Hyderabad, India – 04:10 a.m.

A half‑packed suitcase lay on Ayush Verma’s bed like a gaping mouth, its zipper teeth waiting hungrily for the last odds and ends. Shirts were folded with the clumsy haste of a boy who still hadn’t decided which colors said responsible young adult and which screamed tourist caught in the rain.

“Beta, at least roll the socks—space is not unlimited!” his mother hissed, hovering at the door again. For the hundredth time that night her sari pallu fluttered like a warning flag as she marched in, reorganized a stack of T‑shirts, and slipped a pouch of haldi‑kumkum between layers of denim “for good energy.”

Ayush bit back a smile. If socks bring world peace, I’ll roll a thousand.

Down the hall, his father hummed a stray Kishore Kumar tune while fitting a TSA lock onto the second suitcase. Pride made his shoulders square, but every few minutes his fingers lingered on the buckle—as if testing whether it could keep an ocean from separating father and son.

Outside the window the streetlamp flickered, catching a silver glint on Aditi’s scooter and Girish’s rust‑red backpack. They’d stayed late—past the tearful group selfies and the rather un‑cinematic roadside chai—to squeeze in one more round of teasing:

“Don’t forget us when you’re sipping fancy Italian cappuccini,” Aditi had warned, eyes shining.

“And send pictures of Roman girls—purely for…academic research,” Girish had added, earning a smack on the arm.

Now those echoes thumped in Ayush’s chest, equal parts ache and excitement. Rome. Art. Coffee. Freedom.

He zipped the suitcase shut with a decisive zzrrt. “Ma, I promise—no trusting random strangers, pepper spray in the front pocket, and I’ll call every Sunday. Happy?”

She wasn’t, but she settled for fussing over his collar instead. His father clasped Ayush’s shoulder, warm and steady. “Live your life, son. Just remember where home is.”

Ayush nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. I’ll build a second home, Baba—one you’ll be proud to visit.

10 Hours Later – Fiumicino Airport, Rome

Jet‑lag tasted like cardboard in his mouth, but wonder crashed over it the moment automatic doors whooshed open. Cool autumn air carried hints of roasted chestnuts and diesel, and the sky spread out an impossible Mediterranean blue he’d only seen on postcards taped to his study desk.

Beautiful, he exhaled. This is really happening.

He fumbled with two suitcases, the backpack strap digging into his shoulder. Seconds later a hard body slammed into him. Luggage skidded. Ayush staggered, winded.

“I’m so sorry!” he burst out, scrambling to steady both of them. “Are you—”

The man who’d collided with him looked down with glacial detachment. Black overcoat, sharp jaw, hair slicked back as if every strand feared stepping out of line. His charcoal eyes held Ayush as casually as one might regard a stain on marble.

Cold. A shiver crawled beneath Ayush’s hoodie.

The stranger’s lip curled—a silent verdict. He brushed invisible dust from his sleeve. Somewhere behind him a voice barked in Italian, “Vin— signore, l’auto è pronta!”

Without a word, the man pivoted and strode toward a line of dark SUVs. Security detail, earpieces, tinted windows. Gone.

Ayush blinked. In the sudden hush he heard his own heart and the squeak of a suitcase wheel.

What the hell was his problem?

But the airport swallowed the question. People surged around him—tourists juggling maps, children in puffy jackets, students waving university folders. Soon the black convoy rolled away, its presence no more than a ripple in exhaust fumes.

Ayush shook off the chill, straightened his bags, and forced a grin. “Welcome to Rome, drama king,” he muttered to himself, “now get out of the way of the sunshine.”

San Lorenzo District – Student Housing

The share‑house looked like it had once been a polite three‑bedroom, then bullied by decades of budget remodelling into five mismatched units connected by labyrinthine corridors. His new flatmates—an architecture major from Bari, an economics wizard from Turin, a photography student from Spain, and an opera‑obsessed Korean cellist—welcomed him with reheated pizza and a chorus of Ciao! over badly tuned guitars. The walls were thin, the rent split evenly, and someone’s dubious abstract mural glowed beneath a string of fairy lights.

Ayush loved it at first sight.

