Meera Joshi believed that life was made up of moments—tiny, fleeting, unscripted flashes that revealed who people really were. That’s why, as the head photographer of Campus Life Weekly, she never staged her shots. She preferred catching people off guard—laughing mid-bite, sleeping on benches, tripping in the corridor. It was raw. It was real. It was… entertaining.

So when her camera lens found Aarav Malhotra, the most intimidating student on campus, hunched over a Styrofoam cup of noodles in the cafeteria, she knew she had struck gold.

The Aarav Malhotra—law school prodigy, son of a powerful family, rumored to have never failed at anything—was struggling with chopsticks, lips pursed, noodles dangling comically from his mouth. For once, the cold, perfect mask was cracked. And Meera, grinning behind her camera, pressed the shutter. Click.

The photo was too good to keep to herself. By the next morning, it was splashed across the humor column of the magazine, captioned: “Even kings have their noodle moments.”

The reaction was instant. The halls buzzed with laughter. Students pointed, snickered, and whispered as Aarav walked past. It was the first time anyone had dared poke fun at him, and the campus was eating it up.

“Meera, you’re insane,” her best friend Priya said between giggles as they scrolled through the issue. “He’s going to kill you. Do you know who his family is?”

Meera shrugged, popping a chip into her mouth. “Relax. It’s harmless fun. He probably won’t even notice.”

She was wrong.

That evening, Meera slipped into the library to return a stack of books. The silence was thick, broken only by the faint scratching of pens. She was halfway to the return counter when the air shifted—sharp, electric. Her instincts prickled. Someone was watching her.

She turned.

And there he was.

Aarav Malhotra stood by the shelves, a copy of Campus Life Weekly in his hand. The infamous photo was circled in red ink, like evidence in a courtroom. His tall frame radiated quiet danger, his expression unreadable except for the hard set of his jaw and the storm brewing in his eyes.

Meera froze, pulse quickening. Okay… so he noticed.

He crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, like a predator closing in on prey. When he stopped, he was so close she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze.

“Enjoying yourself?” His voice was low, deceptively calm, but there was a razor edge beneath it.

Meera cleared her throat, forcing a laugh. “Uh… it was just a joke. You know, lighthearted campus fun?”

His stare didn’t waver. He leaned down, his breath brushing her ear, his tone dropping to a whisper meant only for her.

“Delete it,” he said, each word precise, dangerous. “Every copy. Every file. Or I’ll make sure you regret ever pointing a camera at me.”

The words slithered into her, chilling her spine. She tried to step back, but he mirrored her movement, cornering her against the table.

Meera forced her trademark smile, though her lips trembled. “Come on, Malhotra. You’re acting like I exposed state secrets. It’s just a photo. People will forget in a week.”

His eyes narrowed. “You think this is funny?” His hand shot out, pinning the magazine flat on the desk beside her. “You don’t get it, Meera. I don’t forget. And I don’t forgive.”

Her heart pounded. This wasn’t the embarrassed overreaction she had expected. There was something darker here—an intensity that made her stomach twist.

For the first time since she picked up a camera, Meera wished she hadn’t pressed the shutter. Because Aarav Malhotra wasn’t just angry. He was interested.

And that, somehow, felt even more dangerous.

The rest of the night, Meera couldn’t shake his words.

“I don’t forget. And I don’t forgive.”

They clung to her skin like a bruise, replaying every time she closed her eyes. But she wasn’t the type to be scared easily. Aarav Malhotra was dramatic, sure, but what was he going to do? Hunt her down over a noodle photo? Please.

Or so she told herself.

By morning, she had almost convinced her nerves to settle. Coffee in hand, she strolled into the campus quad, sunlight warming her face. Students waved and grinned at her, a few even giving thumbs-up for the magazine issue. She smiled, brushing it off like it was nothing.

Then she saw him.

Aarav was leaning against a black car parked near the gate, dressed in his usual crisp white shirt and dark blazer. His hair gleamed under the sun, his posture relaxed—but his eyes, those sharp, hawk-like eyes, locked on her instantly.

Meera’s steps faltered. “Nope. Not happening,” she muttered under her breath, turning toward another path.

“Meera,” his voice cut through the air. Low. Commanding.

Every instinct told her to ignore him. But something in his tone froze her feet in place. She turned, forcing a smile. “Morning, Malhotra. What, staking out the campus gate now? Should I be flattered?”

He didn’t smile. Instead, he pushed off the car and closed the distance between them in long, unhurried strides. “We need to talk.”

Meera held up her coffee like a shield. “We already did, remember? You threatened me, I ignored you. Classic library drama. End of story.”

But Aarav wasn’t amused. His hand shot out, wrapping around her wrist—not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough to make her gasp. His touch was cold, steady, and far too intimate for the middle of campus.

