning back, he said quietly, "And Sara?"
She looked up.
"Don't stand alone in the garden at night."
Her heart skipped.
Concern.
Hidden beneath authority.
"Yes, Sir."
This time, the hesitation wasn't fear.
It was something else.
Something more dangerous.
And as he walked out of the library, Sara realised one thing—
Calling him "Sir" was easier.
Pretending she felt nothing?
Amal pov
I don't lose control.
Not in meetings.
Not in classrooms.
Not in life.
That's how I've survived.
And then she happened.
The first time she collided with me, it was just an accident. A clumsy girl not watching where she was going. I remember the shock more than the impact.
Because I touched her.
And nothing happened.
No discomfort. No irritation. No instinct to pull away.
For years, I've hated physical contact. It unsettled me. Made my skin crawl. I avoided handshakes whenever I could. Maintained distance. Built walls.
But when my hands held her that day?
It felt… natural.
That was my first mistake.
The second time — the garden — wasn't an accident.
I had stepped outside for air. That's what I told myself.
But the truth?
I heard her voice and couldn't walk away.
She was standing under the moonlight, wearing that light blue dress, looking so fragile it almost made me angry. Her voice was soft as she spoke to her mother.
About her father.
About the struggles.
About leaving Karachi for Islamabad.
About studying in Royal Heights Institute like it was some miracle.
She wasn't like the others here. The elite. The confident.
She carried responsibility in her voice.
And when she turned and collided with me again—
I didn't let her fall.
My hand wrapped around her waist automatically.
Too automatically.
I remember the exact moment my fingers tightened slightly.
She fit perfectly against me.
That realization disturbed me more than anything else.
For someone who despises touch…
Why did I want to pull her closer?
Why did her hands on my chest feel like electricity instead of discomfort?
That night I barely slept.
The library was worse.
She called me "S-Sir."
That hesitation.
That distance.
It should have reassured me.
Instead, it irritated me.
Because it reminded me of what she is.
My student.
Seventeen.
Innocent.
And I—
I am supposed to be her teacher. Her senior. The one with authority.
Not the man imagining how soft her waist felt beneath his hand.
Disgusting.
I clenched my jaw just thinking about it.
When she said, "You're my teacher," it felt like a slap.
Good.
It should feel like that.
It should hurt.
Because this—whatever this is—should not exist.
And yet…
Every time she looks at me with those wide, uncertain eyes—
Every time her voice trembles slightly when she says "Sir"—
Every time she brushes past me accidentally—
My control cracks.
I notice the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when nervous.
The way she bites her lower lip when solving equations.
The way she tries to act strong even when she's overwhelmed.
I notice everything.
And I hate that I do.
I scold myself constantly.
She is your student.
You are not a teenager.
You are responsible for her grades. Her discipline. Her safety.
Not her racing heartbeat.
Not the warmth in her cheeks.
Not the way her body fits against yours.
But the more I try to suppress it, the worse it becomes.
When she stood in that garden in the moonlight, looking small yet determined, I didn't see just a student.
I saw a girl carrying her mother's sacrifices on her shoulders.
A girl trying to survive in a world too big for her.
And something inside me wanted to protect her.
That's where it becomes dangerous.
Because protection can turn into possession.
And possession—
Possession makes me want to touch her again.
Just to confirm it wasn't imagination.
Just to feel that strange calm I only feel when she's in my arms.
It's wrong.
I know it's wrong.
That's why I keep my tone cold in class.
Why I maintain distance.
Why I remind her — and myself — of the word "Sir."
But last night, when she whispered, "You're not as heartless as you pretend to be,"
She saw through me.
And that terrifies me more than anything else.
Because if she keeps looking at me like that—
If she keeps standing too close—
If she keeps saying my name the way she did—
I don't know how long my control will last.
And losing control…
Is something I have never allowed myself to do.
Until her.