Chapter 1

In India, reputation travels faster than auto-rickshaws.

And in my school, it traveled with one name attached to it:

Aarav Rathore.

The boy with the leather jacket even in Pune's heat.

The boy who rode a matte-black bike that made every teacher roll their eyes.

The boy whose mother's bangles were sometimes heard clinking in the principal's office, apologizing... again.

Rumor said he'd been suspended twice.

Rumor said he'd been in a street fight.

Rumor said he didn't care about anything.

But the thing about rumors?

They're loudest about the people no one actually knows.

I'm Anaya Sharma - 12th grade, top of the class, daughter of two people who think "anything less than doctor or engineer is unacceptable."

I wear churidars more than jeans, pack tiffin boxes of poha and parathas, and live a life of rules.

So naturally, the universe decided to drop him in front of me.

Literally.

I was rushing down the corridor, late for chemistry practical, when I collided with what felt like a wall. My notebooks flew everywhere.

"Slow down, topper," a deep voice said.

I froze.

Aarav Rathore was crouched down, picking up my books - my books - the same guy who looked like he'd rather fight someone than help them.

"Sorry," I muttered, pushing my hair behind my ear.

He glanced up. His eyes were dark brown, almost black.

Dangerous, but... tired. Like he'd lived more years than he was supposed to.

"It's fine," he said. "You should look where you're going though. You're too..." He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "Soft."

My cheeks warmed. "I'm not soft."

He raised an eyebrow. "Sure."

I nearly snapped back, but then a teacher shouted his name from down the hall.

"Rathore! Principal's office. Abhi."

Aarav sighed - deeply, like this was his whole life - then stood up and handed me my books.

"All this trouble, and I didn't even get your name."

I blinked. "Anaya."

His lips lifted, just slightly.

"Acha naam hai."

Before I could respond, he walked away, escorted by a teacher who looked like she'd seen enough of his face for ten lifetimes.

But just before he turned the corner...

He looked back.

And something in his gaze told me that this wasn't the last time we'd collide.

This was the beginning

***

Chapter 2

Our school's Diwali Mela was known for two things:

the food stalls... and the drama.

This year, I promised myself I would stay far away from the second one.

But fate, apparently, had other plans - because when the stall assignments were announced, my name flashed next to the last one I expected:

"Diya Decoration & Rangoli - Anaya Sharma + Aarav Rathore."

The whole class gasped.

Someone whispered, "Sharma is dead."

Someone else giggled, "Topper and tapori, kya combo hai yaar."

I wanted to protest.

But Aarav just shrugged and said, "Chalega."

The casual way he said it irritated me.

Like being paired with me was nothing.

---

The Mela Begins

My mother dropped me at school that Saturday, making sure my dupatta was pinned properly.

"Smile," she insisted. "These festivals bring good sanskar."

If only she knew I'd be working with the one boy she'd forbid me from even looking at.

When I reached the courtyard, Aarav was already there - sitting on a table, headphones in, sipping cutting chai like he belonged anywhere he wanted.

"You're late," he said without looking up.

"You're early," I countered.

He smirked. "I don't sleep much."

It wasn't said in a bragging way.

More like... a fact.

A heavy one.

We worked in silence for a while. I arranged diyas; he painted clay pots with surprising precision.

"You're... good at this," I admitted quietly.

"For someone like me?" he asked.

I froze. "I didn't mean-"

"It's fine," he said. "I'm used to it."

There it was again - that tiredness in his voice. The kind that came from hearing things he didn't deserve.

But before I could say anything, chaos erupted near the gate.

---

A loud shout.

Then another.

Students rushed toward the entrance. Aarav stiffened.

"Stay here," he muttered.

Of course, I didn't.

I followed him, weaving through the crowd. When I reached the gate, my stomach tightened.

Two boys from a rival coaching center were cornering Aarav's younger cousin, Manu, a 9th grader.

One shoved Manu. The other laughed.

"Rathore ka cousin hai na? Aaj maza chakhayenge."

Aarav moved forward so fast the crowd barely processed it.

"Usse haath lagaya toh-" he growled.

Before he could finish, one of the boys threw a punch.

It didn't land.

Aarav caught his wrist mid-air, eyes burning with a rage I'd never seen.

Everything about him changed - posture, voice, presence.

This wasn't the Aarav who painted diyas.

This was the Aarav people whispered about.

But he didn't hit back.

He just tightened his grip until the boy winced.

"Manu. Go inside," he said without looking away from the boys.

Manu ran.

Then Aarav released them and stepped back.

"No fights today," he said. "It's Diwali."

It shocked everyone.

The teachers rushed in, scolding the other boys.

And for once, Aarav wasn't the one being dragged to the office.

But when he turned to leave, he saw me.

"You followed me," he said.

"You walked into danger," I shot back.

He laughed softly. "Danger follows me anyway."

---

Later in the evening, I went home exhausted - only to find a familiar pair of slippers outside my door.

Aarav's mother.

She smiled warmly at me. "Beta, mela kaisa tha?"

Before I could answer, I saw something that broke me a little:

Her hands - rough, bruised, tired from overwork.( she handles a small level buisness)The same bangles she wore when teachers called her to school.

