The lunch break announcement echoes through the expo hall — a welcome sound after the nonstop whirlwind of questions, presentations, and power smiles. Aina exhales, pressing a hand to her stomach. She hadn't even realized she was hungry.
Their mentor, Ms. Hannah, weaves through the thinning crowd, carrying a tray piled high with foil-wrapped sandwiches and juice bottles. She hands them out like medals.
Sarah grabs a sandwich for herself, nudging Aina with a grin. "Food. Because you're starting to look like you might pass out."
Aina laughs, weak but grateful. "Bless you."
They settle on the edge of the low platform behind Aina's stall, legs dangling off the side. For a while, there's only the quiet crinkle of wrappers and the low hum of the crowd.
Aina takes a bite, but her thoughts keep circling. The questions, the spotlight, the energy — all of it already blurring.
Sarah eyes her sidelong. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Aina blinks, startled. "Oh. No. Just tired."
Sarah raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. She tears a corner off her sandwich and pops it into her mouth, then glances at Aina with a spark in her eye. "So… you gonna talk about the mysterious black-shirted guy, or should I?"
Aina nearly chokes. "Sarah—"
"I'm just saying," she teases, "the drama was giving academic enemies to lovers."
Aina groans, covering her face. "Do not mention him right now. I swear, I'm going to kill him."
"What did he do? Push your buttons again?"
"He lives to push my buttons," Aina mutters. "Thinks he's some kind of emotion-reading prodigy. Honestly, who goes around asking judges to 'test their emotional variance' like it's a game show?"
Sarah snorts. "So you were watching."
"Shut up."
A beat.
Aina tries to sound nonchalant. "What do you think of his project?"
"Haven't seen it yet," Sarah says. "But Mehmet said it's insane. AI that reads facial muscle movement and vocal tone to detect emotions, specifically for people who are deaf and blind. Apparently, he's got the judges wrapped around his pinky."
Aina tries not to glance across the room.
Fails.
Rayyan's booth is still busy, though the crowd has thinned. He's talking to a judge, calm as ever, the kind of calm that makes Aina feel like setting something on fire.
Sarah bumps her knee. "You wanna check it out, don't you?"
"I'm just… curious."
"Mhm."
"But I'm not walking up there. Not after this morning."
"So you'll do a casual post-lunch stroll that happens to swing past his stall?"
Aina glares. "I hate how well you know me."
Sarah grins. "Come on. One loop. You need a breather before the next wave anyway."
They meander down the rows, pausing here and there to admire other projects. Aina forces herself to engage — she praises a sustainable fashion app, nods at a med-sorting robot, even high-fives a kid with a prosthetic arm made from recycled 3D-printed parts.
But as they round the last corner—
Her steps falter.
There he is.
Rayyan stands at his booth, slightly bent over a monitor, gesturing as he explains something — a graph showing voice frequencies and emotional states. His sleeves are rolled up. His hair's a mess. He's infuriatingly focused.
She tries not to watch.
She watches.
He doesn't look up.
Or maybe he does — and pretends better.
Sarah peels off to talk about a smart greenhouse. Aina hovers near a neighboring stall, pretending to study a drone poster like her life depends on it.
Then—
"There's a better angle from this side," says a voice behind her.
She turns.
Rayyan stands just a few feet away, holding a demo card. His expression unreadable, but there's that damn flicker of amusement again.
Aina blinks. "What?"
"You've been circling for ten minutes. Figured I'd save you the trouble."
"I wasn't circling."
"Mhm."
"I was curious."
"Exactly what I said."
She folds her arms. "So, Mr. Not-Here-For-The-App. Is this how you charm the judges, too?"
Rayyan chuckles. "For them, I stick to code. For you? Provocation seems more effective."
Aina narrows her eyes. "You're impossible."
"Yet here you are." He hands her the card.
She takes it.
A beat passes. Their eyes lock. Then, quietly—
"So… explain your project to me."
He tilts his head. "After all that?"
"I said I was curious."
Rayyan nods and starts. "It's an AI model that detects emotional cues from tone and facial muscle movement — designed for people who are both deaf and blind. It creates a kind of emotional subtitle, you could say. Real-time feedback on how someone feels, based on their voice and expressions."
Aina listens, frowning slightly. It's impressive — too impressive — but there are holes. She spots them fast.
She finally says, "You've got the basics right, but your emotional model is too linear. It assumes emotion maps neatly to pitch and tone, but context is everything. You're going to get false positives like crazy without more layers."
Rayyan pauses. "You think it's too simple?"
"I think it's a start. But if you're aiming for real-world impact, it needs work."
Before he can respond, Dr. Leena, Rayyan's supervisor, steps forward. She's been quietly listening. "It seems someone's been paying attention."
Aina straightens. "Just making sure the details are accurate."
Dr. Leena smiles. "I like that. Speaking of — Aina, Rayyan told me about your project. Something about cat vocalization?"
