Diya’s Pov

Numbers never lied to me, but tonight they refused to make sense. For the seventh time, my calculator insisted I was the problem.

Under normal circumstances, I would've blamed Direct Tax. It had an uncanny talent for humbling people who walked into it with confidence, reducing hours of certainty to a single misplaced figure.

Except it wasn't Direct Tax that was wearing me down tonight. Nor was it the mountain of revisions waiting on my desk.

The day had left behind more than I knew how to carry. Too many conversations replaying in my head. Too many emotions waiting to be acknowledged.

To say I was overwhelmed would have been an understatement.

Today marked one month since we got married.

To everyone around us, it was a day worth celebrating. Their smiles came easily, their congratulations even easier, like this was a moment to be cherished.

But all I could see was time slipping through my fingers. I had one month less to prepare for my CA Finals.

My fingers moved across the calculator with practised ease.

The workings came naturally to me.

The answer didn't.

So consumed by the problem in front of me, I barely noticed a mug of what looked like black coffee being placed beside me by my government-approved roommate.

He took his usual spot on the couch without a word. I never looked up, yet I knew exactly what he was doing.

The quiet flip of papers, the occasional rustle of a file, the subtle shift of the cushions beneath him. In the silence of the room, those familiar sounds were enough to remind me that I wasn't alone, even as I sat there losing a battle to a page full of numbers.

A single question shouldn't have the power to make someone doubt everything they know.

This one did.

I approached it once. Then twice. Then again. It was almost laughable how a concept I'd solved countless times had suddenly begun to feel foreign.

To clear the haze clouding my mind, I reached for the coffee without lifting my gaze from the page, hoping its bitterness would jolt my thoughts back into place.

Instead, my lips brushed against something unexpectedly soft.

I stilled.

A heartbeat later, a quiet chuckle escaped from the couch, warm and unmistakably amused, breaking the silence I'd been too lost to notice.

That's when I saw it again. That lone dimple.

It appeared so rarely that every time it did, it caught me off guard.

For a fleeting moment, I simply looked at him, quietly taking in a version of him that seemed to exist only in stolen moments like these.

"That's not coffee," he said, the last traces of laughter still lingering in his voice.

"Hm?" The sound escaped me absentmindedly.

My eyes drifted to the mug in my hands.

It wasn't coffee.

Nestled inside was a warm mug cake.

I blinked once before looking back at him.

"You made this?" I asked.

"Yeah."

His answer came effortlessly, as though it wasn't something worth mentioning.

I searched his face, still unable to make sense of it.

"Why?" I asked, my voice barely above a murmur.

"Because someone doesn't like vanilla."

The words settled between us.

For a moment, I simply stared at him.

Oh.

...Oh.

"Try it," he said quietly.

"With the spoon," he added a second later, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly, like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

It took me a second to notice the spoon resting beside the mug.

Right.

That explained the smile.

I reached for it, scooping out a small bite.

The cake dissolved the moment it touched my tongue, warm enough to chase away the chill that had settled inside me over the course of the day.

The chocolate was rich, the texture impossibly soft, and for the first time since I'd sat down to study...

I wasn't thinking about Direct Tax. I wasn't thinking about revisions.

I was just thinking about how insanely comforting a mug cake could be.

"It's... really good," I murmured, looking up at him.

The compliment carried more than admiration for the cake. It held a gratitude I couldn't quite put into words.

The question that had consumed me moments ago quietly slipped from my mind.

Without thinking, I abandoned my chair and walked over to the couch, settling into the empty space beside him.

I scooped up another bite before holding the spoon out for him.

"You try it too," I insisted, nudging the spoon a little closer.

He looked at me for a moment before wrapping his fingers around the spoon and taking the bite I offered.

"How is it?" I asked, sounding far too proud for someone who had contributed absolutely nothing beyond holding the spoon.

"It's good," he murmured, setting the file aside before his attention settled entirely on me.

Somewhere between his answer and my next breath, he leaned closer.

I barely noticed it at first.

It was only when every unhurried inch between us began to disappear that I found myself leaning back.

A second later, my back met the armrest.

He kept coming.

"Vedant..."

His name slipped free as I rested a hesitant palm against his chest, trying to reclaim even a sliver of the distance he'd quietly stolen.

He stilled.

Time seemed to lose all meaning.

And as if the unbearable proximity between us wasn't enough to leave me hopelessly flustered, he chose that exact moment to look me in the eyes.

