“It’s a concussion, not a broken leg.”
“You can still fall. Sit down too fast. Get dizzy.”
She narrows her eyes. “Are you my boss or my shadow?”
“Today? Apparently both.”
She rolls her eyes and stalks toward the elevator. I follow.
Again.
Because I don’t trust her not to collapse out of sheer spite.
Once we reach the meeting room, she walks straight in. Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t wait. Just starts reviewing the agenda like she didn’t spend the last seventy-two hours in and out of sleep, tucked in my guest blanket, in my bed, while I was out on my couch, eating poha and sass.
She’s ridiculous. And brave. And entirely too unaware of the fact that I nearly lost my mind the day she didn’t show up.
I lean in close when she sits down, holding a small paper packet between two fingers.
She stiffens.
“Your meds,” I say simply.
She stares at me like I’ve just grown another head. “You brought me meds?”
I drop them on the table beside her, uncapping the bottle of water I made Rhea get from the mini fridge.
“You forgot them at my place,” I whisper. “You didn’t take them after breakfast, I am assuming,” I murmur.
“You tracked my meds?”
“You’re on my payroll. If you collapse in the hallway, I’ll have to deal with HR.”
She smirks. “You just can’t admit you care.”
“I just don’t want paperwork.”
She leans back, pops the medicine into her mouth, and swallows the water slowly. I catch myself watching the movement of her throat as she drinks and force my eyes away before I do something stupid.
Again.
She licks her lips after and sets the bottle down.
“Thanks,” she says. Quiet. Uncharacteristically so.
I don’t reply.
Because it’s not a favor. Because I shouldn’t be this... involved. But I am, and it’s not only because I feel guilty considering I am the reason she was hurt; it’s definitely more than that, and I know that. Apparently she has some goddamn switch built into her spine that overrides logic. And somehow, somewhere between the sarcasm and schedules, she flipped something in me I didn’t even know existed.
Now here I am, counting her footsteps and managing her painkillers.
She stands up, clearly about to run to the next meeting.
I step in front of her, blocking the path.
“Break,” I say.
She huffs. “I’m not even—”
