The rain had stopped by Monday, but the air still felt heavy, like the sky hadn’t finished what it started.

Aarohi walked into the studio holding a large black umbrella that was clearly not hers. It looked almost comical in her hands — too long, too serious, too expensive.

Maya’s eyes widened. “Is that—?”

“Yes.”

Kabir leaned forward. “Is that his umbrella?”

“Yes.”

Neha covered her mouth. “You’re walking around campus with Arjun Malhotra’s umbrella.”

“I’m returning it. That’s different.”

“That’s not different. That’s dangerous.”

Aarohi set the umbrella carefully against the table leg. “It’s just an umbrella.”

Kabir shook his head. “Nothing is ‘just’ anything when it belongs to him.”

The door opened.

Arjun walked in. Same black shirt. Same calm face. His eyes moved once across the room and stopped, very briefly, on the umbrella leaning against Aarohi’s table.

She brought it back, he thought. On time. That is new.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, sir.”

Aarohi lifted her coffee. “Morning, Professor. I brought your umbrella. It survived the weekend. Barely.”

Arjun walked to the front. “Thank you.”

“It was heavier than my entire bag.”

“It is meant to last.”

“Unlike my previous one.”

“Yes.”

A few students exchanged looks.

Maya whispered, “People are staring.”

Aarohi whispered back, “Let them. It’s free entertainment.”

Arjun placed his tablet down. “Today we continue with joinery and material details. I want to see real connections, not optimistic lines. Begin. I will come to each group.”

He started his usual slow walk.

Aarohi tried to focus on her drawing, but she could feel eyes on her from more than one direction.

Kabir leaned over. “You’re famous now.”

“I’ve always been famous.”

“Famous for spilling coffee. Now you’re famous for borrowing the professor’s umbrella.”

“Evolution.”

Neha muttered, “I’m sitting farther away today. Just in case lightning strikes.”

Arjun reached their table sooner than expected.

He looked at the drawings. “The beam depth.”

“Corrected.”

“The membrane extension.”

“Done.”

“The joinery for the screens.”

Aarohi slid a new sheet forward. “Metal frame, wooden louvers, hidden screws, and a small shadow gap so it looks clean even when the wood expands in monsoon.”

Arjun studied it in silence for several seconds.

She is thinking about weathering now, he thought. Not just how it looks on day one. That is growth.

He spoke. “The shadow gap is intelligent. The hidden screws are correct. One suggestion — add a small drip edge at the bottom of each louver. Water will run off instead of sitting on the wood.”

Aarohi nodded. “Okay.”

He looked at her. “No argument today either?”

“I’m saving my energy for bigger battles.”

“Wise.”

“I have moments.”

Maya kicked her lightly under the table.

Arjun moved on.

The morning continued with the usual rhythm of quiet corrections and occasional sighs from students whose details were sent back to the drawing board.

Near the end of class, Arjun returned to the front.

“One announcement. The department is sending two second-year pairs to a short national design workshop in Pune next month. Selection will be based on the current project. Work accordingly. Class dismissed.”

The room immediately filled with whispers.

Maya turned to Aarohi. “We have to get this.”

“We will.”

Kabir looked worried. “He’s going to judge the selection, isn’t he?”

Neha nodded. “Obviously.”

Aarohi rolled her drawings. “Then we give him no reason to say no.”

Most students left quickly.

Aarohi stayed behind, umbrella in hand, waiting until the room was almost empty.

She walked to the front table.

“Professor.”

Arjun looked up. “Miss Sharma.”

“Your umbrella. Returned in one piece.”

“Thank you.”

“It got a few compliments. And a few suspicious looks.”

“I imagine.”

She hesitated. “About the workshop…”

“Yes.”

“Is the selection only about the drawings, or do you also consider who argues less in class?”

A faint pause.

“The selection is about the quality of work,” Arjun said. “Personality is not a criterion.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Is it?”

“I have a very strong personality.”

“I noticed.”

She almost smiled. “You’re not going to tell me we have a chance, are you?”

“I am going to tell you to keep working at the same level. The rest will follow.”

“That’s the closest you’ve come to encouragement.”

“It is an observation.”

“I’m keeping it as encouragement.”

Arjun closed the folder. “You may keep it however you like.”

Aarohi turned to leave, then stopped.

“Professor.”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever get tired of students trying to impress you?”

“I get tired of students who try to impress me without doing the work.”

“And the ones who do the work?”

“Those ones are rare.”

She looked at him for a second. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”

“On time.”

“Closer than before.”

“That would be acceptable.”

She left the studio, black umbrella still in her hand for the walk to the gate.

Outside, the sky was still overcast. She had just reached the bottom of the stairs when her phone buzzed.

Maya:

Where are you?

We’re at the canteen.

Did you give him the umbrella?

People are already talking.

Aarohi typed back:

Aarohi:

Returned.

Alive.

Coming.

She had taken only a few steps when she heard footsteps behind her.

“Miss Sharma.”

She turned.

Arjun stood a short distance away, folder under his arm.

“You still have the umbrella,” he said.

“I was going to leave it at the reception.”

“That is unnecessary. I am going in the same direction.”

She held it out. “Here.”

He took it. Their fingers didn’t touch, but the space between them felt smaller than it should have.

They began walking toward the main gate in silence for several seconds.

Aarohi finally spoke. “You’re walking me to the gate?”

“I am walking to the gate. You happen to be going the same way.”

“Very practical.”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever do anything that isn’t practical?”

“Rarely.”

“That sounds boring.”

“It is efficient.”

She glanced at him. “Last week in the rain, when you let me take the umbrella… that wasn’t only practical.”

Arjun kept his eyes ahead. “You would have walked in the rain. That would have been inefficient.”

“You’re very good at turning everything into logic.”

“Logic is reliable.”

“Feelings are not?”

A short silence.

“Feelings,” Arjun said quietly, “require more care.”

Aarohi didn’t know what to say to that.

They reached the gate.

She stopped. “I’ll see you on Thursday, Professor.”

“On time, Miss Sharma.”

“I’ll try harder.”

“Do better than try.”

She smiled, turned, and walked toward the scooter parking.

Arjun remained near the gate for a moment, watching her leave.

His phone rang.

He answered without looking. “Yes.”

His mother’s voice came through, clear and firm. “Arjun. The Sharmas have confirmed dinner next Sunday. You need to be there.”

He was silent for a second.

“I will check my schedule.”

“You said that last time. This time you will come. It is important. The arrangement cannot be delayed forever.”

Arjun’s jaw tightened almost invisibly. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will see you on Sunday.”

The call ended.

Arjun stood still for a moment longer, the black umbrella in his hand, the sound of the campus fading around him.

The arrangement, he thought. Still hanging over everything. Still waiting.

He turned and walked toward the parking, expression as unreadable as ever.

Behind him, near the scooter stand, Aarohi sat on her scooter for a few extra seconds, staring at nothing.

Feelings require more care, she thought.

He said that like he knows something about it.

She started the engine, still not noticing that the pencil she had tucked behind her ear had already fallen somewhere on the path between the studio and the gate.

Some things, it seemed, were beginning to slip out of place.

And some things were beginning to fall into place without either of them realising.