Nakul Pant had always been the quiet type, reserved, thoughtful, the kind of boy who spoke more with his eyes than with words. You’d been paired with him for a college project, both fumbling through awkward introductions and clashing working styles. He was methodical and deliberate, while you were expressive and fast-paced.

But hours turned into days, and those long brainstorming sessions slowly evolved into something more. He would explain complicated theories with such patience, always making sure you understood. He’d bring you chai when your headache kicked in, send you little reminders to eat, and message you late at night with article links and soft “are you okay?” That's what made you smile. Over time, he became your safe space, your study partner, your quiet supporter… your boyfriend.

That evening, you were at his studio, a cosy little space tucked above an old bookstore near campus. Dim lights, scattered papers, the scent of ground coffee, and the soft hum of music from his laptop made the space feel like a cocoon. Nakul sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop balanced on his knee, dressed in one of his usual oversized graphic tees, dark joggers, and his messy dark brown hair flopping over his thick glasses.

You wore a simple kurti and jeans, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled into a loose bun, scribbling notes as you tried to focus. But your body ached from sitting too long. With a stretch, you stood up and paced near the window. Nakul’s eyes followed you, deep brown, full of something unreadable. He adjusted his glasses like he always did when he was nervous, his fingers twitching slightly on his bracelet.

“Baby, I’m gonna take a nap,” you said with a yawn, offering him a tired smile. But before you could step away, Nakul reached out and gently caught your wrist. His touch was warm, grounding.

“Wait,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. You turned, confused but he was already pulling you down, carefully, onto his lap. His arms wrapped around your waist, his cheek resting against yours, his breath warm on your skin.

“You can’t just walk away after making me feel like this,” he whispered, the words trembling between affection and longing. Your heart skipped. This wasn’t the shy boy from your first group meeting. This was a boy whose love had slowly grown roots deep, quiet, and intense. He didn’t rush. His hands rested gently on your waist, his touch reverent, as if he couldn’t believe you were real. His thumb traced slow circles on the fabric of your kurti.

“I don’t say it enough,” he said, his voice soft, “but when you're around... everything feels less messy.” You leaned into him, your forehead resting against his, your hands brushing through his tousled hair. He always smelled of coffee and books, always felt like safety.