Something About Us- MG || (Part 51|Page 52) - Page 49

47

great update

geet share what happened with her from her so called family , her brother is reason for her condition when maan said that he is going in deep any how where she share or not

maan took his steps to punish geet's brother n family

geet become afraid of maan's silence knowing what is behind that silence

Part 48

Late That Night

Geet had fallen asleep sometime past midnight, finally surrendered to exhaustion after hours of quiet unraveling in his arms. Her body, curled toward the edge of the bed, had stilled. Her breath evened out. The heart monitor pulsed soft and slow, a lullaby in its own right.

Maan didn’t sleep.

Not on the cot. Not on the chair. Not even when the nurses dimmed the lights and whispered amongst themselves, thinking he’d passed out.

He stood by the window, phone in hand, the screen’s faint glow casting sharp lines across his face.

He’d already sent one message.

Then two.

Now five.

Each to a different name in his contacts. Each clipped. Coded. Razor-edged in tone.

Need background trace. Full profile. Real-time pulls. Banking trails. Family contacts. Urgent. Quiet.

No one asked questions.

Not when it was Maan Singh Khurana. Not when the subject line was that cold.

By 2:13 a.m., his phone buzzed back.

One of his old hacker friends from MIT—now buried deep in ethical cyber-forensics—had responded first. “Give me six hours.”

Another from London pinged next. “Tracking his last known financial activity now. If he's been stealing from her, I’ll find it.”

And then a third one, not even someone he liked, but someone effective—who worked inside one of the private security firms Maan occasionally funded through discreet donations. “Want me to shake the tree or just look under it?”

Maan’s reply was instant.

Just look. For now. And don’t breathe near him unless I say so.

He set the phone down. Walked over to the edge of Geet’s bed.

She slept still—cheek slightly red against the pillow, her hair curling at the edge of her face. So small. So breakable.

So unaware of the war he was about to wage.

He watched her for a long moment. Then leaned closer, brushing his knuckles against her unbruised cheek.

“I told you I’d take care of it,” he whispered, almost inaudibly.

“This isn’t pity, Geet. This is what you do when someone tries to destroy the woman you love.”

His voice was calm now.

Cold.

Resolved.

+++

The Morning After

Geet stirred just past dawn.

The light was soft, not yet gold, but the kind of pale grey that brushes against dreams and tries not to wake them too roughly. The hospital room was quiet, save for the hum of machines and the occasional shuffle from the hallway outside.

She blinked, adjusting to the light, her body aching in places she couldn’t name. Her head turned slowly—and there he was.

Maan.

Not on the cot.

Not dozing in the chair.

He was seated upright, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled in front of his lips, phone on the table beside him—face-down. His jaw was taut. His posture too still. Too composed.

His eyes weren’t on her. They were on the wall across the room. But his thoughts… they were somewhere far darker.

Geet swallowed, watching him. Something had shifted.

He wasn’t the same as last night.

He was quieter. Still kind. Still here. But not soft.

There was a fire beneath the stillness now.

“Maan?” Her voice cracked.

He looked at her instantly, blinking as if he’d forgotten where he was. The sharpness in his expression dissolved in a second. He sat up straighter, the corner of his mouth tipping in the faintest smile.

“You’re awake,” he said softly. “How are you feeling?”

She nodded faintly. “Tired.”

He moved to pour her water, helping her sip like always—but something in the gesture was different. Not colder. Not absent. Just… focused.

Like he had already decided something.

Like something inside him had snapped into place.

She looked at him carefully, her fingers brushing his. “Did something happen?”

He met her gaze, expression unreadable for a beat too long.

Then he shrugged lightly, his voice calm. “No. Just thinking. You said I shouldn't worry about useless things, remember?”

That was her line.

She narrowed her eyes. “Maan.”

He smiled again, gentler this time—but the heat behind it didn’t vanish. He didn’t lie. But he didn’t tell the whole truth either.

Just reached out, brushing a stray hair from her temple.

“You just focus on healing. Let me worry about the rest.”

Something about the way he said it sent a chill down her spine.

A good one.

A terrifying one.

Because she knew him now.

And when Maan Singh Khurana got quiet…
It meant someone, somewhere, was about to regret everything they’d done.

+++

It started with the nurse.

Mid-afternoon, while adjusting her IV drip, she glanced at the cot beside the bed and said casually, “He hasn’t slept a wink today either. Always pacing the hallway when you're asleep.”

