The crisis started at 10:17 a.m.
I remember the time because it was the exact moment my screen froze—and the entire office followed.
Phones rang.
Emails failed to load.
Someone cursed loudly across the floor.
"What happened?" Riya asked, standing up from her desk.
Before anyone could answer, my inbox exploded with internal alerts.
SYSTEM FAILURE — CLIENT DATA COMPROMISED
EXECUTIVE RESPONSE REQUIRED
My stomach dropped.
This wasn't a small glitch.
This was the kind of problem that cost money.
Reputation.
Jobs.
Within minutes, managers rushed toward the executive floor.
Arvan's office lights turned on.
My heart skipped.
He was back.
People moved differently now—faster, sharper, afraid.
I stood automatically, instincts kicking in before fear could stop me.
"Mira," my manager called, voice tense. "You worked on the client interface, right?"
"Yes."
"Then you're coming with us."
I didn't have time to think.
The conference room filled quickly. Screens lit up with error logs, timelines, damage reports.
Arvan stood at the head of the table.
Focused. Controlled. Dangerous in the way only calm leaders are during chaos.
His eyes scanned the room—then stopped on me.
Not surprised.
Not angry.
Relieved.
"Talk," he said.
Everyone started speaking at once.
I forced myself to breathe and step forward.
"The breach didn't start in the core system," I said, pointing at the screen. "It came from an external plugin we integrated last week."
Silence fell.
Arvan's gaze sharpened.
"Can it be contained?"
"Yes," I said. "But only if we roll back immediately and notify the client before they notice on their end."
A beat.
"Do it," he ordered.
People moved instantly.
For the next hour, nothing existed except data, damage control, and decisions made in seconds.
Arvan didn't raise his voice once.
He didn't hesitate.
And he didn't stop looking to me when it mattered.
When the crisis finally settled, the room exhaled as one.
Arvan dismissed everyone except me.
The door closed.
Silence returned—but different now.
Charged. Familiar. Heavy.
"You shouldn't have been pulled in," he said quietly.
"I wanted to be," I replied honestly.
He studied my face.
"You didn't have to step back," he said.
"I needed to," I answered. "But that doesn't mean I stopped caring."
Something shifted in his expression.
"You handled that perfectly," he said.
Then added, softer, "I trust you."
The words landed deeper than any confession.
"I tried to stay away," I admitted. "I really did."
"And?" he asked.
"And distance doesn't work," I whispered.
He stepped closer—not too close, not too far.
"Then don't disappear on me again," he said.
"I won't," I replied.
We stood there for a moment, the city humming outside the glass walls.
No touching.
No promises.
Just understanding.
Because sometimes, walking away teaches you exactly where you belong.
And standing beside him during chaos had answered the question I'd been running from—
I didn't want distance.
I wanted this.