Rohan liked silence.

He liked people who didn’t talk to fill air, teachers who stuck to the syllabus, and girls who didn’t wear daggers on their heels.

So obviously, you were the opposite of everything he liked.

You were loud. Sharp. Always watching, always performing. And you had this look in your eyes lately—like you wanted to win something.

Your ex-boyfriend—now dating a junior—had the audacity to exist three tables away. You walked in like a storm wrapped in Versace, heels clicking, tossing your glossy waves like a weapon. Everyone looked up.

Everyone except him.

Rohan, sitting alone in the back corner, hoodie sleeves rolled up, fingers tapping against his desk as he read a book thicker than your Chem textbook. You paused when she saw him.

You’d seen him at least six times. And not once had he looked at you. Not in the halls. Not in class. Not even when you wore the red dress that made Mr. Carson, their 35-year-old history teacher, stutter.

He was impossible. And impossibly... calm. It drove you insane.

So you upped the game.

You made sure to sit beside him in AP Lit. “Coincidence.” You fake-laughed louder when talking to guys near him. You accidentally dropped your notes on his desk. He handed them back without even blinking.

You sat at the edge of the dusty old art room, arms crossed, glaring at the clock like it personally offended you.

Across the room?

Rohan Mehta. Of course.

Same unreadable expression. Same lazy posture. Like he wasn’t stuck in the most tragic room in school with you—the queen of campus.

You muttered something about how this situation is ridiculous as if you didn't just drag him into detention along with you.

Rohan didn’t look up from the sketchbook in his lap. “What did you expect? You pushed a kid into a locker.”