Aina nods. "It's a machine learning model to translate cat vocalizations — emotional and behavioral signals — into something humans can understand. For better care, bonding, the whole thing."
Dr. Leena tilts her head. "Interesting. And what's the broader use case?"
Rayyan cuts in, too quickly. "I mean, it sounds more like a novelty than a tool."
Aina bristles. "Not to people who care about their pets. If you'd ever had one, you might get it."
Rayyan raises an eyebrow, taken aback by her tone. "Didn't mean to dismiss it."
"Sure felt like you did."
Dr. Leena, to her credit, steps in lightly. "I have two cats. And I'd love something like that. Don't underestimate emotional utility."
Rayyan exhales. "Fair enough. I didn't realize you were that passionate about it."
"I am."
Dr. Leena nods, then looks between them, clearly suppressing a smirk. "Aina, could you write a bit of feedback for Rayyan's project? Just a few notes from a peer's perspective."
Aina eyes her, then Rayyan.
A challenge.
She takes the pen.
On the notepad, she writes:
"The emotional classification is too shallow. Tone ≠ context. The algorithm needs broader, richer data to reduce false outputs. Conceptually strong, but execution isn't there yet. Not good enough for real-world use."
She rips the note, folds it once, and hands it not to Rayyan, but to his teammate nearby.
The teammate opens it, reads it, and laughs. "Savage."
Aina remains expressionless, arms crossed. She's not here to soften anything.
Rayyan reads the note over his teammate's shoulder. His face shifts — not angry, but not untouched either. He steps forward, steady.
"I see you've got something to say."
Aina meets his gaze. "No point sugar-coating it."
A pause.
Rayyan nods slowly, his expression unreadable. "Fair. I'll take it seriously."
He moves closer — just a step — enough to shift the air between them. His voice drops, meant only for her.
"I'll fix it," he murmurs. "But next time... you're walking me through your thought process."
Aina raises a brow. "In your dreams."
He leans in slightly, eyes locked on hers, his voice low and sure.
"Maybe. But I don't mind dreaming... if it gets me closer to you."
Her breath catches — not that she'd admit it.
He's still watching her, too calm, too unreadable. The kind of unreadable that gets under your skin and lingers.
Dr. Leena watches them both, a flicker of amusement dancing at the corner of her mouth. Then she turns slightly, her gaze settling on Aina.
"Remind me, Aina — who's supervising your project?"
Aina straightens, her voice even. "Dr. Hamid."
"Ah," Dr. Leena says, visibly pleased. "Hamid. He was one of mine, back when I taught at Eastbridge."
Aina blinks, surprised. "Really?"
Dr. Leena nods. "Brilliant student. Stubborn, but sharp. If he's guiding your work, that tells me plenty."
As she speaks, Rayyan shifts quietly from where he'd been standing and comes to stand just beside Aina. Not too close, but close enough that she can feel the edge of his presence, the faint warmth of him.
She can feel him behind her now — not touching, but too close.
The warmth of his body. The steady cadence of his breath. The weight of his attention grazing across her skin like a second touch.
It's maddening how little he does. And how much it affects her.
Aina's breath catches, and her cheeks flush with a heat that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
He leans down, his voice low. "You're dangerous when you're sharp like that."
Her heart stutters.
Aina swallows, pulse racing. "Dangerous how?"
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. "To me."
She holds his gaze for just a second longer before she straightens. Her head feels a little light.
Dr. Leena continues, unaware — or politely pretending not to notice. "You've clearly put in the work. Keep pushing it — I'll be watching both of your projects closely."
Aina nods, breaking the moment. "Thanks, Dr. Leena."
As Aina turns to go, her foot catches slightly on the edge of a cable near the table. Just enough to make her stumble.
Before she can fall, a hand catches her waist — firm, steady.
Rayyan.
His grip is quick but careful, the strength of it grounding her instantly. She gasps, hand instinctively landing on his chest to balance herself.
They freeze.
Her fingers press lightly against the fabric of his shirt — warm, solid beneath her palm. His hand doesn't move from her waist.
Too close.
Too still.
Too charged.
Her eyes flick up to meet his — and he's already looking at her.
Not smirking.
Not teasing.
Just there.
Present. Focused.
Intense.
Aina clears her throat, trying to step back, but his hand lingers for half a second longer than it should.
"Careful," he says softly, his voice low, almost a whisper. "Wouldn't want you to fall… again. But if you do, I'll be right here."
She glares — but her cheeks flush anyway. "I didn't need saving."
Rayyan's gaze dips briefly to her hand still resting on his chest, then back to her face. His smile is soft, almost tender, with just a hint of something deeper.
"Didn't say you did," he murmurs, his voice low and filled with something that makes her heart race. "But I wouldn't mind being the one to catch you."
Her heart stumbles in her chest.
She pulls back — this time fully — her face carefully unreadable, but her fingers tingling from where they touched him.
He lets her go.
But as she walks away, she knows it — he's still watching.
And the worst part?
She wants to look back.