Isha told herself she didn't care.
She repeated it in her mind like a mantra as she sat at her desk, eyes fixed on her screen, fingers typing words that barely registered in her head.
I don't care.
He's just my boss.
Nothing else.
And yet, every time Aarav's calm voice echoed across the office, her attention betrayed her.
"Ms. Isha," he said from across the room, "could you bring the client file?"
Her shoulders stiffened.
She stood up, picked up the file, and walked toward his cabin with measured steps. The glass walls made everything feel too open, too exposed. She knocked lightly before entering.
"Yes?" she asked, keeping her voice neutral.
Aarav didn't look up immediately. He scanned the papers in front of him, brows slightly furrowed, as if the world beyond those documents didn't exist.
The silence stretched.
Isha shifted uncomfortably. "You asked for the file."
Only then did he lift his gaze.
Those eyes again.
Dark. Focused. Unreadable.
"Put it here," he said, pointing to his desk.
She placed the file down, her fingers brushing the polished surface. She waited—unsure why—half-expecting him to say something more.
He didn't.
"That's all?" she asked, irritation creeping into her tone.
Aarav looked at her, as if finally noticing the tension she carried. "Yes."
No apology. No acknowledgment of her presence beyond work.
Isha nodded stiffly and turned to leave.
So cold, she thought. So distant.
Back at her desk, frustration bubbled inside her chest. She wasn't expecting friendliness—but this? It felt deliberate.
As the hours passed, the office buzzed with quiet conversations and keyboard clicks. Isha focused on her tasks, but her mind kept drifting back to the previous night—the rain, the sudden closeness, the way his hands had steadied her before she fell.
That man and this man feel like two different people.
During the afternoon meeting, Aarav stood beside the screen, explaining project details with sharp clarity. He was confident, composed, commanding the room without raising his voice.
Everyone listened.
Everyone admired.
Except Isha, who noticed something else.
Whenever someone made a mistake, Aarav corrected them firmly—but never harshly. When one colleague struggled to explain an idea, Aarav waited patiently, giving him time instead of interrupting.
He wasn't rude.
Just… selective.
And that realization unsettled her more than his coldness.
When the meeting ended, the manager assigned tasks.
"Isha," he said, "you'll coordinate directly with Aarav on this."
Her heart skipped.
Aarav met her eyes briefly. "Send me the draft by evening."
"Okay," she replied.
That was it.
No smile. No reassurance.
As if working closely with him meant nothing.
By late afternoon, Isha was exhausted.
She stared at her screen, eyes burning, thoughts heavy. She had redone the draft twice already, terrified of making another mistake under his supervision.
Why does his opinion matter so much? she wondered bitterly.
She sent the file and leaned back, exhaling slowly.
Minutes passed.
Then her phone buzzed.
Aarav: There's a formatting issue in section three.
Her chest tightened.
She quickly typed back.
Isha: I'll fix it right away.
She corrected the error and resent the file, hands trembling slightly. Almost instantly, another message appeared.
Aarav: Good. The content is strong.
She stared at the screen.
Good?
That single word lingered longer than it should have.
Her lips parted in surprise, then pressed together as she locked her phone.
Don't overthink it, she warned herself.
But for the first time since morning, the heaviness in her chest eased—just a little.
Later, as she headed to the pantry, she overheard two colleagues whispering.
"He's really strict with new employees."
"Yeah, I heard he doesn't like emotional people."
Isha slowed her steps.
Emotional people? Was that how he saw her?
She poured herself a glass of water, her reflection staring back at her from the metal surface. Tired eyes. A guarded expression.
"Don't let it get to you," she murmured to herself.
As she turned to leave, she nearly collided with someone.
"I'm sorry—"
Her words stopped.
Aarav stood in front of her.
"I wasn't paying attention," she added quickly, stepping aside.
"It's fine," he said.
They stood there awkwardly, the narrow space between them suddenly feeling too small.
"I wanted to ask," Aarav began, then paused, as if reconsidering his words. "Are you comfortable handling this project?"
The question caught her off guard.
"Yes," she replied honestly. "I am."
He studied her face, as though searching for something beneath her answer.
"Good," he said quietly. "If you face any issues, let me know."
And just like that, he walked away.
Isha remained still, her heart racing.
That didn't sound like indifference, she thought.
It sounded like concern.
That night, at home, Isha lay awake staring at the ceiling.
Her mind replayed the day again and again—his voice, his messages, the brief moments when his guard seemed to slip.
Why does he act like he doesn't care… when sometimes he clearly does?
She turned onto her side, hugging her pillow.
Meanwhile, across the city, Aarav stood by his window, city lights glowing below.
He loosened his tie, exhaustion settling into his bones. His phone rested in his hand, the last message thread open.
Isha.
He stared at her name longer than he should have.
"She's going to get hurt," he muttered to himself.
And that—more than anything—terrified him.
Because despite his best efforts, he was already starting to care.