MRUNAL's POV

The alarm buzzed at six. I silenced it without opening my eyes, counting the seconds as though I could measure the morning itself. Precision had become a habit; routine, a shield.

By six-thirty, I was in the kitchen, tea steeping. The city outside was still half-asleep, but the hum of life seeped through the glass windows. I liked mornings like this—quiet, measured, controllable.

Breakfast was simple. Toast, eggs, coffee. Nothing extravagant. Nothing that needed attention beyond execution. I ate while reviewing the day in my head: meetings, emails, deadlines. The world of numbers and contracts was orderly. Predictable. Comfortable.

By seven-fifteen, I was dressed, hair pinned back, laptop bag slung over my shoulder. The elevator ride down was silent, save for the soft hum of cables and the faint echo of my own steps.The office was already stirring. Colleagues greeted each other, voices layered in polite chatter. I nodded to a few familiar faces, careful to remain neutral. Conversations passed me by like wind. I had no time for small talk. Small talk was dangerous; precision required focus.

And then he appeared.

SATVIK ATHARVA RAJVASH

He didn’t need to announce himself. I felt his presence before I saw him—the subtle shift in the room, the way the air seemed heavier for a fraction of a second. He was across the lobby, reviewing reports, impeccably dressed, posture perfect.

I nodded politely, keeping my distance, as he glanced up. His eyes lingered just a fraction longer than necessary. A tilt of his head. A small, almost imperceptible smile.

I didn’t react. Not out loud. But inside, I noticed it. He didn’t speak, didn’t approach, yet his proximity pressed against my awareness.

By nine, the first meeting begins.

“We should delay the announcement,” a senior manager says, tapping his pen. “Public sentiment is unstable.”

“Public sentiment is always unstable,” I reply calmly. “What matters is pattern repetition.”

The room stills.

Someone clears their throat. “And the breach?”

“The breach,” I say, “was designed to test reaction time. We passed.”

Mr Rajvansh’s name comes up. Casually. Too casually.

“He’s handling it,” someone says.

“Yes,” I agree. “He is.”

Not praise. Not reassurance. Just fact.

At my desk, an intern hovers.

“Ms. Mehrotra? I wanted to confirm the file naming convention for the audit trail.”

I look up.

“What’s written on the folder?” I ask.

“‘Internal Review — Level C.’”

“And what level is it actually?” I ask.

She hesitates. “Level B.”

“Then label it C,” I say.

She blinks. “But that’s—”

“Correct,” I finish. “It’s incorrect.”

She waits for an explanation. I don’t give one.

She nods slowly and walks away. I make a note.

At lunch, two colleagues join me uninvited.

“You never take breaks,” one of them says lightly.

“I take efficient ones,” I reply.

They laugh, uncertain if it’s a joke.

“It must be stressful,” the other adds. “Working so close to him.”

I sip water. “Stress is relative.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” I say, standing, “that pressure only works when you resist it.”

They don’t follow. Most people don’t.

At 3:40, SATVIK walks past my office. He doesn’t stop. I don’t look up. Control doesn’t announce itself.

At 5:30, the building empties. I don’t. This is when systems stop pretending.

I open a restricted archive. Not because I shouldn’t—but because it’s mislabeled.

The file opens without resistance. Good.

I change the internal tag from B-17 to C-17. No deletion. No concealment. Just alignment. I close it.

At 7:12, I leave. The city is louder now. Messier. People spilling themselves into the night. I watch from the car window without judgment.

At home, I remove my watch and set it on the table. I don’t put it back on. Time has already been accounted for.

The apartment smells faintly of the dinner I’d prepared the night before—herbs, warm bread, patience. He isn’t home yet. He’ll be late, as usual.

I glance at the window, city lights flickering. I measure the space. The quiet. The proximity.

Because proximity, even when silent, even when professional, can speak louder than words.

And sometimes, the smallest gestures carry the heaviest weight.

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MAHIR 'S POV

The moment I spotted her, my brain did the classic triple-take.

Riva. Riva.

I mean, seriously, what were the odds? Ten years later, grown-up, sharper, smarter… still dangerously infuriating. And yes, still capable of making me question all my life choices in a nanosecond.

She froze the second she saw me. That little pause—classic Riva. I almost laughed, but controlled myself. For professional reasons, obviously.

“Dr. Rajvash?” she said, voice tight, polite.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Fun = chaos. Professional conference = gone to hell.

I raised an eyebrow, folding my arms with that “I know exactly who you are” smirk.

“Well,” I drawled, “this is unexpected.”

She stammered. Heat rushing to her cheeks. Beautifully predictable.

“You—”

“You slapped me,” I interrupted pleasantly, because yes, I live for moments like this.

Her face? Priceless. Mortified, flustered, and still trying to look like a professional adult.

Oh, this is going to be hilarious.

“You slapped the wrong guy, Riva,” I said softly, leaning in, letting my voice drop just enough to make the air between us feel… dangerous.

Her jaw clenched. “I KNOW!”

I raised my hands in mock surrender. “I only bring it up because it’s… memorable. Iconic, even.”

She groaned, hiding her face. “I was twenty. I had rage issues!”

“And you’ve clearly refined them into subtle menace,” I said lightly. “Still dangerous, still unpredictable. I like that.”

Silence fell. Thick. Humming. Electric.

“You disappeared after that,” I said, softer now, almost curious. “Transferred colleges. Vanished. Thought I’d never see you again.”

“I was embarrassed,” she admitted. Quiet. Fragile.

Oh, that embarrassed-but-angry energy? Classic Riva.

“Well,” I said, straightening, acting casual, “if it helps, it was the most interesting thing that happened to me that year.”

She looked up, incredulous. “That’s not comforting.”

“It’s honest,” I replied. And honestly, it was. Truthfully, she’d haunted me more than any annoying email or rival doctor ever could.

A beat. Then she snapped back into professional mode, sharp, clipped. “So, Dr. Rajvansh. Cardiology legend. Global conferences. Fame.”

“And you,” I said, letting my eyes linger, letting the words carry just a shade more weight than they should, “are clearly still dangerous.”

She scoffed, trying to mask the tiny spark of amusement I could sense. “I don’t slap people anymore.”

“Pity,” I said lightly, “I was starting to think it was your signature move.”

She laughed. Soft, real. The kind of laugh that made me remember exactly why I hadn’t run from her ten years ago—and why I wouldn’t run now.

As she walked away, heels clicking, ID badge swinging, a thrill curled in my chest. Ten years ago, she slapped me.

Now?

I realized I might just be the one person willing to let her knock me off balance again.

And this time…

I wasn’t running.

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