Something About Us- MG || (Part 65|Page 64) - Page 64

Just what we did not need at this moment. The evil woman shows up uninvited and unannounced.

We just want to smack Priyanka left and right. She has no right to walk in and give that "broken" verdict to Geet. Every work she speaks is poisonous.

Maan tacked Priyanka perfectly and put her in her place. But people like her do not give up easily. She will continue to cause trouble.

Does Maan have any idea what Priyanka said to Geet? Probably not since he was not expecting her when she walked in to the office. But he must have guessed.

Now the damage that talk did to Geet will not go easily. Geet is shaken. Her confidence is shattered. She might not share with Maan and just start to back off.

Part 65

Outside the Office

Geet blinked at the frosted glass.

She couldn’t hear a word.

Which was somehow worse.

Because now her brain was filling in the blanks with dramatic reenactments that would put a full Ekta Kapoor soap to shame.

"Oh Maan," Priyanka was probably saying, her voice dripping honey and sin. "You’ve been so stressed. Let me… help you unwind."

Geet narrowed her eyes at the door. “Unwind his inbox, maybe,” she muttered.

Then glanced down at herself: plastered leg, sling, hoodie with a stain she hoped was from grape juice, and hair in what could generously be called a ‘suffering bun.’

“God, look at you,” she whispered. “Sitting here like a bandaged burrito with the sex appeal of a soggy rag doll.”

She imagined Priyanka again: legs crossed, sultry voice low enough to melt Bluetooth signals, probably brushing invisible lint off Maan’s shirt like she was born to tailor his destiny.

“And what do you bring to the table, Geet?” she mocked in her head. “Hmm? Trauma and a Netflix queue?”

Her eyes darted to the hallway.

Should she… seduce him?

With what, exactly?

A limp and some orthopedic tape?

Still, the thought refused to die. Maybe she should initiate something. Not out of insecurity—but because damn it, it had been weeks and she missed him. Missed them.

She huffed, adjusted the pillow behind her, and picked up her phone.

Google: how to be hot with a fractured femur and one arm.

The suggestions were disappointing.

+++

Back in the office, Maan’s voice dropped.

“You can show yourself out, Priyanka.”

She didn’t argue. She just smiled—tight-lipped, wounded, still hoping this was a game.

But Maan was already turning back to his screen, already done.

She slipped out silently, her heels clicking like retreat.

Geet didn’t look up when she passed through the living room again.

But she did mutter, just loud enough:

“Watch the grape bowl.”

Priyanka paused. Looked down. One red sole nearly missed it.

Geet didn’t smirk until after the door shut.

Now all that was left… was Maan. And the awkward, ticking silence that would follow.

She would wait.

But maybe, just maybe, not in hoodie and sweatpants anymore.

Maybe tomorrow, she’d do her hair.

+++

He returned to the room like a tide—silent but weighty.

Geet didn’t look up at first. She was curled against the armrest of the sofa, phone abandoned, grapes wilting in the untouched bowl beside her. The jasmine had finally faded. The air felt breathable again, but something inside her hadn’t uncoiled.

Maan walked past the console, loosened his cuff, and halted in front of her.

“You didn’t eat,” he said, eyes flicking once to the grapes.

“I wasn’t hungry,” she replied softly, still not meeting his gaze.

He crouched beside her—long limbs folding down in a single, unhurried motion—and studied her face. She wasn’t crying. There was no visible storm. But something had shifted. She was quiet in a way that wasn’t rest.

He reached out, brushing a knuckle along her jaw, tilting her face toward him.

“Did she say something?”

Geet’s eyes rose to meet his—calm, wide, unreadable. There was no anger there. Only calculation. And something else… strange.

Curiosity?

“I was just thinking…” she began, voice light, almost amused. “That maybe I should brush past you more often. Like casually bump into your arm while saying ‘forecasting models’ in a sultry voice. Maybe call you Mr. Khurana in public. Gasp dramatically near your printer.”

Maan blinked. “What?”

She shrugged one shoulder—the only one not in a sling. “Just wondering if that’s the official mating call for high-performance CEOs. Brushing past them in wrap dresses. Works for some people, apparently.”

He stared at her, caught between exasperation and disbelief. And then he realized—she wasn’t spiraling. She was plotting.

“You’re mocking Priyanka.”

“I’m learning from her,” she deadpanned. “Clearly, I’ve been doing everything wrong. I sit around in oversized sweaters with a sex quotient of a rag doll. My fault, really.”

