Chapter 5: The Proposition
The library archives smelled of decayed paper and dust so thick it coated the back of Samarth’s throat. He’d been waiting for twenty minutes, leaning against a metal shelving unit crammed with bound theses from the 1970s, their spines cracked and bleeding yellowed glue. A single, naked bulb hung from a cord, swinging slightly in a draft he couldn’t feel, throwing swaying, monstrous shadows over the stacks.
He heard her before he saw her. The definitive clack of her boots on the linoleum, the rustle of her canvas bag. She rounded the corner into the archive aisle, her focus on a notecard in her hand. She hadn’t seen him yet.
He pushed off the shelving. The motion made a shadow leap across the wall. She glanced up, froze. Her eyes, those piercing, dark pools, went flat with instant recognition and contempt.
“Move,” she said, her voice already edging toward that familiar, room-filling decibel. “You’re blocking the anthropology section.”
“I’m not here for anthropology.” He didn’t move. The aisle was narrow. His shoulders almost brushed the shelves on either side. He was a wall.
“Shocker. You’re not here for books at all.” She tried to sidestep him, but he shifted, blocking her again. Her jaw tightened. “What is your problem? Get out of my way.”
“We need to talk.”
“We don’t talk. We argue. And I’m not in the mood.” She tried to shove past him, a hand against his chest. The contact was electric. He caught her wrist. Her skin was warm, her pulse hammering against his thumb.
“Let go of me, you creep.”
“Smriti knows.” The words were quiet, almost lost in the dust-muffled silence.
Ankita stopped struggling. She stared at him, confusion cutting through her anger. “Knows what? That you’re an intolerable ass? I think the whole campus knows.”
“About you. About the shed.”
A flush crept up her neck, visible even in the bad light. Her defiant glare flickered, just for a second, with something else—panic. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you do.” He tugged her closer, until the space between them was just a charged, impossible inch. He could smell her jasmine shampoo again, mixed with the clean sweat of her walk across campus. He lowered his voice to a whisper that vibrated in the confined space. “She knows everything. And she’s… interested.”
Ankita’s breath hitched. She tried to pull her wrist back, but his grip was firm. “Interested in what? Filing a harassment complaint?”
“In you.” He leaned in, his lips nearly brushing her ear. He felt the fine hairs on her neck stand up. “She wants you to come over. The three of us.”
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the faint, persistent buzz of the lightbulb. Ankita went very still. He watched the implications play out across her face—the shock, the revulsion, a dawning, terrifying curiosity. Her lips parted.
“You’re disgusting.” The words were breathy, lacking their usual fire.
“Am I?” He let his gaze drop to her mouth. “You didn’t think so in the shed. Or the bathroom.”
“That was a mistake. A moment of insanity.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
“So have another one.” He released her wrist. She didn’t step back. She just stood there, staring at him as if he’d spoken in a alien tongue. He saw her hands trembling slightly at her sides. Victory, hot and dark, uncoiled in his gut. She was considering it. The idea was in her now, working its way through her veins.
“Why?” The question was a rasp. “Why would she want that?”
“Why do you think?” He shrugged, a casual gesture that felt anything but. “She likes to watch. She likes… fire. And you’re a fucking five-alarm blaze, Ankita.”
She swallowed hard. Her chest rose and fell rapidly under her fitted t-shirt. The air between them felt like it was crackling, about to ignite the old paper surrounding them. He could see the war inside her—the rigid, moral outrage fighting a raw, hungry pull she’d never admit to.
“This is a sick game for you.” She finally took a step back, her shoulders hitting the shelves behind her. A cloud of dust puffed into the air around her.
“It doesn’t have to be a game.” He followed, closing the distance again. He braced a hand on the shelf above her head, caging her in. “It can just be a thing that happens. No strings. No arguments. Just… feeling good.”
She barked out a laugh, but it was strained, nervous. “Feeling good? With you? Unlikely.”
“You came hard enough in a dirty shed,” he reminded her, his voice dropping. “Imagine a bed. Imagine not having to be quiet.”
A small, traitorous sound escaped her throat. She looked away, her gaze skittering over the ancient book spines. Her cheeks were flushed a deep, furious red. “I despise you.”
“I know.” He said it softly. He meant it. He despised this hold she had on him, too. “But that’s not a ‘no’.”
She shoved him then, hard in the chest. He let her, taking a half-step back to give her space. She ducked under his arm, straightening her bag strap with a violent yank. She wouldn’t look at him. Her whole body was trembling now, a fine, visible vibration.
“I’ll think about it,” she muttered, the words aimed at the floor.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
She finally met his eyes. The conflict there was magnificent—a storm of shame, anger, and pure, unadulterated want. “If I say yes,” she said, her voice regaining a shred of its usual steel, “it’s for my own reasons. Not for you. You’re just a… a means to an end.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He smiled, a slow, knowing thing.
She turned on her heel and walked away, her bootsteps echoing too loudly in the quiet. But her walk was different. There was a new tension in her stride, a deliberate, almost defiant sway in her hips that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t a retreat. It was a message.
He watched her until she disappeared around the stacks, the sound of her footsteps fading. He leaned back against the cool metal, the musty air suddenly feeling insufficient. He was painfully hard. The image was seared into his mind now, no longer a fantasy but a tangible, pending reality: Ankita, in Smriti’s room, that proud, furious expression finally shattering into pleasure.
She would say yes. He knew it in his bones. The game had just leveled up, and the stakes were his to lose.