Part 27
Maan’s Perspective — The First Look
He didn’t know what made him leave the cabin like that.
He didn’t do things impulsively. He didn’t chase voices. But the second he heard her name—her name—he moved. Without thought. Without hesitation. Like something in his chest had reawakened after being dead for too long.
And now he stood frozen at the threshold of the break room, staring at the one thing he had told himself he was better off forgetting.
Her.
She was standing by the table, surrounded by people, laughing softly. The cake was already cut. She was handing out pieces, smiling, head bowed politely at the compliments, her fingers careful not to smear icing across the napkins.
She looked—
God.
She looked like home.
No makeup. No pretension. No curated charm.
Just her.
The braid, the soft kurta, the gentle press of her lips into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes when she finally met his gaze.
And when their eyes met—
It was like time folded.
No words. No noise. No explanations.
Just them, again.
Like the office had never existed. Like the gala never happened. Like the forehead kiss wasn’t the last thing he had left her with when she closed her eyes and waited for more.
She didn’t smile.
But she didn’t look away.
And neither did he.
Everything that had festered in him for days—the whiskey nights, the empty cabin, the words he didn’t say when she stood in front of him and resigned—it came roaring back.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just sharp.
Like breath in cold air.
He didn’t realize his fingers had curled into his palm.
Or that the rest of the office had gone quiet behind him.
Only her.
Only now.
And for the first time in days—he felt something real.
+++
The cake had been sliced. The laughter had faded. And slowly, one by one, people began to trickle out of the break room, returning to their desks with sweet bites and surprised smiles. The space thinned, leaving only echoes of warmth—and the lingering presence of her.
Geet stood by the sink, rinsing the last serving knife, her sleeves rolled up, fingers careful not to splash. The hem of her pale blue kurta brushed her calves as she leaned forward slightly, quietly focused.
Behind her, Maan remained still.
He hadn’t moved since the moment their eyes met.
For the first time in what felt like weeks, the tightness in his chest had loosened—just enough to feel it throb.
He hadn’t planned to say anything. Not in front of everyone.
But as she turned, dabbing her hands dry with a paper towel, her eyes lifted—and landed on his again.
He didn’t look away.
She didn’t smile.
But her gaze lingered. Long enough for someone else to notice. Long enough for a thousand unsaid things to pass between them in silence.
And then she looked down, brushing past him softly, her presence leaving a chill in the air that hadn’t been there before.
+++
The room had quieted.
The scent of sugar still clung to the air, soft and warm, like laughter that hadn’t fully faded.
Geet packed slowly, almost ritualistically. The last foil-wrapped piece of cake nestled carefully into a brown paper bag. Her fingers smoothed down the flap with absent-minded precision, every movement meticulous. Gentle. Like the moment didn’t want to end.
She reached for the empty box, her cloth tote open beside her, when she heard them—
Footsteps.
Quick.
Measured.
That rhythm.
His.
Before she could turn, fingers closed around her elbow.
Warm. Sure. A touch not demanding—but anchoring.
She froze.
Her breath caught sharp in her throat, chest stilling mid-motion.
“Geet.”
His voice was right there—at her back. Low, close, almost brushing the shell of her ear. Not a whisper. Not a call.
Just her name, spoken like it cost him something.
She turned slowly, heart thudding somewhere too high in her chest.
And he was close.
Too close.
So close she could feel the subtle heat of his body radiating toward hers. The space between them barely existed—just the soft press of air and something electric humming underneath.
“Maan?” she whispered, barely able to lift her voice.
He wasn’t in his usual armor. No blazer. No perfectly pressed facade. Just a shirt with sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, a few buttons undone. His hair was tousled, his eyes—God, his eyes—searching her face with a hunger that wasn’t hungry, but aching.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, and his voice—his voice—sounded like gravel wrapped in velvet. “Why did you come… just to leave again?”
She blinked, thrown by the nearness, the tremble in his tone.
“I only came for Narain Bhaiya’s birthday,” she managed. “I promised.”
He shook his head slowly, jaw clenching. His gaze never left her, never blinked. “No. I mean—why did you leave?”
“You should be here.”
“You belong here.”
She swallowed, throat suddenly dry. Her eyes dropped, but he stepped in, and she stilled.
“Maan…”
“Don’t you understand?” His voice was quieter now. Almost breaking. “You’re good at this. At this work. You were one of our best performers. You can model if you want, sure—but as a hobby. Not... this. Not running from what you’re meant for.”
He was trying to mask the plea in his voice with logic. But she saw it. She heard it.
And it ached.
He was standing so close now that she could feel his breath when he spoke—warm and unsteady. It ghosted across her cheek like memory.
She tried to breathe, to think, but the air between them had shifted—denser, charged, intimate.
His hand was still on her elbow.
And somehow, impossibly, that touch had become the center of her body. Not rough. Not possessive. Just there. Steady. Like he didn’t want to let go in case she vanished again.
She slowly pulled her arm back. Gentle. Decisive.
