The gala eventually wound down, the last strains of music fading into the cool Himalayan night. Rajveer had managed to navigate the rest of the evening on autopilot, his politeness impeccable, his mind a battlefield. The image of Naina in that red saree, a vibrant splash against the stark backdrop of KMA, was burned into his memory, disrupting the meticulously ordered compartments of his mind. He excused himself subtly, seeking the quiet solitude of his quarters, hoping the familiar routine of his night would erase the unsettling vision.
But the KMA corridors at night, usually a source of quiet reassurance, felt different tonight. The moon, a silver coin in the crisp air, cast long, distorted shadows that danced with his turbulent thoughts. His footsteps echoed, solitary and measured, until he rounded the familiar bend leading to the officers' quarters.
And then he stopped.
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She was there. Not a phantom, not a memory, but real. Naina. Still in the blood-red saree, its rich fabric a startling contrast to the pale stone walls. She stood near the archway leading to the officers' wing, almost as if she were waiting, or perhaps just lost in thought, drawn to this specific, forbidden corner of the academy. Her head was bowed slightly, her open hair catching the moonlight like fine spun silk.
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Their eyes met across the deserted corridor, and the world paused again. The only sound was the frantic beat of his own heart, a drum against his ribs. The intense connection that had flared in the Grand Mess Hall now ignited, unhindered by crowds or pretense. Her eyes, wide and luminous in the dim light, seemed to pull him forward, a silent plea, a mirror of his own turbulent feelings.
He saw the subtle tremor in her hands, the slight parting of her lips, as if she was about to speak, or gasp. He felt an invisible thread tightening between them, drawing them, inch by agonizing inch, closer. Each step he took was deliberate, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths and the rigid discipline he had always lived by. She didn't move, rooted to the spot, letting his presence fill the space between them.
Finally, he stood before her, the scent of her – a faint, delicate floral fragrance, utterly alien to the academy's scent of polish and starch – filling his senses. His voice, when it came, was a raw whisper, roughened by the struggle within him. "Naina... Cadet Singh. What are you doing here?" It was meant to be a question of authority, a reassertion of the boundary. But the words came out laced with something else – concern, disbelief, and a desperate, unacknowledged hope.