And suddenly I understood why Aarav fought so hard.

Why he looked so burdened.

Why he said he didn't sleep.

Some stories you don't hear through rumors.

Some you only understand when you see the shadows yourself.

As I headed to my room, my father called out:

"Anaya, good news. I spoke to your teachers. One student needs help catching up. He'll be joining your group tuitions from Monday."

"Who?" I asked, a terrible suspicion rising.

"Aarav Rathore."

My heart stopped.

My mother added, "Bas, just be careful. Boys from families like that... complicated hote hain."

I wanted to say something. Defend him maybe.

But I stayed quiet.

Later that night, as I lit a single diya on my windowsill, a bike engine roared outside.

Aarav parked under the streetlight, removed his helmet, and looked up.

At me.

Our eyes met.

He didn't smile.

He didn't smirk.

He just said, softly:

"Thanks... for today."

Then he drove away, leaving me with a truth I wasn't ready for:

Aarav Rathore wasn't trouble.

He was the storm I was slowly learning to walk into. 

***    

Chapter 3

Monday arrived faster than I wanted.

I kept telling myself Aarav joining my home tuition group was “no big deal,” but the butterflies in my stomach disagreed.

My mother had cleaned the drawing room twice. My father had arranged the chairs like we were hosting a board meeting, not a group study session.

And I had changed outfits three times before finally settling on a simple kurti.

Not because I wanted to impress him.

Of course not.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

---

The doorbell rang.

I opened it — and there he was.

Aarav Rathore.

Black T-shirt. Jeans. Backpack slung lazily over one shoulder.

But there was something different today.

No leather jacket.

No attitude.

Almost like he was trying… a little.

My mother’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Come in.”

Aarav nodded respectfully, removing his shoes and placing them neatly by the door. That small gesture surprised her — I could see it.

During tuition, the other students kept sneaking glances at him.

He ignored them, flipping through the textbook silently.

At one point, he leaned toward me and whispered:

“I don’t understand this integration question.”

“Which part?” I asked.

“All of it,” he admitted.

I bit back a smile. “Okay, start here.”

Our shoulders almost touched. His voice gentled. His breath warmed my skin for a second too long.

Neither of us said anything.

But something shifted — quietly, intensely, dangerously.

---

Three days later, Diwali arrived.

In the evening, I was helping my mother distribute sweets to neighbors when she suddenly handed me a box.

“Take this to Mrs. Rathore,” she said. “She helped me so much this week.”

My heart thudded. “Me? Why can't you—”

“She likes you,” my mother said simply.

So there I was, standing outside the Rathore home — a small, aging apartment with flickering fairy lights taped around the doorframe.

I called out, “Aunty?”

The door opened.

Mrs. Rathore smiled warmly. “Anaya beta, aao na.”

But before I could even step inside, I heard a crash from within.

A man’s voice. Loud. Slurred. Angry.

Aarav’s father.

I didn’t even know he lived here. No one talked about him.

Then I heard Aarav’s voice — low, steady, but strained.

“Papa, bas. Not today. Please.”

My heart dropped.

This was his “story”?

This was what he never told anyone?

His mother quickly shut the door halfway, blocking my view.

“Sorry beta,” she whispered. “Aaj thoda…”

“I understand,” I said quickly, handing her the box.

But before she closed the door, someone grabbed it from inside.

Aarav.

His eyes were wild for a second — frustrated, embarrassed, exhausted.

But the moment he saw me, the storm in him paused.

“Anaya…?” he breathed.

“I—I came to give this,” I said softly.

He swallowed hard and nodded.

Then, in a broken voice I will never forget, he whispered:

“You didn’t see anything. Please.”

My chest tightened painfully.

He wasn’t asking out of arrogance.

He was asking out of shame.

“Aarav,” I said gently, “there’s nothing wrong with needing help.”

His jaw clenched. “Not this kind of help.”

For a moment, we just stood there — two people from different worlds, connected by a truth that hurt more than any rumor.

Then a crash sounded inside again.

Aarav flinched.

“Go,” he said urgently. “It’s not safe right now.”

But I didn’t move.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“Please, Anaya. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

So I left.

Not because I wanted to.

But because he needed me to.

---

Later that night, after the fireworks ended, I was walking home from the temple with a thali in my hands when a familiar bike engine growled behind me.

I turned.

Aarav.

Helmet on. Hands steady on the handle. Eyes softer than I’d ever seen.

“You shouldn’t walk alone so late,” he said.

“What happened after I left?” I asked quietly.

He hesitated.

Then shook his head. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

That wasn’t true.

But he wasn’t ready to tell me more.

He took off his helmet and held it out.

“Chalo. I’ll drop you.”

“I can walk.”

“I know. But let me do this.”

Something in his voice made saying no impossible.

So I put on the helmet.

Sat behind him.

And the moment my fingers hesitated near his shoulders, he said softly:

“It’s okay… hold on.”

I did.

As the bike sped through the quiet Diwali-lit streets of Pune, the world blurred into streaks of gold and orange.

For the first time, Aarav didn’t feel like a bad boy with a dark past.

He felt like a boy who had been protecting everyone but himself.

And for the first time…

I wondered if I was already falling for him.

***

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