CHAPTER 18
ABHIMAAN
If this had happened to any other employee, I would’ve done what protocol demanded—called emergency contacts, assigned someone from HR to handle it, maybe sent a fruit basket. I’ve seen accidents before. I’ve even had interns resign in the middle of panic attacks. And it never really... moved me.
I was never cruel, just clinical. Detached.
But Aditi?
She doesn’t let me stay detached. She just barges in—messy, loud, irritatingly bright—and starts taking up space like she belongs there. In my day. In my schedule. In my head.
And now, in my house.
What the hell am I doing?
I’ve never brought anyone here before. Not once. This space—this flat—isn’t meant to be shared. It's small on purpose. Quiet on purpose. Bare, because it's supposed to ground me. To remind me that no matter how many people I lead or how much I build, at the end of the day, I have no one.
No distractions. No attachments. Just a bed, a desk, and the wall I’ve built around myself over the years.
But now—now she's sprawled on my couch like she’s lived here for years, her laptop resting on her thighs, her bare feet tucked into the armrest. My eyes land on the cactus beside her, on my coffee table.
It's not just my office anymore, or my coffee order.
She felt my house was too plain; she ordered a cactus because:
1) It doesn’t need much care.
2) It won’t dry up if I am absent for a few days, her reasoning, not mine.
She also bought a panda print blanket because mine looks clinical according to her, and I also got to know pandas are her favorite animal apparently.
She then proceeded to change all my utensils to those trendy pastel ones because she has always wanted those because they look cool.
And the more alarming thing is I let it all happen silently; I accepted my fate.
I could have put her in her place, but I didn’t.
Because I liked it. And that's alarming.
I look at her. She's wearing one of my oversized shirts—black, sleeves nearly to her elbows—and a pair of shorts I dug up from a forgotten drawer. The waist is cinched so tight with the drawstring that it bunches up at her hips.
She looks...
Cute. I actually freeze mid-step when the word flits through my brain. Cute?
What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t do cute.
I don’t think that word. I don’t feel this way.
I don’t look at someone curled up on my couch and think about how her legs are too short for the cushions or how her hair’s tied in a lazy bun with half of it falling out and somehow still looking intentional.
And yet here I am. Losing my mind because her nose scrunches when the Wi-Fi lags and she mutters under her breath like the router is personally out to ruin her life.
I fold my arms and lean on the doorframe. “That laptop has been buffering for ten minutes. Maybe take the hint and rest.”
She doesn’t even look up. “I’m perfectly capable of working from home, thank you very much. I’m not dying.”
“Could’ve fooled me. The way you passed out yesterday in the online meeting is not exactly confidence-inspiring.”
Her fingers pause on the keys. “I have a concussion. I’m fine now.”
“The doctor said three days of rest.”
“It’s been two.”
“I can count, Aditi.”
She rolls her eyes and finally sets the laptop aside. “You’ve locked me inside this house for forty-eight hours straight, by the way. That’s not protective; it’s borderline criminal. If you wanted to take a vacation, you didn’t have to use me as an excuse, Mr. Abhimaan.”
I arch a brow. “You think I’m vacationing?”
“You haven’t been to work.”
“And?”
Her mouth parts. Then closes. Then parts again. “Wait. You are saying you do not care?” I do not reply.
She straightens up. “You’ve never taken a day off. Radha told me. She said you don’t even leave the building most days.”
I shrug. “She exaggerates.”
“She said once you worked on Diwali with a fever.”
“That was years ago.”
“And now, suddenly, you’re skipping work because your assistant is sick?” She whispers, her eyebrows furrow, and she looks at me as if I have done something extremely thoughtful.
“She was in an accident,” I say evenly.
She stares. I stare back. Then she throws a cushion at me, which I dodge away from. “Oh my god, admit it—you care.”
“I do not.”
“Liar.”
“You’re being irritating.”
“You’re being obvious.”
