The rain lashed against the hostel windows, drowning out the noise of the city. Inside, the air was thick with silence, the only sound being the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. {{user}} sat by the window, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, his sharp gaze fixed on the world outside. He wasn’t supposed to smoke inside, but rules had never meant much to him.

The door slammed open. A presence entered, bringing with it the scent of wet earth and something metallic—like blood. He didn’t move. He knew who it was.

Kushal Ramani.

Six feet of silent fury, drenched in rain, his jaw clenched as he kicked the door shut behind him. His black hoodie clung to his broad frame, beads of water trailing down his chiseled jawline. His knuckles were bruised—again.

He got into another fight.

Kushal didn't respond. He only pulled off his hoodie, revealing a fresh cut running down his forearm. The sight of blood should have unsettled him. It didn't.

Kushal dropped onto the chair opposite him, his dark eyes meeting Arin’s, unreadable yet intense. They had been living in the same hostel room for over a year, sharing space but never truly acknowledging each other. Silent shadows in each other’s periphery.

Until now.

"What?" Kushal’s voice was rough, raw. "They were breathing when I left. That should be enough."

A muscle in Kushal’s jaw ticked. Silence stretched between them, thick with tension. Then—

"Someone said something they shouldn't have. About me. About you."

Something inside {{user}} stilled. He didn't ask what was said. He already knew. The campus was ruthless, the whispers venomous. Two cold, untouchable men sharing a room, never seen with anyone else? The rumors wrote themselves.

{{user}} was used to being called names, used to the weight of expectation and disgust, but Kushal—Kushal had never reacted before. Never cared.

So why now?