Sanjana Kaul
1
The Bengaluru sun pierced through the glass walls of the co-working space like a daily ritual, washing the industrial-chic interiors in gold. Tanya Rao stood at the head of the long wooden conference table, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, the glow of her smartwatch reflecting her rising heart rate. Another pitch meeting loomed, another investor to impress, and her team was scrambling to pull the demo together. Her co-founder, Rishi, had the audacity to be late—again. “Just wait, you’ll like him,” he had texted about the new UX designer joining today. Tanya didn’t care. She didn’t have time to “like” people. Not after the year she’d had. She adjusted the collar of her black linen shirt, smoothing out invisible creases, when the glass door slid open and in walked a man who did not look in a hurry to please.
Neel Bhattacharya, with his slightly disheveled hair, wire-frame glasses, and a bag slung casually over one shoulder, paused just enough to take in the room before giving her a lopsided smile that wasn’t quite professional. He wore a faded charcoal kurta over jeans—ironic, given that Tanya had enforced an unspoken startup dress code of “smart-casual dominance.” “You’re the founder?” he asked, not rudely, but as if he already knew the answer. She nodded once, cool and clipped. “Tanya Rao. CEO.” He introduced himself, voice smooth and measured, with an accent that hinted at time spent abroad, yet dipped into Bengali softness at the edges. “I hear this team is trying to change the world,” he added, eyes scanning the whiteboard sketches behind her. “I’m here to make it beautiful while it works.” Rishi appeared behind him, grinning sheepishly, offering coffee and apologies. Tanya didn’t take her eyes off Neel.
The presentation that followed was, infuriatingly, brilliant. Neel’s analysis of user pain points was sharp, and his design mock-ups had the kind of intuitive flow that was hard to teach. Even Tanya had to admit—silently—that he saw the product in a way no one else on the team had. The others were impressed. Tanya, however, remained stern, nodding only when necessary, pressing him with questions that danced the line between insightful and confrontational. When the meeting ended and the room cleared, she stayed behind, gathering her laptop with mechanical efficiency. Neel lingered at the door. “You’re not impressed,” he said softly, not as a question. Tanya looked up, her expression unreadable. “I’m not here to be impressed,” she replied, brushing past him. “I’m here to build something that doesn’t break under pressure.” Neel didn’t follow, but she felt the weight of his gaze long after she walked away.
That night, Tanya worked late, alone at her standing desk as the office emptied out around her. The buzz of Slack messages had faded, replaced by the hum of ceiling fans and occasional street noise. She replayed the meeting in her head, particularly the moment Neel had offered a subtle critique of her onboarding flow—bold, but accurate. It had irritated her how calmly he’d said it, like he wasn’t afraid of consequences. She was used to being the one people tiptoed around. Pulling her blazer tighter against the chill, she leaned over her laptop and found herself opening his prototype again. There was a post-it on her screen she hadn’t noticed before: in neat block letters, it read “Perfection is a moving target—UX loves feedback. N.” She stared at it for a moment, lips pressed together, then peeled it off and placed it inside her drawer. Not because it meant anything. Just… for reference.
2
The next morning began with a burst water pipe in the shared kitchen and an irate community manager chasing maintenance men through the corridor. Tanya, clutching her reusable coffee cup, stepped around the chaos with practiced elegance, her heels clicking over puddles as she made her way to her team’s corner. She barely acknowledged the nods from junior devs, already immersed in her agenda for the day—a string of investor calls, two hiring interviews, and finalizing the UI revisions for the launch. She didn’t expect to see Neel already at his desk, sleeves rolled up, sketching low-fidelity wireframes in a physical notebook like it was 2010. He looked up with that irritating calm and gestured toward the chai-walla setting up shop by the window. “They’ve got ginger today. You look like you need it.” She paused, blinked once, and gave him a look sharp enough to slice his suggestion in half. “You don’t get to guess what I need,” she said flatly, walking past. “Noted,” he replied without offense, turning back to his sketches. But she caught the curve of his smirk in the glass wall’s reflection.
