Chapter Text
Networking events weren't Vi's thing. They never had been. She wasn't the type to shove a résumé into a professor's hand, or memorize bullet points about "career aspirations" to trot out over champagne. She hated the whole ritual—the forced conversations, the calculating smiles, the way everyone sized each other up like they were shopping for connections at a department store.
Still, she came. Cropped navy slacks, white dress shirt rolled at the forearms, brown oxfords that she'd shined herself the night before. It wasn't Columbia's fashion crowd, but she knew how to clean up when it mattered.
The rooftop bar was dressed up to look elegant—candles flickering in glass lanterns, strings of Edison bulbs draped across the Manhattan skyline like jewelry, little towers of catered hors d'oeuvres arranged on white plates that probably cost more than Vi's monthly MetroCard. And everywhere, students and professors and donors huddled in circles, laughing a little too hard, smiling a little too wide, performing their best versions of themselves under the amber glow.
Vi stayed near the edge. Close enough to be seen, far enough not to get roped into anything. She carried a glass of champagne like it might explode in her hand. She let herself smirk when people glanced over, curious, then looked away again.
That was when she noticed her.
Caitlyn Kiramman.
Navy dress that was elegant without trying too hard, the kind of quiet luxury that whispered wealth instead of announcing it. Her hair was swept into a sleek chignon, a single deliberate strand falling loose to frame her face—the kind of detail that seemed effortless but was clearly planned. She carried herself like someone sculpted from expectation, told to stand perfectly straight, and somehow made it look untouchable. Polished. Beautiful in a way that felt intentional, precise. She wasn’t smiling—not really. Nodding, offering polite laughter at whatever some professor was telling her. People orbited her, all nods and polite laughter, desperate to be noticed.
Everyone except Vi.
Of course Vi knew who she was. Everyone did. The Kiramman name carried weight, passed between students and professors like gossip too well-known to bother whispering. Caitlyn wasn’t just rich—she was legacy, a familiar face in university press releases and donor newsletters. Vi had seen her picture before, framed in magazine spreads beside her perfectly poised parents, but photographs hadn’t done her justice. In person, she radiated a kind of precision no camera could capture—calculated grace, quiet confidence, like she’d been raised for nights exactly like this one.
Vi watched her, debating. She didn’t want to be another face in Caitlyn's polite nodding catalog, another name to file away under "networking event acquaintances." She'd leave that performance to the others. Yet she couldn’t look away.
Then Caitlyn's eyes found her. Across the rooftop, across all the noise and careful conversation, her gaze cut sharp and deliberate, landing on Vi like a spotlight.
Vi felt it like a current running up her spine. Those blue eyes held hers with an intensity that made her forget, momentarily, that they were surrounded by people. But she didn’t look away. Not right away. Instead, she sipped her champagne and leaned back against the rail, pretending she hadn’t noticed at all.
—
The first hour dragged. Vi let herself be pulled into small conversations—two guys in identical button-downs arguing over whether the Knicks had any hope this season (they didn’t), a girl in PoliSci who wouldn’t stop dissecting the philosophical differences between two professors as if Vi’s entire future hinged on understanding the nuance. Vi smiled, nodded at the right moments, dropped the occasional laugh where expected. But her eyes kept drifting, inevitably back to Caitlyn.
And Caitlyn was still watching.
It became almost a game. Vi would catch her gaze, hold it a beat longer than politeness required, then turn back to whichever conversation was currently droning on about internships, grad school, or a father’s professional connections. Each time, she could feel Caitlyn’s attention like heat pressing against her skin.
By the third time it happened, Vi was mid-nod to some statistics student preaching about cryptocurrency’s revolutionary potential when those blue eyes found her again. This time, Caitlyn didn’t look away. Instead, she excused herself from her circle with effortless grace, moving through the crowd with deliberate purpose, each step measured and confident, like she had been navigating rooms full of important people since childhood.
Vi’s pulse quickened. The standoff she’d started suddenly felt less like a game and more like something real, something she wasn’t sure how to handle. She casually leaned against a high top table to try to calm the sudden spike of nerves.
“You don’t look like you belong here,” Caitlyn said when she finally reached her.
Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… precise.
Vi looked at her, letting her smirk sharpen. “And you look like you don’t want to be here.”
