Part 60
The door to his office was shut, but Maan had never needed open doors to hear her.
Her laughter carried through glass and air the way sunlight carried through fog — gentle, uninvited, unstoppable.
He had been halfway through a video call, numbers and projections flickering across his screen, when her voice drifted through the faint gap under the door.
“He’s cute.”
Everything inside him paused.
The pen in his hand went still. The sentence on his notes froze halfway. Even the CFO’s voice, monotone and endless on the other end of the call, blurred into static.
He exhaled slowly.
And smiled.
It was involuntary — a small, helpless curve at the corner of his mouth, the kind of smile no boardroom would ever see.
He clicked the mute icon before anyone noticed.
Her friends erupted on the other side of the wall — shrieks, laughter, teasing chaos — and he could picture it easily:
Kavya clutching a pillow, Nisha gasping for air, Meera doubled over, Raj pretending to die dramatically, and Sheetal shaking her head with that maternal amusement only she could manage.
And in the center of it, Geet.
Probably flushed. Probably trying not to laugh too loudly. Probably biting her lower lip the way she did when she was embarrassed.
His fingers brushed his jaw, and he realized he was still smiling.
He tried to focus on the spreadsheet again. It didn’t work.
Numbers blurred.
All he could think about was the sound of her voice — not the word itself, but the softness behind it.
That easy, familiar affection.
The comfort.
The domesticity.
No one had ever spoken about him like that.
Not in awe.
Not in fear.
Just… with fondness.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes on the skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass.
The sun had started to dip, streaking the city in gold.
Somewhere in the living room, her laughter rose again — lighter this time, like wind catching the edge of a curtain.
Maan let the sound fill the space between them.
It felt… unreal.
How something so simple could make a fortress feel like home.
He clicked off the call entirely, removing his headset, the professional mask dropping as the silence returned.
For a long moment, he sat there — elbows on the desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Then, quietly, to no one at all, he whispered,
“Cute, huh?”
He huffed a small laugh under his breath.
She was going to pay for that later.
+++
The call had ended fifteen minutes ago.
The numbers still glowed across the screen, but his focus hadn’t returned with them.
Maan rubbed a hand across his face once, composed himself, and stood.
Time to re-enter the world.
When he stepped out of his office, the living room was quieter than before — the echo of laughter replaced by the hum of the air-conditioning and the clink of teacups being set down.
Everyone straightened instinctively when they saw him.
Kavya nearly spilled her drink. Raj adjusted his shirt like he was being called into an appraisal meeting. Nisha sat up so straight it looked painful. Sheetal just smiled knowingly.
And Meera, bless her, tried for casual. “Sir—done with the call?”
Maan nodded once. “Yes. Apologies for the interruption. Carry on.”
They didn’t.
He crossed the room, posture effortless, tone measured. “You were discussing the rollout schedule, I believe?”
Raj blinked. “We were… vaguely.”
“Vague doesn’t work,” Maan said, his voice calm, professional again. “You’ll need clearer deliverables for the next sprint. Use the downtime this quarter to lock dependencies.”
Everyone nodded too fast.
Kavya scribbled an imaginary note on her phone just to look busy.
Nisha mumbled something about QA reports.
Sheetal hid a smirk behind her hand.
It was remarkable — how fast the temperature in the room shifted. One moment it was warmth and laughter, the next it was the sharp stillness of corporate gravity.
But amidst that formal air, one thing broke the rhythm.
A soft sound.
Barely there — a quiet exhale, a sigh.
They turned.
Geet.
Half-slouched against the couch cushion, head resting slightly to the side, lashes heavy against her skin. Her slinged arm had slipped down a little, and the shawl had pooled near her elbow. Her lips parted slightly as her breathing deepened, slow and even.
She’d fallen asleep.
Just like that.
Mid-conversation.
The meds had won.
Maan’s expression changed immediately — the faint, unreadable mask softening, just a fraction.
He stepped forward silently, his presence drawing every eye back to him. Without a word, he reached down, lifted the edge of her shawl, and tucked it gently over her shoulder.
The movement was so tender, so automatic, that no one dared speak.
He adjusted the pillow near her head, fingers careful not to disturb the cast.
Then, when she sighed again — a small, childlike sound — he brushed a loose strand of hair away from her forehead.
And turned to her friends.
“She should sleep for another hour,” he said quietly. “The medicine’s strong. Don’t wake her.”
