The dusty lanes of Patna buzzed with the usual chaos—rickshaw bells, vendors shouting, and scooters dodging potholes. Amid all this, Aradhana Jha walked briskly toward Patliputra Science College, clutching her books close to her chest. Her cotton kurti fluttered with the breeze as the hem of her blue dupatta danced behind her. She avoided eye contact with anyone she passed, choosing to keep her gaze steady on the ground ahead.

She had always been like that. Quiet. Thoughtful. Studious. The kind of girl who didn't draw attention to herself but still ended up doing exactly that. Her professors praised her dedication, her classmates often whispered in admiration—mostly about how someone so beautiful could be so silent, and yet, so strong.

She had just entered her second year in Bachelor of Zoology, the same class as Nilkanth Thakur—a boy she couldn't stand.

If Aradhana was the embodiment of simplicity, then Nilkanth was the very definition of recklessness. His leather jacket, shiny black Bullet bike, and a perpetual smirk told you everything you needed to know. He was usually found skipping classes with his partners in crime—Kunjh Deshmukh and Ganesh Yadav—either at tea stalls or inside the campus canteen, playing cards, mocking teachers, or fighting over samosas.

But behind that smugness was a mind sharper than most gave him credit for. He just didn't flaunt it.

What Aradhana didn't know—what nobody did—was that Nilkanth managed half the construction business for his father, Ramesh Thakur, one of the most feared and influential builders in Bihar. A man who hated women in his home, who only trusted male workers and believed emotions were for the weak.

At the grand haveli of the Thakurs, boiled food with minimum salt and turmeric was the daily meal, thanks to the clueless male cook. No woman had stepped inside since Nilkanth's mother died when he was 9.

"Girls are distractions," Ramesh always said.

So naturally, when Nilkanth crossed paths with someone like Aradhana—opinionated, disciplined, and strong—he kept his distance. Or at least pretended to.

Fresher's Day

The college auditorium was alive with music, laughter, and lights. Fresher's Day was one of those rare events where even the strictest professors turned a blind eye to fun. Seniors had organized dance performances, mimicry, and even a ramp walk.

And then came the Dance Pair Challenge.

Aradhana had just stepped into the auditorium with her two friends Priti and Shaista, when a senior from the Zoology department, Amit Bhargav, called her name over the mic.

"Aradhana Jha! Please come on stage!"

She froze.

Her heartbeat accelerated. "Why me?" she whispered to Priti.

Before she could react, someone nudged her forward, and she was suddenly under the spotlight. The crowd cheered.

"And joining her...," Amit grinned, "our college's very own hero—Nilkanth Thakur!"

There were whistles and hoots. Aradhana's eyes met Nilkanth's across the crowd. His smirk was already in place.

"I'm not dancing," she hissed.

"Neither am I," Nilkanth replied coolly as he walked up.

"Oh, but you are," Amit said with a grin. "You two are the chosen ones. Representing second-year Zoology. If you back off, you'll be disqualified from group points."

The music began—an old Bollywood classic—and the spotlight narrowed on them.

Awkward doesn't even begin to describe it.

Aradhana tried to match the steps, eyes on the floor, hands frozen in nervousness. Nilkanth shuffled beside her, stiff as a log, clearly clueless about rhythm.

The audience giggled.

By the end, they had managed a half-hearted twirl and a near stumble.

Backstage, both were fuming.

"That was humiliating," Aradhana muttered.

"Yeah, well, I don't like losing," Nilkanth snapped. "And we're gonna do it again. Properly."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Tomorrow. Practice. If we're dancing, we better win."

The Practice Begins

They met the next evening under the peepal tree near the old Chemistry lab. Nilkanth came with earphones and a packet of samosas. Aradhana brought her nervous energy.

"You can't eat and dance!" she scolded.

"I can do both," he winked.

Slowly, reluctantly, the awkwardness gave way to laughter. She stumbled, he caught her. He joked, she rolled her eyes.

Three days in, their moves were coordinated.

Five days in, they were laughing.

On the seventh day, they nailed it.

The Final Performance

This time, there were no fumbles. No missteps.

As the music played, they moved in sync—her grace matching his raw energy. The audience fell silent, mesmerized. When the final beat dropped, and he lifted her for the finishing pose, the applause echoed across the auditorium.

First Prize: Zoology Department.

They had won. Together.

But something else had quietly begun in those practice sessions—something neither of them could name yet.

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A few weeks later, Nilkanth was riding his Bullet when he spotted her at the bus stop. She stood with two heavy bags, hair tied in a loose braid, trying to balance vegetables and her books.

He pulled over.

"You need a lift?"

She looked up, surprised. "No, thank you."

"You sure? Those bags look like gym weights."

"I said no," she said politely and walked off toward an auto.

He watched her leave, a strange smile forming.

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It was Priti's birthday.

As promised, Aradhana brought homemade kheer—the recipe passed down from her mother's kitchen. As the girls sat in the corner of the canteen, feeding each other, Nilkanth walked by.

"Want some?" Priti offered.

He looked hesitant. "You made it?" he asked Aradhana.

She nodded.

He took a spoonful.

Then another.

And another.

"This... is heaven," he whispered.