Every thought abandoned me under the quiet intensity of his eyes.

"Do I have to come this close every time... for you to say my name?"

For a moment, every coherent thought deserted me.

Heat rushed to my face with such alarming speed that I was certain I had turned scarlet.

"I..."

The word never became a sentence. It lingered on my tongue before dissolving into silence.

It wasn't that I didn't want to call him by his name.

I just found it easier not to.

Mr. Malhotra had always carried a comfortable distance. It was formal, familiar, untouched by emotion.

Vedant, on the other hand, felt... dangerously personal.

Before the thought had fully settled, his hand rose between us.

His thumb grazed the bridge of my nose with impossible gentleness.

I blinked.

"You had chocolate on your nose," he said, his voice as calm as ever.

🪔

Mornings and I had never quite gotten along.

The day would come looking for me; I'd bargain for five more minutes.

Today, I negotiated a better deal.

Sleep cradled me a little more gently than usual, surrounding me with a quiet warmth that made the thought of opening my eyes feel almost cruel.

I lingered there, suspended somewhere between dreams and daylight, reluctant to disturb the rare, fragile peace I'd somehow wandered into.

Almost instinctively, I burrowed deeper into my pillow, my arms curling around it in search of a few more stolen moments.

It was warm.

Unusually warm.

And strangely enough... It seemed to be holding me back.

A sleepy frown found its way onto my face.

Since when did pillows become clingy?

My hazy brain entertained the thought with surprising sincerity before deciding the mystery required far more consciousness than I was currently willing to offer.

So naturally, I snuggled closer, chasing the warmth without a second thought.

It felt like an excellent decision for exactly three seconds.

Because pillows, to the best of my knowledge, weren't supposed to breathe.

Mine did.

Slow and steady.

The rhythmic rise and fall beneath my cheek pulled the last remnants of sleep from my mind.

My lashes fluttered open.

The first thing I saw was the familiar black fabric of a T-shirt.

Then my gaze wandered upward in slow, reluctant increments until it met a pair of eyes I knew far too well.

He was already looking at me. Already awake.

For one impossibly long moment, neither of us moved.

My mind lingered at the edge of sleep, refusing to make sense of what I was seeing.

My arms were wrapped around his neck, holding on with an ease that felt far too natural for something I couldn't even remember doing.

One of his arms rested beneath my head, while the other lay loosely around my waist, like it belonged there.

It wasn't until then that I truly realized how little space existed between us.

The warmth surrounding me wasn't the lingering comfort of sleep.

It was him.

Entirely him.

The silence stretched just long enough for every horrifying detail to register one after another.

"I thought this was a one-time thing," I murmured, more to myself than to him.

With painstaking care, I began loosening my arms from around his neck, attempting what I hoped would pass as a graceful retreat.

I almost succeeded.

Almost.

Before I could pull away completely, the hand resting on my waist slipped away, only to find my wrist instead.

His fingers curled around it gently, asking me to stay without ever forcing me to.

"It doesn't have to be..." he murmured, his voice still carrying the rasp of sleep.

His eyes remained on mine, unhurried and patient.

"...a one-time thing."

The words settled softly between us, dissolving the fragile composure I'd been clinging to since the moment I opened my eyes.

"...if you'd like that," he added quietly.

I searched his face for something that would make answering easier.

It didn't.

Every sensible response abandoned me.

"I'll..." My voice betrayed me with a tiny pause. "...I'll think about it."

A flicker of something impossibly gentle passed through his expression before his fingers loosened around my wrist.

I didn't wait long enough to decipher it.

Before my dignity could suffer any further casualties, I slipped out of bed with considerably more enthusiasm than grace.

My retreat toward the washroom was impressively quick.

Graceful? Absolutely not.

🪔

Some things were better left unacknowledged before breakfast.

Like waking up wrapped around someone you had absolutely no business finding that comfortable.

I took my usual seat and reached for my plate, suddenly very interested in the food in front of me.

He sat beside me, calm as ever.

Of course he was.

For him, waking up with me clinging to him seemed to be nothing more than another ordinary morning.

For me however, it was proving rather difficult to look anywhere near him without remembering exactly how I'd woken up.

Breakfast carried on around us.

Maa was talking to Tanya. Avni was arguing with Vivaan about something that seemed way too energetic for this hour. Misha was busy making a mess of everything within arm's reach.

Just eat, don't think. I told myself.

It sounded simple enough.

