Two things manage to ruin my birthday today.
One: Shreyas Patel. Of all the days he could have picked to postpone his counselling session, he chose today. My birthday. It feels like the universe is mocking me, as if it knows how much I hate being reminded of all the things I can't control.

Two: Romil. Sitting right next to me in the Auditorium, so close I can feel the heat from his arm even when we're not touching. But that's the problem—we're not touching, and it's driving me insane. My fingers ache to interlace with his. My body leans towards him like it has a mind of its own, and my head keeps flirting with the idea of resting on his shoulder. I keep fighting the impulse to loop my arms through his, to steal him for myself and keep him forever close.

'Trust me, I tried hard to not become the kind of career counsellor who would give you viral Venn diagrams based on your goals and skills. But, well, despite my best efforts, I couldn't resist being interesting. And that, ironically, is pretty interesting.' Shreyas grins as he points his laser at the projector screen. The "Welcome" slide fades, replaced by "Chartered Accountant."

'So, anyone here thinking about a career in accounting?' he asks, scanning the room with exaggerated enthusiasm.

A surprising number of hands shoot up, mine included. I glance at Romil. He looks as disinterested as ever, slouched in his chair like this is the last place he wants to be.

We're tucked away in the back row, while our friends are scattered up front, probably soaking in every word.

'Quite a lot of you here—no surprise. It's consistent with the fact that many people think that commerce is just about accounting. Anyways, let's start simple. If you're obsessed with balance sheets and think of taxes as puzzles instead of nightmares, then Chartered Accountant is your golden ticket. Just a heads-up, though: the moment you start as an article, you'll be roped into filing tax returns for every relative you've ever met—because apparently, "practice makes perfect" applies best when it's free.'

People laugh at that.

'He is such a gimmick,' Romil whispers, leaning closer to me, his arms folded tight like he's got this guy all figured out.

'I think he is making sense,' I say, watching as the counsellor talks animatedly to a few students who raised their hands. 'But yeah, he's definitely trying to make content for YouTube.' I glance over my shoulder and spot a guy with a camera, zooming in on every word Shreyas speaks.

Romil smirks. 'So, what are your plans for today?'

'No plans.' I reply, shrugging. 'I think Sakshi and Gargi had something in mind, but they've signed up for personal sessions with him. So... it's probably not happening.' I fold my arms, mostly to keep myself in check, so I don't do something completely irrational. Like touch Romil's shoulder. Or let my fingers trail down his ridiculously sexy forearms.

I sigh.

'I have a plan for you,' Romil says, his voice a sweet tease.

My breath catches, but I steel myself and reply, 'Nope. Not happening.'

'It's not a grand gift.' He tries to coax.

I don't answer right away, keeping my eyes trained ahead. By now, the presentation has moved on to Investment Banker.

Shreyas gestures at the screen. 'Now, for those of you who love playing the stock market but hate the idea of betting your own money—Investment Banker is the profession for you. You'll work crazy hours, but hey, you'll look like a genius when you make someone else richer,' Shreyas is saying.

Romil is quiet beside me. Finally, I break. 'What is it?'

He doesn't answer. Not for a long moment. I keep waiting, then give up and turn my attention back to the presentation. The screen flashes Marketing.

Shreyas points the laser at the word. 'If you're more into people and persuasion than spreadsheets, let's talk Marketing. You'll sell ice to Eskimos. And if you're good at online trends, Digital Marketing is where the money—and memes—are.'

Romil leans in close again, so close I can feel his breath on my cheek, and speaks just as Shreyas pauses to take a sip of water. 'Meet me in the library after three.'

Chills ripple down my arms, and I rub them, trying to smooth them away.

'What's there?' I ask, still looking straight ahead at Shreyas, who's now answering someone's question.

'A cake. Hand-made, just like your methi paratha.'

'You made it?'

'Took our help's hand. But it was mostly me,' he admits solemnly like he didn't just give me goosebumps all over my body.

My heart does this wild somersault, the kind that makes me squirm in my seat, caught somewhere between trying to play it cool and being utterly undone by him.

'Thank you,' I whisper. And then I pause, rolling the next ones around in my mouth to taste them before speaking, 'I love you.'

And it's his turn to blush now.