The corner of Caitlyn’s mouth twitched, a brief flash of a smile that vanished almost immediately.
“I’m Caitlyn.”
“Kiramman,” Vi interjected, letting her gaze linger just long enough to make the moment undeniable. She held out her hand. “Vi.”
Caitlyn's brows lifted—just a flicker of surprise—but she took the offered hand. Firm shake, the kind her parents had probably drilled into her. Vi let her thumb brush across Caitlyn's knuckles before she released it.
Something about the pause that followed, the way Caitlyn's eyes lingered on Vi's face like she was trying to solve an equation, made Vi think she might say something else. But just then, one of the grey-haired professors materialized beside them, beaming with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested he'd been waiting for his chance to monopolize Caitlyn's attention.
"Caitlyn! I was just telling Senator Morrison about your paper on international trade law—"
Caitlyn glanced back at Vi once, something unreadable in her expression, before being smoothly extracted and carried away toward a cluster of older men in expensive suits.
Vi chuckled to herself, already moving toward the bar.
—
Time blurred into a comfortable haze of champagne and careful conversation. Vi found herself talking to someone from her Physical Therapy program about the biomechanics of shoulder injuries, then somehow ended up in a debate about the ethics of sports medicine with a professor she'd never met. The alcohol helped—not enough to make her sloppy, just enough to take the edge off her usual discomfort with small talk.
But her attention kept wandering. She'd catch glimpses of Caitlyn across the rooftop, always surrounded, always composed. Sometimes their eyes would meet across the crowd, and Vi would feel that same electric recognition, like they were the only two people up there who weren't performing their assigned roles.
Around 9:30, the crowd began to thin. The older donors started making their excuses, shaking hands and exchanging business cards one final time. Some of the students drifted toward the elevators, probably heading to actual parties where the alcohol was cheaper and the conversations were less calculated.
Vi wandered back to her favorite spot at the rooftop's edge. She liked the view. Not just the skyline, though Manhattan at night had its undeniable shine, but the psychological space it offered. From up here, the noise was distant, the chaos organized into neat grids of light and shadow. Vi had always preferred heights—something about the perspective, the way problems looked smaller when you had enough distance from them.
She was contemplating whether to call it a night when Caitlyn's voice materialized beside her, low and dry enough to cut through the background chatter.
"Escaping?"
Vi didn't startle—she'd been half-expecting this moment all evening—but she felt a little thrill run through her chest anyway. Vi smirked, turning her glass in her hand. “Maybe. You using me to get out of boring professor talk, or do you just like talking to people who look like they don’t belong?”
Caitlyn's brow arched ever so slightly, a minute expression that somehow managed to convey volumes about her opinion of the evening's entertainment. "Only if they're interesting."
Vi let out a low hum, leaning her elbows against the railing and letting the city lights paint her profile in amber and shadow. "Then you might be disappointed. I'm not that interesting."
"I doubt that." Caitlyn shifted to stand beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed but maintaining that careful distance that suggested she was used to being strategic about personal space. She sipped her champagne, her profile sharp against the lights.
Vi turned her head, caught the glint of genuine curiosity in Caitlyn's eyes. Curious and measuring, like she was trying to solve a puzzle that hadn't revealed all its pieces yet. "Why? Because I didn't trip over myself to say hello like everyone else?"
"Partly." Caitlyn's tone was matter-of-fact, not bragging, just stating an observable truth. "Mostly because you seem comfortable standing here by yourself. That's rare in this kind of room."
Vi laughed quietly. “That’s what got your attention? My stunning ability to avoid small talk? I thought maybe you just liked the view.”
“I notice a lot of things,” Caitlyn said, quietly confident, almost casual. Then, as if adding a footnote: “And I’ve had this view my whole life.”
That got a genuine huff of laughter out of Vi. She liked the way Caitlyn said it—casual but edged, like she knew exactly how much weight her last name carried.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It buzzed with something else entirely—anticipation, maybe, or the recognition that they were both smart enough to know when a conversation was heading somewhere worth going.
“So what’s it like?” Vi finally asked, tilting her head slightly. “Everyone knowing your name before you even say it?”