I cross the room, grab the cushion off the floor, and toss it back on the couch. “You’re not going back to work until the doctor clears you. End of story.”
She huffs. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re reckless.”
Her arms cross tighter, like a shield. “You know this technically qualifies as confinement, right? I haven’t seen sunlight in two days. I should be charging you rent.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You were in a car crash.”
“And I survived. I even stood without wobbling this morning. That’s practically recovery.”
“I’m not debating this, Aditi,” I say sternly, crossing my arms.
She glares at me. “You’re holding me hostage in your mystery lair.”
“It’s a one-bedroom flat, not a dungeon.” I argue.
She squints at the ceiling. “Debatable.”
I shake my head and turn toward the kitchen. “You’re the most ungrateful guest I’ve ever had.”
She blinks. “Wait—ever?”
I pull two mugs from the cabinet, my back to her. “You’re the only guest I’ve ever had.”
Silence. When I glance over my shoulder, she’s watching me—eyebrows lifted, a soft sort of shock in her eyes.
“Seriously?” she asks, voice quieter.
I nod, pouring coffee.
“No one’s been here before?”
“No.”
“Why?”
I carry the mugs back to the living room and hand her one. She accepts it, still staring at me like I’ve said something scandalous. “This place was never meant to be shared,” I say finally, settling on the opposite end of the couch. “It’s the only space in my life I’ve kept untouched.”
“Untouched by what?”
“Noise. People. The weight of pretending.”
Her gaze softens just a little. “And now?”
I glance at her. Her hair’s falling loose again. The mug is too big in her hands. She doesn’t realize she’s tapping her fingers against the ceramic. “Now I have you stealing all my T-shirts and putting throw pillows where they don’t belong,” I say dryly.
She snorts. “Please. Your couch was dying for color.”
“I liked it the way it was.”
“Well, it likes me better.”
I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth twitches. She notices. It’s weird that she has suddenly brought color to my almost lifeless house, and it’s not good for my heart because in years, for the first time, I feel warm.
Then her voice dips, teasing. “So... what does that make me? The glitch in your system?”
“No,” I say without thinking. “You’re the exception in my code.”
Her breath catches. Just slightly. And something shifts in her face. Barely. A blink slower. A smile tugging before she hides it behind her coffee cup.
“Smooth,” she mutters.
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
“Exactly why it worked.”
She lets her head fall against the back of the couch, closing her eyes for a second. “You know, I should be annoyed. I should hate being cooped up. But somehow you’ve turned this hostage situation into the most oddly comforting 48 hours of my month.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oddly comforting” is not the review I was hoping for.
“Don’t push your luck.”
We sit like that for a moment—quiet, coffee warm between our hands, distance charged but not uncomfortable.
“Still not letting me go to work tomorrow?” She asks, breaking the silence.
“No.”
“Even if I bring back your favorite dark roast beans?”
“Bribery won’t work on me, Aditi,” I smirk.
“I can be very convincing.” She doesn’t have to be; if she would say “please,” I would probably agree to anything.
“I’m aware. Still no.”
She sighs, overdramatic. “You know, for someone who claims to hate emotions, you’re doing a great job acting like someone who cares.”
“I don’t.”
“You just brewed coffee and argued about my recovery schedule. In your house. While letting me wear your clothes.” She raises an eyebrow, and I know I care, but I won’t admit it out loud; that would make it too real.
“I said I don’t care. I never said I’m not invested in your functionality.”
She barks out a laugh. “My functionality? Wow, say that at my wedding. Please.”
“If you’re marrying someone stupid enough to let you get in a cab alone again, I’ll crash the wedding.”
We fall into silence then—but it’s not awkward.
It’s just... quiet. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled.
She picks her laptop up again, curls back into the couch, and resumes typing. I return to my emails, but I barely read a word. Not when she’s here. Not when she’s breathing in the same room I’ve only ever inhabited alone.
And I don’t understand what this is. This softness. This noise in my head doesn’t sound like me.
But for now—for just a little while—I let it stay.