Geet blinked. “He... paced?”

The nurse smiled. “Like a storm cloud with legs. You are lucky though. He cares too much so gets tensed too much too, I guess “

Geet nodded, but something snagged.

She watched Maan more closely after that.

He still sat by her side. Still poured her water. Still made awful jokes when she looked too serious. But there were moments—small ones—where his mind was clearly somewhere else.

His phone buzzed more frequently now. Sometimes he picked it up and replied without unlocking the screen—pre-saved numbers, she guessed. Other times, he’d step out “to get coffee,” and return without a cup.

His fingers tapped against his thigh absently when he read a message, a sign she’d only ever seen when he was calculating something.

And once—just once—she caught him staring out the window with a gaze so razor-sharp it sent a chill down her back. Not angry. Not distracted.

Intent.

That night, as he tucked the blanket over her legs and set her glass on the side table, Geet finally asked.

“Maan…”

He looked at her instantly.

She studied his face. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t deflect.

Just held her gaze and said softly, “Yes.”

The honesty landed like a weight in her chest.

She whispered, “What are you doing?”

Maan didn’t move. His voice was low, quiet enough that only the silence could catch it.

“I’m protecting you.”

She exhaled shakily. “From what?”

A pause.

Then: “From what already happened. And what might happen again if I don’t do something.”

His eyes softened then, his palm brushing over her wrist.

“You don’t have to carry all of it, Geet. Not when I’m still standing.”

She didn’t press after that.

But the look in her eyes as she watched him fall asleep on the cot that night said it all.

She didn’t know what he was doing.

But whatever it was...

She was terrified of how far he might go.

And equally terrified of how much she wanted him to.

+++

Geet hadn’t cried in two days.

That was something.

But her body still held the tension like a violin string pulled too tight—always on the verge of snapping. Even when Maan was quiet. Especially when he was quiet.

She wasn’t stupid.

She knew.

She knew the moment he said yes—yes, there was something he wasn’t telling her, yes, he was protecting her—that the quiet was no longer neutral. It was loaded. Wired.

Like a bomb with a long, silent fuse.

Now every time he left the room, every time he answered a text without looking at the screen, every time he nodded at the nurse with that tight-lipped Maan Khurana professionalism, something inside her curled tighter.

She wasn’t afraid of him.

No. God, no.

She was afraid of what he might find.

What it would make him do.

What it would make her have to face all over again.

And underneath all that fear, just beneath the guilt of having let someone into the mess that was her life—there was something worse.

Relief.

Terrible, aching, helpless relief.

Because for the first time since her brother pressed her to the floor and told her she was nothing, for the first time since her parents watched without flinching—someone was furious on her behalf.

Someone wasn’t blaming her for “provoking” or “disobeying” or “ruining everything.”

Someone was just… angry that she’d been hurt.

That someone was Maan.

And she didn’t know what to do with that.

She wasn’t used to it.

Not when most men in her life only noticed her to destroy her or mold her into something more useful. Even the ones who smiled politely—the neighbors, the acquaintances, the strangers on buses—only seemed to respect her until she said no.

But Maan?

Maan didn’t treat her like glass.

He never had.

Even now, when she was bruised and half-broken and grieving things she couldn’t even name, he didn’t look at her with pity.

He looked at her like she still mattered.

Like she was still someone.

And it undid her.

Each time he refilled her glass of water without being asked. Each time he picked up her fallen pen from the floor. Each time he folded the edge of her blanket more tightly around her toes. Each time he stayed—when he could’ve just sent a cheque and left.

It was too much.

Sometimes she wanted to scream. Tell him to stop. To go. To not make her feel this cared for, this protected—because if she got used to it again and he left…

She wouldn’t survive it.

She knew how to survive poverty. Knew how to survive rejection. Even betrayal.

But kindness?

That was a luxury she never learned to afford.

+++

She stared at the small print on the hospital billing sheet, her throat dry.

Cleared.

That was the word printed in bold at the bottom. Just one word—but it echoed like a gong in her chest.

Maan didn’t say much when he handed it to her. Just placed the paper on her bedside table and quietly sat down again, not meeting her eyes at first.

She hadn’t asked.

But he had done it anyway.

The silence between them stretched, taut and unbearable. She didn’t know how to look at him. Didn’t know how to thank him. Didn’t even know if she should.

