Until You

There were exactly three things Mira Patel despised in a man: arrogance, entitlement, and boys who thought the world spun just to keep their shoes clean.

Kabir Arya was all three — dipped in wealth, draped in charm, and topped with that smug, untouchable confidence only Delhi’s elite could afford.

He strolled into the lecture hall ten minutes late — not rushed, not apologetic. Just late, like time bent to accommodate his presence. He wore a black button-down, loose and careless, open enough to show a sliver of collarbone and sin. Aviators were still perched on his face even though the room had zero sun. His hair looked intentionally messy, like he’d just rolled out of someone else’s bed.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t explain. Just walked to the back and claimed the last row like a throne — legs sprawled, one arm hanging over the back of the chair next to him like he owned it.

The professor didn’t say a word. No one ever did. Kabir Arya didn’t follow rules — he was the rule, and somehow that was enough.

Mira kept her head down. She wasn’t about to be one of those girls who stared, whispered, or blushed. She had bigger things to worry about — like keeping her scholarship, nailing her finals, and not letting Delhi’s golden boys shake her resolve.

But even without looking, she felt it.

The shift in the air. The subtle buzz under her skin. Like the molecules around him vibrated louder than everyone else’s.

Her best friend Siya leaned over. “Look who finally graced us with his presence.”

“I don’t care,” Mira said without looking up.

“You say that every time. But you’re gripping your pen like you’re imagining it’s his neck.”

“I don’t care,” she repeated, but her voice was tighter than before.

She tried to refocus on her notes — something about narrative tension and symbolism — but her hand had paused mid-sentence. The pen hovered. Her eyes flicked upward for just a second.

Big mistake.

He was staring at her.

Not scanning the room. Not glancing around.

Her.

Straight-on. Steady. His aviators were now tucked into the neckline of his shirt, and without them, his eyes were sharp. Deep brown, almost gold under the lights, and too damn confident for someone who hadn’t even opened his textbook all semester.

Their eyes locked. A moment passed. Then another.

Her stomach tightened. Not from nerves. From annoyance. Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

He didn’t look away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, as if assessing a puzzle he didn’t quite understand — or like he already knew the answer and was waiting for her to catch up.

She scowled and looked down.

He smirked.

She didn’t need a mirror to know. She could feel it. That arrogant, I-caught-you-looking smirk that he probably wore every time a girl caved.

Mira clenched her jaw and underlined a quote so hard the pen almost tore the paper.

The rest of the class crawled. Every time she tried to zone back in, her thoughts slid sideways, drawn to the lazy sprawl at the back of the room. Kabir Arya’s presence was like gravity — arrogant, unbothered, and way too aware of the attention he commanded.

She hated how easily people gave it to him.

She hated even more that for a split second, she had too.

The professor finally clapped to bring the room to attention. “Alright, listen up. Time for your semester project.”

Mira groaned internally. Group work. The universe’s favorite way of testing her patience.

“You’ll work in pairs. Assigned randomly. This will count for forty percent of your final grade. No switching.”

Groans filled the room. Someone said, “Well, there goes my GPA.”

Siya muttered, “Manifesting someone who doesn’t think spark notes is a research method.”

“I just want someone who knows how to spell ‘metaphor,’” Mira said.

The professor began reading out names.

“Siya Nanda and Aarav Thakur.”

“Lena and Ishaan.”

“Mira Patel and…” He squinted at the paper.

She held her breath.

“…Kabir Arya.”

Silence. Actual silence.

It hit like a punch to the gut.

She blinked. No. No no no no. Not him. Anyone but him.

Whispers rippled. Someone behind her said, “Oh damn.” Another: “That’s either a disaster or a fanfic waiting to happen.”

Mira’s face stayed perfectly blank, but inside, she was a volcano. This had to be a joke. A glitch. Divine punishment for some karma she didn’t remember earning.

And then she heard it.

That low, smug laugh.

She didn’t have to look. She knew it came from him.

But of course, she did look.

Kabir was lounging in his chair like the news had made his day. His lips curled into a smile that was somehow both a challenge and an invitation.

He mouthed, “Lucky me.”

Mira gave a slow, sweet smile in return. The kind of smile you give before shoving someone off a cliff.

She mouthed back, “Keep dreaming.”

His grin widened.