The authority was back in his voice, but something else had joined it — something so deeply human it silenced them more effectively than a command ever could.
Sheetal smiled faintly, eyes soft. “We’ll head out, sir. It’s getting late.”
Maan nodded. “Thank you for coming. She’ll appreciate it when she’s awake.”
He walked them to the door, as courteous as a host but still every inch their boss.
They murmured polite goodbyes, trying not to look too emotional.
Kavya, however, couldn’t resist. As she stepped into the elevator, she whispered under her breath, “He tucked her in.”
Nisha elbowed her, grinning. “Men in love.”
The elevator doors closed softly.
Maan stood there for a moment, listening to the hum fade, then turned back toward the living room.
She was still asleep.
The city lights flickered against her face, soft and golden.
He sat down on the couch beside her, elbows resting on his knees, and just watched — the tension easing from his shoulders one breath at a time.
No boardroom.
No façade.
Just her.
And for the first time that day, Maan Singh Khurana didn’t think about numbers, projections, or deadlines.
He just let the quiet fill the space between her breaths — the only rhythm that mattered anymore.
+++
The elevator doors slid shut behind them, and for exactly three seconds, no one said a word.
Then Kavya let out a strangled squeal.
“HE TUCKED HER IN!”
Nisha clutched her chest. “He tucked her in, Sheetal. Like a father with a toddler—except, no, scratch that, like a husband who knows exactly which side of the blanket she likes.”
Raj leaned back against the mirrored wall, dazed. “I’m still trying to process the part where he nodded when she told him not to have coffee. He nodded.”
Meera was wide-eyed, voice low. “Do you people realize what we just saw? The Maan Singh Khurana. The man who once sent an intern home for sneezing in a meeting. Listening to her about caffeine.”
Kavya gasped. “And leaving the room because she said ‘Jao, meeting hai na tumhari’? That tone! I thought my soul left my body.”
“Honestly,” Nisha said, “if HR finds out we witnessed this, they’ll make us sign NDAs.”
Sheetal chuckled softly, rubbing her belly. “You all laugh, but that was love. Quiet, scary, CEO-grade love.”
Raj groaned. “I can’t decide what’s more terrifying — that he’s in love, or that he’s good at it.”
Kavya’s eyes sparkled. “Do you think they live together? I mean properly together?”
“They do,” Meera said. “She literally said she’s in his master bedroom.”
Nisha shrieked. “Wait—so not the guest suite?!”
“Nope,” Kavya confirmed, hands flailing. “His. Bedroom. Where the man himself sleeps. Or—maybe not sleeps—if they—”
“Stop,” Sheetal warned, laughing. “She’s still recovering.”
Raj pretended to whisper into his phone. “Breaking news: injured associate moves into CEO’s bedroom. Love story shocks economy.”
Kavya elbowed him. “Shut up. This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened in this company. He was in the hospital with her for weeks. Now he’s working from home, rearranging meetings around her physio schedule. You think that’s coincidence?”
Nisha sighed dreamily. “He looked at her like she hung the moon and managed his accounts.”
“And she looked at him,” Meera added, “like she’d finally stopped being scared of storms.”
They all went quiet for a heartbeat.
Then Kavya grinned again, irrepressible. “So what do we call them? Maan-jali? Geet-aan? Khumar?”
“Stop combining names,” Raj said flatly. “You’ll jinx it.”
Sheetal shook her head, smiling. “They don’t need a couple name. They already have something better.”
“What?” Nisha asked.
“Devotion,” Sheetal said simply. “The kind that doesn’t ask for labels.”
The elevator chimed open on the ground floor.
Kavya exhaled. “Still… if she’s living in his room, that means he sleeps there too, right?”
Raj blinked. “Do you think they—?”
Meera clamped a hand over his mouth. “We are not finishing that sentence.”
They burst into laughter again, half-horrified, half-giddy, the sound echoing through the marble lobby as they stepped out into the night.
Behind them, high above the glittering city, the penthouse lights stayed warm — one window glowing softly where a girl slept, and somewhere nearby, a man worked in silence, listening for the moment she’d stir.
+++
The room was quiet again.
Soft lamplight. The faint sound of rain tapping against the far glass wall. The scent of jasmine from somewhere in the hall.
Geet stirred.
