Kayal's pov:

I stood outside the staffroom, clutching my notes.

It was just another assignment submission , nothing dramatic.

But then again, with me, everything somehow turns into a drama.

The staffroom door was slightly open. Just a sliver. I wasn't eavesdropping ...well, maybe just a tiny bit. For no particular reason. Okay... maybe for a very particular reason.

Because she was there.

"That Mam."
You know the type — saree draped perfectly like it belonged in a fashion editorial, hair neatly twisted into a bun, and those bold glasses that somehow made her look more attractive than intimidating.

And she was sitting alone with my husband.
My professor.
My Ezhil.

I was just about to knock when she walked up to him — all smiles, confidence radiating off her like it was a perfume.

 "Ezhil," she said.

Wait.

Ezhil?! Not sir, not professor — but Ezhil?!
Oh, so it's like that, huh?

 "Can I ask... no, tell... or maybe both?" she said in this coy little voice, her smile widening.
"I like you."

My breath hitched.

EXCUSE ME?!
Did I just hear that right?

"My parents want me to get married soon," she continued. "And I don't want to waste time pretending. You're mature, calm, good-looking... a bit mysterious — I like that about you. And your voice... well, I could listen to it all day."

That's it.
I was about to barge in and pull ezhil's hair out strand by strand.

No. No. Nope. Not happening.

He can't say yes.
He better not even smile.
He's mine.
Wait—what?

I blinked.

Did I just think "he's mine"??
What is happening to me?!

I leaned a little closer to hear his answer.

Silence.

SILENCE.
ARE YOU KIDDING ME, EZHIL?!

Say something!
Don't just sit there like a statue while she builds dreams of a honeymoon in Goa!

I was seconds away from crashing in there, when finally I heard his voice.

 "Sorry mam but... I'm married."

Boom.
Fireworks exploded in my chest.
Yeah, that's right. Married. To me, you gorgeous saree-wearing villain.

I stepped in immediately after that. My cheeks were probably pink with suppressed satisfaction.

She looked at me but didn't recognize me, obviously. Thank god no one knew who I was married to. I didn't have the emotional bandwidth to handle gossip right now.

"Good morning, ma'am," I said sweetly.

She smiled awkwardly and slipped out of the room like a deflated balloon.

I walked to Ezhil and handed my notebook.

He stared at me.

Eyes wide. Confused. Probably wondering how much I had heard.

I smiled politely, a little smugly, and said, "Submission, Sir."

He took it from my hand slowly, still watching me like I was a live grenade.

As I turned to leave, I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from grinning too much.

Because one thing was clear —

That jealousy?
That possessiveness?

Yeah... I don't want to admit it.
But that boy — that awkward, calm, brilliant boy with eyes that always scan a room for me even when he pretends not to care — he's mine.

And no one else is taking him away.

Not on my watch.

Ezhil's pov:

We were back home, a movie playing softly on the TV.

The lights were dim, a half-empty bowl of popcorn between us, but my focus had been stuck somewhere else entirely since we got back.

Not on the movie.
Not even on her adorable commentary during the songs.

But on that moment in the staffroom — when Asha Ma'am confessed.

No, not because of the proposal. That came and went like a passing drizzle.

But Kayal.

The look on her face when she walked in.

She didn't say much. But her expression screamed a hundred things — surprise, disbelief, fury... and something else.
Something unmistakably close to jealousy.

But... why?

It's not like she loves me.
At least, she never said she did.

But what if—
What if she does?

Ezhil stop being delusional ,my mind mocked me.

I fiddled with the edge of the blanket and glanced at her beside me, curled up, eyes lazily following the movie. Her fingers were scrolling through her phone like nothing happened. Like she wasn't ready to jump someone five hours ago.

I had to ask.

"Hey," I began, keeping my voice light, "what was that reaction earlier?"

She looked at me, one eyebrow raised. "What reaction?"

I tilted my head. "In the staffroom. When Asha Ma'am..."

"Oh that."
A devilish smile curled on her lips, and I swear my heart forgot how to beat.

"I thought you were gonna say yes," she said. "You were too silent. So, I was this close—" she held up her fingers dramatically, "—to barging in, pulling your hair out and telling her you're mine."

What.

What.

WHAT.

I blinked. "Wait—what did you just say?"

She gave me that smug look, as if she hadn't just casually drop-kicked my brain into orbit.

"I said I'd have pulled your hair and shown her you're mine."

Mine.

I'm hers.

Yes, I am.
But did she just... admit it?

I looked away quickly, suddenly aware of the heat rushing to my neck. Why did this feel like I was back in college, hearing her call me cute?

"Someone was jealous," I teased, forcing my voice to sound playful, trying to ignore the blush crawling up my neck.

"No," she shot back.

"Yes."

"No!"

"Yes, Kayal."

"Noooo!"

I leaned in, grinning now. "Say yes and save your breath."

She pouted, then groaned and finally muttered, "Fine. Yes."

Victory.

And then, her face changed. Her eyes sparkled with that mischievous glint that always made me nervous.

She grabbed her phone. I raised an eyebrow.

"What are you doing?"

Without answering, she raised the phone and clicked a photo.

Flash.

"What—are you seriously—Kayal?!"

She grinned wide and shoved the phone screen toward my face.

"Oh my god, Ezhil. You look so pretty when you blush."

"Delete that."

"Nope."

"Kayal, seriously—"

"Who knew Mr. Professor also blushes like a tomato?"

"I don't blush."

"You did. This is the proof," she said triumphantly, waving the phone in front of me.

She looked at the screen again and whispered almost like a secret, "Such a delightful sight..."

And I—
Well, I didn't know what to say anymore. So I just leaned back, covered my face with the pillow, and tried not to smile like an idiot.

But inside, my heart ....it wasn't just blushing.

It was blooming.

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