Caitlyn exhaled, slow, almost amused. “Predictable. Tiresome. No one here is actually interested in knowing who I am. Either they want something from me or want to prove they’re not impressed by what my family name represents” Then she tilted her head, studying Vi. “But apparently not universal.”
"And which one of those people do you think I am?”
Caitlyn turned to look at her directly, eyes narrowing slightly. "You tell me."
"I don't like chasing people," Vi said easily, the admission coming out more honest than she'd intended. "If someone wants to talk to me, they will. No sense forcing it. Besides," she added with a slight grin, "your family can't help me pass Organic Chemistry, so what's the point of sucking up?"
Caitlyn's lips quirked upward—not quite a smile, but close. "Yet here you are, talking to me."
Vi's grin widened, showing teeth. "Here I am."
They fell into an easier rhythm after that, trading pieces of themselves like chess moves—strategic at first, but gradually more genuine. Caitlyn spoke about her family in broad strokes, her words careful but laced with something unspoken beneath the polish. Vi couldn’t tell if it was pride, pressure, or both, but she found herself leaning in anyway, curious about what Caitlyn wasn’t saying as much as what she was.
Vi offered pieces of herself in return—her days at Columbia studying physical therapy, long shifts at the gym, a few glimpses of what growing up in New York had taught her: how to keep moving, how to hold her ground, and how to notice things others didn’t.
Caitlyn listened with an intensity that was almost unsettling. Not just polite nodding, but actual engagement, like she was filing away every detail for later consideration. Vi got the impression that she wasn't used to people who weren't trying to impress her, wasn't used to conversations that weren't transactional in some way.
"Physical therapy," Caitlyn repeated when Vi mentioned her major. "That's specific. Most people I meet are pre-law or business or something equally predictable."
"Yeah, well, I like fixing things," Vi said, swirling the bubbles in her glass and watching them rise to the surface. "People think it's about muscles or injuries, but it's not really. It’s about getting someone back to themselves after they think they’ve lost it.”
The words came out more philosophical than she'd intended, but something about Caitlyn's attention made her want to be more precise than usual, more honest about what drove her.
Caitlyn watched her longer than the remark deserved, lips parting like she might answer with something cutting—or profound. The silence stretched.
Vi frowned, tipping her head. “What?”
Caitlyn’s mouth curved, deliberate and faint. “Maybe you’re exactly as interesting as I thought you’d be.”
Heat crept to the edges of Vi’s ears, a flush she hoped the dim lighting disguised. She bought herself a second with a sip of champagne. “Or maybe you’re easier to impress than you let on.”
“I’m not.” Caitlyn’s answer was plain, anchored with certainty, and for a moment Vi couldn’t look anywhere but into those clear blue eyes.
The spell broke with the buzz of Caitlyn’s phone. She glanced down, then back up at Vi with a flicker of apology as she retrieved it from her clutch. “Sorry—it’s my mother. I have to go.” She hesitated only long enough to add, smooth and deliberate: “Find me on Instagram. Unless you don’t like making friends.”
The word friends lingered between them, stretched thin with implication.
Vi tilted her head, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. “Friends, huh?”
Caitlyn’s answering smile was subtle but precise, the kind that said she knew exactly what she was doing. “That’s up to you.”
And with that perfectly calculated exit line, she was gone—heels clicking against the rooftop deck with that same unhurried confidence, disappearing into the elevator. Vi stayed where she was, finishing the last of her champagne. For the first time that night, she let herself admit she wanted to know what the hell Caitlyn Kiramman actually wanted from her.
—
By the time Vi made it back to her studio in Morningside Heights, the streets had quieted into the kind of hum that made the city feel almost small. Her apartment was modest—a single room, high ceilings, a sliver of a view that caught the top of the cathedral across the street—but it was hers, and the solitude suited her. She kicked off her shoes by the door, untucked her shirt, and sank onto the edge of her bed, fully dressed, letting her gaze drift to the pale streaks on the ceiling. The night played on loop in her mind: the event, the conversations, Caitlyn’s gaze.
Vi rolled onto her side, grabbed her phone from the nightstand, and gave in to the curiosity that had been gnawing at her all evening. Her thumb hovered over the search bar, hesitant, almost guilty—moving the night’s interaction into the digital world felt like crossing some unspoken line.