That night, after plugging in adapters and taping Aditi’s parting Polaroid above his desk, he filled the tiny kitchen with the smell of pickles. Laughter drifted in from the living room: strangers crashing onto beanbags, debating Serie A teams, arguing about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

Home was suddenly a plural word.

Day 3 – Café Espresso, Via Merulana

“Benvenuto, ragazzo!” The café owner, Signora Lucia, clapped flour from her hands and shoved a pale‑blue apron at Ayush. “You said you can make filter coffee, yes? Good. Here we do espresso, macchiato, maritozzi sweet buns—everything fast, bello, and with heart. Understood?”

Ayush’s eyes danced over chrome machines, polished cups, the rainbow of gelato in its freezer case. He tied the apron tight. “Understood, Signora. Let’s do magic.”

And he did. The hiss of steam, the dark stream of rich espresso, the sprinkle of cocoa over frothed milk—each cup carried a piece of home and a spark of Rome’s promise. By closing time his arms ached, but smiles from regulars felt like tiny trophies.

Lucia patted his cheek. “Sunshine, that’s what you are. Keep it.”

He promised he would.

Midnight – A New City’s Lullaby

In his narrow bed, Ayush replayed the airport incident. Those eyes—sharp, assessing, almost offended by his existence. He chuckled into the pillow. He probably sneers at puppies too.

Rome breathed outside: scooters buzzing down cobblestones, church bells marking the hour, distant laughter from a trattoria’s late diners. Adventure thrummed in his veins.

It’s not like we’ll meet again,” he whispered to the ceiling.

The city answered with silence… and perhaps, somewhere across town, the faint click of a glass set down by a man in a black overcoat, pausing as if his day were not quite finished.

Ayush rolled onto his side, already drafting messages to Aditi and Girish, unaware that destiny was far less punctual—and far more persistent—than any flight schedule.

Tomorrow, classes would begin. Tomorrow, the café would open at dawn. Tomorrow—

But tonight, Rome and Ayush Verma introduced themselves under a shared moon, each brimming with secrets the other had yet to learn.

End of Chapter 1

Morning light in Rome – golden, gentle, almost smug – had no idea Ayush was already awake.

He blinked up at the ceiling of his room, brain half-fried from the night before, already doing the mental math of whether he had time for breakfast (nope) and if it was still okay to wear the same hoodie from yesterday (definitely yes).

His first day of university had arrived. Somehow, the nerves had been replaced with sheer panic over all the pre-course material, emails with five attachments each, and a PDF titled “Suggested Reading List (Only 63 pages).” That alone deserved tears.

Still, Ayush powered through. Morning lectures flew by, and even though he was buried under presentations and “group discussion assignments” by lunchtime, he had managed to make two new friends: Beck, who looked like he belonged in a modeling catalog, and Max, who swore more than he breathed but had a heart of gold.

“First day and we already have homework,” Max groaned, chucking his notebook across the café table where they met during break.

“Bro, you think that’s bad?” Beck said. “My group wants to make a Google Slide timeline of Italian economic policy. I’d rather walk into traffic.”

Ayush laughed, and for a second—just a second—everything felt light again.

6:00 PM – Café Espresso

By the time he tied his apron strings, his feet had already hurt. His shift had barely started.

But Ayush smiled. He always did. Every customer got a version of it—genuine, warm, the kind that softened tired eyes and made old grannies tip extra. His boss, Lucia, always said he brought sunshine into coffee beans. And really, who was he to argue?

The café was calm, the regulars friendly, and even though his shift was only three hours, Ayush could barely keep his eyes open when it ended. His entire body felt like it had been gently run over by a very polite bus.

Back at the share house, he found his roommates yelling at each other over video games.

“YOU’RE CAMPING AGAIN!”

“IT’S CALLED STRATEGY!”

“I’LL STRATEGY YOUR FACE.”

Ayush barely had time to laugh before he waved them off with a tired, fond smile. “You guys are insane.”

He showered, letting the hot water wake him up just enough to feel human again. Then made himself some leftover pasta, thanked whatever Roman kitchen gods had gifted him such clean, non-chaotic roommates, and finally retreated to his room.

He messaged Aditi first:

Made friends. Got murdered by assignments. Miss you idiots.

