An hour later, there’s a knock at the door. Not a surprise—I buzzed her in minutes ago.
I wipe my hands over my gray sweatpants as I walk to open it, heart kicking up a little like I’m some teenager waiting on a crush.
And then she’s there.
Teal sweatpants. A loose matching hoodie over a white T-shirt. Hair tied back, wispy strands framing her face.
Jesus.
How the hell does she manage to look irresistible inthat?
I smile—automatically. No calculation. No performance.
Fuck. When was the last time one of my smiles was forced? Weeks ago?
She just...glows. And I don’t mean in that poetic, halo-of-light sort of way. I mean energy. She fills the space, effortlessly.
“I’ve got food,” she chirps, hiking her backpack off her shoulder and gesturing toward it like a delivery mule.
I chuckle. “I’ve got entertainment.” I nod toward the TV.
She steps inside, sliding into the plushy slippers like it’s the most normal thing. Then she launches into a rant about her day like she never stopped mid-thought between texts and walking through my front door.
Something about Katie—how she’s being a complete bitch in one of their group projects. How she’s controlling the agenda, steamrolling everyone, making it hard to actually collaborate.
I listen. Reallylisten.
It’s a first.
Not because I’ve never listened to people talk before. But because I care about whatshe’ssaying. I remember Katie. She’s that ambitious, polished type—connects only when it benefits her. That Masters-program, shark-in-blazer vibe. Rohi’s right. They’re not on the same page.
But I don’t say it.
Because I also remember Rohi calling Katie one of heronlyfriends here.
So I let her talk. Let her vent. Let her fill the room while I pull out the food she’s packed and place it neatly on the kitchen island.
She’s still yapping when I open a container. Something aromatic and spicy hits my nose. Chicken curry.
But then—she quiets.
Abruptly. Mid-word.
“I, uh...” she starts, voice suddenly softer. “I wanted to gift you something.”
I pause. My brows tug together.
“Me?” I glance at her. “What for? Is this a thank-you for my excellent professor duties?”
She lets out a laugh—nervous and brief. Says something else, but her voice fades when I glance down and see the box she’s pulling out of her bag.
It’s small. About the size of my palm. Matte black with a discreet clasp.
I open it.
And my breath leaves me in one long, silent exhale.
It’s a bracelet.
