He doesn’t respond. He walks straight toward the couch where my laptop is open and shuts it down. I gape at him.
“You are on sick leave,” he says, turning toward me. His voice has shifted. It’s firm. “You won’t be working. If I hear from anyone that you were, I am going to fire you.”
I blink. There’s something in his tone I haven’t heard before. Not teasing. Not amused. Authoritative. Controlled.
And I…shut up.
I hate that I do.
“What are you doing here?” I ask instead, crossing my arms.
“Came to check on you,” he shrugs.
“You could’ve asked someone else to do that,” I snap. “Why is a high and mighty CEO doing that?”
He smiles, and I curse the way my heart reacts when that dimple appears. It’s unfair. Completely unfair. “And risk leaking your address?” he replies easily. “Absolutely not.”
I shake my head. “I will be fine in a day or two. I’ll resume asap. You can go now.”
He chuckles softly. “I’m not leaving you alone when you definitely have a fever, Sunshine.”
I frown. “How do you know that?”
He points toward the small table where the thermometer lies abandoned beside a half-empty glass of water. “And,” he adds, tilting his head slightly, “you are entirely red.”
My cheeks burn hotter. It could be the fever. It could be embarrassment. I’m not admitting either.
“I can take care of—”
“Yourself,” he finishes calmly. “And you’ve been doing that since you were fifteen. I know.”
The words land heavier than I expect. “Respectfully, Mr. Khanna,” I say stiffly, “I don’t need anyone to babysit me.”
“Very respectfully, Ms. Vyas,” he replies just as evenly, “I understand.”
He doesn’t move. “What are you doing?” I ask, irritation rising.
“I’m telling you I understand,” he says, like he’s explaining something to a child, “but I don’t care. And I don’t intend to leave.”
My jaw tightens. “Why?” I demand.
“Because it’s okay to need someone once in a while, Ishika.”
He doesn’t say it lightly. There’s no teasing curl to his mouth, no playful lift in his tone. He says my name like it matters. Likeit isn’t just something he throws around to irritate me. Soft. Careful. Almost…protective.
And that softness does something dangerous to me.
It slips past the walls before I can stop it.
Something twists low in my chest, tight and unfamiliar. My first instinct isn’t to respond—it’s to retreat. Because that tone? That tone feels like an invitation. And invitations lead to doors opening. Doors opening lead to people stepping in. And people stepping in—
People leave. People who notice you when it’s convenient and disappear when it’s messy. I’m not afraid of incompetence; I’m afraid of patterns. I know what they look like, and I have been living inside one for as long as I can remember.
When someone gets familiar, they settle into my space. They notice the small things—how I fold my sleeves, how I order three cups of black coffee everyday, how I laugh when something is actually terrifying—and then they build expectations on top of that knowledge.
I meet those expectations because it’s easier to comply than to explain. And when the same person walks away, it’s always because they decided the role I played was no longer fulfilling. They didn’t stand up for me; they just stood down.
It’s exhausting.
