Kiran yelped as the rental laundry machine exploded, sending wet clothes, foam, and a flying sock straight into his face. His carefully chosen gray suit, picked to impress some rich guy who could maybe change his life, was now plastered with detergent. The smell of soap filled his nostrils, sticky and aggressive. He stumbled back, trying to catch his soaked briefcase and the once-pristine tie now coated in white sludge. Of course, a pigeon cooed judgmentally outside the window, staring at him like the world’s ugliest bird, and he thought bitterly about how evolution somehow let pigeons survive but not fashion sense. He flailed, one sock smacking him in the eye, and cursed under his breath. Med school applications flashed in his mind, and he imagined the upgrade a live-in caretaker gig would bring, though he had no idea what he was walking into. Finally he wrung out the tie and jacket, grabbed his wet shoes, and sprinted toward the brownstone in the posh district, detritus of laundry catastrophe in tow.

The brownstone loomed, marble steps glinting in sunlight. He tried to smooth his damp lapels, silently willing the detergent stains to disappear. He pressed the doorbell, heart thudding. The door opened, revealing a man with neatly combed hair, tailored suit, and eyes like they were used to commanding armies or entire corporations. The man stared. Kiran offered a smile, weak and dripping, muttered, “Hi, I’m Kiran Reddy,” tie dripping like it had its own agenda. The man’s brow furrowed. “You…you’re here for the caretaker position?” Kiran nodded vigorously, trying not to slip on the wet marble. “Yes, sir. I have experience…biology background…med school aspirations. Very…dedicated.” He realized immediately that ‘dedicated’ sounded like ‘desperate’ and winced.

The man gestured vaguely inside. “Right…good…come in.” Kiran stepped over the threshold, careful to avoid a Persian rug that probably cost more than his wardrobe. Inside, the air smelled faintly of polish and something expensive. Kiran tried to dry his hands on the tie, his socks squelching in shoes. This is humiliating. Also pigeons are horrifying. Also, why do I do this to myself?

The man directed him to a chair. “Sit. Let’s discuss…” Kiran nodded, internally preparing for questions he didn’t know answers to. A soft squeak rolled from the hallway. He expected maybe a dog, maybe a cart. Instead, a wheelchair came into view. The girl in it had dark hair pulled back, eyes sharp, posture confident yet wary. Kiran froze. Something familiar in the tilt of her head, the way she adjusted herself on the cushion. Wait…

The man smiled awkwardly. “This is my daughter.” Kiran’s stomach sank and his brain scrambled. He recognized her, of course he did. The memory hit him in full force—the anatomy class, the grade she had beaten him by, the smug satisfaction in her eyes back then. He blinked, heart skipping, realizing he had no idea what this meant for the next hours, days, weeks. She looked straight at him, expression unreadable, teasing, terrifying, familiar. Kiran swallowed, words caught somewhere between panic and recognition.

She tilted her head slightly, adjusting her rollator. Recognition sharpened. His mind screamed she’s Nazenin. Every sarcastic comment, every smug grin from years ago, flooding back. Yet she didn’t say a word. She simply stared. Kiran sat frozen, suddenly aware that this was no ordinary caretaker gig. He had stumbled into a collision course with someone who had already shaped part of his life academically, and now…now she was here, and he had no idea what to expect next.

The man leaned back, clearly oblivious to the storm brewing between them. “So…you’ll be living here?” Kiran nodded, voice caught in his throat, soap still clinging to his tie. Living here…with her…Naz…what the hell have I signed up for?

And she didn’t speak. She just smiled slightly, one eyebrow arched, eyes locked on his. Recognition, mischief, challenge—everything he remembered. And suddenly, Kiran realized he was not prepared for this. Not in the slightest.