The sixth floor of the library was never loud.
It was a space reserved for people who knew how to exist without announcing themselveslong wooden tables, high shelves lined with journals that smelled faintly of age and dust, and tall windows that let the evening light in at an angle that softened everything it touched.
Anvika arrived exactly at seven.
Not early. Not late.
She chose a seat near the window, placed her bag beside her chair, and laid out her materials with quiet efficiency. Books first. Then notes. Then her laptop, screen already organized into folders and documents. She didn't look around to see if Aadvaith had arrived yet.
She didn't need to.
He came a minute later.
She sensed him before she heard his footsteps, the subtle shift in air, the presence that didn't rush to fill space. He stopped across from her, setting his bag down carefully, chair scraping softly as he pulled it back.
"Evening," he said.
She nodded. "You're on time."
"So are you."
"That was the expectation."
They sat.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The silence wasn't awkward. It was deliberatetwo people measuring the terrain before stepping forward. The library clock ticked faintly above them, its sound absorbed by shelves and paper.
Aadvaith opened his notebook, pen poised but unmoving. He waited.
Anvika began first.
"I've outlined a working structure," she said, sliding a page toward him. "The argument flows chronologically, but the analysis is layered. We'll need to be precise."
He glanced at the page, eyes scanning quickly. "You're circling the same premise."
She didn't look up. "I'm reinforcing it."
"You're repeating it," he corrected calmly. "Strength comes from clarity, not volume."
Her pen paused mid-note.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet his.
"Clarity," she said, "comes from depth. Not reduction."
He leaned back slightly, considering her words. "Depth doesn't require excess."
"And restraint," she replied, "doesn't guarantee accuracy."
Their eyes locked.
Not heated. Not hostile.
Focused.
The space between them tightenednot with tension, but with attention. The kind that sharpened thought rather than dulling it.
Anvika broke eye contact first, returning to her notes. "You favor minimalism," she said. "That works when the framework is stable."
"And you favor expansion," he said. "Which works when the audience is patient."
She glanced at him again, something like approval flickering briefly in her expression. "They should be."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
They worked in silence after that, the kind that allowed thought to deepen. Pages turned softly. Pens moved. Occasionally, one of them would slide a document or reference across the table without comment.
It was efficient.
And strangely intimate.
Anvika annotated margins with sharp precision, her handwriting slanted, decisive. Aadvaith wrote less, but when he did, his notes were deliberate, carefully placed.
At one point, she paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
"You're avoiding a counterargument," she said.
"I'm prioritizing," he replied.
"You're assuming they won't question it."
"They will," he said. "But only if we present it incorrectly."
She leaned back, studying him now. "You trust the reader too much."
"I trust logic."
"That's not the same thing."
He met her gaze again. "It should be."
The words settled between them, neither conceding nor retreating.
Time passed unnoticed.
The sky outside darkened, the last of the evening light fading into blue. The library lamps clicked on one by one, casting warm pools of light across the tables.
Anvika rubbed her temples, a subtle gesture of fatigue she hadn't meant to reveal.
Aadvaith noticed.
He didn't comment.
He simply reached into his bag, pulled out a bottle of water, and placed it near her handclose enough to notice, far enough not to intrude.
She stilled.
Her eyes flicked to the bottle, then to him.
"I didn't ask," she said.
"I know."
"Then why"
"You've been working for three hours without a break."
She studied him, searching for somethingexpectation, perhaps. She found none.
Finally, she took the bottle.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
It was the first time she'd said it.
They resumed working, the silence now softer, less guarded.
A few minutes later, she frowned at her screen. "This citation doesn't align with the earlier dataset."
"It's not meant to," Aadvaith said. "It's a deviation point."
She looked at him sharply. "You didn't mention that."
"You didn't ask."
Her lips curved slightlynot into a smile, but into something close. "You're frustrating."
"So I've been told."
"But you're not careless," she added.
"No."
Another pause.
She exhaled slowly. "We work well together."
He nodded once. "We do."
The acknowledgment felt heavier than it should have.
Around them, the library remained quiet, other students lost in their own worlds. But at their table, something subtle had shiftedan alignment, fragile but real.
Anvika closed her laptop halfway. "We should stop for tonight."
He glanced at the clock. "Agreed."
They packed their things without rush, movements synchronized without effort. When they stood, their chairs brushed lightlya brief, accidental contact.
Neither reacted.
But the awareness lingered.
As they walked toward the exit, the space between them felt chargednot with desire, but with something steadier. A recognition of equal footing.
"You don't waste words," Anvika said as they reached the stairs.
"Neither do you."
"That's rare."
"So is competence."
She shook her head slightly, amusement softening her expression. "You're difficult."
"And you're uncompromising."
"Is that a criticism?"
"No," he said. "It's a fact."
Outside, the night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain. The campus was quieter now, lit by scattered lampposts.
They stopped at the steps, neither in a hurry to leave.
"Tomorrow?" he asked.
"Same time," she replied.
"Same place."
She nodded.
For a moment, they stood there, the silence stretchingbut not uncomfortably. It felt… held.
Anvika turned to leave, then paused. "Aadvaith."
He looked at her.
"You challenge people," she said. "Not to win. But to understand."
He didn't deny it.
"And you," he replied, "don't flinch."
Her eyes met his, steady and unreadable.
Then she walked away.
Aadvaith remained for a moment longer, watching her disappear into the dimly lit path, her figure gradually swallowed by distance.
He hadn't planned for this.
For friction that felt grounding.
For silence that didn't need filling.
But as he turned and headed in the opposite direction, one thought settled quietly in his mindunwanted, uninvited, undeniable.
This was not a battle he intended to lose.
Nor one he wanted to win.