The air in Parth's study was thick with a silence that felt heavier than usual. I stood there, a plate of pasta in my hands, the apologies I'd rehearsed tumbling around in my mind. The incident in the car, my impulsive slap – it had been a moment of pure, unadulterated frustration, fueled by his infuriating indifference. But now, as I looked at him, a wave of regret washed over me.

He sat at his desk, his back to me, engrossed in some documents. The harsh desk lamp cast shadows on his face, highlighting his sharp jawline and the intensity of his focus. He was so different from the boys my age, so controlled, so distant. It was that very distance that both frustrated and fascinated me.