The first thing she felt was warmth — a blanket drawn over her shoulders, the faint weight of it tucked just right under her chin.
Her second thought was panic.
Oh no.
She blinked awake, realizing she was still on the couch, the tea tray cleared, her friends gone. The clock across the room showed 8:47 p.m.
She’d fallen asleep.
Mid-conversation.
Like a child.
Her stomach tightened.
So rude. So unceremonious.
She sat up carefully, wincing as her brace tugged. Her shawl slipped down to her lap. Her casted wrist itched faintly.
The penthouse was dim — just one floor lamp left on. The city beyond the glass glittered in reflection. And somewhere deeper inside the house, she could hear the faint clack of keys.
Maan.
Her pulse steadied a little.
She pushed a stray strand of hair away from her face, muttering under her breath, “Perfect. Just fall asleep in the middle of a conversation, Geet. Very graceful.”
The sound of his footsteps came before his voice.
Measured. Steady.
She turned her head, heart stumbling a little even before he spoke.
“Up for dinner?”
He was standing a few feet away, still in his dark trousers and rolled-up sleeves, the faint blue of the evening city haloing behind him. His expression was neutral, but his eyes — his eyes always gave him away.
They softened when they found her awake.
“I—” she started, voice hesitant. “I’m sorry.”
One brow lifted slightly. “For?”
She glanced down at the blanket pooled around her lap. “For… sleeping like that. In the middle of everything. I must’ve looked ridiculous.”
He said nothing at first, just stood there, arms folded loosely, gaze calm and assessing.
Then he tilted his head, as if trying to find the problem in what she said.
“You were tired,” he said simply.
“I still shouldn’t have—”
“You needed sleep.”
Her lips parted, but he spoke before she could argue again.
“It’s my house, Geet. Not an office. You’re allowed to rest.”
His tone was matter-of-fact, but something in the way he said my house made her chest tighten — not in discomfort, but in that strange, quiet way that felt like belonging.
She nodded slowly. “Still… I shouldn’t have acted—”
“Acted?”
“Like that,” she said softly. “Earlier. When I told you to go… and not have more coffee. I shouldn’t have. Especially in front of everyone. They’re your employees. It was—”
“Mujhe aisa nahi kehna chahiye tha,” she murmured, cheeks warming.
For a long moment, he didn’t reply. He just watched her.
His gaze held hers — steady, unreadable — and then he took a few steps forward, stopping right in front of the couch.
“You can say that,” he said quietly.
Geet blinked up at him. “Huh?”
His lips curved — not a smirk, not quite a smile, just the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth.
“I liked it.”
She blinked again. “Liked what?”
“The way you said it,” he said, voice low. “Like you had every right to.”
Her throat tightened, words caught somewhere between disbelief and something warmer.
“Maan—”
“It didn’t bother me,” he continued, sitting down on the low table across from her. “It felt… normal.”
He said the word softly, as if it were a fragile thing.
“Someone reminding me to eat, to stop working, to sleep on time — it’s not something that happens to me.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
His face was calm, but his eyes — they carried a quiet truth that made her chest ache.
“It wasn’t about authority, Geet. It was about care.”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, his voice a little lower now.
“You weren’t wrong to say it. You were the only one who could.”
Her breath caught.
The air between them felt heavier now — not with tension, but something slower, warmer, real.
She smiled faintly. “You mean your board of directors never told you when to stop having coffee?”
“Not if they wanted to keep their jobs,” he said dryly.
She laughed softly. “Then I’m probably fired.”
His eyes held hers. “You’re not replaceable.”
The words hung there — quiet, unadorned, true.
She looked away, her heart too loud in her chest.
The city light brushed her face, catching the faint sheen in her eyes.
Maan reached over — not to touch her, but to adjust the blanket again where it had slipped from her shoulder.
“Dinner’s ready,” he said, voice gentler now. “Soup. And that bread you pretend not to like.”
She smiled, eyes still downcast. “Mrs. Das listens to you too much.”
He stood, straightening his sleeves. “Everyone does eventually.”
When she looked up, he was already walking toward the kitchen — silent, measured, impossibly composed.
But she caught the smallest thing before he disappeared down the hallway — the way his hand brushed lightly against the back of the couch as he passed.
Just a fleeting touch.
Almost unconscious.
Like a reassurance — that he was still there, that she didn’t have to apologize for being herself.
Geet leaned back against the cushions, eyes following him.