“I should go.”
And maybe she meant it.
Maybe she didn’t.
But his hand moved before his mind did, catching her wrist—tenderly. Like muscle memory. Like her pulse belonged under his thumb.
“Stay,” he said, so softly it hurt. “Please. You can stay as long as you want. Don’t leave again. Not like this.”
She looked up at him.
And something in her cracked.
“Why?” she asked, her voice splintered glass. “So I can watch you and Priyanka in your glass cabin every night and pretend it doesn’t kill me?”
The moment shattered.
He flinched. So did she.
Her breath trembled. “I—I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”
She turned.
But he didn’t let go.
He didn’t tug.
He just held her wrist, gently, as though asking her to stay through touch alone.
“Geet.”
She turned back.
And in that breath—
He pulled her forward.
Not in hunger. Not in desperation.
But with longing. With the kind of quiet urgency that lives in people who’ve wanted to touch but didn’t. Who’ve watched but never reached.
Their chests brushed—just barely—but she felt it like a jolt. His body, solid and warm, an inch from hers. Her hand, instinctively, rested against his chest, the thump of his heart slamming beneath her fingertips.
She didn’t push away.
Didn’t even breathe.
His eyes were on hers, unwavering. Their foreheads nearly aligned. Their noses almost brushing. The kind of closeness where even silence sounded intimate.
“Don’t apologize,” he murmured, voice rough, barely able to get it out.
Her fingers splayed wider across his chest.
Still not pulling back.
Still just there.
Feeling.
Not deciding.
And for one suspended moment—one second stretched between heartbeats—Geet realized she didn’t want him to let go.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
His hand was warm around her wrist. Her palm still rested flat against his chest, over the steady thrum of his heart. The world outside could’ve stopped spinning, and she wouldn’t have noticed. Because this—the way he looked at her, the quiet ache in his voice—this was the only thing that felt real.
And then—
A throat cleared from the doorway.
The moment fractured like glass underfoot.
They froze.
Geet didn’t turn at first. She felt Maan’s body stiffen under her hand. He didn’t flinch, but something in him locked into place.
Slowly, she turned her head.
There, standing in the doorway with a folder in hand and that perfectly practiced posture, was Priyanka.
Her gaze dropped—once—then flicked back up.
It took her a second too long to speak. Just long enough for the surprise to show. Just long enough for Geet to feel exposed.
Her lips parted, then curved into a slow, unreadable smile. Controlled. Calculated.
“Well,” she said, her voice smooth as glass, “this wasn’t on the schedule.”
Her eyes lingered on their hands—still joined. The proximity. The breathlessness in the air. And then she looked at Geet—really looked—and her smile deepened by a millimeter.
“I’ll wait outside,” she added delicately. “Unless you'd rather I reschedule the entire briefing?”
And just like that, she turned.
Not rushed.
Not rattled.
Only precise.
Her heels clicked softly against the tile as she walked away, the sound echoing like an afterthought.
Maan still didn’t move.
Geet expected him to drop her wrist. Step away. Say something—anything—to deflect the awkwardness.
He didn’t.
His hand remained. Fingers resting against her pulse like he was afraid to lose it.
His eyes never left hers.
Not this time.
Not again.
And Geet?
She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to.
The silence pulsed between them. Thick. Intimate. Unrelenting.
“I didn’t want you to leave because of me,” Maan said, voice low and raw, as if confessing something too long buried.
Her breath caught.
But she didn’t answer.
Her silence was louder than words—woven with disappointment, aching with what-ifs.
Finally, her voice came. Soft. Strained. Tired.
“It doesn’t matter, Maan. You’ve made your choice.”
The words landed like a dull blade. Not meant to wound—but they did.
He felt the truth in them. And he had no rebuttal.
She shifted slightly, stepping back—not fully, just enough to remember where they were. That someone else could walk in. That someone had.
“Maan…”
“Hmm?” he murmured, like he hadn’t stopped hearing her since the first time she said his name.
“Let me go,” she whispered. “We’re in the office. Please.”
Her voice trembled. Her lashes fluttered. The tears were close now—too close.
He didn’t release her.
“Geet…”
“You’re my boss.”
“Not anymore.”
She looked up sharply, startled by the certainty in his tone.
Their eyes met.
And for a second, they weren’t in an office anymore. Weren’t surrounded by glass. Weren’t being watched or judged or timed.
They were just them.
But only for a second.
“Maan?” came Priyanka’s voice again. Crisp. Sweet. Measured.
“They’re waiting.”
It was deliberate this time. Her voice less reminder, more warning.
The moment shattered.
Geet stepped back, fast. Too fast.
His hand slipped from her wrist.
She snatched her bag, the strap catching on the chair, her fingers fumbling.
She didn’t look at him.
Didn’t say goodbye.
She just left.
Shoulders drawn. Head down. Breath caught.
And Maan?
He stood there.
Staring at the space where she’d just been.
She was gone.
Again.
Edited by NilzStorywriter - 4 months ago
Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi 2
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