*****

I don't know why I turn around to check if someone's there as I follow Romil into the library. It's not like I'm smuggling cocaine or plotting a heist. But apparently, my brain has decided this is the most scandalous thing I've ever done, which it's not. Probably.

While I'm fizzing like mint dropped in cola, ready to explode with nerves, Romil strolls ahead of me in that effortlessly cool, hands-in-his-pockets way that makes me hate him a little—for having the audacity to look so unaffected.

We walk—or rather, he saunters while I trail behind like a bristled cat—until we reach the dead end of the aisle tucked between the Philosophy and Classics sections. There, perched on a small, three-legged folding stool, is a round tiffin box. Romil steps behind the stool, crouches down, and lifts the lid to reveal a chocolate sponge cake.

Its top layer is faintly cracked in the centre, giving a tempting glimpse of the tender, airy interior. I crouch down beside him as the rich aroma of cocoa rises, warm and inviting.

'Where's the knife?' I ask, my impatience slipping through.

'Eh...' Romil pauses, his mouth twitching like he's debating how honest to be. Finally, he makes a face—a mix of sheepish and not-so-secretly amused. 'Forgot about that. Sorry.'

'Of course, you did,' I mutter, throwing my hands in the air like I've just been handed a crisis instead of a cake.

He grins, because apparently, my frustration is his favourite form of entertainment. 'We could... improvise?'

'With what? A book on stoicism?' I gesture to the Philosophy section behind us, my sarcasm dialled to max.

'It's not a rock,' he shoots back, like that's a valid argument.

'You don't cut a rock with a knife,' I counter. Then, for good measure, I add, 'But that's beside the point.'

'Thank you for realising that,' he says as if I have relieved him of a long-winded lecture.

'Any other options?' I ask, my tone still sharp but my heart doing that annoying little thing where it hopes—just a tiny bit—that he'll say something unexpectedly sweet, something intimate.

Romil scans the library shelves with mock seriousness, like he's consulting an invisible panel of experts. 'Any germophobes in the house?' he calls out to the books, his voice echoing softly. Then, cupping his hand behind his ear like he's listening for a response, he nods solemnly. 'No? You're sure? All right then—fingers it is.'

I bite back a smile, but it creeps out anyway. Because of course, he'd say that. And unsurprisingly, it's exactly the answer I wanted to hear.

He catches my smile and smirks like he's won a prize. 'See? Problem-solving. A very underrated skill. What do you think that would land me as per Shreyas' Venn diagram situation?'

'A baker who hands out wax statues of his fingers instead of plastic knives to cut cakes,' I say, laughing at my own joke as I crouch beside him.

'That's brilliant!' he says with far too much enthusiasm. I give him a sceptical look.

'No, not the wax fingers,' he clarifies, grinning wider. 'How about I gift you a wax statue of shirtless me for your birthday? Actually, no—that'd be my loss.'

I burst out laughing. 'What dirty things go through your head, Romil?'

He looks mock-offended. 'You're the one with a wax statue of shirtless me in your room, and I'm the one who's dirty?'

I shake my head at the absurdity of it all, still grinning. 'Let's not keep the cake waiting,' I say, holding out my index finger like a makeshift knife.

I blow at the invisible candles, and he scrunches his nose, muttering another 'Sorry,' which earns him a pinch on the cheek because he's just so ridiculously cute. As I cut the cake with my fingers, he starts singing softly, almost like he's shy about it.

'Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear girlfriend. Happy birthday to you.'

I take a small slice-cum-bite, soft as a cloud, crumbling just enough at the edges to feel impossibly perfect. I hold it in front of his mouth, and he takes it all in, his lips brushing my fingers as he licks off the crumbs.

'My turn,' he says, pulling out a small piece for me.

He holds it in front of my face, hovering close enough for me to feel its warmth. I hesitate, just long enough to feel the old fear creeping in, whispering doubts. Before I can spiral, I close my eyes, exhale, and eat it from his fingers.

'You okay?' he asks, leaning closer, his gaze scanning my face for something unsaid.

'Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?' I smile, avoiding his eyes as I chew the cake.

But then, something shifts inside me—maybe it's the velvety taste of the cake, or the fact that he made it for me, or the ghost of the fear of being fed still trying to latch on. My eyes start to sting, and I can feel the tears brimming.

Before he can say anything, before concern clouds his face, I meet his eyes, smile, and confess, 'I'm just so happy.'