By the fourth day of prep, Aanya had officially stopped pretending she was calm.
Her bun was falling apart. Highlighters lay uncapped across the desk like fallen soldiers. There were sticky notes on sticky notes. Her handwriting had progressively deteriorated from neat to borderline criminal.
Sagnik, meanwhile, looked like he had signed a peace treaty with the syllabus.
Same straight posture.
Same calm page turns.
Same infuriatingly composed face.
"How," she demanded suddenly, slamming her pen down, "are you not spiraling?"
"I am," he replied, not looking up. "Internally."
She stared at him.
"You're a psychopath."
"Efficient."
They were in an empty classroom. Late evening. The fan hummed lazily overhead. Outside, the corridor lights flickered occasionally, the campus quieter than usual.
Aanya had been staring at the same question for seven minutes.
Seven.
She wrote something.
Paused.
Erased it aggressively.
"I knew this," she muttered.
Silence.
She tried again.
Wrong again.
Her jaw tightened.
"I literally revised this chapter three times."
Sagnik finally looked over.
Not amused.
Not superior.
He reached out, turned her notebook slightly toward himself, glanced at it once, then rotated it back.
"You skipped a step."
That's all.
No lecture.
No tone.
Just fact.
She frowned. "Then tell me."
"You don't need me to."
Her eyes snapped up.
"I absolutely do."
"No," he said calmly. "You don't."
There was no ego in it. No challenge. Just quiet certainty.
She inhaled sharply.
Then tried again.
Slower.
This time she filled the gap.
Finished the solution.
Correctly.
She blinked.
Looked at him.
He gave a small nod.
"There."
Her shoulders dropped.
And something inside her unclenched.
"Why did my brain just leave my body for ten minutes?" she demanded.
"Temporary betrayal."
She glared.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
She pushed her chair back slightly — frustrated, overwhelmed — and then without warning, she leaned sideways and dropped her head onto his shoulder.
Fully.
No hesitation.
"I'm done," she announced into his shirt. "Academically deceased. Brain empty. Only screaming."
He didn't stiffen.
Didn't pull away.
He adjusted slightly so she wouldn't slide off.
"You solved it."
"That was luck."
"No."
She shifted closer, forehead pressing into his shoulder now.
"I don't know anything."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You do."
She lifted her head just enough to glare at him.
"You're very irritating when you're calm."
"You're very loud when you're spiraling."
She gasped.
"I am not spiraling. I am expressing intellectual distress."
"You're spiraling."
She smacked his chest weakly.
He barely reacted.
Then her head dropped back onto his shoulder.
And this time she stayed there.
Ranting.
"If I mess this up, I'm leaving civilization. I'll start farming. No exams. Just cows. Peaceful cows."
"You don't like cows."
"I will adapt."
"You're lactose intolerant."
"Stop sabotaging my future." He laughed softly.
The sound vibrated under her cheek.
She felt it.
And for half a second, she forgot what she was saying.
Then continued.
"And why does the syllabus look longer at night? It expands. I swear it expands."
"It doesn't."
"It does. It multiplies."
He let her talk.
Didn't interrupt.
Didn't correct.
Just listened.
One hand resting loosely near her notebook.
Present.
Grounded.
After a moment, her voice softened.
"I just don't want to mess up."
There it was.
The real thing.
He turned his head slightly, enough that his temple nearly brushed her hair.
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
She tilted her face up slightly to look at him.
"And if I score lower than you?"
A pause.
"Is that what this is about?"
She narrowed her eyes.
"Answer the question."
He leaned back slightly so she could sit up properly.
"If you score lower than me, nothing changes."
She blinked.
"That's not dramatic enough."
"I'm not dramatic."
She stared at him.
"And if I score higher?"
Now he looked at her properly.
Measured.
Calm.
"If you score higher," he said slowly, "I'll admit it."
"Admit what?"
"That you're smarter."
Her eyes widened.
"In public."
She folded her arms.
"Say it with confidence."
He didn't hesitate.
"If you score higher, I'll say it properly."
She studied his face.
"You're too confident."
He held her gaze.
"I've seen how you study."
Silence.
"That was either criticism or praise."
"It was admiration."
It landed quietly.
No teasing.
No background noise.
Just weight.
She looked away first.
Because suddenly it wasn't about marks.
It was about the way he said it.
She bent over her notebook again, determined now.
A few minutes later she got stuck again.
Didn't say anything.
Just stared.
He shifted his chair closer.
Not dramatic.
Just closer.
Their shoulders brushed lightly.
He leaned over her notebook, arm resting on the desk beside hers.
"Look here," he murmured, tapping the line she skipped.
His voice was low.
Close.
Too close.
Her brain short-circuited for one second.
"Focus," he added softly.
"I am," she snapped — too fast.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
But he didn't smirk.
Didn't tease.
He moved back slightly.
Gave her space.
That restraint?
It did more damage than any teasing ever could.
An hour passed.
She forgot to drink water.
Forgot to stretch.
Forgot to blink properly.
He stood up quietly and left the room.
She didn't notice.
When he returned, he placed a cup of tea beside her notebook.
And a small packet of biscuits.
She blinked up at him.
"When did you—"
"Drink."
"You didn't have to."
"I know."
He sat back down like it was nothing.
Like he hadn't just reset her entire nervous system.
She took a sip.
It was warm.
Perfect.
"You're annoying," she muttered softly.
"I've been told."
A pause.
"Thank you."
He didn't look up from his book.
"Mm."
But the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
It was late when they finally packed up.
The corridor outside was almost empty.
She looked exhausted now.
The dramatic energy quieter.
He picked up her bag before she could protest.
She didn't protest.
Halfway down the corridor, she walked into him slightly.
Then again.
On purpose.
"Tired?" he asked.
"No."
"You just walked into a wall."
"The wall moved."
He hummed.
A few steps later, she leaned into him again.
This time slower.
Her head resting lightly on his shoulder while they walked.
He adjusted his pace automatically.
So she wouldn't stumble.
"Don't let me burn out," she murmured.
He glanced down at her.
"You won't."
"That's not what I said."
A beat.
"I won't," he repeated quietly.
She smiled.
And didn't say anything else.
Because she didn't need to.
By the fourth day of prep, it was obvious.
She was stressed.
She was dramatic.
She was determined.
And he?
He was steady.
Unshakeable.
Completely, unapologetically invested in her.
And anyone watching closely would've known—
This wasn't just about internals anymore.
He was already head over heels.