The next day felt different.
Not lighter.
Not heavier.
Sharper.
Like the air itself was aware of what Arvan and I weren't saying out loud.
I arrived early, hoping to settle into work before my thoughts caught up with me.
No luck.
His office light was already on.
Of course it was.
I barely sat down when my phone buzzed.
Arvan:
Coffee. My office.
My heart tripped over itself.
I stood, told myself this was normal—just work—and walked the few steps that somehow felt like a mile.
He was standing by the desk when I entered, jacket on, phone set aside. The room smelled faintly of coffee and something distinctly him.
He poured a cup and handed it to me without comment.
Our fingers brushed.
Just for a second.
But the reaction was immediate—sharp, electric, undeniable.
I pulled back too quickly.
He noticed.
"Sorry," I said automatically.
He didn't move.
"You don't need to apologize," he said quietly.
Silence stretched.
Thick. Charged.
I took a sip of coffee I didn't taste.
"This is what taking it slowly feels like?" I asked, attempting lightness.
His lips curved faintly.
"Unfortunately," he said, "yes."
I looked up.
He was closer now.
Not touching.
Not invading.
Just… close enough that I could feel his presence.
"We're being watched again," he said calmly.
My chest tightened. "Already?"
"Always," he replied. "The difference is that now, they're looking for confirmation."
"Of what?"
"Of whether this is real."
I swallowed. "And is it?"
His gaze held mine.
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
"Which is why we draw lines."
I nodded. "What kind of lines?"
He took a step back—deliberately creating space.
"This office stays professional," he said. "No favoritism. No private moments."
I blinked. "And outside?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then, softly, "Outside is where we're honest."
My breath caught.
Before I could respond, his assistant knocked and entered.
"Sir, the board wants an update this afternoon."
Arvan nodded. "Schedule it."
She glanced at me—quick, curious—then left.
The door closed.
"That's the pressure," he said. "It won't stop."
"I know," I replied. "I'm not naïve."
He studied my face carefully.
"And you're still here."
"Yes."
That seemed to matter more than anything else.
He stepped closer again—slowly, giving me time to move away.
I didn't.
His hand lifted, hovering near my wrist.
"Mira," he said quietly, "tell me if this becomes too much."
I met his eyes.
"It already is," I admitted.
"But I don't want it to stop."
For a moment, something raw crossed his face.
Then he nodded.
"Good," he said softly.
"Because neither do I."
The door opened suddenly.
We stepped apart instantly.
Professional. Controlled. Separate.
But my pulse didn't slow.
As I left his office, one thought followed me relentlessly—
We weren't pretending anymore.
We were choosing restraint.
And that took more strength than either of us expected.