And called his parents. His mom got emotional (again), his dad asked if he needed more thermal socks (again), and by the time Ayush laid down in bed, he felt strangely… good.

Happy, even.

A warmth settled in his chest. Everything, for once, felt like it might actually go right.

That’s when he appeared again.

Sharp grey eyes. That face. That jaw. That ridiculous coat. The man from the airport. The storm behind those eyes.

Ayush’s eyes snapped open.

“…what the hell,” he whispered into the silence.

His cheeks were burning. Like, on-fire, oh-my-god-did-I-just-blush-for-a-glare level of burning. He sat up and cupped his face, shaking his head violently.

“Nope. No. Not happening. I am NOT crushing on Mafia Dracula. Absolutely not.”

But his heart betrayed him with one tiny skip.

The Next Day – Mid-morning at Café Espresso

It wasn’t supposed to be his shift.

Ayush had planned to visit a few local bookstores, maybe even sketch a bit by the Tiber River. But Lucia’s part-timer had called in sick, and she’d asked Ayush with that hopeful, frazzled look he couldn’t say no to.

“You’re my angel,” she’d said. “The others? Lazy donkeys.”

So here he was, apron on, humming to himself as he wiped down tables.

The café slowly filled. Tourists. Locals. Students. The regular buzz.

Then the bell above the door jingled.

Ayush looked up—and saw a small child strut inside like he owned the building.

He was maybe six years old, with perfect black hair, chubby cheeks, and dimples that should have been illegal. Behind him was a tall man in a sharp suit and a bodyguard aura so intense it made Ayush tense on instinct.

The little boy marched to the counter. “I want one of everything.”

The suited man sighed. “Young master, your father said no sweets today.”

“But I’m hungry! I behaved! I didn’t even tackle the cat this morning!”

“You tried to. And it scratched you.”

“That’s emotional damage, not physical!”

Ayush blinked. This child had arguments.

He approached gently. “Hey there. Trouble choosing?”

The child’s head snapped up. His face brightened instantly. “I want the flower one! And the chocolate boat! And the squiggly green one!”

The bodyguard sighed again. “Sir, please—”

“Are you his dad?” Ayush asked.

The man stiffened. “No. I’m his caretaker. He’s not supposed to eat sweets with a high sugar content.”

Ayush knelt a little to meet the boy’s eyes. “Okay, how about I bring you a small plate of low-sugar sweets? That way, we’re all happy.”

The boy gasped. “YOU’RE MY HERO!”

The caretaker didn’t approve. But Ayush’s smile was disarming. “Just a few pieces. I promise he won’t go home bouncing off walls.”

With a reluctant nod, the man stepped aside.

Fifteen minutes later, Ayush returned with a hand-curated plate of low-sugar pastries. The boy lit up like a festival.

“These are AMAZING!” he cried. “You’re like—like—better than my bodyguard! Can I feed you one?”

“Oh no, they’re for you—”

“Just one!”

When Ayush hesitated, the boy’s smile dropped.

The caretaker sighed. “Eat it.”

So he did.

And the boy beamed again, like the sun had decided to reincarnate just for him.

Ayush nearly melted on the spot.

He chuckled. “You’re trouble, huh?”

The boy stuck out his tongue. “I’m adorable, thank you very much.”

“What’s your name, trouble?”

“I’m Lian Russo! But you can call me Lian!”

Ayush blinked.

Russo. That name.

The chill crawled up his spine—but before he could say anything, the caretaker stepped in.

“Time to go, young master.”

Lian pouted but followed, waving furiously as he left. “BYE COFFEE HERO!!”

Ayush waved back, heart still racing.

Russo. That can’t be… can it?

Evening – Share House

Lucia gave him a bag of sweets as thanks.

“These’ll go stale. Share with your chaos roommates.”

And he did—until one of them reached for a particular pistachio swirl.

“Not that one.”

“Ohooo,” Max grinned. “Saved it for someone special?”

“Was it that sunshine kid?” Beck teased. “You’ve got ‘big brother energy’ written all over you.”

Ayush just rolled his eyes, grabbed the pastry, and fled to his room.

He placed it on his desk. And stared.

Lian Russo.