Her fingers hovered above the paper, trembling slightly.

It should have brought relief.

Instead, it brought shame.

When she finally looked up at him, her voice was hoarse.

“You paid it.”

Maan met her gaze, calm. “Of course I did.”

She swallowed hard, the weight of it rising fast in her throat.

“I never wanted you to see me as anything less than capable,” she whispered, each word pulled from a place too raw to touch. “I wanted to prove I could make it. Alone.”

He didn’t interrupt. He just… listened. Like he always did when it mattered.

But that almost made it worse.

Her gaze dropped to their hands—his thumb gently tracing the side of her palm, grounding her with a touch that asked for nothing.

Not even forgiveness.

“I just…” Her breath hitched. “I didn’t want you to see me as a charity case.”

The words burned coming out. Burned because they were real.

Because it mattered what he thought. What he saw when he looked at her.

She braced for pity. For silence. For some soft reassurance she couldn’t stomach.

Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his voice low, steady, unshakable.

“You could never be a charity case to me, Geet.”

Her chest pulled tight.

“You’re the strongest person I know. The most stubborn, too,” he added, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve spent your whole life proving your worth to people who never deserved to receive it.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. The tears threatened again.

“We’ll figure this out,” he said. “Together.”

That word—together—broke something loose inside her.

She didn’t respond right away. Couldn’t. Her voice wouldn’t move, and her breath came shallow.

But she looked at him.

Really looked.

And in his eyes, she didn’t see pity. Or judgment. Or condescension.

She saw someone who had chosen her.

Not because she was broken. Not because she needed help.

But because she mattered.

Maan squeezed her hand again, his thumb brushing slow circles over her skin.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” he said softly. “Not this time. Not with me.”

And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—she didn’t feel like a fallen warrior hiding in her own wreckage.

She felt seen.

Held.

Safe.

Not by the world. Not by the people who’d failed her.

But by him.

And it was terrifying how badly she needed that.

Geet shifts slightly, her eyes filled with a blend of vulnerability and self-doubt.

Maan notices the pain in her gaze, a reminder of how deeply she’s struggling to come to terms with her situation.

Geet mutters with her trembling voice

"Why are you even with me, Maan? I’m just... damaged good now. You deserve someone better, someone whole."

Part 48

Excellent Update

Maan now gets hold of his contacts wanting information

on Brij and his parents

when Geet awakes from sleep, she already sees and senses a different

Maan

but I love his honesty, and best part is he does not see Geet as a charity case

neither as a broken woman

he knows she is a fighter, but her situation is such that she has no money

and maybe even Geet realizes that Maan still looks at her the very same

as he always did.

Part 48

of cos Maan wants to get all the details

he is indeed ruthless especially when it comes to his loved ones

as expected Maan loves Geet

he will naturally protect Geet

her question was anticipated

but Maan assured Geet

her fears were justified

Geet's thoughts were reasonable

Geet clearly knows Maan very well

hate Geet's family

upset that her parents never supported her

Geet does know Maan is angry

not surprised that Maan paid Geet's hospital bill

great that Geet opened up to Maan

liked Maan's response

he was correct that she is strong

loved that he is there for her

sad that Geet says she is unworthy of him

update soon

He doing all this

Because he loves you geet

Nice part 😁

The reaction of geet was normal she thinks she is not suitable for maan now

How low the family gets because of money and his brother he made a wrong move and msk doesn't give forgiveness when it comes to the matter of geet they crossed the line and they have to pay for every single pain geet has endured becoz of them 👿

Part 49

The hospital room had dimmed with the evening. Outside, the world blurred behind slatted glass, soft orange giving way to muted grey. Inside, the beeping monitor hummed steadily, syncing with the silence that stretched between them.

Geet lay still, the neck brace making it hard to move, but that wasn’t what kept her frozen.

It was the way Maan sat beside her—close, unwavering. Like he didn’t see the bruises. Like he didn’t feel the rupture in her voice when she spoke.

She turned her face slightly toward him, her voice barely above breath.

“Why are you even with me, Maan?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I mean it,” she said, voice tighter now, throat raw. “I’m just… damaged goods. You deserve someone better. Someone who isn’t this—” Her hand twitched, trying to gesture at herself. The neck brace, the IV, the layers of shame she couldn’t name.