Except it was difficult to think about anything else when my upma seemed to contain more tomatoes than actual upma.

And then, somewhere between one bite and the next, my hand moved before my brain had the chance to question it.

I scooped up a small bite, turned slightly to my right, and held the spoon out toward the person sitting beside me.

Vedant.

So he didn't need to come that close for me to call him by his name after all.

He stopped mid-motion.

So did I.

Only after I did it did I realise what I'd just done.

His gaze dropped to the spoon suspended between us before slowly finding mine.

I stared back.

He didn't ask a single question.

He just leaned forward and took the bite from the spoon, his eyes lingering on mine for a fleeting second before he pulled back.

I withdrew my hand just as quietly and returned my attention to my plate.

Silence.

A very suspicious silence.

I slowly looked up, only to find everyone staring.

Meera Maa had paused halfway through reaching for something. Tanya's eyebrows were raised. Avni looked like she had just witnessed a plot twist. Vivaan on the other hand looked delighted.

I lowered my gaze immediately and continued eating with the unwavering determination of a woman who had absolutely nothing to explain.

Beside me, Vedant remained entirely unbothered, calmly returning to his breakfast like nothing unusual had happened.

Good for me.

A few minutes passed.

I scooped up another bite from my plate and, without giving myself enough time to think better of it, held the spoon out towards him again.

This time, he actually paused.

He looked at the spoon, then at me, his expression carrying a flicker of genuine confusion.

Still, he accepted it without a word.

I returned to my plate like this too, had been perfectly normal.

I waited a few more minutes before I did it for the third time.

This time, he didn't even pause. He simply leaned forward and took the bite

I froze.

What was I doing?

Whatever it was, there was no graceful way to stop now.

By the time breakfast came to an end, I'd fed him enough times for the entire family to have quietly accumulated a very respectable collection of questions.

Thankfully, they were all polite enough to keep them to themselves.

The moment my plate was empty, I pushed my chair back and stood.

I needed to leave before my own hands betrayed me further. Marriage had already begun affecting my motor functions.

By the time we stepped outside, I'd almost convinced myself that breakfast had been completely uneventful.

I walked ahead towards the car, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder and doing my best to put the entire incident behind me.

I had made it exactly three steps when I heard his footsteps fall into rhythm behind mine.

Then his voice reached me, calm and far too amused for my liking.

"What was that?"

I turned around.

He was walking towards me, hands tucked casually into his pockets, his gaze fixed on me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher.

"What was what?" I asked, feigning innocence.

"You feeding me."

I shrugged, hoping the casualness of the gesture would convince him.

"Sharing is caring."

He studied me for a moment, his expression giving nothing away.

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

My answer came a little too quickly.

"That's very generous of you."

"I know."

Another pause.

Then his gaze shifted to me, calm and far too knowing.

"Sharing only tomatoes?"

I froze.

There it was. The fatal flaw in my very carefully constructed defence.

My brain, which had been functioning on limited battery all morning, completely shut down.

Caught.

I got caught red tomated.

No, red-handed.

I cleared my throat.

"Tomatoes are good for health."

His eyebrow lifted.

"So I've heard."

I nodded, relieved that he'd accepted my perfectly reasonable explanation without further investigation.

Then I noticed it.

The faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

"Why are you smiling?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"That's just my face."

I stared at him.

"No, your face doesn't usually do that."

"Do what?" he asked, his expression becoming suspiciously innocent.

"That." I pointed vaguely towards his mouth.

He looked almost offended.

"You're criticising my face now?"

"I'm identifying your smug face."

His eyebrows lifted, amusement flickering in his eyes.

"That's a very specific accusation?"

"You gave me plenty of evidence."

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then, as if determined to prove my point, the evidence appeared again. That tiny, solitary dimple.

I looked away before it could do any more damage.

"Anyway," I muttered, adjusting the strap of my bag, "you should be grateful."

"I am," he replied.

"Good."

I had barely taken another step when his voice followed.

"You've never shown this much concern for my health before."

I turned towards him, just enough to meet his eyes.

"I care about you, you see."

"Of course."

The moment we both settled into the car, a voice from the backseat startled us both.

"Hello, brother!"

I nearly jumped out of my seat.

I turned around to find Vivaan sitting comfortably in the back.

"When did you get in here?" I asked, still trying to recover from the surprise.

He grinned.

"Right when tomatoes became your new love language."

My mouth opened. Then closed.