He didn’t know what this feeling was.

But he hoped—really, really hoped—he’d see that little dimpled menace again.

End of Chapter 2

HALLWAY HEAT

The bell rang sharp as a whip, echoing down the marble-floored halls of the university's arts and business wing. Max Romano exploded out of the classroom first, voice already high with frustration.

"Forty slides, Ayush! And now he wants a prototype storyboard by Monday. MONDAY!"

Ayush, clutching his tablet, jogged to catch up. "Max, it's Thursday. That's three whole days."

"Exactly! Three days is practically tomorrow in creative time." Max flailed, nearly smacking a passing student in the face with his wildly gesturing hands.

Behind them, Beck Serrano Munoz strolled out with earbuds in, all in black as usual—a long-sleeved tee, worn jeans, silver rings glinting faintly. He looked like a walking monochrome mood board and said absolutely nothing.

"Seriously, who assigns group work with no time, no clarity, and expects genius?" Max continued, still venting. "I'm a musician, not a miracle worker!"

Ayush chuckled, offering his water bottle. "Drink. Breathe. Rant less."

Max sighed, taking it. "Sunshine, if I didn’t love you, I’d scream."

They turned toward the central courtyard and nearly collided with a taller student cutting across their path. Max wobbled forward, just barely catching his balance—and would have crashed headlong if not for a steady hand grabbing his elbow.

Beck, without a word, pulled Max back.

"Whoa… thanks, dude," Max said, blinking.

Beck gave him a glance—one that lasted only a second longer than necessary—and kept walking.

Ayush grinned. "See? Silent assassin comes through."

"He’s mysterious and useful. I like him," Max said too casually. Beck, just ahead of them, did not respond.

~ Group Chat Summons ~

The trio ducked into a nearby cafe and snagged a booth by the window. While they sipped iced cappuccinos, Ayush’s phone buzzed.

> Evan: Heads up. Guest lecture today. 2 p.m. Business Q&A in the main auditorium. Might be worth attending.

> Theo: Can’t. Midway through rendering my model. C ya.

> Max: Ooh, yes. Free advice for my future studio empire.

> Beck: Going.

> Ayush: I’ll come too.

Moments later, Evan De Luca arrived, as if summoned by fashion. Crisp white shirt, designer blazer, patent shoes that clicked smartly on the tile. He looked effortlessly immaculate.

They left together for the auditorium. Max and Ayush, dressed more casually but well, walked beside Evan and Beck, both of whom attracted attention like magnets. Evan always looked red-carpet ready; Beck looked like a magazine ad in grayscale.

"How are you two so damn fashionable without trying?" Max muttered.

"Some of us just suffer for art," Evan said dryly, adjusting his cufflinks.

THE AUDITORIUM & THE SHADOWS

The room filled quickly. They grabbed seats mid-row. Evan opened a folder and reviewed notes. Beck plugged in his stylus and began sketching something on his iPad. Ayush looked around at the rows of bustling students.

Max leaned toward Ayush. "Watch. Half this room's gonna start whispering about Beck and Evan. Again."

Ayush followed his gaze. He wasn’t wrong—a cluster of students across the aisle were clearly peeking over.

Max leaned back, faux-annoyed. "I'm hot too, right?"

Ayush snorted. "You're volcanic."

Max grinned.

Then, the lights dimmed, and a voice announced the guest:

"Please welcome, CEO of Russo Vantage Group, Mr. Vincent Russo."

Footsteps. Then a figure emerged onto the stage.

Ayush froze.

Tall. Crisp black suit. Understated authority. Grey eyes like winter.

No. Not him.

Vincent accepted the bouquet from the host with minimal expression. His gaze swept the room—and Ayush swore it paused, just barely, on their row..

Max nudged Ayush. “Yeah, he’s handsome, but you’re gawking, bro.”

Ayush snapped forward, cheeks warm. Low profile. Just learn something.

The Q&A began. Vincent’s answers were efficient, perfectly worded. Students raised hands. He deflected some, challenged others

The lecture rolled: market share, risk strategy, controlled growth. Students fired questions; Vincent answered with skin‑prickling precision, as if he’d solved them yesterday.

Then Vincent posed one back: “What safeguards a company’s market position through generational change?”