His brow tightened, but he didn’t rush to comfort. Didn’t jump in to fix.

He simply leaned in, his voice steady, quiet.

“Don’t ever call yourself that again.”

Geet swallowed.

“You’ve been hurt. That doesn’t mean you’re broken. That doesn’t mean you’re less.”

She looked away, blinking hard. “But I feel less. I can’t even stand on my own right now. What do you even see in me?”

A beat.

He reached for her hand—not dramatically, not to prove a point. Just… held it.

Warm. Sure.

“I see someone who’s been through hell,” he said, “and still hasn’t learned how to stop fighting. You’ve got a thousand reasons to fall apart. But here you are. Still showing up. Still trying to hold your pride together with shaking hands.”

She turned her head away, eyes glassy.

He exhaled through his nose, tone softening with a familiar edge of sarcasm. “And anyway, I’m not exactly a catch. I sleep on that creaky hospital cot. I haven’t shaved in days. My shirts smell like antiseptic and vending machine coffee. You sure you don’t deserve better?”

That startled a wet laugh out of her—short, breathless.

“Maan—”

“No, I mean it,” he said mock-seriously. “I look like I lost a bar fight with a laundry hamper.”

She shook her head, the corners of her lips tugging upward despite everything.

“I don’t want your pity,” she whispered after a pause. “I want to be someone you’re proud of. Not someone who needs saving.”

He leaned closer, his expression quieting again. “Geet, I’m proud of you because of everything you’ve survived. Not in spite of it.”

She looked at him then. Really looked.

And he didn’t flinch.

“I care about you. Not because you’re perfect or ‘whole’ or whatever nonsense you're telling yourself. I care because you still have fight left. Even when you think you don’t.”

Her throat bobbed, emotion rising.

“Maan…”

“It’s not pity. And it’s not charity. And no, you don’t have to believe me right now,” he said gently. “You’ve earned the right to not trust anyone.”

His fingers tightened over hers.

“So borrow my belief, just for a while. I’ll carry the weight until you remember how.”

Her eyes brimmed again—this time not from shame, not entirely. There was something else curling at the edges.

Relief.

Real. Terrifying. Fragile.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she said, voice breaking. “How to be… cared for.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But I’m still here.”

Her fingers curled into his.

And that night, the room didn’t feel so cold anymore.

+++

Hospital Room 407 – Early Morning

The hospital room is bathed in the pale grey light of dawn, the air heavy with the sterile scent of antiseptic and the faint hum of machines. Geet lies propped against pillows, her neck brace a stark reminder of her fragility, but her eyes hold a quiet resilience. Maan stands by her bed, his grey shirt slightly rumpled, stubble darkening his jaw. He’s packing a small bag, movements precise but tinged with reluctance, his usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion.

Maan (voice low, almost hesitant):
Geet, I’ve got to head to the office today. Some things need my attention—urgent. I’ll be back by evening.

Geet (eyes flicking up, a small smile):
It’s okay, Maan. I’ll be fine here. The nurses are around, and I’m not going anywhere. (She gestures weakly to her brace, a spark of humor in her voice.) Not like I’m running a marathon today.

Maan (pauses, studying her, his brow furrowing):
You sure? I can stay if you need me. Work can wait.

Geet (firmly, but soft):
No, it can’t. You’ve been here for weeks. Your company needs you. I’m not helpless, you know. (Her smile falters, but she holds his gaze.) I’ll manage.

Maan’s jaw tightens, a flicker of conflict in his eyes. He wants to argue, to stay in this room where he can watch her breathe, but her words—her stubborn insistence—anchor him. He nods once, a silent acknowledgment, and leans down, brushing his knuckles gently against her unbruised cheek.

Maan (quietly):
Call me if anything changes. Anything. Promise me.

Geet (nodding, her voice softer):
Promise.

He lingers for a moment, their eyes locked, a silent thread of trust weaving between them. Then, with a reluctant exhale, he slings his bag over his shoulder and steps out, the door clicking shut with a weight that echoes in the quiet room.

+++

Maan’s Office – Mid-Morning

The office hums with suppressed energy, a low buzz of whispers trailing Maan as he strides through the glass-walled corridors. His cabin looms at the end of the floor, a sleek fortress of chrome and dark wood, but the air feels charged with curiosity. Employees steal glances, their murmurs speculating about their CEO’s weeks-long absence. Maan’s shirt is slightly creased, his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights on a hospital cot, but his posture is unyielding, a man carrying the weight of two worlds.

