Rhea Randhawa was 21 and carried herself like she knew exactly who she was. Well on most days, at least. She had a charming laugh, a bubbly presence, and a smile that arrived a second before she did, apologetically warm and slightly mischievous. The kind of smile that made people linger longer than they planned.
The college cafeteria was its usual self – too loud, too crowded, and smelling faintly of burnt coffee and ambition. Rhea stood in line, absentmindedly stirring her cup, when she felt it.
That sensation of being noticed.
Not ogled.
Not interrupted.
Simply seen.
She looked up.
Aman Sharma.
Tall, easily six feet with an ease that came from being comfortable in his own skin. Light brown eyes, expressive and unmistakably naughty, like they were always on the verge of saying something clever before his mouth caught up. He was smiling already, as if the moment had been agreed upon in advance.
“Tell me,” He said, stepping closer, “is the coffee always this bad, or did we just pick the wrong day?”
Rhea laughed – an unguarded, warm and cheerful sound.
“It’s consistent,” she said. “Very loyal to disappointment.”
“I respect commitment,” Aman replied. “Even in bad coffee.”
That made her look at him properly. The relaxed posture. Hands in pockets. Confidence without urgency.
“I’m Rhea,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Aman,” he replied, shaking it. He held on just a fraction longer than necessary. Not enough to be obvious. Enough to be intentional. Their eyes met. Something settled between them.
They took a table by the window. Sunlight spilled across the scratched surface, catching in Rhea’s hair as she tucked a strand behind her ear. Aman watched the motion without pretending not to.
“So,” he asked, leaning back, “what does Rhea with the dangerously charming smile study?”
“Finance.”
He laughed, breath warm where it brushed her knuckles.
“That smile doesn’t belong to spreadsheets.”
She felt it then – that subtle warmth under her skin.
“Maybe you don’t know what spreadsheets can do,” she said.
Aman’s grin slowed, deepened. “Now that sounds like a challenge.”
“And you?” she asked.
“Engineering,” he said. “I have a thirst to innovate something new.”
Their knees brushed under the table. It was barely anything. Fabric against fabric.
Still both felt it. An accident. Neither of them moved away.
Aman glanced down, then back up, voice lower now. “Should I apologize?”
“Only if you plan on doing it again,” she said.
For a moment, neither spoke. Their breaths found a similar rhythm. Close enough now that Rhea could feel the warmth of him, could sense the question humming in the space between them.
He leaned in, just slightly. Enough that his voice dropped. “You’re very distracting,” he said.
She smiled, slower this time. “You seem like someone who doesn’t mind being distracted.”
His gaze flicked to her lips – not lingering, but unmistakable. Rhea felt it like a touch.
They talked after that, but the words were almost secondary. What mattered was the way their shoulders brushed when they laughed. The way his hand hovered near hers on the table, never quite touching, making the absence louder than contact.
When they finally stood to leave, Aman hesitated.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, casual words, deliberate tone.
Rhea smiled – the kind that lingered.
“Careful, Aman Sharma,” she said. “Consistency can be risky.”
He met her gaze without flinching. “I’m willing to risk it.”
As she walked away, she felt the pull. The awareness of him still standing there, still watching, still smiling like the moment wasn’t over yet.
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Rhea Randhawa 
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