Abhiman had regretted the cabin the same night.

He sat in his flat with an untouched glass of whisky and replayed every sharp word he had thrown at her. The tears on her face. The way her voice had cracked. He had known about the soft, stubborn puppy love she carried since childhood. He had seen it in her eyes for years and dismissed it as harmless. She was too young then. She was still too young now in every way that mattered. Love was an emotion that drained people, made them weak, made them careless. He had built his life on control. He would not let one girl’s feelings — or his own unwanted reactions to them — destroy that.

By the time the college tour was announced at the end of the second semester, the distance between them had hardened into something almost physical. Mishti avoided him with quiet precision. In class she sat straight, took notes, never raised her hand. When he tried to speak to her after lectures she found polite excuses and slipped away. Karthik was always nearby. Laughing with her. Carrying her bag. Standing close enough that Abhiman’s jaw tightened every single time.

The tour was three days in the lower Himalayas. Mandatory. Abhiman went as faculty in-charge. Fifty students, two buses, mountains, and team activities.

He watched her from the moment they reached base camp.

She stayed with Karthik’s group. During the newspaper-folding race the two of them were paired. They stood close, hands brushing, laughing at every small mistake. Karthik said something that made her throw her head back and laugh properly for the first time in weeks. Abhiman felt something hot and ugly climb up his throat. He turned away before anyone could read his face.

That evening he found her near the edge of the camp, slightly apart from the others.

“Mishti.”

She stiffened but kept her eyes on the trees. “Ji, sir?”

“Ek minute.”

She did not move closer.

He kept his voice even. “Jo cabin mein hua tha—”

“Koi zaroorat nahi, sir.” Her tone was polite and empty. “Aapne jo kaha samajh gayi thi. Main apni jagah pe hoon. Aap apni pe.”

She walked away before he could say another word. The quiet dismissal landed harder than any argument.

The mountain-climbing activity was scheduled for the second afternoon. A guided short ascent on a marked trail with ropes and harnesses. Most students were excited. Mishti stood at the edge of the group, face pale.

Abhiman knew.

He had known since she was a child and refused to climb the old mango tree at her house. Heights froze her. He walked over while the instructor distributed gear.

“Tum mat jaana.”

She looked at him. “Kyun?”

“Tumhe pata hai kyun. Tum Heights se darti ho. Hamesha se.”

Something stubborn flashed in her eyes. “Main ab bhi wahi chhoti ladki nahi hoon jo aap sochte ho, sir. Main kar sakti hoon.”

“Mishti, yeh koi saboot dene ka mauka nahi hai.”

“Aapko meri tension lene ki zaroorat nahi.” Her voice stayed quiet but firm. “Aap toh mujhe pasand nahi karte na? Toh chhod do. Main khud dekh lungi.”

She turned and took the harness. Abhiman watched her check the straps with slightly shaking fingers and felt a cold weight settle in his stomach.

He did not see the quiet girl from the love-letter incident kneeling near Mishti’s gear bag for a few seconds too long. He did not see her fingers work quickly at the lace of one climbing shoe.

The climb began.

Mishti started with the middle group. For the first twenty minutes she managed. Then the trail steepened and the drop on one side became clear. Her breathing turned shallow. Abhiman kept her in his peripheral vision the entire time.

It happened in seconds.

Her left foot slipped where the lace had been loosened. She lost balance, grabbed for the rope, missed, and went sideways over the edge. Screams erupted. Students shouted her name. The instructor’s voice rose uselessly above the panic.

Abhiman felt the ground tilt under him.

For one terrifying second the only thought in his head was that he had lost her.

He turned to the frozen group, voice sharp enough to cut through the noise.

“Sab yahin rukho. Camp pe wapas jao. Main kehta hoon tab tak koi move mat karna. Instructor ke saath raho. Clear?”

Then he went over the side after her.

He moved without caution. Sliding, climbing, calling her name into the rocks and trees. Branches tore his shirt. His palms scraped open. He barely noticed. The only thing that existed was the image of her falling and the months of cold words he had used like armour.

He found her twelve minutes later.

She was hanging by one arm from a thick branch that jutted over a lower ledge, body swinging slightly, the other hand clutching the half-torn harness. Her face was white. Scratches covered her arms and one cheek. The side of her kurti was ripped from shoulder to waist, showing the edge of her bra and a long scrape across her ribs.

“Mishti.”

Her eyes opened slowly.

He climbed to her with a speed that ignored every safety rule. Reached the branch. Locked one arm around her waist and the other around the wood.

“Chhodna mat. Main hoon. Bas aur thoda.”

