The rain arrived properly the next morning, thick and relentless, turning the campus paths into shallow streams. Aanya woke to the sound of it hammering the neem leaves outside the window and the low, rhythmic breathing of Rhea still asleep on the other bed. Her body felt heavy, restless. She had dreamed in fragments—dark eyes, a hand sliding under damp cotton, the press of a mouth against the side of her neck—and the memory of those dreams clung to her skin even after she sat up.

She showered quickly, the water lukewarm, and dressed in the college uniform for the first time: white shirt, navy skirt that fell just above the knee, black shoes. The fabric was stiffer than she expected. When she buttoned the shirt, the cotton sat close against her breasts; the rain-heavy air would make it cling soon enough. She caught her reflection in the small mirror above the washbasin—lips slightly parted, eyes still soft with sleep—and felt a familiar, unwanted pulse between her legs. She pressed her thighs together and looked away.