@caitlynkiramman
Private account, unsurprisingly. Her profile picture was a monochrome shot of her back, hair pulled into a sleek ponytail with both hands lifted mid-motion. It was professional in its composition, but there was a raw closeness to it—like the glimpse of a private ritual made public. Vi couldn’t stop herself. She hit follow. Tossed the phone aside like it might combust.
Almost immediately, her phone buzzed.
Request accepted. @caitlynkiramman followed you back.
Vi's eyebrows shot up. Either Caitlyn was on her phone after midnight, or she'd been expecting Vi's follow request. Both possibilities made her pulse quicken.
Then another notification.
Message from @caitlynkiramman
Vi opened it, her stomach tightening with a flicker of nerves.
@caitlynkiramman: Coffee on Saturday?
Direct. No fluff. No punctuation gymnastics. Pure Caitlyn. Vi stared, trying to decode subtext, aware she probably didn’t need to.
She typed, deleted, typed again. Eventually, she landed on the simplest version of herself.
@vientersthechat: yeah im free. coffee sounds good
A response came instantly.
@caitlynkiramman: Great. Hope you're not opposed to going to Brooklyn.
Vi’s smirk was automatic, reluctant, and entirely genuine.
@vientersthechat: coffee in manhattan isnt good enough for you?
@caitlynkiramman: Brooklyn has better art galleries.
Of course. Vi should have known. Caitlyn Kiramman didn’t do “just coffee.” She curated experiences, complete with subtle lessons and aesthetic choices.
Vi settled back against her pillow, phone hovering above her face. Her thumb scrolled through Caitlyn’s profile again, drinking in the carefully curated grid: no casual selfies, no blurred nights out, just deliberate, precise fragments of a life lived on her own terms.
Three days ago: Caitlyn and two others in front of a Columbia banner. Model UN win. Poised, chin up, confident, always the one people looked to for leadership.
Scroll
A charity gala from last weekend. Caitlyn between her parents—Cassandra sharp and commanding in a tailored black dress, the kind of presence that radiated authority and intellect; Tobias polished and warm, a philanthropist whose charm put donors at ease while his checkbook did the real talking. The Kiramman family power triangle, perfectly arranged for the cameras. Caitlyn's smile was polite, restrained, like she was performing a role she'd been assigned rather than celebrating something meaningful. The caption: Supporting arts education in underserved communities. #KirammanFoundation. Even her charity work was branded.
Scroll
An art gallery shot: white walls, minimalist installations, her arms crossed, her gaze locked on the canvas, the word exquisite in the caption, unadorned by hashtags or friends tagged. Vi snorted softly. Who their age used exquisite without irony? And yet she could hear Caitlyn’s voice echoing through the image, imagine her deliberate movements through the space.
Scroll
A perfect latte in a ceramic cup, the foam art intricate enough to suggest an expensive café, shot from above on what looked like a marble table. Manhattan mornings, the caption read. Simple, but somehow it conveyed more longing than a paragraph might have.
Scroll
A candid shot of her laughing with someone Vi half recognized from campus. That last one made her pause. Genuine joy in Caitlyn’s expression—a side of her rarely captured in public. Vi felt a twinge of something she didn’t want to name, something sharp and magnetic.
Vi scrolled back to the top and studied Caitlyn's bio again:
Columbia Pre-Law. Model UN.
Kiramman Foundation Board Member.
Future lawyer, current optimist.
That last line felt like a small act of rebellion, a flash of personality breaking through an otherwise institutional résumé. She wondered if Caitlyn had written it herself or if some publicist had crafted it to make her seem more relatable.
Vi set her phone down and covered her eyes with her forearm. A long exhale slipped out of her chest, more of a sigh than anything else. This was dangerous territory. Caitlyn Kiramman wasn't casual coffee dates or easy friendship; she was complication wrapped in designer packaging, expectations inherited across generations, a world where every interaction carried political weight.
Vi couldn't afford complications—not financial ones, not emotional ones, not the kind that came with getting involved with someone whose problems were so fundamentally different from her own. Caitlyn's challenges were about living up to inherited expectations and managing public perception. Vi's were about making rent and hoping her scholarship covered next semester's textbooks.
And yet, even knowing it, Vi’s chest tightened with anticipation. Saturday could not come soon enough.