He couldn’t help it. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“You think that’s what I want?”

“I think that’s what she thinks you need. And she talks like she’s known you since birth so… maybe she’s right.”

Maan leaned in then—slow, unblinking—until his forehead nearly touched hers.

“I don’t remember ever kissing her.”

Geet’s breath caught.

“I remember you,” he added, voice low, private. “I remember your mouth tasting like rain. I remember your breath stalling when I touched the back of your neck. I remember that kiss like it rewired something in me. So if you’re going to joke about what you think I need—don’t.”

The humor faded from her eyes, but the softness remained. His hand was still cupping her face, palm warm against her skin.

And then—

Like a flicker of instinct, a whisper of mischief, Geet leaned forward and gave the gentlest peck to his lower lip.

Barely there. A brush, not a kiss.

Like a baby bird testing the edge of flight.

Maan froze.

She pulled back slowly, blinking at him, unsure whether she’d crossed a line.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“…Too soon?” she whispered.

Maan’s eyes darkened, the stillness breaking.

“No,” he said, voice like sandpaper and silk. “Not nearly soon enough.”

He leaned in—

But stopped just shy of her mouth. The air between them crackled. His thumb grazed her cheekbone, reverent and shaking.

Maan was still hovering — close enough to feel the whisper of her breath, but not close enough to take.

He hadn’t moved an inch since she leaned in.

Still the soldier holding the line. Still the man afraid of hurting what he loved.

She realized it in the way his fingers flexed ever so slightly on her cheek, in the shallow hitch of his breath, in the rigid control coiled through every muscle in his body.

He was always reaching for her, but never fully letting himself take.

Not now. Not while she was bandaged. Plastered. Fragile.

Not when one wrong angle could ache. One rough motion could leave a bruise.

Not when he could be the thing that caused her pain.

But Geet… Geet had never felt more certain.
Not of her body.
But of them.

She lifted her right arm — the one in a sling — just enough to catch the edge of his loosened tie. The movement wasn’t perfect. Her shoulder ached, and her grip was awkward.

But she didn’t let go.

Her fingers curled in the silk like a girl who meant to pull gravity back toward her.

And she did.

With quiet, unwavering determination, she drew him in — no shyness, no warning — and kissed him.

It wasn’t a baby-bird peck this time.

It was a full-bodied, slow, certain kiss.

Her mouth parted over his with a softness that felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Her lips moved with a grace that belied how long she'd waited, how much she'd wanted, how sure she was that this man — this moment — belonged to her too.

Maan stiffened for a second — startled — like his body couldn’t compute that she was leading.

And then he broke.

Not into pieces — but into surrender.

His hands cupped her face fully now, his thumbs framing her jaw like it was something sacred. His mouth met hers with a desperate, aching reverence — deepening the kiss only after she set the rhythm. Letting her decide the pressure. Letting her take.

And she did.

Geet tilted her chin, angled her lips just enough to deepen the kiss further — her breath catching in the back of her throat when his hand slid into her hair, avoiding the sore spots with terrifying precision.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rough.

But it was hungry.

A slow, molten kind of hunger — like they were tasting what they’d denied themselves for too long.

Like they had kissed before, yes — but this time, there were no accidents. No fury. No drunken heat. No aftermath to run from.

This was her kiss.
Given freely.
Taken fully.

When they finally pulled apart, barely an inch of air between them, Maan’s gaze dropped to her mouth.

“You kissed me.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a reverent exhale.

Geet nodded, her lips slightly swollen, breath uneven.

“I noticed you weren’t getting around to it,” she said, voice low. “So I helped.”

Maan gave the ghost of a laugh — equal parts disbelief and worship.

“You didn’t hurt your arm pulling me in?”

“I’d dislocate both shoulders if I had to,” she whispered, “just to do that again.”

Maan swore under his breath, a soft, raw sound, before leaning in and kissing her temple — slow, searing — then resting his forehead against hers.

They stayed like that for a long time.
No words.
No permission needed.
Just breath.
And belonging.

Their foreheads touched — and stayed touching — not because it was romantic or cinematic or structured, but because neither of them wanted to pull away.

His thumb was still brushing her cheekbone in idle strokes. Her fingers were still lightly knotted in his loosened tie.

And for the first time in what felt like days, the silence wasn’t heavy.

It was buoyant.

Maan blinked slowly, eyes still half-lidded from the kiss.
“You kissed me,” he repeated, dazed, reverent.

