Aarav didn’t speak to her for three days after the Keyboard Massacre.

Not in class.
Not in the lab.
Not even through the silent, hostile eye contact that had once defined their rivalry.

Navya had expected anger.

She hadn’t expected indifference.

And somehow, that hurt more.

By Friday evening, she was mentally drafting an apology she would never actually say out loud.

She did not expect to see him at her house.

The air in the Kapoor household was thick with the aroma of slow-cooked biryani and the suffocating scent of “family friendship.”

Navya sat on the sofa, her back as rigid as frozen code.

Across from her, Aarav Malhotra sat with his arms crossed, gaze fixed on a painting on the wall as if it were the most fascinating source code he had ever analyzed.

He hadn’t looked at her once.

“I’m so glad we could all get together,” Navya’s mother beamed, pouring tea for the Malhotras. “It’s been too long. And look at these two! Both toppers, both so successful. You must be so proud of each other.”

“Oh, we’re thrilled,” Navya muttered, sarcasm dripping like energy drink onto expensive circuitry.

Aarav’s father laughed, patting his son’s shoulder. “They’ve always been like this. Remember when they were ten? Tried to build a robot together and blew a fuse in the garage because they couldn’t agree on the wiring.”

“Some things never change,” Aarav said smoothly, his voice a low, controlled hum. “Some people still don’t understand how to handle delicate hardware.”

The jab landed precisely where intended.

Navya felt it in her marrow.

She slipped her phone under the table. Her fingers moved instinctively.

[Local Network Alert]: New Device Joined.

Across from her, Aarav’s phone buzzed.

He glanced down.

She had intercepted his local IP from the shared home Wi-Fi and sent an encrypted push notification.

[Message]: I said I’d pay for it. Stop acting like I deleted your entire life’s work.

Aarav didn’t look at her.

He didn’t flinch.

He simply typed.

[Reply]: You didn’t just break a keyboard. You proved you have zero respect for the tools of the trade. Don’t talk to me. Don’t ping me. Just exist quietly until this dinner is over.

Navya’s jaw tightened.

“Are you two texting?” Aarav’s mother teased, leaning forward. “Look at them—even at dinner, they can’t stop communicating! It’s like they have their own secret language.”

“It’s definitely a language,” Navya said sweetly. “Mostly syntax errors and logical fallacies.”

Aarav almost—almost—smirked.

“Anyway,” Navya’s father said, clinking his glass gently for attention. “We didn’t just invite the Malhotras over for biryani. We have something very… permanent to discuss. Something we’ve been planning for quite some time.”

The atmosphere shifted.

The teasing dissolved.

Aarav finally looked at Navya.

For the first time that evening, their eyes locked.

And for the first time in years, they were thinking the exact same thing.

System Crash.

“We’ve decided,” Aarav’s father announced proudly, “to merge our families officially. Aarav, Navya… we’ve fixed your marriage. The Roka is next month.”

Silence.

Then—

Aarav’s glass hit the table with a sharp clack.

Navya nearly slid off the sofa.

“You did what?” they both shouted in perfect, horrified synchronization.

And just like that—

The rivalry was no longer just academic.

It was personal.