He pushes open the door to his cabin, the familiar scent of leather and coffee grounding him. His assistant, Mr. Rao, stands ready with a stack of folders, his expression a mix of relief and urgency.

Mr. Rao (formal, but warm):
Good to have you back, sir. The board’s been restless, and there are contracts needing your signature. I’ve prioritized the urgent ones for this afternoon.

Maan (voice clipped, nodding):
Schedule them. I’ll review by noon. Anything critical?

Mr. Rao (handing over a tablet):
The merger talks with Vantage Corp stalled. They’re asking for you directly. And… (hesitates) there’s been talk. About your absence.

Maan’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t respond, waving Rao off with a curt gesture. Rao places the tablet on the desk and exits, leaving Maan alone in the cavernous office. He sinks into his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and runs a hand through his hair, his gaze drifting to the city skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Maan’s Thoughts (Voice Over):
Weeks away, and they think I’m crumbling. They don’t know I’m holding up her world, not mine.

His phone buzzes, snapping him back. He glances at the screen—a message from a nurse confirming Geet’s morning vitals are stable. No reply from Geet herself. His thumb hovers over her contact, a pang of worry tightening his chest.

Maan (muttering to himself):
Stubborn girl. You better be okay.

He sets the phone down, forcing his focus to the stack of reports, but his mind keeps drifting to Room 407—the faint beep of the heart monitor, Geet’s bruised smile, her whispered “Why are you even with me?” The memory claws at him, her self-doubt a wound he can’t heal with contracts or intellect.

You think you’re broken, Geet. You don’t see what I see.

A knock interrupts his thoughts. Priyanka sweeps in without waiting, her tailored blazer and heels clicking with calculated confidence. Her smile is bright, but it falters when she catches Maan’s distant expression, his fingers still lingering on his phone, where a photo of Geet from a carnival months ago lingers on the screen—her laugh frozen in time, carefree and untouched by pain.

Priyanka (voice honeyed, probing):
Maan, you’re back! The office felt like a ghost town without you. (She leans against his desk, too close, her eyes flicking to the phone.) Still glued to that, huh?

Maan (voice flat, sliding the phone face-down):
Work, Priyanka. What do you need?

Her lips purse, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face before she recovers, tossing her hair with practiced charm.

Priyanka (faux concern):
I just worry about you. You’ve been… distracted. Everyone’s noticed. (She lowers her voice, leaning closer.) People are talking, Maan. About her. About why you’ve been gone so long. It’s not just sympathy, is it?

Maan’s jaw clenches, his fingers tapping the desk—a telltale sign of his fraying patience. He meets her gaze, his eyes cold, unyielding.

Maan (voice low, edged):
What people say is their problem. Not mine. If you’ve got something to say, spit it out or leave.

Priyanka stiffens, her charm cracking. She straightens, crossing her arms, her tone shifting to something sharper.

Priyanka (coolly):
I’m just saying, you’re risking a lot. The board’s watching. Clients are asking questions. You can’t play knight in shining armor forever, Maan. Not for… someone like her.

The air tightens. Maan leans forward, his voice a quiet blade.

Maan:
Someone like her? (A bitter chuckle.) You don’t know the first thing about her. Or me. Get out, Priyanka. I’ve got work to do.

She hesitates, her eyes narrowing, but the steel in his gaze leaves no room for argument. She turns on her heel, the click of her shoes echoing as she exits, leaving the door slightly ajar. Maan exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose, the weight of the day pressing harder.

They think I’m distracted. They think I’m slipping. Let them. I’m not letting her go. Not for them. Not for anyone.

+++

Maan’s Office – Afternoon

The office is quieter now, the midday bustle fading. Maan sits at his desk, papers scattered, his laptop screen glowing with unread emails. His focus is fractured, each contract blurring into memories of Geet’s trembling voice, her fragile self in the hospital bed. He’s halfway through a merger report when his phone buzzes, pulling him out of his haze.

He unlocks it, expecting another update from Rao. Instead, it’s a photo from Geet. She’s sitting up in her hospital bed, her face bruised but lit with a defiant spark. Her neck brace is still on, her arm in a cast, but she’s flashing a small victory sign with her good hand, her eyes bright with a warmth that pierces through him. The caption reads:

Text from Geet:
Look! Sitting up like a pro today! :) Don’t stress, Maan. I’m tougher than I look.