Geet gave a tiny smirk. “You’re still stuck on that?”

“I’m just processing the logistics,” he murmured. “You pulled my tie. With one functioning arm.”

“And you didn’t kiss back immediately. That’s far more concerning.”

Maan let out a quiet snort. “I was trying not to dislocate your shoulder. You were very… aggressive.”

“I was effective,” Geet said, chin lifting with fake smugness.

Maan leaned his head forward a fraction more, their foreheads pressing together fully now, noses almost brushing.

And then they giggled.

Not the kind of laughter that came from jokes.
The kind that bubbled up for no reason — from joy, from relief, from two overburdened adults being ridiculous and delighted and utterly smitten.

“I think we’re malfunctioning,” Geet whispered through her grin.

Maan closed his eyes, lips twitching.

“Speak for yourself. I run billion-dollar takeovers before breakfast.”

Then, with a pointed look at her cast:

“You’re the one running a mobile entertainment business off your orthopedic equipment.”

Geet gasped. “You saw that?”

Maan arched an eyebrow. “Walked past your plaster-mount innovation twice. Even slowed down. You didn’t blink.”

“You were supposed to be in meetings!” she huffed.

“I was.” He leaned in, voice low. “But apparently, you were more interesting than a billion-dollar restructuring pitch. You should feel flattered.”

Geet flushed — not bashful, just glowingly happy.

Their foreheads bumped again, softly.

No agenda.
Just two people who had suffered separately for so long, now learning what it felt like to be seen — fully — and liked anyway.

“You make it hard to stay sad,” she whispered.

“Good,” he whispered back. “Because you’ve made it impossible for me to stay sane.”

Their eyes met again — laughing, open, a little drunk on each other.

The world outside was still spinning. Investors still waited. Parents still judged. Healing still hurt.

But right now, none of that could reach them.
Not here.
Not in this soft pocket of shared breath and dumb, dizzy joy.

The silence in the penthouse was no longer a vacuum. It was full—saturated with the heat of the kiss and the low, rumbling frequency of their shared laughter.

Maan didn't pull away. He stayed in her orbit, his hands still cupping her face as if he were holding something tectonic, something that had shifted the very plates of his world. He looked at her, really looked at her, past the oversized hoodie and the "suffering bun," and saw the woman who had just used his own tie to drag him out of his shell.

"You're a menace, Geetanjali Kumar," he murmured, his voice thick with a mixture of exhaustion and a new, terrifying kind of peace.

"I'm an innovator," she corrected, her thumb brushing against the silk of his tie. "You said it yourself. Plaster-mount phone stands, tie-pulling maneuvers... I’m a high-performance asset."

Maan let out a breathy laugh, leaning his head back just enough to look into her eyes. The "surgical focus" he’d used on Priyanka was gone. In its place was a raw, unfiltered vulnerability that he only ever allowed her to see.

"Priyanka thinks you're a liability," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming the low, private rumble that belonged only to the two of them. "She thinks I'm 'carrying' you."

Geet's smile softened, losing its edge of mischief. She reached up with her good hand, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, grounding him. "And what do you think, Mr. Khurana?"

Maan didn't answer with words. He leaned down, his movements slow and deliberate, and pressed his lips to her forehead.

It wasn't a quick gesture. It was a long, searing press of his mouth against her skin—the "Khurana Seal." It was a promise, a prayer, and a surrender all wrapped into one. It was his way of telling her that she wasn't the weight he was carrying; she was the reason he was able to stand at all.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark and steady. "I think," he whispered, his breath warm against her brow, "that I've spent my whole life looking for a partner who could survive me. And I think I finally found the only one who can actually lead me."

Geet felt the last of Priyanka’s poison—the "real family" talk, the "legacy" threats—evaporate. She wasn't a glitch. She wasn't a project. She was the storm that matched his own.

She leaned her head against his shoulder, the heavy weight of her cast finally feeling like a minor detail in a much larger story. "Good," she whispered. "Because I have a lot more 'innovations' planned for Phase II. You should probably clear your schedule."

Maan tightened his hold on her, his chin resting atop her head. "Consider it cleared, Geet. Permanently."

Outside, the Arabian Sea was a dark, shimmering expanse, and the city lights twinkled like distant, irrelevant thoughts. Inside, the "rag doll" and the "shark" had found their equilibrium—not in perfection, but in the messy, hungry, beautiful reality of belonging to one another.