The evening unfolded like a quiet secret, steady and unhurried. The soft hum of the ceiling fan filled the living room as his mother moved briskly from one corner to another, setting the table, adjusting the vases, checking the dishes for the third time. The faint aroma of roasted chicken and garlic bread lingered in the air.

He stood by the window, absently adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. He wasn't one to care much about appearances at home, but tonight he'd dressed properly - white button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair neatly set. His mother had told him guests were coming, and though he already knew who, he still hadn't quite decided how he felt about it.

There was something almost surreal about it - the girl who had quietly occupied his thoughts these past few weeks was about to step into his house, probably sit across from him, and talk like it was nothing out of the ordinary. He exhaled quietly, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips. "What are the odds?" he murmured.

Downstairs, his mother's voice called out, "Can you check if the lights on the front porch are working? They should be here any minute."

He nodded, grateful for something to do. The soft drizzle outside reflected against the porch tiles, the faint golden light from the bulb catching the rain in little halos. He leaned against the railing, pretending to check the light but mostly just trying to steady the slight twist in his stomach that felt suspiciously like anticipation.

And then headlights appeared in the driveway.

She sat quietly in the passenger seat, her hands resting neatly in her lap, the faint scent of her mother's perfume filling the car. Her mother was talking animatedly beside her, half-excited, half-nervous, as they approached the house. She nodded at the right moments, offering soft smiles, but her mind was elsewhere.

She knew this house. Well, not this house - but whose it belonged to. The realisation had come hours ago when her mother mentioned the family name again while choosing which dessert to bring. And since then, her mind had been oddly still. Not racing - just… waiting.

When they finally stopped in front of the gate, she caught sight of him standing on the porch. A soft porch light glowed behind him, outlining his frame against the dim night. For a second, she wondered if he knew - if he'd already connected the dots. The thought made her pulse skip.

Her mother stepped out first, calling out cheerfully as his mother waved from the door. She followed, adjusting her shawl lightly, schooling her expression into something calm and polite.

He moved forward to greet them, voice steady and easy. "Good evening," he said, first to her mother, then briefly to her. Their eyes met for a heartbeat - neither surprised, neither startled. Just a quiet acknowledgement.

But inside, something shifted. The distance between them suddenly felt visible, filled with every unspoken thing from classrooms and libraries. The scent of rain on her shawl, the faint reflection of porch light in her eyes — all of it pressed against the edges of his composure. He told himself to breathe normally.

If their mothers noticed the flicker of recognition, they didn't comment. The two women were already hugging like old times, laughter spilling freely into the air.

Inside, the house felt warm and lived-in - the soft beige lights, framed photographs, and faint sound of a slow instrumental tune playing somewhere. He watched as his mother ushered the guests in, fussing over them with the kind of care only long friendships could hold.

He caught her glance as she took her seat beside her mother, the corner of her lip curving slightly, maybe at the faint absurdity of it all. He smiled back, the expression small but genuine.

They didn't speak much through the initial chatter - the mothers had plenty to fill the room with already. Stories of college, laughter over old professors, and the fathers chiming in about the city, the weather, and work.

Dinner was served soon after.

At the table, he sat diagonally across from her. Between the clink of cutlery and the gentle hum of conversation, there was a strange comfort in how normal it all seemed.

"So," his mother said, serving salad, "what are your kids studying these days?"

Her mother smiled proudly. "She's doing Computer Science - quite a tough major, but she manages well."

"Oh?" his mother said, pausing slightly, a familiar look flashing across her face. "He's in the same program!"

That made both of them look up. Their mothers turned toward them in mild surprise.

Elara felt the words catch somewhere between her throat and her heartbeat. The table’s warmth, the clink of cutlery, the hum of their parents’ voices — everything blurred for half a second. She could feel his gaze before she met it. Calm. Steady. Unreadable as if he understood that she was panicking on the inside.

"You're in the same class?" her mother asked, smiling, almost amused.

He nodded, tone calm, confident. "Yes, we've worked on a few projects together this semester."

Lucen’s voice was even, but beneath it ran a pulse of quiet disbelief — that this was happening here, in his house, surrounded by the scent of garlic bread and laughter. He caught himself studying the way she avoided looking at him directly, the faint colour that rose on her cheeks.

All eyes shifted to her then. She managed a small, polite nod, her voice soft but steady. "Yes, we were paired for the presentation last week."

"Ah, that explains it," his father chuckled. "Small world indeed."

The conversation moved on, but their silence lingered — not empty, just aware.

The topic drifted back into the usual family talk, but that small exchange hung between them quietly. She looked down at her plate, trying to keep her expression neutral, though she could feel the warmth creeping up her neck. He, on the other hand, felt oddly at ease - almost proud.

He glanced at her once as his parents spoke animatedly. She wasn't speaking, just listening - calm, attentive, the same composure she always carried. But tonight, under the soft dining lights, she seemed different. Or maybe he was just noticing more - the tiny dimple that appeared when she smiled faintly at something her mother said, the way she straightened her posture when someone addressed her.

Dinner went smoothly, conversation warm and easy. By the time plates were cleared, the room was filled with soft laughter and shared nostalgia.

She helped her mother with the dessert plates, moving quietly between the kitchen and the table. He noticed her, even then - the way she moved with quiet purpose, her politeness unforced, her words always measured.

When the evening began to wind down, their mothers stood at the doorway promising to meet again soon, talking about family lunches and old photographs they'd bring next time.

As their mothers’ laughter faded into the night, she caught herself glancing once more at the front door — the place she’d walked through hours ago without knowing how much it would matter.

Some part of her already knew this wasn’t just another coincidence.
Some meetings, she thought, don’t just happen — they return.

For a second, the world felt still again - like some quiet rhythm that had been running beneath their lives had just aligned perfectly.

Back inside, his mother called out to him from the kitchen, but he didn't answer right away. He was still standing at the door, staring at the spot where she'd just been.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t try to reason with what he felt. Some moments, he thought, didn’t need understanding — only recognition.