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Introduction: You're Aanya Sharma, a 22-year-old final-year literature student — confident on the outside, but always drawn to people who hold power in silence. And no one is more quietly powerful than Professor Aryan Singh Rathore — your 35-year-old literature professor. Ex-army, sharp jawline, khadi kurta, baritone voice, and eyes that read more than books.

---

She walked into the lecture hall like she always did—quiet, invisible to most. But not to him.

Professor Aryan Rathore.

Dressed in his signature black shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, he stood at the board scribbling poetry in Urdu. His voice echoed with calm authority, but his eyes—his eyes followed her every move.

"Ishq sirf ehsaas nahi hota... kabhi-kabhi yeh junoon ban jaata hai," he said, glancing toward her without turning fully.

Aanya swallowed. She knew he wasn’t just speaking to the class.

---

The tension had been building for weeks. Her writing—subtly bold, emotionally raw—had drawn his attention. He began calling her in for feedback after hours.

That evening, the university halls were silent as she walked into his office.

"Sir, aapne feedback ke liye bulaya tha..."

He was seated behind the desk, glasses low on his nose, but the moment she stepped in, he removed them slowly and stood.

"Tum samajhti ho tum kya likhti ho, Aanya? Tumhare lafzon mein kuch aisa hai... jo seedha dil ko chhoo jaata hai."

She flushed.

"Woh sab aapka sikhaya hua hai."

He walked around the desk and stopped right in front of her. So close she could feel his breath.

"Mujhe lagta hai tumhe likhne ka hunar hi nahi, ehsaas jagaane ka jaadu bhi aata hai."

Their eyes locked. His fingers brushed the paper she held, but lingered on her wrist longer than needed.

---

One late evening, in the empty library, it finally snapped.

She was shelving books when she felt his presence behind her.

"Tum akeli ho yahaan?" he asked, voice low.

"Aap bhi toh hain, sir."

He stepped closer. "Main professor hoon. Tum meri student. Yeh rishta kabhi kabhi hadh ban jaata hai."

"Aur kabhi kabhi sirf ek bahana."

He turned her gently by the waist to face him. His eyes searched hers.

"Tumhe samajh hai, Aanya, yeh jo hum mehsoos karte hain, iska anjaam kya ho sakta hai?"

She nodded, placing her hand softly on his chest.

"Mujhe anjaam se zyada... is pal ka darr hai. Kehin yeh khatam na ho jaaye."

His control cracked. He bent slightly, his forehead against hers.

"Mujhe tumse door rehna chahiye tha. Har din yeh socha... par tum milti rahi. Har nazar, har lafz mein."

She whispered, "Toh aaj kuch mat sochiye. Sirf mehsoos kijiye."

---

That night, under dim yellow lights, he traced the words she once wrote on paper—on her skin. His fingers lingered on her collarbone, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered poetry only meant for her.

He didn’t kiss her lips at first. He kissed her fingertips, her forehead, her shoulder—every place love could speak without words.

And when he finally kissed her mouth, it was slow. Deep. Like he was memorizing a forbidden poem.

"Tum meri kitaab ho, Aanya," he murmured between breaths, "jo main roz padhta hoon... magar kabhi khatam nahi hoti."

She held onto him like he was both her sin and salvation.

---

The weeks that followed were a blur of glances, excuses, and late-night texts.

“Aaj bhi likha?” “Sirf aapke liye.”

One rainy night, he called her to the old lecture hall where he once taught his first class. The rain pounded on the windows, the lights flickered with age, but inside, they created their own world.

He stood near the blackboard, waiting. She arrived in a drenched kurti, hair sticking to her cheeks.

"Tum bheeg gayi ho," he said, grabbing a towel.

"Aapne bulaya tha, toh aayi. Baarish nahi roki maine."

He took her hand and brought her forward.

"Tumhari aankhon mein baarish se zyada gehraai hai."

He dried her face, his touch lingering on her jawline.

"Kab tak chup rahenge hum dono, Aanya? Kab tak sirf lafzon mein chhu kar guzarte rahenge?"

She replied in a whisper, "Jab tak yeh darr hai ki kal aap mere professor nahi rahenge."

He paused. Then pulled her into his arms.

"Phir aaj tum sirf meri ho."

Their kiss was desperate, heavy with restraint finally broken. He lifted her onto the old desk, his hands tangled in her hair. The air smelled of old books and longing.

---

In the soft morning afterglow, he sat beside her on the lecture desk floor, back against the wall.

"Tumne meri zindagi ka sabse khubsurat paath likh diya hai, Aanya. Tum jaanti ho?"

She leaned on his shoulder.

"Aur aapne mujhe woh ehsaas diya jo kisi kitaab mein nahi tha."

He smiled. "Toh aaj se, hum dono ek nayi kitaab likhenge. Hidden between lectures, between lines, between heartbeats."

---

They kept meeting in silence, hiding between poems, touching through glances.

And whenever she wrote again, her words bled the scent of his presence.

“Tum professor the. Par maine tumhe mehsoos kiya ek shayar ke jaise. Jiske har lafz mein pyaar chhupa tha… sirf mere liye.”

---

End.