“You think this is a joke?” His voice was low, meant only for her. “You don’t understand, Meera. People laughing at me is one thing. But you—” He broke off, jaw tightening. “You don’t get to humiliate me.”

Her breath caught. For a second, she swore there was more in his tone than anger. Something raw. Personal.

“Let go,” she hissed, yanking her hand. Students were starting to glance their way. “You’re making a scene.”

His eyes flickered toward the crowd, then back to her. Slowly, he released her wrist. But the intensity didn’t fade.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll keep it private. But you’re not walking away from me.”

Before she could retort, he stepped back, his lips curling into the faintest smirk. “See you in class, Joshi.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving her heart hammering and her coffee suddenly tasteless.

---

The day dragged on, but Aarav’s shadow seemed to follow her everywhere. In economics lecture, he sat behind her, his gaze burning into the back of her neck. In the cafeteria, when she reached for a chair, he pulled out the one next to her and dropped into it without asking. Even in the photography lab, where she thought she was safe, he strolled in with the excuse of “researching copyright laws.”

Everywhere she went, Aarav Malhotra was there. Watching. Silent. Too close.

“Girl, he’s totally stalking you,” Priya whispered as they left class. “And not in the cute rom-com way. More like Netflix true-crime documentary.”

Meera laughed, but it came out shaky. “He’s just… intense. He’ll get over it.”

But when she looked back, Aarav was leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes fixed only on her.

And the way he stared—like she was already his—made her wonder if this was just the beginning.

By Thursday, Meera had developed a new survival skill: the Aarav Radar.

Step one: enter a room. Step two: scan corners, shadows, and doorways. Step three: spot him. Because he was always there.

And sure enough, there he was again, leaning against the notice board outside her lecture hall.

“Morning, Joshi,” Aarav said smoothly as students streamed around them. His voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp, tracking her every move.

Meera rolled her eyes. “Do you live in this building now? Or is stalking just your new hobby?”

“Protecting,” he corrected, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside her. “You’re careless. Someone has to look out for you.”

Meera let out a short laugh. “From what? Rogue textbooks? Killer pigeons? I’m fine on my own, thanks.”

He didn’t respond, only gave her that infuriating half-smile. The kind that said he knew something she didn’t.

---

The first real incident happened that afternoon.

Meera was in the café with Priya, sipping iced coffee when a group of seniors walked in. One of them, Karan—a tall guy with a flirtatious grin—made a beeline for their table.

“Meera, right?” he asked smoothly, leaning on her chair. “I saw your photography work in the magazine. Impressive. Maybe you could take my picture sometime? I promise, no noodles involved.”

Priya snorted into her drink. Meera chuckled, about to reply, when a shadow fell across the table.

Aarav.

His hand came down on Karan’s shoulder, firm and heavy. “She’s busy,” Aarav said, his voice low and edged with steel. “With me.”

Karan blinked, confused. “Uh… we were just talking.”

“Now you’re done,” Aarav snapped, squeezing his shoulder once before letting go.

The café went silent for a moment. Karan muttered something under his breath and walked away, glaring. Priya’s jaw dropped, her straw frozen halfway to her mouth.

Meera, however, was fuming. She stood, facing Aarav squarely. “What the hell was that?”

“Protecting you,” he repeated calmly, as if it were obvious.

“From what? A guy asking me about photography? You can’t just—” She stopped, realizing everyone was watching. Lowering her voice, she hissed, “You don’t own me, Malhotra.”

For a flicker of a second, his eyes darkened. Something primal flared there before he smoothed it over with his usual composure.

“You’re right,” he said softly, leaning just close enough that only she could hear. “But you’ll realize soon enough—you belong to me whether you admit it or not.”

Meera’s breath caught. His tone wasn’t playful. It wasn’t even angry. It was a promise.

---

That night, she called Priya.

“He’s insane,” Meera whispered, pacing her room. “He scared off Karan like some mafia boss.”

Priya laughed nervously. “I mean… it was kind of hot?”

“Hot? Priya! He’s suffocating me.”

“Well,” Priya said thoughtfully, “maybe he just likes you. Some guys… express it differently.”

“Differently? He nearly crushed Karan’s shoulder! If that’s flirting, I’m dead.”

But even as she ranted, a treacherous part of her remembered the way Aarav had leaned in, his voice possessive and low. You belong to me.

Her chest tightened. She should have been furious. She was furious.

So why did her heart race every time she thought about it?

---

The next morning, as she left her hostel, she found Aarav waiting by the gate. He didn’t ask permission. He simply took her bag from her hand, slung it over his shoulder, and said:

“I’ll walk you to class.”

Meera opened her mouth to argue. Then she caught the look in his eyes—dark, steady, unyielding.

And for reasons she didn’t understand, she didn’t fight him.

Not that day.