Rhea Randhawa

Final year had turned everything unofficial.

Rhea was already at the café when Aman walked in, settled into their usual corner like it had been claimed months ago. Her phone lay face down. His chair sat empty but waiting.

“You’re late,” she said.

“You say that every time.”

“Because you arrive like you’re doing me a favour.”

He smiled as he dropped into the chair anyway. Tall. Broad. Unhurried. Commanding presence, sleeves rolled up, watch loose at his wrist, confidence worn without effort.

“And yet,” he said, glancing at the cup in front of him, “you ordered my coffee.”

“I know your order,” she replied.

“You shouldn’t.”

“That would imply things?” she asked lightly.

He tilted his head. “Exactly.”

She wore a wide boat-neck top in a deep purple soft, elegant, slipping just enough at the shoulders to reveal skin without apology. The fabric draped rather than clung, but the shape beneath it was unmistakable. A push-up bra did its quiet, deliberate work, accentuating curves she never intended to hide. Well fitted jeans balanced the look effortlessly. Aware, quietly disarming.

A group of classmates passed the café window. Someone slowed. Someone nudged someone else.

“They’re staring again,” Aman said.

“They always do.”

“They think we’re together.”

Rhea took a sip of her coffee. “We are together.”

He raised an eyebrow. “We are?”

She met his gaze calmly. “We just don’t announce it.”

They left the café side by side, no discussion required. Aman walked her home like it was habit.. because it was. The quiet, green stretch of the locality softened everything. Trees arched overhead, insulating them from the city.

“So,” Aman said, hands in his pockets, “final year’s ending.”

“Finally.”

“What happens after?” he asked.

“I want to build something,” she said without hesitation. “My own ideas. My own risk.”

“No corporate job?” he asked.

She smiled faintly. “I don’t want permission. I want control.”

He glanced at her. “You sound dangerous.”

“I am,” she replied lightly.

They slowed near her building. The gate stood half open, streetlight spilling softly onto the pavement.

“This is me,” she said, tucking the strands of hair behind her ear but not stepping away.

Aman moved closer. Not hurried. Not uncertain.

His hand settled at her bare waist, warm against the exposed skin revealed by the wide neckline of her top. It wasn’t possessive.. but it wasn’t accidental either.

“Rhea,” he murmured.

She tilted her head just slightly, acutely aware of his height, his closeness, the warmth of his breath brushing her shoulder. It sent a quiet shiver through her, sharp and unmistakable.

Their lips hovered a millimetre apart.

Not touching.

Not retreating.

Her heartbeat was loud now. His thumb shifted faintly at her waist.

“Someone’s watching,” she whispered.

He smiled into the space between them. “They always are.”

She stepped back just enough to break the moment, not enough to erase it.

“Goodnight, Aman.”

“For now,” he said.

She walked inside without looking back.