Her pulse was still steady, but her heart wasn’t.
And somewhere between guilt and gratitude, something deeper took root — something that had no need for words at all.
+++
When Maan returned a few minutes later, she was sitting up straighter on the couch, the blanket folded neatly beside her.
“I’ll eat at the table,” she said quietly, before he could set the tray down.
His brows lifted. “You don’t have to move. You’re comfortable here.”
“I know,” she said, determined but soft. “But I’ve been horizontal for days. I’d rather sit. Like a normal person.”
He regarded her for a second — the quiet defiance in her voice, the hint of pride under it. Then, wordlessly, he walked toward the wall near the corner and brought the wheelchair closer.
He didn’t ask if she needed help. He just offered his arm.
She took it.
He was careful — almost absurdly so — guiding her as if she were made of glass, helping her ease down into the chair. The wheels whispered against the polished floor as he turned it toward the dining table.
The lights there were softer — dimmed to gold, reflecting against the glass and steel. Mrs. Das had already set the meal: a covered bowl of soup, steamed vegetables, and paratha still warm in its foil.
When he wheeled her into place, she looked up at him with a small, quiet smile.
“This feels better.”
He took the seat opposite her, loosening his collar. “Good.”
For a few moments, they ate in silence. The clink of cutlery, the hum of rain outside, the faint sound of the city breathing somewhere below.
It could’ve been any evening. It could’ve been a marriage.
Halfway through, she looked up suddenly. “Tumhe kya khana achha lagta hai?”
He glanced at her. “Depends. Why?”
“Bas puch rahi thi,” she said, picking at her roti with her good hand. “I feel like I don’t even know what you like.”
He leaned back slightly, eyes amused. “That’s because I usually eat whatever’s available. I’m not sentimental about food.”
She frowned. “Everyone is about something.”
Maan considered that for a moment, then nodded. “Maybe coffee. Maybe the biryani you made on rare days…it was good. Why?”
“So you liked the Biryani I made? I could cook it again once I can use both my hands,” she said.
That startled him.
“You don’t have to cook.”
“I know.” Her voice stayed gentle. “I didn’t say I had to. I said I wanted to.”
He looked at her for a long second — the hint of domesticity, the simplicity in her tone, the lack of any performance. She wasn’t trying to impress him. She was just… being.
Finally, he asked, “What’s your favorite?”
She smiled faintly. “Mere maa ke haath ki daal.”
The way she said it — soft, nostalgic, unguarded — it carried something deeper.
He didn’t interrupt.
Her gaze had drifted down now, to the edge of her plate. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Actually… anything she made. Even plain roti. She used to make this simple daal with ghee tadka — just enough hing and jeera. When I lived alone, I tried to make it the same way. But it never tasted right.”
A pause.
Maan didn’t move, didn’t speak — but something in his eyes changed.
She took a breath, her shoulders lowering. “After everything… I don’t think I have that anymore.”
He knew what she meant.
The family. The home that stopped feeling like one. The silence that came after her brother’s betrayal.
She didn’t say it. She didn’t need to.
Her voice broke just slightly when she added, “I keep remembering stupid little things. How she used to hum while making chai. How my father used to pretend to scold her for adding extra sugar. I thought… I’d always have that.”
He stayed silent for a long moment, hands folded on the table.
Then, quietly, he said, “You can still have it.”
She looked up, startled.
He didn’t break her gaze.
“I can’t bring them back,” he said softly. “But I can make sure you never eat alone again.”
Something caught in her throat — a sound between a sigh and a sob.
She blinked fast, trying to steady herself. “You make everything sound so simple.”
“It is,” he said. “When you mean it.”
The air between them warmed again — not with tension this time, but with something older, truer.
Geet smiled faintly. “ I will try and recreate the delicacies of my home when I am a little better, will you taste them? Don’t complain though.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
They finished dinner slowly, quietly — no grand declarations, no touch, just the comfort of two people who had somehow built a world around shared silence.
When they were done, he rose first, clearing her plate before she could protest.
“I can—”
“You can rest,” he interrupted gently.
She watched him move across the room — sleeves rolled, the faint sound of dishes, the soft rhythm of rain still outside.
And for the first time in months, maybe years, Geetanjali Kumar felt like she was home.
Not the one she lost.
The one quietly being built around her — by a man who didn’t know how to say it, but meant it anyway.
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