The conference room smelled faintly of fresh coffee and printer ink — a scent Mahi had always associated with deadlines and sleepless nights. She stood near the glass wall, scanning through a file, her posture sharp, composed, every movement precise enough to suggest control she had taken years to master.
The door opened quietly.
Nikhil stepped in, holding a stack of case papers he clearly didn't need anymore. He paused for half a second when he saw her — a pause so brief that anyone else would have missed it, but Mahi didn't.
They hadn't spoken normally in three years. Only clipped professional emails. Occasional courtroom nods. Silence had become their safest language.
"Senior Sachdev," he said, formal but not stiff.
Mahi didn't look up immediately. She turned a page, underlined a line with her pen, then finally raised her gaze.
"Ahuja," she replied.
The air between them felt like a courtroom waiting for the judge to enter — expectant, restrained, heavy with things unsaid.
He placed the file on the table. "Mr. Kapoor's corporate fraud case… I've compiled the financial inconsistencies and witness contradictions. You asked for cross-reference charts."
"I remember," she said, stepping closer.
Their hands brushed accidentally as she picked up the file.
Both of them pulled back slightly, like the contact carried more weight than it should have.
Mahi cleared her throat and opened the file. She scanned quickly, her brows narrowing — not in criticism, but concentration.
"This is… thorough," she admitted quietly.
Nikhil raised an eyebrow, surprised. Compliments from her had always been rare even before everything fell apart.
"You used to say my documentation was chaotic," he said, before he could stop himself.
The moment the words left him, he stiffened, as if expecting her to shut down the conversation.
Instead, something almost amused flickered in her expression.
"It was chaotic," she said, flipping another page. "You relied too much on instinct."
"And now?" he asked cautiously.
She paused, studying one of his charts. Then she spoke, softer than her usual clipped tone.
"Now it looks like you've learned to trust structure without losing instinct."
The silence that followed felt different. Less sharp. Less defensive.
Nikhil leaned against the edge of the table, folding his arms. "That sounds like something you'd approve of."
Mahi glanced at him briefly. "It sounds like something a good lawyer needs."
There was a shift — subtle but undeniable. For the first time, they were talking without stepping around emotional landmines.
Nikhil nodded toward the file. "You've added handwritten notes. You still do that."
"And you still notice unnecessary details," she replied automatically.
He smiled slightly. "They were never unnecessary."
Mahi didn't respond immediately. She kept reading, but her grip on the pen tightened just enough to betray the effect of his words.
Outside, the office buzzed with distant phone calls and keyboard clicks. Inside the room, time seemed to slow, like both of them were adjusting to a rhythm they had forgotten.
"Are you free after the strategy meeting?" Nikhil asked suddenly, then quickly added, "Professionally. I think we should discuss witness sequencing."
Mahi looked up at him, studying his expression as if searching for hidden meanings. She found none — only cautious sincerity.
"Yes," she said after a moment. "That would be efficient."
Efficient. Safe. Neutral.
But the word didn't hide the way her voice had softened.
Nikhil nodded, relieved. "There's a café downstairs now. It's quieter than the cafeteria."
Mahi hesitated. The café downstairs used to be their place — back when deadlines meant shared coffee cups and stolen arguments about ethics versus ambition.
"I haven't been there," she said.
"I know," he replied gently. "It's changed."
The words carried more meaning than the café renovation.
She closed the file and stacked the papers neatly. "Then I suppose we should evaluate it. For… professional discussions."
His lips curved slightly. "Of course. Purely professional."
They both knew they were lying, but it felt like a kinder lie than pretending they felt nothing.
A notification buzzed on Mahi's phone. She glanced at it, then slipped it back into her pocket.
"You handled the Mehra bail hearing well last week," Nikhil said, voice careful but genuine. "Your argument about procedural delay was strong."
Mahi blinked, clearly not expecting that. "You watched it?"
"I was in Courtroom Three. Our hearing got adjourned." He shrugged. "I stayed."
She studied him again, this time not as a colleague or opponent, but as someone she once knew better than she knew herself.
"You always hated procedural loopholes," she said.
"I still do," he admitted. "But you made it look like justice instead of manipulation."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The compliment lingered between them, fragile and honest.
Finally, Mahi allowed herself a small exhale, almost like she was setting down a burden she had carried too long.
"You've changed, Nikhil."
He met her gaze steadily. "You have too."
There was no accusation in the statement. Only acknowledgment.
The intercom buzzed, announcing the start of the strategy meeting in five minutes.
Mahi picked up the file and straightened her blazer. "We should go."
He stepped aside, letting her walk toward the door first — a habit he had never unlearned.
As she reached the doorway, she paused, turning slightly.
"Four-thirty," she said. "The café."
Nikhil nodded. "Four-thirty."
She left the room, her heels echoing down the hallway with measured confidence.
Nikhil stayed behind for a second, staring at the empty doorway, allowing himself a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
It wasn't forgiveness.
It wasn't reconciliation.
But for the first time in years, it felt like the beginning of a conversation instead of the end of one.