“You get ten minutes. Sit.”
“This isn’t school—”
“Sit, Aditi.”
She groans and drops back into the chair with a dramatic sigh.
“Is this how people feel when they talk to me?” I mutter under my breath.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Because yes. Yes, it is. This is karma.
And apparently, karma is a five-foot-six whirlwind with black hair, too many questions, and a to-do list longer than her medical clearance.
I sit down next to her.
She frowns. “You have meetings; you know that, right?”
“I rescheduled them.”
She blinks. “You never reschedule.”
“I just did.”
She pauses. Watches me carefully. Her voice is a little softer when she says, “Why?”
I don’t answer.
Because I can’t say you scared me. Or I need to make sure you don’t vanish again. Or I’d rather reschedule the entire goddamn board than take my eyes off you right now.
So instead, I shift closer.
Pick up her planner.
Cross out the document organizing she added for 4 PM.
She gasps. “That was important!”
I look at her. Really look. And say, “Not more than you.”
She blinks. Once. Then again. Her mouth opens and closes, like she’s forgotten how to speak. Good. Let her feel it.
Let her see that I’m not just hovering for fun. That I’m not rescheduling meetings to play babysitter. That this—whatever this is—isn’t about efficiency.
It's not about business.
It's not even about the crash anymore.
It’s about her.
It’s always been about her.
And that terrifies the hell out of me.
Because I’ve never let anyone get this close before.
