06-03-2026, 06:01 PM
The Mechanical Engineering lab was a stark, industrial cavern of grey concrete and the smell of lubricating oil. By 9:02 AM, the "Flight Group" was huddled around a massive, dismantled turbine. The overhead fluorescent lights were unforgiving, flickering with a clinical hum that made Shreya’s lack of sleep feel like a physical weight behind her eyes.
Vicky was already there, looking impossibly composed. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his 6-foot athletic frame leaning casually against a heavy steel workbench. He was wearing a fresh navy TUM sweatshirt, his dark hair damp and neatly combed—a far cry from the wild, tangled silhouette Shreya had left in Room 912 less than four hours ago.
"Rough night, Shreya?" Arjun’s voice boomed, echoing off the metal rafters. He was leaning over a set of calipers, grinning at her. "You look like you’ve been haunted by the ghost of Thermodynamics past."
Shreya’s heart skipped a beat. She adjusted her glasses, her fingers instinctively brushing the high collar of her turtleneck—a strategic choice to hide the faint, reddish mark Vicky had left near her collarbone.
"Just didn't sleep well," she said, her voice steady despite the internal tremor. "New bed, new city. You know how it is."
The professor, a stern Bavarian man named Dr. Weber, began barking instructions about torque and angular momentum. The group was split into pairs. To Shreya’s relief—and sudden, sharp anxiety—Dr. Weber pointed a gnarled finger at the two of them.
"Vicky, you work with Shreya on the pressure gauges. Arjun, you’re with Aditi on the fuel injectors."
They moved to a secluded corner of the lab. For any observer, they were the model of academic professionalism.
Vicky handled the heavy iron wrenches with a practiced, corporate efficiency. His large, dark hands—the same hands that had been tracing the stretch marks on her hips hours ago—now gripped industrial tools with cold precision.
He didn't look at her face. He looked at the gauges.
"Hold the torque wrench steady, Shreya. If the seal breaks, we have to restart the whole calibration."
When her hand slipped, his fingers brushed hers. It was a brief, functional contact. To Arjun, three tables away, it looked like a teammate helping a peer. To Shreya, the touch was electric, a searing reminder of the heat of his skin against hers in the dark.
"Sorry," she whispered, her dusky skin flushing slightly.
"Concentrate," Vicky said, his voice a low, disciplined rumble.
"You’re overthinking the pressure. Just feel the resistance and hold it."
Dr. Weber walked past, nodding at their progress. As soon as the professor’s back was turned, the atmosphere shifted. Vicky leaned in, pretending to inspect a bolt near Shreya’s shoulder. His 6-foot frame effectively blocked her from Arjun’s line of sight.
"You're doing great," he murmured, his voice so low it was almost lost in the hiss of the pneumatic lines.
"But your pulse is visible in your neck. Breathe, Shreya."
"I can't breathe when you're looking at me like that," she shot back under her breath, her eyes fixed on the pressure dial.
"Like what?"
"Like you're counting the seconds until we're back on the 9th floor."
Vicky let out a short, silent huff of a laugh—a private moment hidden behind a mask of engineering focus. He reached for a heavy metal component, his bicep flexing visibly against the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
"I'm actually counting the seconds until lunch," he whispered, his eyes finally meeting hers for a fraction of a second.
"I'm starving. And you still owe me for that 'tutor' session."
"Hey, Vicky!" Arjun shouted from across the room.
"What's the reading on your secondary gauge? Ours is acting crazy."
Vicky pulled back instantly, his face a blank slate of calm. "1.2 bar, Arjun. Check your O-ring; you probably didn't lubricate it enough."
He turned back to the machine, his expression unreadable. Shreya watched him, marveling at how easily he wore the mask. He was a professional, an athlete, a student—and her secret.
As she tightened the final bolt, she realized the truth: the next two years weren't just going to be about getting a degree. They were going to be an elaborate, high-stakes game of shadows.
Vicky was already there, looking impossibly composed. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his 6-foot athletic frame leaning casually against a heavy steel workbench. He was wearing a fresh navy TUM sweatshirt, his dark hair damp and neatly combed—a far cry from the wild, tangled silhouette Shreya had left in Room 912 less than four hours ago.
"Rough night, Shreya?" Arjun’s voice boomed, echoing off the metal rafters. He was leaning over a set of calipers, grinning at her. "You look like you’ve been haunted by the ghost of Thermodynamics past."
Shreya’s heart skipped a beat. She adjusted her glasses, her fingers instinctively brushing the high collar of her turtleneck—a strategic choice to hide the faint, reddish mark Vicky had left near her collarbone.
"Just didn't sleep well," she said, her voice steady despite the internal tremor. "New bed, new city. You know how it is."
The professor, a stern Bavarian man named Dr. Weber, began barking instructions about torque and angular momentum. The group was split into pairs. To Shreya’s relief—and sudden, sharp anxiety—Dr. Weber pointed a gnarled finger at the two of them.
"Vicky, you work with Shreya on the pressure gauges. Arjun, you’re with Aditi on the fuel injectors."
They moved to a secluded corner of the lab. For any observer, they were the model of academic professionalism.
Vicky handled the heavy iron wrenches with a practiced, corporate efficiency. His large, dark hands—the same hands that had been tracing the stretch marks on her hips hours ago—now gripped industrial tools with cold precision.
He didn't look at her face. He looked at the gauges.
"Hold the torque wrench steady, Shreya. If the seal breaks, we have to restart the whole calibration."
When her hand slipped, his fingers brushed hers. It was a brief, functional contact. To Arjun, three tables away, it looked like a teammate helping a peer. To Shreya, the touch was electric, a searing reminder of the heat of his skin against hers in the dark.
"Sorry," she whispered, her dusky skin flushing slightly.
"Concentrate," Vicky said, his voice a low, disciplined rumble.
"You’re overthinking the pressure. Just feel the resistance and hold it."
Dr. Weber walked past, nodding at their progress. As soon as the professor’s back was turned, the atmosphere shifted. Vicky leaned in, pretending to inspect a bolt near Shreya’s shoulder. His 6-foot frame effectively blocked her from Arjun’s line of sight.
"You're doing great," he murmured, his voice so low it was almost lost in the hiss of the pneumatic lines.
"But your pulse is visible in your neck. Breathe, Shreya."
"I can't breathe when you're looking at me like that," she shot back under her breath, her eyes fixed on the pressure dial.
"Like what?"
"Like you're counting the seconds until we're back on the 9th floor."
Vicky let out a short, silent huff of a laugh—a private moment hidden behind a mask of engineering focus. He reached for a heavy metal component, his bicep flexing visibly against the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
"I'm actually counting the seconds until lunch," he whispered, his eyes finally meeting hers for a fraction of a second.
"I'm starving. And you still owe me for that 'tutor' session."
"Hey, Vicky!" Arjun shouted from across the room.
"What's the reading on your secondary gauge? Ours is acting crazy."
Vicky pulled back instantly, his face a blank slate of calm. "1.2 bar, Arjun. Check your O-ring; you probably didn't lubricate it enough."
He turned back to the machine, his expression unreadable. Shreya watched him, marveling at how easily he wore the mask. He was a professional, an athlete, a student—and her secret.
As she tightened the final bolt, she realized the truth: the next two years weren't just going to be about getting a degree. They were going to be an elaborate, high-stakes game of shadows.
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