Anvika had learned, over time, that reactions were a currency.
People spent them carelesslyflinching, smiling too quickly, apologizing when they weren't wrong. Reactions told the world where you were vulnerable, where you could be pushed. She had survived long enough on her own to know better.
So when the seminar hall dissolved into movement and noise, she didn't rush.
She closed her notebook slowly, capped her pen with deliberate care, and slipped both into her bag. Around her, chairs scraped and conversations rose, students dissecting the lecture, replaying the debate that had crackled briefly through the room. She caught fragments of her name, Aadvaith's name, the familiar tones of comparison and speculation.
She ignored them all.
By the time she stood, the aisle had cleared. She moved forward with a steady stride, shoulders relaxed, gaze ahead. The corridor outside the hall was brighter, sunlight spilling in through tall windows, casting long rectangular shadows across the floor.
She had taken exactly three steps when she sensed him.
Not heardsensed.
" You don't argue emotionally."
His voice came from behind her, calm and level, as if he were stating an observation rather than opening a conversation.
Anvika stopped.
She didn't turn immediately. She let the pause stretch, long enough to remind herself that she owed no one a response. Then she pivoted, slow and controlled, meeting his gaze head-on.
Up close, Aadvaith Rao was exactly as she had imagined him from a distance.
Tall, but not imposing. Still, but not rigid. His eyes were steady, the kind that didn't dart away or overcompensate with intensity. He looked like someone who had learned how to carry weight without letting it bend him.
"I don't see the point," she replied.
He studied her for a moment, as if filing the answer away rather than reacting to it. "Most people do," he said.
"And most people are wrong."
For a secondjust a secondthe corner of his mouth shifted. Not a smile. Something quieter. Amusement, maybe. Or recognition.
"You're not concerned about how you're perceived," he said.
"I'm concerned about being accurate," she corrected. "Perception follows."
His gaze held hers, unblinking. There was no challenge in it, no attempt to dominate the space between them. Just attentionfocused, unsettling.
"I noticed," he said.
She tilted her head slightly. "You notice a lot for someone who barely speaks."
"I speak when it matters."
"And who decides that?"
"I do."
The answer was simple. Not arrogant. Just certain.
Anvika studied him now, openly. She took in the neat alignment of his bag strap over his shoulder, the way he stood with his weight evenly distributed, grounded. He didn't fidget. Didn't fill silences unnecessarily.
She recognized the trait.
Survival had taught her the same economy.
"We're paired for the upcoming research project," he said, shifting the conversation without transition.
"I know."
"I thought you might."
She adjusted the strap of her bag. "Then we should set boundaries."
His eyebrow lifted a fraction. "Already?"
"I work efficiently," she said. "I don't waste time managing unnecessary tension."
A pause settled between them.
"I don't create tension," Aadvaith said finally.
Anvika almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead, she held his gaze and said, "People who say that usually do."
He considered that, nodding once as though conceding the possibility without taking responsibility for it. "Fair."
They began walking, side by side, toward the staircase that led down to the library level. Their pace matched naturallyneither adjusting for the other, yet somehow aligned.
"I prefer clear divisions of responsibility," Anvika continued. "No assumptions. No last-minute changes."
"I agree."
"You don't sound like someone who enjoys collaboration."
"I enjoy competence."
She glanced at him then, something sharp flickering through her expression. "And you think I'm competent?"
"I wouldn't have disagreed with you publicly if I didn't."
It was an odd complimentbackhanded, maybebut there was no malice in it. Just truth.
They reached the bottom of the stairs and paused near a notice board cluttered with outdated flyers and academic announcements. Students streamed past them, absorbed in their own worlds.
Anvika leaned back against the wall, folding her arms loosely. "You don't back down easily."
"Neither do you."
"I don't expect people to," she said. "I expect them to be prepared."
He met her gaze again, something unreadable passing through his eyes. "You were."
The words landed heavier than she expected.
She looked away first this time, focusing on a crack in the wall paint, thin and spiderwebbed. Complimentsespecially quiet oneshad a way of disarming her if she wasn't careful.
"We'll meet tomorrow," she said. "Library. Sixth floor. Seven p.m."
"You're assuming my availability."
"I'm assuming your priorities," she corrected. "If I'm wrong, say so."
He didn't hesitate. "I'll be there."
She pushed off the wall, ready to leave. "Bring your sources," she added. "Primary ones."
"I always do."
She took a step, then paused. Not because she needed tobut because something in the air shifted. A subtle awareness, like the quiet before rain.
"You didn't flinch," he said.
She turned back, eyebrows drawing together slightly. "At what?"
"At disagreement," he clarified. "At being challenged."
Her expression softenednot into vulnerability, but into understanding. "Why would I?" she asked. "If I'm wrong, I learn. If I'm right, nothing changes."
"And if you're dismissed?"
She met his gaze squarely. "Then the problem isn't mine."
For a moment, he looked at her as if she'd named something he'd been circling for years.
"I respect that," he said.
She nodded once. "Good."
And then she walked away, her footsteps steady, unhurried, echoing faintly down the corridor.
Aadvaith remained where he was.
He watched her disappear around the corner, not with longing, not with curiositybut with a quiet recalibration. Something had shifted, subtle but undeniable. The world felt marginally less predictable than it had an hour ago.
He didn't chase.
He didn't call out.
He adjusted the strap of his bag and headed in the opposite direction, his mind already reorganizing plans, timelines, expectations.
Anvika was not someone to be underestimated.
And for the first time in a long while, Aadvaith found that fact… grounding.
The silence returned.
But it no longer felt empty.