Before I could decide whether to defend myself or simply disappear, he leaned forward slightly.

"Bhai, can you drop me at my friend's? It's on the way," Vivaan asked, leaning forward between the front seats.

"Get out," Vedant replied without even looking at him.

"So rude," Vivaan and I muttered at the same time.

I glanced at Vivaan, and he looked back at me, both of us sharing the same quiet disbelief at his brother's complete lack of sympathy.

"You get so much alone time with bhabhi," he complained, gesturing between us. "You even work in the same office. Can't you spare me a twenty-minute ride?"

Before I could even process his little monologue, Vedant started speaking.

"We don't even meet in the office-" He stopped himself.

"No."

The word came with such sudden finality that I almost felt sorry for Vivaan.

"Get out," he said again, completely unaffected.

Vivaan stared at his brother for a moment, his expression falling into an exaggerated sulk.

Then, with all the wounded dignity of someone who had just been denied the most important favour of his life, he opened the door and stepped out.

The door shut behind him.

The moment our car began to roll forward, Vedant lowered the window.

Before I could wonder what he was doing, he tossed his bike keys towards Vivaan.

Vivaan caught them neatly with one hand.

The sulk disappeared from his face almost instantly.

"You're the best!" he yelled, holding the keys up triumphantly as our car began rolling out through the gate.

I looked back at him through the window, watching his grin fade into the distance before turning towards Vedant.

He had already rolled the window back up.

I raised an eyebrow.

"What happened to saving fuel?" I asked, unable to hide the smugness in my voice. "You could've just let him come with us."

He said nothing.

I leaned back in my seat, looking at him.

His silence only made me smile internally. I wasn't going to let this go.

"So that whole saving-resources speech only applies when you feel like it?" I asked.

For a few seconds, he remained completely silent, his eyes fixed on the road.

Then he finally glanced at me.

"You don't want to hear another news announcement, do you?"

It took me a moment to understand what he was referring to.

The moment I did, I felt a faint warmth rise to my cheeks.

I quickly turned towards the window. Maybe it was wiser to stay quiet for the rest of the ride.

🪔

The office had a way of making everything personal disappear.

The moment I stepped through the glass doors, I became an article.

An article with deadlines breathing down her neck, things waiting to be reviewed, and enough work to make the word break feel almost fictional.

By the time I reached my desk, I had already tucked away every thought that didn't belong there.

For the next few minutes, there was only the quiet hum of the office, the soft clicking of keyboards, and the steady stream of numbers across my screen.

I had barely finished reviewing the first sheet when a familiar voice pulled me out of my concentration.

"Diya?"

I looked up.

Alisha stood beside my desk.

"Do you have a minute?" She asked.

"Sure."

She pulled a chair beside my desk and turned her laptop toward me.

"I think I've messed something up here." She said pointing to a figure on her screen.

I leaned closer, scanning the calculations.

At first glance, everything seemed right. The figures added up, the formulas were in place. But then I noticed it.

She'd carried the figure forward without adjusting for the deduction.

"You haven't adjusted the deduction here," I said, pointing to the cell.

She frowned at the screen, following the direction of my finger.

"That's... embarrassingly obvious," she admitted, a little sheepishly.

"It isn't," I reassured her.

I tapped the screen lightly. "Just redo it from here," I added.

"Got it. Thank you." She nodded.

I gave her a small smile before turning back to my work.

I stayed buried in it after that, letting the hours slip by unnoticed. It was only when the familiar murmur of conversation began drifting across the floor that I realised lunch break had finally arrived.

Chairs scraped against the floor. Files were pushed aside. Conversations that had been kept to hushed whispers throughout the morning grew louder now that everyone had collectively decided that work could wait for an hour.

I closed my laptop and sat there for a few seconds, letting myself breathe before finally making my way towards the cafeteria.

I was oddly hungry today.

I picked up a plate and moved towards the food counter, already deciding what I wanted to eat.

My plans lasted approximately five seconds.

Because the moment I reached the counter, my hunger was replaced by something far less pleasant.

I stared at the spread in front of me.

Tomato soup.

Tomato toast.

Tomato rice.

Tomato salad.

Tomato pasta.

Even tomato poha.

I looked around the cafeteria like someone might suddenly emerge from behind the counter and explain themselves.

There wasn't a single dish in sight that hadn't been contaminated by tomatoes.

What had the humble tomato ever done to deserve this much representation?

