Concern is calm. Concern sends a polite message and waits for a reply. This is not calm. This is urgency, sharp and uninvited, blooming faster than I’m comfortable with. And urgency means attachment. Attachment means vulnerability. And vulnerability—God—I have spent years keeping that door locked.
I care for her.
The words settle in my chest without drama. Not fireworks. Not poetry. Just steady truth. The kind that shows up in small actions before you realize what they mean. The kind that keeps you back at the office because she’s still there under bright lights and dust. The kind that swings first when someone corners her. The kind that now has me driving across the city because she didn’t pick up her phone.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel as traffic slows in front of me. I can feel my pulse in my palms. What kind of care is this? It doesn’t fit neatly into any box I’ve used before. It’s not friendship; I don’t lie awake thinking about Siddhant’s safety. It’s not responsibility; she doesn’t belong to me. It’s not simple attraction either, because attraction doesn’t twist your stomach with this kind of protective instinct.
This is layered. It’s protective in a way that feels almost instinctive. It’s consuming in a way I don’t entirely recognize, like something has quietly rooted itself inside me without asking permission.
And instead of fear, there’s a strange thrill running under the worry.
Huge trouble. That’s what this is. I can see it clearly now. The kind of trouble that doesn’t ask if you’re ready. The kind that rearranges priorities without warning.
I pull up outside her building and kill the engine, but I don’t move right away. I sit there, staring at the entrance like it might give me answers. My heartbeat feels louder than the traffic outside. I imagine her opening the door and frowning at me.I imagine her annoyed, accusing me of overstepping again. I imagine her not opening it at all.
And then I imagine the alternative—she’s not okay. She’s alone in there, sick or shaken or worse. The thought propels me out of the car before I can talk myself out of it.
Each step toward the building feels deliberate, heavy with awareness. I don’t have a speech prepared. I don’t have a polished excuse. I don’t even know what I’ll say if she asks why I’m here. I just know I need to see her. I need to look at her and confirm she’s real, breathing, safe.
When I reach her door, my hand hovers for a second before I knock. It’s a simple sound—knuckles against wood—but it echoes louder in my chest than anywhere else.
As I wait, pulse thudding in my ears, I become aware of how deep this has already gone. I should be careful. I should slow down. I should remind myself that she’s an employee, that this could get complicated, that vulnerability always costs something in the end.
Instead, standing here outside her door, I feel something dangerously close to anticipation. Not reckless, not blind—just alive.
Because whatever this is, it’s real. It’s not a passing distraction. It’s not curiosity dressed up as concern. It’s something that has weight and warmth and edges.
And as I wait for the sound of her footsteps on the other side, one final truth settles into place with quiet certainty.
I might be in trouble.
And I think, for the first time in a long time, I don’t entirely mind.
CHAPTER 18
ISHIKA
I frown into my pillow at the knock on my door. For a second, I pretend I didn’t hear it. Maybe whoever it is will go away. Maybe it’s a neighbor. Maybe it’s another wrong delivery. Maybe it’s the universe testing how much I can tolerate in one week.
Another knock. It’s louder this time.
I groan and push myself up from the couch. My head throbs immediately, like it’s offended I dared to move. My nose is blocked, my throat scratchy, and my entire body feels heavy. Fever does this thing where it turns even the smallest movement into a negotiation. I recall being so whiny when I was sick in childhood, but I don’t have the luxury of being cared for anymore so I just sulk.
I shuffle toward the door, not even bothering to check the mirror. I’m in shorts. An oversized T-shirt that has seen better days. My hair is probably a disaster. My face feels hot and dry.
I unlock the door and pull it open. Aryan stands there. For a moment, I just stare at him. And the more I look at him, the more I want to slam the door shut on his face.
“What are you doing here?” I gasp.
His eyes move over me, not in that creepy way men usually do, not slow or lingering—but scanning. Checking. As if he’s assessing damage. And suddenly I’m hyper-aware of myself. Bare legs. Messy hair. No guard.
“You are fine,” he says quietly, almost like he’s relieved.
“By fine you mean alive, yes,” I reply dryly. “I emailed that I won't be coming. I’m working from here so don’t—”
He doesn’t let me finish. He steps inside. Without permission.
“Wow,” I hiss, stepping back. “Excuse me?”
