The library smelled like old paper and quiet ambition.
Anaya stood on tiptoe in front of the towering bookshelf, fingers stretching for a book she could almost—almost—reach.
It sat there, mockingly, on the highest shelf.
Of course it did.
She let out a tiny sigh. Why did academic enlightenment always seem to involve reaching beyond her vertical limits?
She glanced around. No one nearby. Good.
One deep breath. Focus.
Anaya inched her toes higher, balancing on the very edge of her sneakers, fingertips brushing the spine of the book. She could feel the rough corner graze her nail. Almost there—
Her foot slipped slightly.
Not enough to fall.
But enough to panic.
Her arms flailed as she tried to steady herself, trying to not crash into the shelves or, worse, the floor. Her brain raced through imaginary headlines:
"Girl Dies Heroically While Trying to Study for Midterm."
"Bookshelf Claims Another Victim."
And then—
Strong hands caught her. Firm, steady, completely unfazed hands.
One at her waist. One near her shoulder.
"You planning to take flight or something?"
His voice was low. Amused. A little too close to her ear.
Anaya froze.
Time forgot how to move.
Her heart skipped in surprise—and then decided to sprint. She could feel every beat echoing inside her chest like a drumroll no one asked for.
Pradeep.
Of course it was him.
She didn't turn around immediately. She couldn't. She was acutely aware of how close they were. How casually, confidently his hands steadied her. Like it was nothing. Like she was nothing but a mild distraction he could handle with one hand while yawning.
He reached up and plucked the book off the shelf in a single, infuriatingly graceful motion. He held it just above her reach for a second, smirking.
Then, with exaggerated drama, handed it over like it was a trophy.
"There you go, shortie," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting.
Anaya took the book with a scowl and a rapidly reddening face.
She wasn't that short.
Okay. She was. Especially next to him.
But still.
"I could've gotten it myself," she muttered.
Pradeep tilted his head slightly, pretending to think. "Mmm. Sure. After you shattered your nose and two ribs falling on your face, maybe."
She shot him a narrow-eyed look. "You're such a—"
"Hero?" he offered with faux modesty. "Yeah, I know."
He leaned a little against the side shelf, clearly enjoying himself. The fluorescent lighting softened the outline of his jaw, but the glint in his eyes was sharp, teasing.
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair how he could just... exist like that—effortless and smug and annoyingly helpful.
And it definitely wasn't fair how her heart decided to memorize the feeling of his hands on her waist. As if her body was building an archive of every second they spent close. As if it mattered.
She turned away under the excuse of fixing her notes. Pretended to arrange the pages she didn't even need right now.
Willed her face to cool down.
He didn't say anything. But she could feel his gaze lingering, like a breeze that passed through her without touching—but still changed the air.
(He noticed. Of course he noticed.)
After a moment, he leaned slightly closer again, voice lower, still teasing.
"You know... they invented these magical things called 'step stools.' Highly recommend. Especially for people under, say, five foot three."
"I'm five foot four, thank you very much," she hissed without turning.
"Sure you are," he said flatly. "In platform heels."
She spun around, about to snap back—but he was already reaching out, and before she could stop him—
Ruffle.
Her hair.
Her hair.
Like she was some tiny, harmless creature trying to climb walls without supervision.
Anaya let out a strangled sound halfway between a protest and a squeak. She smacked his hand away with a glare that lacked true heat.
"Relax, champ," he said with a lazy grin. "Next time you need something heroic done, just call your personal tall guy."
She hated how easy it was for him to say things like that. Like he didn't realize what those words could do to a person who felt too much.
Or maybe he did. Maybe that was the problem.
She turned back toward the table with a huff, book hugged tightly to her chest, trying to gather the pieces of her heart that had scattered into her ribcage like confetti.
Behind her, Pradeep followed—silent now, but still carrying that maddening smirk in the way his footsteps fell.
They slid back into their usual corner of the library.
Same awkward chairs. Same wobbly table. Same kind of quiet.
But Anaya wasn't quite the same.
Neither was the air.
Because beneath all the teasing and hair-ruffling and book-saving heroics, something else had happened.
Something... shifted.
She could still feel his hands from earlier—her waist knew the exact shape of his fingers now, like an imprint.
She opened her book. Stared blankly at a diagram she wasn't really seeing.
Across the table, Pradeep scribbled something in his notebook. Calm, focused. As if he hadn't just made her heartbeat rewrite its tempo.
She glanced at him through her lashes.
His brow was slightly furrowed, as always when he was concentrating. His foot tapped lightly, a rhythm only he could hear. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing his forearms—something stupid in her brain decided to fixate on that.
He looked normal.
Unbothered.
And somehow that made her more bothered.
Because maybe to him, moments like that were nothing.
Maybe catching her like that was just instinct. A reflex.
Maybe teasing was his default setting.
But to her?
It was something.
It was always something.
She closed her eyes for a second, took a breath. Then another.
Tried to focus on her notes.
Failed.
Because across the table, he was still there.
And in his presence, everything else dimmed.
She wanted to laugh at herself. Honestly. This was stupid.
It was the height of stupidity.
Falling for someone who never said anything outright. Who never labeled things. Who joked instead of confessed and steadied her without asking.
Falling for someone who passed her pens and books and sarcasm like gifts she wasn't supposed to notice.
And yet—she was noticing. Everything.
Every brush of his hand. Every sideways glance. Every time he waited just a second longer before walking away.
Maybe he didn't say much. But he said enough.
Just... in his way.
And maybe she was learning to understand it.
One ruffled hair. One sarcastic jab. One half-smile at a time.
To be continued...