I slowly lowered my plate.

This wasn't a menu, this was a targeted attack.

And I knew exactly who was behind it.

I knew him well enough to recognise his handiwork, even when it came disguised as an innocent lunch spread.

I placed my plate back on the counter and turned around.

The walk to his cabin was quick.

Deliberately so.

By the time I reached his door, my irritation had already sharpened into certainty.

I knocked once before pushing it open.

The door swung inward, and his attention lifted from the screen in front of him.

His eyes settled on me, calm and unhurried, as if my sudden appearance in his cabin was nothing worth wondering about.

"How can I help you, Miss Sharma?" he asked.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

There was something almost infuriating about the composure on his face. Not a trace of guilt, not even the slightest flicker of surprise.

I folded my arms.

"I'm here as Mrs. Malhotra."

His fingers stilled.

And for the briefest moment, something unreadable crossed his face. His eyes stayed on me a fraction longer than usual before he leaned back in his chair.

"Oh."

That one syllable somehow made me even angrier.

"Why did you do that?" I asked, folding my arms tighter across my chest.

He closed the file in front of him.

"Do what?" he asked, looking up at me with an innocence that was far too deliberate to be convincing.

"Why did you pull that tomato stunt?"

His expression settled into perfect composure.

"Tomatoes are good for health," he replied.

I stared at him in disbelief.

I never wanted to throw a tomato at someone more in my life.

Ironically, I had six different varieties available to me.

Not wanting to argue with him any longer, I decided to leave and deal with him at home instead.

I had barely reached for the door handle when his voice stopped me.

"Diya."

I paused.

Then I heard his chair move. A moment later, his footsteps crossed the quiet space between us.

He stopped in front of me.

"What?" I asked, looking up at him.

For a moment, he said nothing.

"You..." he began, only to falter.

His gaze remained on me, his expression unreadable as if he was searching for the right words and discarding each one before it could leave his mouth.

I waited.

He still didn't speak.

"Me what?" I finally asked, my voice quieter than before.

His gaze softened for the briefest moment.

"Nothing."

I kept looking at him, unconvinced.

Before I could ask again, his hand slipped into mine.

His fingers curled gently around my hand, warm and deliberate, as he led me away from the door.

I followed without protest, mostly because I was still trying to understand what had just happened.

He stopped beside the two chairs opposite his desk and pulled one out for me.

"Sit," he said.

I glanced at the chair, then back at him.

"What?" I asked, my confusion slipping into my voice. "Why?"

"Sit, Diya." He repeated.

There was no Miss Sharma this time.

I didn't argue.

He took the chair opposite mine.

Not his usual seat behind the desk. Not the chair that belonged to the man everyone else in the office answered to.

Just the one across from me.

For a moment, the desk, the files, and everything else that usually separated us seemed strangely irrelevant.

He reached for the plate he had kept aside and set it down between us.

I looked down. Not a single piece of tomato in sight.

My eyes narrowed.

"So you did all that just to annoy me?"

"No." His answer came quickly.

He leaned back in his chair, the faintest hint of smugness settling across his face.

"A wise woman once said tomatoes are good for health," he replied.

I stared at him.

He held my gaze, entirely unapologetic.

"I care about your health, you see," he added, the corner of his mouth lifting.

I looked at him in frustration.

"Eat," he repeated, nudging the plate slightly closer to me.

Under any other circumstances, I would have hesitated at least two hundred times before eating in his office.

But I was still annoyed with him.

And at that particular moment, eating felt like the only way I could assert some form of dominance.

So I picked up the fork.

Besides, if I was being honest, I was hungry.

He watched me until I took the first bite. Only then did something in his expression change.

I took another.

Then another.

Somewhere between the third and fourth bite, I realised he hadn't touched the food himself.

I looked up at him. "You're not eating?" I asked.

"I am." He picked up the spoon and began eating with me.

I hesitated for half a second before reaching for another.

Soon, an easy rhythm settled between us.

A bite for me. A bite for him.

Neither of us acknowledged the fact that we were sharing the same plate. Somehow, it felt too ordinary to mention, despite how unfamiliar it still was.

My gaze kept wandering towards the door.

Every little sound from the corridor caught my attention - footsteps passing outside, a muffled voice, the faint movement of someone walking past his cabin.

My shoulders tightened each time. What if someone came in? What if they saw us like this?

The plate between us, the chairs pulled close, the quiet familiarity of sharing a meal like we had done it countless times before.

I reached for another bite, but my attention remained fixed on the door.

"No one's coming," he spoke.

I looked at him.

He hadn't even glanced toward the door. Somehow, he noticed anyway.

"Eat freely."

It didn't make the possibility of someone walking in disappear, but somehow, the words eased the knot that had been sitting in my chest.

For a few seconds, there was nothing but the quiet clink of the spoon against the plate.

Until another thought surfaced. A completely unrelated one.

I hesitated, the spoon hovering in my hand.

"Vedant?"

His hand stilled. He looked up at me, waiting.

Something faint passed through his expression, a flicker of surprise at the way his name had slipped so naturally from my lips.

It was gone before I could make sense of it.

"Hmm?" he murmured.

I let my gaze fall to the plate, my spoon moving idly through the food as I gathered the nerve to ask.

"Do you have a lot of navy shirts?"

His brows pulled together slightly.

"Navy shirts?"

"Yes." I nodded, still not looking at him.

"Why?"

I shrugged.

"No reason."

I reached for food again, pretending the conversation was over.

When I glanced up, I found him still watching me.

"Why are you asking about my shirts?" he finally asked.

"I was just wondering," I mumbled, taking another bite.

"About my shirts?"

"Yes."

I could feel him waiting.

I sighed and finally looked at him.

"Specifically the navy ones?" He asked.

"It's just a colour," I muttered, looking back down at the plate.

"I know," he said, far too calmly.

"Then why are you making it sound like an interrogation?"

He leaned back slightly, watching me with an amusement he wasn't even trying very hard to hide anymore. "Because you're the one conducting it."

My brows pulled together. "I am not."

"You've asked three questions about my shirts."

"I asked one."

His eyebrow lifted. "You asked whether I have many."

"That counts as one," I argued, picking at the edge of my food.

"You asked why," I reminded him.

"That was technically a follow-up." he said quickly.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

"And then you asked about navy specifically," he continued, too pleased with himself.

There was a perfectly reasonable explanation somewhere in my head. Unfortunately, it had decided to go on leave.

"Don't wear it to the office," I finally muttered.

His hand stopped halfway towards the plate. "Why?"

I looked him in the eye and said, "It doesn't suit you."

He just stared at me.

I stared back, suddenly aware of how absurd that sounded. So naturally, I decided to make it worse.

"This colour doesn't suit your skin tone," I added.

His expression didn't change. But something in his eyes did, something that made me regret every decision that had led me to this conversation.

His eyes remained on mine, quiet and intent, studying me for another second.

"Are you saying that as Mrs. Malhotra or...?"

He left the question hanging between us.

I stilled.

My fingers tightened around the spoon, the metal pressing lightly against my palm. For once, I had absolutely nothing to say.

He didn't repeat himself. Didn't even look particularly curious.

He simply waited, his expression calm, like he had all the time in the world to watch me struggle with a question I somehow created for myself.

I looked at him, then away, then back at him. Not one sensible word.

His lips twitched.

"Understood," he said eventually.

He returned to his meal, carrying on as if we hadn't just had the strangest conversation two married people could possibly have over lunch.

It was fine, completely fine. I had merely expressed an objective opinion about a colour. Nothing more.

The rest of the afternoon slipped by quietly.

Work demanded my attention, and for once, I was grateful for the distraction.

There were figures to cross-check, details to scrutinise, and enough pending work to keep my mind occupied until the evening

Somewhere between one task and the next, I remembered that I had an outstation audit scheduled tomorrow.

I mentally ran through everything I would need to pack, already adding it to the growing list of things I had to deal with.

By the time I finally closed my laptop, I was more than ready to go home.

🪔

The moment we stepped through the front door, the exhaustion of the day finally caught up with me.

Dinner passed without much conversation. So did everything that came after. We moved through our usual evening routine, each of us occupied with the little things that marked the end of another long day.

Tomorrow's audit meant an early morning, so I set my alarm before slipping into bed, already regretting the hour that would inevitably pull me from sleep.

Eventually, the lights went out.

The room softened into darkness, leaving only the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of sheets.

I lay on my side of the bed.

He lay on his.

There was a comfortable distance between us.

My eyes remained open, fixed on the darkness above me, while sleep stubbornly refused to come.

I couldn't seem to stop thinking about the morning.

About waking up in his arms.

About the warmth of him around me, and how easily I had settled there without questioning it. And, perhaps about the answer I had never actually given him.

The room remained still for a while.

Then his voice came through the darkness.

"Are you still thinking?"

I didn't need to ask what he meant. I turned my head towards him. My fingers curled a little tighter around the edge of the duvet, suddenly very aware of the quiet between us.

For a moment I stayed exactly where I was.

Then slowly, I shifted closer.

Just a little.

Then I stopped.

I waited a second before moving again, inching across the mattress until the space between us was smaller by barely a breath.

I stopped again.

It turned out I was much braver in my head.

For something that had seemed so simple a moment ago, I was making an impressive mess of it.

I stared at the space still separating us, caught somewhere between the urge to close it myself and the very real possibility of making a complete fool of myself.

I never got the chance to decide.

Before I could gather another breath, his hand found my waist and gently drew me towards him, erasing the small distance I had spent the last thirty seconds painfully negotiating, inch by uncertain inch.

I landed against his chest with a small, startled breath.

"Don't waste time if you've made up your mind," he murmured, the warmth of his voice grazing my ear before the words fully settled in.

And just like that, I was in his arms again.

His hand stayed at my waist, warm and steady, while his other arm curved beneath my head, holding me in a kind of closeness that felt far more natural than it had any right to.

I could hear my own heartbeat. It seemed embarrassingly loud in the quiet of the room, as if the darkness had turned the volume up just to make sure I noticed.

I wondered if he could hear it too.

His breathing was too calm for someone who had just managed to make mine forget how to behave.

I shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, only to realise there was hardly any space left between us.

The darkness made everything feel strangely different. There were no eyes to meet, no expressions to interpret, no reason to wonder what either of us was supposed to do next.

There was a strange comfort in knowing I could stay exactly where I was without having to explain why.

I closed my eyes.

This was new.

Not just the closeness, but the ease of it.

I don't know how long we remained like that before the question I had been carrying since the afternoon finally found its way out.

"Can I ask you something?"

His fingers shifted slightly against my waist.

"Yes."

"What were you going to say in the office today?" I asked quietly.

For a brief moment, I felt him go still.

"In the office?" he repeated.

"Yes."

I lifted my head slightly, though the darkness gave me little chance of reading his expression.

"You said..." I paused, trying to remember his exact words. "You..."

Another pause.

"And then you said nothing."

He didn't answer immediately.

His hand remained warm against my waist, his fingers resting there as though he had forgotten they were there.

Then he exhaled softly.

"Oh."

A pause.

"That..."

Whatever had been about to follow seemed to catch somewhere between thought and speech.

I settled my cheek back against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm beneath it.

"What were you going to say?" I asked again, softer this time.

He didn't answer immediately.

The silence stretched.

I waited, wondering if he was actually going to tell me or leave me with another half-finished sentence to puzzle over.

Then, finally, his voice came through the darkness.

"You look like a tomato when you're angry."

I went still.

For a second, I genuinely wondered if I had heard him correctly.

I lifted my head and stared into the darkness where I knew his face was.

"Seriously?" I asked, disbelief slipping into my voice before I could stop it.

I felt the faintest shift of his chest beneath my cheek. He was trying not to laugh.

"That is what you were going to say?"

"Yes."

I pushed myself up slightly, propping myself on one elbow so I could look at him properly. "You were standing there looking at me like you were about to say something important."

"I was," he replied too calmly.

"That was important?"

"Very."

The complete seriousness in his voice made it somehow worse.

Before I could decide how best to make him regret that remark, his voice came through the quiet again, softer now, with the faintest hint of amusement still woven into it.

"Are you going to turn into one again?"

I stared at him for another second before a laugh slipped out.

That only seemed to encourage him.

I immediately shifted away, putting a deliberate inch of distance between us.

"I'm offended," I muttered, turning onto my side.

"Diya-"

"No."

I pulled the duvet closer and turned my back to him.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, quietly-

"Sorry."

I wasn't offended. Not even a little.

But there was no reason he needed to know that.

If he was willing to believe it, I wasn't going to ruin it for him.

I stayed silent.

A few seconds passed.

"Diya." His voice had softened now, amusement replaced by something almost pleading. "Come back."

I stayed where I was for another moment, mostly because I didn't want to make it that easy for him.

Then I felt his arm slide around my waist again.

He gently drew me back against his chest, slow enough to give me every opportunity to object.

I didn't.

My back settled against his chest, his warmth finding me almost immediately. His chin hovered near my hair for a moment before resting lightly against the top of my head.

