Ethan's POV
She argued with me.
Not the casual irritation she usually aimed in my direction.
Real argument.
Eyes flashing.
Voice sharp.
Demanding to know where I had been.
I stood there in the courtyard and felt something dangerous bloom in my chest.
Satisfaction.
Pure, undiluted satisfaction.
She noticed I was gone.
She looked for me.
I had not expected this.
Not so soon.
My plan had been simple.
Become part of her life.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Make myself necessary without her realizing.
A month of sitting behind her in class.
A month of coffee exactly how she liked it.
A month of quiet presence beside her.
I thought we were making progress.
I thought she was getting used to me.
But this?
This was more than used to.
This was missing.
This was needing.
And she had no idea she had just handed me exactly what I wanted.
---
The basement had been messy.
Two men from a rival family.
Stupid enough to think I would not notice.
I handled them quickly.
Cleanly.
The way my father taught me.
My phone buzzed during the middle of it.
Lecture starting soon.
my biggest concern was getting back in time for Algorithms.
Because she would be there.
Sitting in that front row.
Tapping her pen against her notebook.
Frowning at equations she didn't need to frown at because she understood them perfectly.
I wanted to see that frown.
Wanted to sit behind her and watch the way her ponytail swayed when she turned pages.
So I finished faster than necessary.
Left the mess for others to clean.
Changed my shirt in the car.
Made sure no blood remained anywhere visible.
Then walked back to campus like nothing happened.
Like I was just another student returning from lunch.
---
I saw her before she saw me.
Sitting in the courtyard.
Marcus beside her.
Leaning close.
Touching her arm while explaining something.
Something in me went very still.
Very cold.
Very quiet.
For a moment, I forgot about patience.
I controlled myself.
Walked over.
Kept my face neutral.
Marcus left quickly.
Smart boy.
He sensed something.
They always did.
Then she turned to me.
And she was angry.
Not about Marcus.
About me.
About where I had been.
About disappearing without explanation.
She demanded answers.
Demanded to know.
As if she had the right.
As if she already knew she did.
Wanted to tell her that she had just confirmed everything I suspected.
She needed me there.
She noticed when I wasn't.
She was mine already.
She just didn't know it yet.
---
That night, I thought about her.
Lying in my bed.
Staring at the ceiling.
Seeing her face in the darkness.
She had argued with me.
Demanded reasons.
Cared enough to be upset.
Do you understand what you did today, little star?
Do you understand what you gave me?
I have waited months for a sign.
Months of sitting in lectures I could teach better than the professors.
Months of pretending to need help I never needed.
Months of watching you from across rooms and libraries and courtyards.
And today, finally, you showed me.
You missed me.
You looked for me.
You felt my absence like a weight.
That is more than I hoped for.
That is everything.
---
I first saw her six months ago.
Not on campus.
Not in a classroom.
Across a street.
I was leaving my company building.
Late evening.
Headed to the car.
And I noticed her across the road.
Standing outside a small Indian grocery mart.
Almost dropped it.
Caught it at the last second.
And then she laughed.
At herself.
Genuine.
She had no idea anyone was watching.
No idea that across the street, a man she would never meet stood frozen.
She shifted the rice to her other arm.
Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
And walked away.
Just like that.
Gone around a corner.
And I stood there like an idiot.
Staring at empty air.
Wondering who she was.
Wondering why I couldn't move.
Wondering why that laugh echoed in my head for days after.
I found her.
Of course I found her.
It took time.
Patience.
Resources.
But I am Ethan Moretti.
I do not lose things I want.
---
Two days until her birthday.
I had been planning this since the moment I learned the date.
Found her student file.
Memorized every detail.
Date of birth.
Home address in Chennai.
Parents' names.
Emergency contacts.
Everything.
I am not a man who leaves things to chance.
I am a man who prepares.
Who ensures.
Who makes certain that what he wants, he gets.
And I want her.
Not just her blood.
Not just her body.
Not just the life singing in her veins.
I want all of her.
Her laugh.
Her frown.
Her arguments.
Her stupid oversized sweaters.
Her insistence that she is not beautiful when she is the most beautiful thing I have seen in centuries.
She thinks she is ordinary.
She thinks she is less than.
She thinks Americans do not find brown girls attractive.
If she only knew.
If she only knew what she does to me.
What she has done since the first moment I saw her walking across this campus with her books clutched to her chest and her hair catching sunlight.
I have lived a long time.
Seen many things.
Taken many women.
But none of them ever made me feel like this.
Like I would burn the world down for one more minute of her attention.
Like I would wait forever if forever was what she needed.
Like she is the only real thing in a life full of shadows.
---
Her birthday needed something perfect.
Something that showed her what I see when I look at her.
I called my sister Isabella.
She handles the family's public presence.
Events.
Dinners.
Social things.
She knows restaurants.
"Ethan?"
"I need a restaurant."
"A restaurant."
"For a date."
Silence.
Then laughter.
"Who is she?"
"No one you need to know yet."
"Yet?"
