CHAPTER 45
ABHIMAAN
"Won’t be coming in today. Just resting. Don’t worry. — A"
No context. No explanation. No unnecessary punctuation. Just that little dash and initial she always signs off with—her weird, stubborn way of being efficient and dramatic at the same time.
My hands are still on the keyboard. Something cold slides down my spine.
She could have called me? It’s not like we are strictly professional.
Actually we are not at all professional.
And that’s the reason why she should not have emailed me but sent me a huge text on WhatsApp like she always does with all the emoji vomit and exclamation marks, or better, she could have sent voice notes with her forgetting most of the stuff and jumping from one topic to another.
I love those. But I got none; I got an email. I dial her number. It rings.
And rings. But there is no answer.
I call again. Once. Twice. Three times. Straight to voicemail.
I shut the laptop. The sound is sharper than usual.
My chair scrapes across the floor. I hear my team greet me as I step out.
I don’t reply. I head straight to the elevator.
I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, that she’s probably just curled up in bed watching conspiracy videos about aliens in Rajasthan or some ridiculous reel about love languages.
But logic isn’t loud enough when it comes to her. Especially after all those attacks on her.
By the time I reach her building, I’m halfway to pissed—not at her, but at the spiraling panic inside me. My hand hovers at her door, then knocks. Loud. Then I ring the bell.
No response. Not my fault; I did warn her. I punch the code hastily. The door clicks open, my eyes scan the spacious living room, only to find it empty, and my heart falls. But then I hear soft, shuffling steps. And her bedroom door creaks open.
She stands there, hair in a messier-than-usual bun, eyes half-lidded, wearing an oversized hoodie I recognize as mine, which I never gave her, but she still has it somehow, and no expression. Her face is flushed. And she's blinking at me like I’m a delivery guy with bad timing.
“Abhimaan?”
“You didn’t answer your phone,” I say, closing the door behind me and walking towards her before she can protest. “I called you.”
“I was asleep,” she mutters, voice hoarse. “It’s not illegal to sleep in, is it?”
My eyes sweep the living room—the untouched mug on the coffee table, a heat pad tucked into a blanket, and a bottle of Meftal-Spas half-slid under a cushion.
She doesn’t need to say it. I know. I exhale slowly. My chest still feels tight.
“Why didn’t you just call me?” I ask quietly.
She leans against the doorframe like standing is exhausting. “Because I don’t owe anyone a report on my uterus. Also, I planned to sleep through the pain, not wake up to you barging in like you’re starring in a daily soap.”
I am your boyfriend; I want to whine, but that would be way out of my character, so I let out a low breath that could almost pass for a laugh. “You're dramatic even when you’re dying.”
She glares. “I am dying. My organs are punishing me once more to deny the joy of motherhood.” She rolls her eyes.
I shake my head, chuckling, and move into the kitchen. She doesn't protest. I heat water, find the ginger tea she likes, and pour it into a mug. I’m oddly proud that I remember where everything is.
When I return, she’s curled up on the couch like a grumpy cat, holding her abdomen, cheeks flushed.
I place the mug beside her, grab a cushion, and sit next to her. She watches me with one brow raised.
“You didn’t have to come,” she says, quieter now. “You didn’t even have to know.”
“I wanted to.” I pause, then add, “I needed to.”
She studies me for a beat. “You took a leave, didn’t you?”
I nod. Her eyes widen, all mock surprise and devilish glee. “Abhimaan took a day off?”
“Yeah.”
“From his company?”
“Yep.”
“For me?”
“I have done that before,” I remind her.
She gives me a sly look. “At this rate, everyone’s going to know you’re into me.”
I tilt my head and meet her gaze. “Let them.”
That shuts her up.
“I am into you,” I say, voice low and steady. “And I don’t care what anyone thinks.”
She blinks. Her lips part, but no teasing comeback comes. For once.
I take her hand and gently pull it into my lap. “You scared me,” I admit, watching her fingers. “When you didn’t answer… I couldn’t breathe right.”
She’s still quiet.
“I know we’re... You may think this is still very new. But when you’re not near me, my mind does this thing. It just—” I exhale. “It spirals. I think about everything that could go wrong. And I know I can’t protect you from everything. I’m not trying to control you. I just…”
I trail off. My throat feels dry. “What I am asking for may sound like too much, and I understand if you refuse, but for my mental peace,” I chuckle, “could you move in with me?”
She stares at me, her expression neutral, and I have come to realize she may have picked that up from me, and I hate that, but the next moment she leans forward, cups my face, and kisses me.
It’s not a sweet, grateful kiss. It’s not gentle or slow.
It’s unfiltered. Fierce. Like she’s telling me to shut up.
Like she’s telling me she gets it. Like she’s asking me not to say anything more because she’s already heard everything she needed to.
When she pulls back, I’m slightly dazed. Her thumb brushes my jaw. She smirks.
“That’s a you problem,” she murmurs.
I blink.
“But,” she adds, eyes glinting with something softer now, “being a good and caring girlfriend, I’ll help solve it for you.”
“Oh?” I murmur.
“Yeah.” Her smirk widens. “I’ll let you move in with me.”
I stare at her, stunned. Of course. I chuckle.
She shrugs. “I don’t want your productivity reports suffering because I slept through a few missed calls. Besides…” she curls back into me, stealing my tea, “…you’re warm. And I like warm.”
I wrap an arm around her and pull her closer, kissing the top of her head.
She drifts off soon after, curled into my side, breath evening out, fingers still loosely tangled with mine like she’s anchored there—and maybe I am too.
I watch her for a while, the rise and fall of her chest, the way my hoodie hangs over her knees, and the faint crease between her brows softening with sleep.
The world can think what it wants, and the office can manage without me for a day, maybe even two—because right now, all that matters is this quiet moment, her warmth pressed into me, and the silent promise that I’ll keep showing up, that I will always protect her, not just for her bad days, but all of them.