Aera

The door shuts softly behind me, and the quiet is instant—like stepping into a different world, far away from the noise and energy of campus. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, pressed my back against the door, and closed my eyes.

What was that?

The moment his hand touched mine, it was like something electric passed through me. His palm was warm, calloused, and sure—like he had nothing to prove but still owned everything he touched.

Kaden.

Just his name echoes through my mind like a secret I don’t know what to do with. There’s something dangerous in the way he looks at the world. The way he leans back in his chair like lectures bore him to death. Like he’s not even supposed to be there—but still somehow owns the room.

I throw my bag on the bed and pull my hoodie over my head. I should focus on unpacking, organizing my notes, doing anything productive.

But my thoughts keep slipping.

Back to his smirk.

His voice—deep, slow, confident.

The way he looked at me like I was a puzzle he already intended to solve.

“Nope,” I mutter aloud to myself, shaking my head. “You’re not that girl, Aera. You didn’t come all the way to New York to get distracted by some bad-boy fantasy.”

Still, as I sit on my bed and try to scroll through my planner, I feel his presence—lingering in the back of my mind, smug and silent.

God, what is wrong with me?

I don’t do guys like him. I don’t even talk to guys like him.

And yet… here I am, heart stuttering like a fool over a boy with a leather jacket and a crooked smile.

I slam the planner shut and flop back on the bed, covering my face with a groan.

This is going to be harder than I thought

My phone buzzes beside me. Once. Twice. I ignore it.

I know it’s probably aakriti or maya, probably some meme or a group chat ping—but for a second, my mind dares to wonder: what if it’s him?

I don’t check. I can’t.

Instead, I lie there, staring at the ceiling like it’s going to hand me answers. The room feels too quiet, like even the walls are waiting for me to admit something I’m not ready to say.

I’m not supposed to care.

He’s the kind of boy you write warnings about in margins of your diary. The kind with a voice that tastes like smoke and trouble, and eyes that ask questions no sane girl should ever try to answer.

And yet.

That look he gave me today—casual, knowing, dark and unreadable—it’s still there, under my skin, threading itself into my nerves like it belongs.

I sit up, frustration curling around my spine. I grab a notebook and force myself to start a to-do list.

Finish lab report

Email Professor Lang

Call Mom

Avoid Kaden

I stare at the last item and immediately scribble it out.

Because let’s be honest—I won’t.

Not when he’s everywhere. In the hallways, in class, even in my goddamn dreams last night. And it wasn’t just a flash. It was vivid. Heat against my back. Fingers on my jaw. Words I barely understood whispered in that rough, drawling voice of his.

I press my palms to my face, mortified at myself.

“This is insane,” I whisper.

And then my phone buzzes again.

This time, I check.

Kaden:

Careful, sunflower.

You keep looking at me like that in class, and I’m going to start thinking you want something.

My stomach drops. My breath catches.

Goddamn him.

I reread the message three times before typing and deleting five different replies.

Finally, I settle on:

Me: