The attic room in the Physics block was silent, save for the frantic, erratic ticking of an old grandfather clock in the corner. Laksh Malhotra was sitting on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. His sharp black blazer was tossed carelessly on the floor, a rare sign of disorder for a man whose life was an unending series of neat rows.

He could still feel it. The way her hands had curled into his lapels. The way the scent of sandalwood had invaded his lungs. Most of all, he could feel the pressure of her lips—soft, hot, and shockingly confident.