She made a small broken sound. He shifted her weight onto himself, tested the branch, and somehow got them both down to the wider ledge below. The moment her feet touched solid ground her legs gave out. He caught her before she hit the rock.

They ended up on the uneven ground, her body half against his chest, his back pressed to a rough tree trunk. He checked her quickly — head, neck, arms, the torn side of her clothes. Blood from several scratches. No obvious broken bones. Breathing fast but steady.

He pulled the water bottle from his pack, poured a little into his palm, and carefully cleaned the dirt from her face and lips.

“Aankhen khol. Dekh mujhe.”

Her eyes focused on him. For a long moment she only stared. Then she tried to push away from his chest.

“Chhod do—”

“Hilna mat.” His voice came out harder than he intended. “Pehle check karne de.”

“Main theek hoon. Jaane do.”

She struggled. The movement made the torn kurti slip further. His hand, still braced on her waist to keep her steady, met bare skin where the cloth had ripped. Both of them went still for a fraction of a second. He removed his hand immediately, jaw tight, and set her more carefully against the tree instead of his body.

“Kyun aaye aap?” she whispered, voice shaking. “Aap toh mujhe pasand nahi karte. Cabin mein jo kaha tha yaad hai? Ill intentions. Tactic. Sab yaad hai mujhe.”

Abhiman wiped the remaining dirt from his own hands with controlled movements. When he spoke his tone was cool again, almost clinical.

“Main faculty in-charge hoon. Koi student gir jaaye toh usse yahin chhod kar wapas nahi jaata. Duty hai meri.”

“Sirf duty?” Her eyes filled. “Itni der se dhoondh rahe the… sirf duty ke liye?”

“Haan.” The single word was flat. “Aur tumne meri baat kyun nahi maani? Mainne kaha tha mat jaana. Tumhe pata hai tume heights se dar lagta hai. Phir bhi zigad dikhani thi?”

She let out a short, bitter breath. “Kyunki main thak gayi hoon aapki nazar mein hamesha weak aur chhoti dikhne se. Main prove karna chahti thi ki main ab bhi wahi nahi hoon.”

“Prove kiske liye?” His voice stayed arrogant, edged. “Mere liye? Main tumse proof nahi manga. Main bas yeh chahta hoon ki tum zinda raho aur bakwaas na karo. Itna bhi samajh nahi aata?”

Tears slipped down her scratched cheek. She wiped them away angrily.

“Aap hamesha aise hi baat karte ho. Jaise main koi problem hoon. Jaise meri existence hi aapko takleef deti hai. Phir kyun aaye neeche? Instructor ko bhej dete. Khud kyun aaye?”

Abhiman looked at her for a long moment. The torn clothes, the blood, the way she still tried to hold her chin up even while shaking. Something complicated moved behind his eyes, but when he answered the arrogance was still firmly in place.

“Kyunki agar kuch ho jaata toh explanation mujhe deni padti. Director hoon. Responsibility meri hai. Isliye aaya. Koi aur reason mat dhoondho.”

She stared at him, hurt and exhausted.

“Aap kitne cold ho sakte ho, sir. Main almost gir ke mar jaati… aur aapko sirf responsibility yaad aa rahi hai.”

“Zinda ho,” he said curtly. “Bas yahi kaafi hai abhi. Baaki emotions baad mein sambhal lena. Ab uthne ki koshish karo. Camp tak leke jaana hai.”

He stood and offered his hand without softness. She looked at it, then at his face, and for a second it seemed she might refuse. Finally she took it. He pulled her up carefully, steadying her when her legs wobbled, but the moment she found her balance he released her.

“Chalo. Aur agle baar jab main kuch mana karun toh sun liya karo. Tumhara ‘main prove karungi’ wala attitude ek din asachi mehnga pad jaayega.”

Mishti wrapped her arms around herself, the torn kurti gaping slightly at the side. Her voice came out small and tired.

“Aapko meri koi tension nahi hai na, sir? Sach mein?”

Abhiman met her eyes. The mountain wind moved between them. For a brief instant something unreadable flickered across his face — regret, fear, something darker — before the familiar controlled mask settled back into place.

“Main tumhara professor hoon. Is college ki Director hoon. Usse zyada kuch nahi. Ab chal. Zyada baatein mat kar. Energy bachake rakh.”

He turned and began checking the path upward, already calculating the safest route back. Mishti followed slowly, every step painful, the silence between them heavier than the fall itself.

He had saved her.

He had still refused to give her a single soft word.

And both of them knew the distance he kept insisting on was becoming harder to maintain with every passing minute.