The professor kept talking, assigning topics — something to do with dual narratives and comparative symbolism — but her brain was drowning in static. Forty percent. Of her grade. Tied to him.

The bell rang.

Siya turned to her, eyes wide. “Are you okay? I mean, academically doomed, but like... okay?”

“I’m going to kill someone,” Mira muttered.

“You’ll make beautiful corpse art out of him.”

She stood, packed her bag with sharp, jerky movements, and made a beeline for the door. But she didn’t even make it to the aisle before he was in front of her.

Kabir Arya.

Tall, golden-skinned, disaster in human form.

“Hey, partner,” he said, like the word didn’t taste like acid in his mouth.

She stared up at him, spine straight, arms crossed. “Let’s get a few things clear.”

His smile flickered, intrigued.

“We’re not friends. We’re not flirting. We’re not going to ‘vibe,’ and I’m not falling for your charm. You show up, do your part, keep your comments to yourself, and we don’t have a problem.”

Kabir looked down at her — really looked — and the smile that followed was slow, dangerous.

“Cute speech,” he said. “You practice that for all your enemies or just the pretty ones?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You think I’m joking?”

“I think you’re adorable when you’re mad.”

She stepped closer. Not because she wanted to, but because she refused to let him tower over her. “You’re not charming, Kabir. You’re just rich and bored and used to getting your way.”

“And you’re what?” he asked, voice lower. “Morally superior because you pretend not to care?”

She flushed. “I don’t care.”

He leaned in, just slightly. “Then why do you look like you’re one second away from setting me on fire?”

Their faces were inches apart now. Her breath caught — from rage, obviously. Not attraction. Definitely not.

“Because I have a zero-bullshit tolerance,” she said.

“Good,” Kabir said, stepping back with a grin. “Because I’ve got enough for the both of us.”

She stared at him.

He winked. And walked out with his gang.

This wasn’t a partnership. This was a battlefield.

And Kabir Arya had just declared war.

The classroom emptied slowly, students filtering out with the usual buzz of post-lecture chatter. Mira was among the last to gather her things, still feeling dizzy from her interaction with THE Kabir Arya.

She told herself it was nothing. She was way smarter than him and stable. She could get through this project.

And yet, her pulse had a different opinion.

She made her way to the cafe, needing coffee like she needed air. It was always crowded after noon lectures, the din of conversation spilling out into the hallways.

She stood in line quietly, eyes scanning for a free table.

And that’s when she saw him again.

Kabir.

Seated at the far corner table — the unspoken royal court of the college’s elite — surrounded by his usual gang. Veer, Raj, Sahil. All laughter and swagger, their voices just loud enough to dominate the space without ever seeming like they were trying.

Three girls flanked them, draped in designer labels, their lashes batting at nothing. One of them — a leggy girl with shiny hair and not a thought in her eyes — leaned forward and whispered something in Kabir’s ear. He smirked, slow and smug.

He didn’t even glance at her.

She giggled anyway.

Mira felt her lip curl.

He was charming, sure. Objectively attractive in that annoyingly cinematic way — tall, sharp jaw, eyes that burned when they landed on you.

But he wore entitlement like a second skin.

She watched as a student nervously approached their table, likely to ask for help or notes. Kabir didn’t even look up, just gestured vaguely toward Sahil, as if delegating the interaction was beneath him.

Sahil waved the guy off with a joke. The group laughed like they’d performed a skit.

The student walked away, face flushed.

Mira’s stomach turned.

This was why she didn’t like people like Kabir Arya. The type who moved through the world like it was made for them. Who could ruin someone’s day and call it charisma.

She grabbed her coffee and turned sharply, nearly bumping into a girl rushing past. Hot liquid sloshed onto her fingers.

“Shit,” she hissed.

“Watch it,” the girl snapped, not even stopping.

Mira wiped her hand with a tissue and exhaled. Her eyes flicked once more toward Kabir’s table.

And froze.

He was looking at her again.

One arm draped lazily over the back of his chair, half-listening to whatever Veer was saying, but his gaze — his arrogant, unreadable gaze — was locked onto her.

Unmoving.

Unbothered.

Unapologetic.

Something flared between them. Not a smile. Not a scowl.

Something slower. Sharper.

Mira turned on her heel and left, spine stiff, pulse raging.

If she didn’t hate him before, she was definitely halfway there now.