(Anaya's POV)
The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the office windows, falling in angular beams across the floor, highlighting dust motes that danced lazily in the quiet. Anaya had been reviewing reports when Aarav appeared — timing impeccable, as always. There was something almost cinematic about the way he leaned against the doorway, casual yet deliberate, eyes fixed on her with an intensity softened by warmth.
"Anaya… I can't hide it anymore," he said, voice low, steady, deliberate, each word weighted as if measured against the consequences of speaking. He stepped a fraction closer, just enough that the space between them shrank, and his gaze held her attention like gravity. "I like you. More than I probably should. More than I can ignore."
Anaya froze mid-breath. Her mind, trained for quick processing, stumbled under the weight of the confession. Her thoughts flickered immediately to Kabir: the way he had silently intervened in her work, the invisible scaffolding that ensured her success, the subtle, unspoken protection he offered without seeking acknowledgment. Kabir's presence had been constant — like a shadow at the edge of her awareness, unmovable, immovable, yet undeniably there.
And now Aarav existed in the opposite spectrum: open, warm, accessible. Words flowed freely from him, intentions transparent, a clarity she could touch. No calculations, no invisible scaffolding, just a steady, human pull toward something easy to grasp but hard to untangle.
"I… I need time," she whispered, voice fragile yet firm, each syllable carrying the weight of unspoken reasoning. She could feel the pressure of choice pressing against her chest, the invisible tug-of-war between two worlds: one of controlled intensity and quiet protection, the other of openness and immediacy.
Aarav nodded slowly, comprehension in his eyes. He didn't push, didn't demand, didn't try to tilt her toward a decision. His patience was itself a statement, a contrast to the careful, measured presence Kabir maintained in every interaction. And yet, Anaya realized with a jolt, it wasn't patience alone that made her awareness shift — it was the recognition that two distinct currents were vying for her attention, her trust, her loyalty.
She traced his words in her mind, each repetition magnifying the conflict: the soft certainty of Aarav's affection, the quiet, unquantifiable pull toward Kabir's intensity. Her chest tightened as she imagined both scenarios — leaning toward Kabir, exposed to the slow revelation of hidden intentions and unspoken emotions, or leaning toward Aarav, embraced by clarity, warmth, and immediate understanding.
The slow burn of conflict ignited within her, subtle but unmistakable. Neither option was simple; neither offered the comfort of certainty. She realized that the path forward wasn't a choice of ease but a decision of trust — who could she rely on, whose intentions would endure under scrutiny, whose presence would matter when the invisible scaffolding faded?
Aarav remained quiet, a gentle anchor in the tension, while the weight of unspoken truths pressed upon Anaya. Somewhere in that silent space, she felt the first flicker of self-assertion: that she would choose deliberately, even if the choice hurt, even if the pull of human unpredictability — Kabir's complexity, Aarav's sincerity — threatened to unsettle her entirely.
Finally, she lifted her gaze, meeting his without hesitation. "I… I need time," she repeated, softer now, but with resolve. Inside, though, she knew the slow-burn battle had only just begun, a tension that would stretch across interactions, glances, and the unspoken spaces between words.