Silence. Until—Ayush felt the stare like a scalpel. Those grey eyes locked on him as if the room had emptied.

“You,” Vincent said, pointing. “Answer.”

A mic arrived. Ayush’s throat tightened—he wasn’t even a business major. Still, he smiled, voice steady.

“Adaptability, sir. Knowing when to pivot without losing core identity—and valuing people over products, because loyalty compounds faster than capital.”

A hum left Vincent’s lips—half approval, half curiosity. Around them, disappointed murmurs: no miracle revelation. But Ayush didn’t care; he’d survived.

Russo, he repeated inwardly. Why does that surname itch at my memory…?

CORRIDOR CHILL

Lecture dismissed. The share‑house quartet spilled into the foyer, laughter erupting at Ayush’s shell‑shocked expression.

“I swear your soul left your body,” Max cackled.

Beck, rare smile tugging, sighed. “Your face was priceless, Sunshine.”

Ayush huffed—then the air iced over again. He glanced back.

Vincent stood at the exit, security lingering behind. His gaze drilled into Ayush—no warmth, no curiosity this time, only an unsettling focus.

Max squinted. "Dude. Did you betray him in a past life? That man looks like you owe him a kingdom."

Ayush swallowed. "Maybe I... ran over his dog in a dream."

Beck muttered, "Let's go," and steered them away.

~ MISSING DIMPLES ~

At the cafe, Ayush slipped into rhythm. Orders, smiles, foam hearts in cappuccinos. Yet, every time the bell jingled, he looked up.

The little boy with dimples and dessert love. Who hadn't returned since that day.

Customers came and went, laughter buzzed, the smell of cinnamon and espresso filled the air—but Lian never appeared. Ayush made perfect drinks with practiced ease, but a part of him lingered on the memory of tiny dimples and excited eyes over sweets.

As he cleaned up for closing, he caught himself looking at the door again. Still no one. With a tired smile, he packed a few leftover desserts, promising himself maybe tomorrow would be the day.

DREAMS AND DISTRACTIONS

Back at the share house, Ayush entered to find Theo practically vibrating with excitement over his new model. Ayush admired the clean lines and balance, offered thoughtful input, then began retreating to his room.

Max leapt out from the kitchen, howling with laughter. "That moment! The mic! Your eyes! I nearly choked."

Ayush shoved a croissant in his face and walked away, shaking his head.

In his room, Ayush turned on the warm water and set up the bath. The exhaustion of the day clung to his skin like dust. When he finally slid into the tub, the heat melted into his muscles, easing the tension.

He closed his eyes.

But instead of silence, he saw him.

Vincent—towering, sharp, eyes like ice and fire. The memory of his voice filled Ayush's chest like thunder.

Then his mind betrayed him.

He imagined Vincent’s hands. Large. Veined. Strong.

He imagined how those hands might feel if they held his hips, traced his spine, cupped his jaw.

And then—his thoughts slipped lower. Those same hands gripping his thighs, his breath caught, Vincent's cold stare softening as he leaned in closer—

Ayush's eyes snapped open.

"What the hell, brain?!"

He slapped water against his cheeks, trying to dispel the image, but it lingered. That cold stare, the sheer force of Vincent's presence—it haunted him in a way no one ever had.

"I barely know the man. I don't even like him. He looked at me like I was dirt."

And yet, Ayush tilted his head back against the tub.

"What if he looked at me differently... what if he touched me like that..."

No. He shook the thought away again. No.

After his bath, he sat in his room eating pastries. The sweetness did little to distract him.

He video-called Aditi and Girish, recounting parts of the day.

"It was... a long day," he said vaguely.

Aditi narrowed her eyes. "You're dodging. What happened?"

"Nothing major. Just... weird vibe at that guest talk."

Before she could dig deeper, Girish waved. "Night, bro. You look wiped."

Later, Ayush texted him.

Thanks. Owe you.

Big time, came the reply.

Ayush curled into his blanket. Eyes closed.

Russo...

Why does that name feel like the start of something I shouldn’t touch?

And Ayush hoped tomorrow’s sunrise might bring answers—or at least a child’s laughter over low‑sugar cannoli.