Maan stares at the photo, a slow smile breaking through the exhaustion etched into his face. His chest loosens, a warmth spreading where tension had coiled. He chuckles softly, shaking his head at her stubborn optimism, her quiet strength reaching across the distance to steady him.

Maan (typing, voice soft):
Warrior status confirmed. Don’t overdo it, okay? I’m still watching you.

He hits send, his fingers lingering on the phone. For the first time all day, the chaos in his mind quiets. Geet’s gesture—small, deliberate—reminds him why he’s fighting, why he’s here, juggling an empire and a hospital room. He leans back, the merger report forgotten for a moment, and lets himself breathe.

You’re still fighting, Geet. So am I. We’ll get through this. Together.

The city hums outside, oblivious to the quiet promise anchoring him. He turns back to his work, a flicker of resolve hardening his gaze. Geet’s strength, even from a hospital bed, fuels his own. He won’t let her down—not today, not ever.

+++

The room felt emptier without him.

Geet shifted slightly in bed, her neck brace tugging against her skin as she adjusted the pillow behind her. The nurse had helped her freshen up a little earlier—a sponge bath, a change of sheets, and a few slow stretches—but it was the silence afterward that lingered.

Not that it was loud when he was here.
Maan didn’t fill the room with noise.
He filled it with presence.

And today, in his absence, she noticed all the things he’d quietly taken over. The things that had crept into routine without ceremony.

Like the way he brushed her hair.

Her lips twitched.

The first time had been... something out of a tragicomic play. He’d held the brush like it was a surgical scalpel, inspecting each bristle with the suspicion of a man who could disrupt mergers and companies but had never encountered a conditioner.

“Which way does this go?”
“You’re asking me while holding it upside down?”
“I knew that. Just checking if you knew.”

She remembered the gentle tug that turned into a mild snarl of knots, followed by his quiet horror when she winced.

He’d apologized so fast, he nearly dropped the brush.
Then refused to touch it again for an entire day.

But the next morning, there he was.
Holding her phone, open to a YouTube video titled: “How to Detangle Long Hair Without Causing Pain (For Beginners – Male Edition).”

Geet had laughed so hard, the IV had nearly yanked out.

Over the next few days, he improved.
Painfully.
Comically.
Stubbornly.

She guided him sometimes—voice tired but amused. “Start at the ends, not the roots. You’re not attacking a spreadsheet.”

He rolled his eyes but followed.
Fumbling, learning.
Undoing years of damage done by people who never cared to learn her.

And now?

He didn’t need instruction.

He’d slip behind her, fingers deftly combing through her strands, then parting them just right. A gentle twist. A clean tie. Not perfect—but practical. Hers. His.

He even figured out how to tuck loose strands behind her ears without grazing the bandages.

Once, she caught him smoothing a curl with absurd concentration, murmuring something about “frizz levels being sabotage.”
She’d giggled, biting her lip when his brows furrowed like a man facing off with nuclear code.

Now, as she sat alone with the dull hum of hospital machinery, she reached up and touched the loose ponytail he’d tied before leaving.

It wasn’t tight. He never pulled too hard.

But it held.

Just like everything else he touched.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, imagining his hands there again—not because she was helpless, but because he had insisted.

Because it was never about pity.

It was his version of care. Quiet. Physical. Undramatic. Unshakable.

And in that care was the wildest, most unspoken truth of all.

He was learning her.

The way one learns a language.

Fluently. Tenderly. Willfully.

Trial. Error. Patience.
Until his fingers moved like they’d always known.

Until her hair felt more secure in his hands than it ever had in her own.

She reached up now, fingers brushing the curve of her head.

He’d left it in a simple low ponytail today.

It wasn’t perfect. A little loose at the crown. One strand falling near her ear.

But it stayed.

And she smiled again. Soft. Quiet. Touched with awe.

He was out there now—probably arguing over numbers, glaring at people for breathing too loudly near his cabin, trying not to think about her every five minutes.

But she was thinking about him.

Not the Maan Singh Khurana the world knew—the CEO, the strategist, the man who could crush a competitor with a single sentence.

She was thinking about the man who googled “how to detangle hair without hurting” at 2 a.m.

