The afternoon light slanted differently by the time Mahi returned to her cabin, softer now, less demanding. It caught on the edges of files, on the glass of framed certificates, on the quiet order she had built around herself. The firm hummed at a lower pitch—people working, but without urgency. A good day, everyone seemed to agree. A day that didn't ask for blood.
She closed the door behind her and stood there for a moment longer than necessary, hand still on the handle.
Something had shifted.
Not dramatically. Not in a way that demanded attention. Just enough to be noticed if one was listening closely.
She moved to her desk, opened the revised arbitration draft, and began reading. The words made sense. They always did. But her focus drifted, pulled gently—annoyingly—toward the memory of Nikhil standing across from her earlier, the way he had waited for her to finish speaking before adding his own thoughts, as if he trusted her to lead even when she didn't ask him to.
Trust was dangerous.
She scrolled down, corrected a line, added a clause. Her phone buzzed once. A message from Rishabh: Send the final draft by six.
She checked the time. Plenty of it.
A knock came, light but familiar.
"Come in," she said, already bracing herself.
Nikhil stepped inside, holding his phone loosely, jacket draped over his arm. He didn't look rushed. If anything, he looked like someone who had decided not to be.
"I thought I'd check if you needed anything before the day ends," he said.
She glanced at the clock again. "You're early."
"Am I?" He smiled faintly. "Or are you just not done yet?"
She huffed softly and gestured to the chair. "Sit. I'm finishing this."
He did, settling in with a quiet ease that hadn't always existed between them. Once, he would have perched at the edge, ready to leave at the slightest cue. Today, he leaned back, crossing his arms, watching her work without pressure.
Minutes passed like that.
She could feel his presence—not heavy, not distracting. Just there.
"You know," she said suddenly, eyes still on the screen, "you're unusually calm today."
"So are you."
She paused, fingers hovering above the keyboard. "I'm always calm."
"No," he replied gently. "You're usually controlled. There's a difference."
She didn't argue. Instead, she saved the document and leaned back, mirroring his posture.
"What do you see today?" she asked.
He considered her for a moment, then spoke carefully. "Someone who isn't bracing for impact."
Her lips curved, just slightly. "That's rare."
"For you," he said. "Yes."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It felt… deliberate. Like both of them were choosing not to fill it too quickly.
She broke it first. "Rishabh wants this by six."
"I'll walk it to him," Nikhil said.
She nodded and handed him the file. Their fingers brushed—not accidentally this time, but not intentionally either. Just a brief acknowledgment of proximity.
Neither of them pulled away too fast.
"Thanks," she said quietly.
He held her gaze for a second longer than necessary. Then he left.
By the time evening crept in, the firm had thinned out. Conversations faded, lights switched off one by one. The city outside grew louder as the office grew quieter.
Mahi finished her last call and shut her laptop. She stood, stretching slightly, then paused when she noticed Nikhil waiting near the elevator through the glass wall.
She didn't question it.
She grabbed her bag and stepped out.
"Still here?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I thought I'd wait."
"For?"
"For you," he said simply.
Something in her chest tightened—not unpleasantly.
They walked toward the elevator together. The doors closed with a soft thud, sealing them into the narrow space. This time, neither pretended not to notice how close they stood.
The elevator hummed downward.
"You don't usually wait," she said.
"I don't usually want to leave first," he replied.
She looked at him then. "Why today?"
He hesitated—not because he didn't know, but because he was choosing his words carefully.
"Because today feels… unfinished," he said.
She understood that immediately.
"Yes," she said. "It does."
The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Neither of them moved right away.
Outside, the lobby was nearly empty, the guard nodding lazily from his chair.
They stepped out together.
The walk outside was quiet, the sky painted in deepening blues and soft greys. Traffic moved steadily, horns blaring in the distance, but around them, there was a small pocket of calm.
They walked side by side, not close enough to touch, not far enough to feel distant.
"You ever notice," Nikhil said, "how good days feel suspicious?"
Mahi smiled faintly. "Always."
"I keep waiting for something to go wrong," he admitted.
"So do I," she said. "But today, I don't want to."
He glanced at her. "Me neither."
They stopped at the corner where their paths usually diverged.
This time, neither turned immediately.
The streetlight flickered on above them, casting a soft glow. Mahi looked at the pavement for a moment, then up at him.
"I don't say things easily," she said.
"I know."
"And I don't like assumptions."
"I know that too."
She took a breath. "But I don't think this is an assumption anymore."
His expression softened—not with relief, not with triumph, but with recognition.
"No," he agreed quietly. "It's not."
They stood there, the space between them charged but unspoken. No promises were made. No names were given to what was growing.
But the silence spoke anyway.
It said stay. It said I see you. It said this matters.
A car passed, breaking the moment slightly.
"I should go," she said.
"Yeah," he replied. "You should."
Neither moved.
Then, slowly, she nodded once—decisive, contained—and stepped back.
"Tomorrow," she said.
He smiled. "Tomorrow."
She turned and walked away, not looking back.
He watched until she disappeared into the crowd.
The day had begun like any other.
It ended with something quietly irreversible.