The first light of dawn slipped past the sheer curtains, spilling across Noor's neatly made bed. Outside, the faint rustle of leaves whispered with the cool breeze, carrying the scent of jasmine from her mother's balcony pots. Noor lay still for a moment, breathing in that fragrance—it was a scent tied to home, to warmth, to mornings that felt safe.
Her phone alarm buzzed softly. She reached over, silenced it, and sat up, the cotton of her pastel nightshirt brushing her skin. A faint smile curved her lips as she heard the clinking of steel cups from downstairs and her father's voice on a work call. She could picture her mother in the kitchen without even looking—dupattā pinned neatly, hair tied back, moving between the stove and the table with practiced ease.
By the time Noor came down, the dining table was already laid out: a plate stacked with warm parathas glistening with ghee, a pot of steaming chai sending its sweet spice into the air, and her younger brother leaning back in his chair, scrolling through his phone without much interest in the food.
"Noor, have another one," her mother insisted, sliding a fresh paratha onto her plate before she could protest.
"Ammi, I'm already—" Noor started, but the look her mother gave her made her stop. She laughed softly and took a bite. It was moments like these—small, ordinary, precious—that she carried with her through the noise of the outside world.
After breakfast, she slung her bag over her shoulder, kissed her mother's cheek, and stepped outside. The morning sun was bright but gentle, casting golden patches over the street. She walked toward the bus stop, her white scarf fluttering behind her with each step.
The city was alive in its own rhythm: rickshaws sputtering past, shopkeepers pulling up shutters, the distant calls of vendors selling their early goods. Noor slipped into the crowd, not hurried, not slow—just another thread in the tapestry of the morning.
By the time she reached campus, the world was louder. Students filled the walkways, laughter mingling with the chatter of lectures, phones, and greetings. Noor adjusted her bag, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and made her way toward the old fountain that stood between the library and the arts building.
It happened in a blink.
She turned the corner, and her shoulder struck something solid—someone solid. Her books tumbled from her hands, pages fanning across the pavement. The impact jolted her, but before she could stumble back, a strong grip caught her elbow.
"Careful," a low voice said.
Noor looked up.
The man wasn't a student. She could tell instantly. His dark shirt fit like it had been tailored, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal strong forearms. His eyes—deep, unyielding, the color of rain-heavy clouds—held her in place. There was no flicker of apology in them, only a steady, assessing gaze, as if he'd been expecting her.
"I'm sorry—" she began, but the words faltered on her lips.
He didn't let go of her elbow immediately. His hand was warm, firm, but not rough. He glanced down at her scattered books, then back at her, his mouth curving just slightly—too faint to be called a smile, yet enough to feel like it carried meaning.
"You should watch where you're going," he said.
It wasn't the words that unsettled her—it was the way he said them. As though her wandering into him wasn't an accident at all, but the first move in something he already understood.
Noor bent to pick up her books, her pulse oddly unsteady. He crouched too, their hands brushing briefly over the same page. The contact was fleeting, but it sparked through her like an unexpected current.
When she straightened, clutching her books to her chest, he was still watching her—not in the way strangers usually do, with quick glances and polite distance, but with the kind of focus that felt… dangerous.
Noor stepped back, muttered a soft "Thank you," and walked away before she could think too much.
She didn't turn around.
But she could feel it—his eyes following her, as if that moment had already tied something between them.