I spent the entire night pretending I wasn't waiting for a message.
Which meant I checked my phone every six minutes like it was a personality trait.
Nothing.
No text.
No good morning.
No accidental emoji.
Just my cracked screen reflecting my face and a very strong urge to overthink every life decision I'd ever made.
By 9:14 a.m., I told myself the truth.
Of course he wasn't texting.
Men like him didn't wake up and think, Did the broke girl make it home safe?
They woke up and thought about markets.
Meetings.
Time zones.
I rolled out of bed and immediately stepped on disappointment—also known as yesterday's laundry.
My phone buzzed.
I froze.
Then I grabbed it so fast I almost dropped it on my face.
Unknown number.
Again.
> Did you survive yesterday?
I stared at the screen.
Me: Barely. My bank account didn't.
Him: It tried its best.
Me: Don't defend it. It has disappointed me before.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
I hated that those three dots had so much power over my mood.
Him: Coffee tonight?
Him: My treat this time.
I sat up.
Me: You already paid once. I refuse to be emotionally sponsored.
Him: Then don't get emotional.
Me: Too late. That ship sailed at ₹183.
A pause.
Him: Pick the place.
Me: Somewhere my card won't cry.
Him: Noted.
I chose a café that pretended to be aesthetic but secretly understood broke people.
He was already there when I arrived.
Again.
Standing near the window, sleeves rolled up, phone in his hand, looking like waiting was something he allowed—not something that happened to him.
"You're early," I said.
"You're on time," he corrected.
I narrowed my eyes. "That's suspiciously nice."
He smiled. "I'm in a good mood."
"Why?"
He looked at me.
Not flirtatious.
Not teasing.
"Because you came."
I hated how easily that affected me.
We ordered.
I didn't even look at the prices this time.
Growth.
"So," I said, sitting down. "Do you always make a habit of texting strangers?"
"Only when they don't pretend," he replied.
I sighed. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's rare."
We sat there, silence settling again. Comfortable. Heavy. Charged.
I noticed it then—the way people looked at him.
Not staring.
Pausing.
Like their instincts were doing a background check.
"So what's your name?" I asked casually, like it didn't matter.
He tilted his head. "Does it?"
"I don't usually meet men whose names I don't know."
"You met me."
Touché.
"I'm Aira," I added quickly, before I could rethink it. "In case you needed context."
He looked amused.
"Aira," he repeated.
Like he was testing how it sounded.
My name had never sounded expensive before.
"And you?" I asked.
He hesitated.
Just a second.
Then—
"Kaivan."
The name landed heavier than I expected.
Not because it was dramatic.
But because it fit.
Too well.
Like it belonged to someone whose world didn't overlap with mine unless fate was feeling cruel.
"Kaivan," I repeated.
He smiled slightly. "You say it like it's dangerous."
"Is it?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, his phone buzzed.
He glanced at it once, then put it face down.
"You're ignoring it," I noticed.
"For now."
"That's new."
"So are you."
I felt that stupid flutter again.
I hated it.
I loved it.
"Why are you really here?" I asked softly. "With me."
He leaned forward.
"Because I don't want this to be just a story I tell myself later."
My throat tightened.
I didn't trust that feeling.
I trusted my instincts—and they were screaming.
"Kaivan," I said, carefully, "I don't belong in your life."
He smiled.
"Neither do most things that matter."
That was when I realized it.
Names weren't supposed to matter this much.
But somehow, his did.
And somehow…
mine already mattered to him.
Which was terrifying.
Because if learning his name felt like this—
I wasn't ready for what knowing him would cost me.