The one who cursed under his breath when he couldn’t get the elastic tight enough.

The one who brushed her hair like it was silk, even when it was messy and falling out and full of knots.

The one who stayed.

Even when he didn’t have to.

She closed her eyes then, her fingers curling around the edge of the blanket.

Tomorrow, when he’d be back beside her. And when he picks up the comb again, pretend to grumble about her impossible hair like he always did…

She would pretend not to notice the way her heart tripped every time his fingers brushed the nape of her neck.

But she would feel it.

Like she always did now.

Like she feared she always would.

+++

Khurana Global – Executive Wing,

The city sun filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Maan’s corner office, casting long, golden streaks across the hardwood floor. Papers lay half-sorted on his desk. A strategic proposal blinked on his laptop screen, waiting. But Maan wasn’t looking at any of it.

He sat back in his chair, elbow propped against the armrest, thumb swiping lazily across his phone. And then he paused—again—at the same photo.

Geet.

Sitting up in her hospital bed, victory sign raised, smile soft but unmistakably hers—even behind the bruises and that damned neck brace. Her casted arm rested across her lap like a badge of stubborn survival.

She was still hurting. Still healing.

But she was smiling.

Maan’s lips curved before he realized it. The kind of smile he didn’t wear in public. The kind that softened his jaw, creased the corners of his eyes, and made him look... almost human.

He took a breath.

Then the knock came.

“Sir?”

Mr. Rao entered with a stack of reports, pausing at the threshold. Maan didn’t look up right away—he was still staring at his screen, something warm flickering behind his eyes.

Then—like a kid who couldn’t hold in a secret—he turned the phone around.

“Look at this.”

His voice was light. Not sarcastic. Not cold.

Just proud.

“She sent this. First time sitting up fully. Can you believe it?”

Mr. Rao blinked. Slowly stepped closer. Glanced at the image.

“Geet, sir?”

Maan nodded. “Yeah.” His voice dipped, softer now. “After everything she’s been through... and she’s the one trying to cheer me up.”

Mr. Rao smiled, polite but visibly thrown off by this version of Maan Singh Khurana.

“She’s tough,” he offered.

“More than tough,” Maan murmured. “She’s... ridiculous.”

He chuckled to himself, thumbing the side of the phone. “I mean, look at her. Who does a victory pose in a neck brace?”

Mr. Rao opened his mouth to respond, realized he had no idea what to say, and instead handed over the reports. “I’ll... just leave these here.”

Maan barely noticed.

++

Later – Conference Room

Quarterly review. Board members present. Coffee gone cold.

Maan was mid-sentence about projected growth curves when he paused, reached for his phone again like it was instinct.

“By the way,” he said, tilting the device toward one of the senior executives.

“She sent me this.”

The older man blinked. “Who—?”

“Geet. You’ve met her. My...she is in Sheetal’s team.”

“She’s recovering well. Sat up on her own.”

Another executive leaned sideways to peek at the photo. There was a beat of silence.

Then awkward nods. Polite smiles. A vague chuckle.

Maan didn’t care.

He stared at the photo like it was a trophy. Not to be paraded—but shared. Quietly. Unapologetically.

He didn’t notice the whispering after the meeting. Or if he did, he didn’t acknowledge it.

+++

Break Room – Noon

He was refilling his coffee when he spotted Raj

Maan walked straight over.

“You seen this?”

Raj looked up, startled. “Sir?”

Maan angled the phone toward him.

“Geet.”

Raj’s smile was instant. Warm. Familiar.

Maan exhaled, nodding like the truth of that lived in his chest.
“She’s amazing,” he muttered. Then added, almost to himself, “She’ll be out of that hospital in no time.”

+++

Back in His Cabin

He returned to his desk lighter. Not because the work had lessened. But because she was still fighting. Still her.

The men and women in this office were used to a different Maan—the storm-eyed, sharp-tongued one who ripped apart presentations with surgical cruelty and ran operations like a military strategist.

But today?

He wasn’t angry. Or cold.

He was... proud.

Openly.

Undeniably.

And every time his phone buzzed, every time a new message came in, his eyes flicked to it with that same, rare softness.

He didn’t have to say it out loud.

But the truth had already traveled down the hall, through the elevators, and across departments:

Maan Singh Khurana was in love.

And he wasn’t hiding it anymore.