"Find me something. Indian food. Authentic. Private. Lavish."
"Indian food?"
"She's from Chennai."
More silence.
Then softly.
"You're serious about this girl."
"Yes."
"How serious?"
I thought about it.
Thought about her face.
Her voice.
Her arguments.
Her stubborn refusal to see herself clearly.
"The most serious thing I've ever been."
Isabella didn't laugh after that.
She just said,
"I'll find you something."
---
Isabella and I have a strange relationship.
Trouble laced with affection.
Bickering masking loyalty.
She annoys me constantly.
I annoy her back.
But she is my sister.
I would kill for her.
She would kill for me.
We don't say these things out loud.
We don't need to.
It shows in the way she doesn't ask too many questions about my midnight disappearances.
In the way I don't ask about her complicated love life.
In the way we sit together in silence sometimes, watching our family tear itself apart over power and territory, and know that at least we have each other.
She will meet Meera one day.
I don't know when.
But she will.
And she will see why I am doing all of this.
Why I enrolled in college.
Why I pretend to need help I don't need.
Why I wait.
She will understand.
My family is complicated.
Cold sometimes.
Distant.
But I love them.
All of them.
Even when my father pushes too hard.
Even when my mother worries too much.
Even when my younger brother acts like he knows everything.
They are mine.
And I protect what is mine.
Soon, Meera will be part of that.
She doesn't know it yet.
But she will.
---
The next day, I approached her after class.
"Saturday."
She looked up.
"What about it?"
"Three o'clock."
She frowned.
"Why?"
"I'm taking you somewhere."
"Where?"
"A restaurant."
She stared at me.
"Why?"
"Because your birthday is Saturday."
Something flickered across her face.
Surprise.
Confusion.
Something softer underneath.
"How do you know when my birthday is?"
I held her gaze.
"I pay attention, Meera."
She looked away first.
Always did.
"I don't need anything for my birthday."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I want to give you something."
"That's not—"
"It's your birthday. You should have something."
She crossed her arms.
The defensive pose.
I knew it well.
"I don't have anything to wear."
"I'll take care of it."
"What?"
"A dress. I'll arrange it."
"I didn't agree to—"
"Meera."
I stepped closer.
Close enough to see the way her breath caught.
Close enough to feel the warmth coming off her skin.
"Let me do this."
She swallowed.
"Why?"
"Because I want to."
"That's not a reason."
"It's the only one I have."
She looked at me for a long moment.
Searching my face for something.
I let her look.
Let her see whatever she needed to see.
Finally, she spoke.
"Indian food?"
"South Indian. Authentic."
She blinked.
"How—"
"I asked."
"You asked someone about South Indian restaurants?"
"I asked for what you deserve."
Something shifted in her expression.
The suspicion didn't disappear entirely.
But something else joined it.
Curiosity.
Warmth.
A crack in the wall she kept between us.
"Fine," she said quietly.
Just one word.
But it felt like victory.
---
The restaurant Isabella found was perfect.
Private dining room.
Chef specializing in South Indian cuisine.
Everything prepared exactly as it would be in Chennai.
I had her favorites researched.
Idiyappam.
Chicken Chettinad.
Payasam for dessert.
Everything she grew up with.
Everything that would remind her of home.
I wanted her to feel seen.
Wanted her to understand that I paid attention.
That every word she ever said about missing home, missing her mother's cooking, missing the flavors of her childhood—I heard all of it.
I remembered all of it.
She thinks she is invisible.
Thinks no one really sees her.
Thinks she is just another brown girl in a country that does not value brown girls.
She has no idea.
No idea that I have studied her like scripture.
No idea that every detail of her life is mapped in my mind.
No idea that she is the center of something she cannot yet comprehend.
---
The night before her birthday, I left the dress outside her door.
Deep blue.
Silk.
Simple but elegant.
The color of midnight.
The color of the sky when she finally falls asleep and I am standing in shadows watching her.
She would look beautiful in it.
She would look beautiful in anything.
But I wanted her to feel beautiful.
Wanted her to see herself the way I see her.
Wanted her to understand, even for one night, that she is not less than.
She is everything.
I drove home with her face in my mind.
The way she argued with me.
The way she finally said fine.
The way she looked at me like she was trying to solve a puzzle she couldn't quite figure out.
She had no idea.
No idea what she had done to me.
No idea that she owned something of mine now.
Something I could never get back.
My heart.
My attention.
My obsession.
All of it belonged to her.
She thought she was less than.
She thought she was invisible.
She thought she was ordinary.
My little star.
My beautiful, oblivious, impossible little star.
You have no idea what you've done.
No idea what you've started.
Tomorrow, you will eat food from your home.
Tomorrow, you will wear silk the color of midnight.
Tomorrow, you will sit across from me and let me look at you the way you deserve to be looked at.
And maybe, just maybe, you will start to understand.
You are mine.
You have always been mine.
From that first moment across the street.
Watching you laugh at yourself over a bag of rice.
You just didn't know it.
Soon.
Very soon.
You will.