"Still offended?" he murmured.

I pressed my lips together, determined not to let him hear the smile creeping into my voice, but it was a losing battle.

A small, helpless laugh escaped me anyway. "Maybe."

"Sure," he murmured, a quiet laugh slipping into his voice, making it obvious he didn't believe me.

For a while, neither of us said anything.

The quiet settled around us again, softer this time. Comfortable.

Then I remembered why I wanted to talk to him in the first place.

"I'm going for an outstation audit tomorrow," I said quietly.

His response came without surprise.

"Okay."

"It's an early flight," I added after a moment.

"I know."

His hand remained loosely around my waist.

"I have to leave early." I murmured.

"I know that too."

I frowned, turning my head slightly to look at him. "You knew?"

I felt the small movement of his head as a small nod answered me in the darkness.

For a moment, I simply blinked, trying to understand how he had known before I'd even thought to tell him.

"Since when?" I asked softly.

"Since you got the schedule."

"Oh."

I settled back against him, suddenly feeling a little foolish for assuming I had somehow been keeping this information from him.

Of course he knew.

He was still my boss, after all.

The schedule would have reached him long before I had thought to mention it myself. There was nothing particularly surprising about that.

I don't remember when my eyes finally grew heavy.

I only remember the last few things I was aware of: the warmth of his body behind me, the quiet rise and fall of his chest, and his arm still resting loosely around me.

Somewhere between one sleepy breath and the next, the world blurred at the edges.

And without either of us saying another word, we fell asleep like that.

🪔

I woke five minutes before my alarm had the chance to disturb the silence.

It always happened when I had somewhere important to be. As if my body understood the urgency before my mind did.

I wasn't an early bird by any definition, but anxiety made an excellent alarm clock.

I turned my head and glanced at the sleeping figure beside me, quietly grateful that he had been spared the assault of my alarm.

His arm was still resting around my waist.

I carefully curled my fingers around his wrist and lifted his arm just enough to slip free. Slowly I eased myself away from him, trying not to disturb the warmth gathered between us.

I was halfway out of bed when I heard his sleepy voice.

"You're awake?"

I turned.

He was already sitting up, his hair slightly dishevelled, sleep still lingering in his eyes.

"Go back to sleep," I said quietly.

He didn't answer.

He just watched as I crossed the room and reached for my suitcase.

I set it open on the floor and began packing.

Documents first.

Laptop.

Charger.

Essentials.

I checked everything once. Then again. And because my brain had decided that forgetting a single thing would be enough to ruin the entire audit, I went through everything a third time.

Only when I was satisfied did I finally close the suitcase.

When I looked up, he was still watching me.

I paused.

He didn't seem to realise I had noticed. Or perhaps he did and simply didn't care.

For the last hour, his gaze had followed me quietly around the room, never demanding my attention, yet never quite leaving me either.

Whenever I reached for my jacket, I caught his eyes following me. When I bent down to check my suitcase, they lingered for a moment before returning to me. Even when I crossed the room for something I had forgotten, his gaze seemed to find me again.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed now, his hair still slightly tousled from sleep, his expression impossible for me to read.

I narrowed my eyes.

He looked away. For approximately two seconds. Then his gaze found me again.

I wondered what he was thinking.

"I'll drop you," he said suddenly.

"You don't have to," I replied.

His expression remained unchanged, as if my objection had never really been up for consideration.

Before I could protest again, he reached for the suitcase and took it from my hand. And somehow, that was the end of the discussion.

The ride to the airport passed in a quiet that neither of us seemed inclined to disturb.

When we finally reached the airport, he pulled over near the entrance.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

I looked through the windshield at the terminal ahead, suddenly more aware of the fact that I actually had to get out of the car.

The journey passed in such an easy silence that, now that it was coming to an end, I found myself strangely reluctant to be the one to break it.

I reached for the door handle.

"Thank you," I said softly.

"For what?" He asked.

"For dropping me."

He gave a small nod.

I pushed the door open.

Then stopped.

I wasn't sure why. There was no reason to. I had a flight to catch, a suitcase beside me, and an audit waiting in city. Still, I stayed there for another second.

I looked back at him.

"Bye...?"

The word came out softer than I intended, almost carrying a question I hadn't meant to ask.

He held my gaze for a quiet second.

Then something in his expression softened.

"See you."

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

Hi. Sorry. Thank you.

- M