THE BEGGINING
The next morning, the sun felt brighter than usual, though my head was still heavy from last night's chaos. I couldn't believe how easily Raffy and his friends had dragged me into their little world of dares and noise.
At college, I tried to push it aside. Maheen was already waiting near the gate, waving at me with her usual smile. "Finally! You're late," she teased, tugging my arm as we walked in.
Our classes dragged on, the same boring lectures, but it wasn't long before Ayan showed up at the door during the break, insisting that we join him and the boys for lunch. I hesitated, but Maheen gave me no chance to escape.
By the time we reached the canteen, the whole "Street Crew" was already there. They had practically taken over a corner table, loud enough to make half the café stare. Raffy sat with his arms crossed, quiet as always, while Zain was busy cracking jokes that made even the waiter laugh.
"Look who's here!" Ayan announced, pulling a chair for me as if it was some grand welcome.
I rolled my eyes but sat down. Maheen instantly blended in, laughing and answering their questions like she'd known them forever. I, on the other hand, mostly listened.
Zain leaned across the table. "So, Wateen, do you always look this serious? Or is it just because you're new to our gang?"
"Gang?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Street Crew," he said proudly, tapping the table as if it were some kind of badge. "We're not just friends, we're a family."
"A very loud family," Raffy muttered under his breath, earning a laugh from Ayan.
I couldn't help but smile a little at their banter. It was strange—this mix of chaos and comfort. They were nothing like the people I was used to, yet it didn't feel bad being around them.
Maheen nudged me. "See? Told you they're not so bad."
Days slipped by in the same blur of classes, laughter, and half-hearted conversations with the "Street Crew." I had gotten used to their noise, their inside jokes, and even Raffy's silent presence at the edge of it all. But then came the group project—the one assigned to us with our desk partners.
And, of course, fate paired me with him.
From the very beginning, Raffy made it clear he had no interest in the project. His arms were always crossed, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, as if my words didn't even exist. I worked relentlessly for two straight days and nights, determined to do it all alone if I had to. But when everything fell apart—when the files got corrupted and all my effort collapsed into nothing—I broke.
That evening, I sat on my bed, screaming at myself, pulling at my hair, scolding my own reflection. The anger boiled over until I snatched the small vase from my side table and hurled it across the room, the crash echoing like thunder.
A moment later, Raffy appeared at the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.
"Keep it low," he said flatly, as if my world wasn't falling apart.
Fury rushed through me. I stood up on the bed, glaring at him.
"This is all because of you!" I shouted, striking his shoulder with my fists. "What do you think of me? Your maid?!"
Tears burned down my face, unstoppable. He just stared, his silence louder than anything else. I shoved him as I climbed down from the bed, his quiet "Stop-p-p-p…" trailing behind me. But I didn't stop. Not until the shards of broken glass pierced into my foot.
The sharp pain ripped a scream from my throat. I stumbled, clutching my foot, sobbing harder. Raffy was suddenly there, his eyes locked on mine before lowering to the blood. Without hesitation, he bent down, lifted me carefully in his arms, and set me on his bed.
"I told you to stop," he murmured, his tone softer now.
My tears blurred his face as he opened the wardrobe, pulled out a first aid box, and knelt on the floor. Gently, almost too gently for someone like him, he took my injured foot in his hands. The sting of medicine silenced my sobs, and the way he wrapped the bandage made me forget to breathe for a moment.
When it was done, he tugged the blanket over me and began cleaning the broken mess without a word. I just lay there, staring at him, stunned.
"Sleep," he said, glancing back at me.
"But… the project—"
"Complete it after sleeping."
I clicked my tongue, annoyed but oddly comforted. He turned off the lights and left, shutting the door behind him.
Hours later, when my eyes blinked open, the room was dim except for the soft lamp glow on the study table. Raffy was still there, pen in hand, eyes fixed on the pages. For ten minutes I just watched him, unable to look away. Then, as if he felt it, he turned. Our eyes met.
I sat up quickly. "P-project?" I stammered.
He hummed in response, barely looking up.
I limped toward him on one leg, ignoring his warning—"Careful"—and sat beside him. "How's it going?"
"More than half done."
I froze, shocked. Grabbing the papers, I gasped. "HOW?!"
He didn't answer. Just smirked faintly, like my reaction amused him.
"Alright then," I said stubbornly, "I'm helping."
But instead, he suddenly rose. "Food is ready. Let's eat first."
Before I could argue, he helped me stand, guiding me to the lounge. He served the food, while I flicked on my favorite TV show. For the first time, we ate together in something that almost felt like peace. But the moment plates were cleared, he switched off the TV.
"Back to work."
We settled on his bed, my injured foot stretched out comfortably while papers and books sprawled everywhere. I asked questions, he explained. I teased, he ignored. I munched on snacks, he kept working. Eventually, I drifted off for a nap—when I woke, he was still at it.
By 3 a.m., I groaned. "Isn't it done yet?"
"Half an hour," he replied, eyes still on the page. "Since I'm the only one working."
I laughed and popped a snack in his mouth. The room was cozy—the curtains drawn, the lamp casting a warm glow. It was strangely perfect. In between everything, I caught myself staring at him.
*He looks… good,* I thought. Then I shook my head quickly. *No. No, he doesn't.*
I tapped my head, as if scolding my own thoughts. At some point, I dozed off again on his bed. When I blinked awake, he had fallen asleep too—still sitting, head tilted slightly, the papers scattered around him.
Something about that night felt… different. Warm, even.
Like maybe enemies didn't always have to stay enemies.