By mid-afternoon, the rain had begun—one of those slow, steady Bengaluru drizzles that blurred the skyline and dragged time into molasses. The air turned sticky, and the co-working space emptied out except for a handful of late-stayers. Tanya’s pitch deck kept glitching, her designer was out sick, and her third coffee had gone cold. Neel, surprisingly, was still around. She found herself watching him from her peripheral vision—how he worked in silence, only occasionally stretching or adjusting his chair, completely unbothered by the world. When she finally snapped and muttered a curse under her breath about the buggy carousel slide, he glanced up and asked, “Want help, or are we still pretending I’m a liability?” She should have said no. She should have reminded him about professional boundaries. Instead, she just exhaled and motioned him over. Within minutes, he’d fixed the deck, reorganized the animation flow, and added subtle transitions that made everything feel lighter, cleaner. “You’re welcome,” he murmured, and she hated the way his voice settled into her spine.
The office lights dimmed automatically at 8 PM, casting long shadows across their desks. Outside, the rain fell harder, turning the windowpanes into grey mosaics. Tanya, now standing by the tea counter, poured herself a cup from the thermos and found Neel beside her again. “Do you always push people away before they can impress you?” he asked, without looking at her. She stiffened. “Do you always flirt with your bosses?” He finally turned to her, eyes soft but unreadable. “If I’m flirting, you’ll know. Right now I’m just curious what made you so afraid of connection.” Her breath caught for half a second—not from offense, but from recognition. No one ever said it so plainly. “That’s none of your business,” she said, setting the cup down. “Exactly,” he said, stepping back, hands raised in surrender. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And just like that, he left her there—with the rain, the chai, and the truth she hadn’t wanted to hear.
Later, alone in her Uber, Tanya watched the rain blur neon lights into streaks of restless color. She thought of Neel’s voice, the way he didn’t challenge her authority but also didn’t flinch from her sharpness. It unsettled her. It intrigued her. Most men either feared her or fetishized her power. Neel seemed to… understand it. Respect it. Maybe even want to meet it halfway. She hated herself for even considering the idea. Office romances were a mess. They were dangerous. She’d sworn off them after the last one nearly cost her everything. And yet—there he was, a contradiction she hadn’t asked for but couldn’t ignore. She shook her head and opened her phone to check emails, but for the first time in months, her mind refused to obey.
3
The following week unfolded in a series of productive sprints and restless silences. The team was prepping for a major beta test, and Tanya, as always, was the storm at the center of it all—decisive, driven, immune to distraction. Or so she told herself. In reality, every time Neel’s voice rang out across the open-plan office, calmly suggesting tweaks or praising a junior designer’s effort, a nerve deep inside her tightened. He had a way of making himself heard without demanding attention. It was unnerving. During a mid-week strategy huddle, Tanya stood at the whiteboard diagramming user flows while Neel hovered just behind her, offering minimal but astute input. His breath brushed her shoulder once—accidentally, she was sure—and she froze for a second too long before resuming. When the meeting ended and others filed out, he stayed back. She felt it before she saw it. “You left your interface notes on Slide 5,” he murmured, close enough for her to feel the syllables graze the air between them. She turned slightly, face unreadable. “Keep your observations to the work, Bhattacharya.” His mouth twitched. “I thought I was.”
Later that evening, with the office quieter and the chai corner abandoned, they found themselves seated side by side in front of her laptop. Tanya had asked Neel to walk her through the new onboarding flow; she told herself it was purely professional. But the proximity, the silence between words, the occasional brush of fingers on trackpads and screen edges—it all carried a different charge. “If we remove this friction point,” Neel said, pointing to a form screen, “you’ll get more engagement in the first thirty seconds. But you already know that.” She glanced at him. “Then why tell me?” He met her gaze, steady. “Because you like being reminded you’re always one step ahead.” It was not a compliment. It was a mirror. Tanya looked away, heat rising beneath her skin. “Flattery doesn’t get you points,” she said, voice low. “Not flattery,” he replied. “Just data.”
That night, while a thunderstorm cracked open the Bengaluru skyline, Tanya remained at the office long after the others had gone. She wasn’t waiting for anyone—of course not. She was just… reviewing analytics, watching bounce rates, calculating projections. The click of footsteps startled her. She looked up. Neel stood there, umbrella dripping, a takeaway bag in hand. “Didn’t think you’d leave,” he said, holding up the bag. “Biryani and ginger chai. For the ones who forget to eat.” She narrowed her eyes. “Is this another observation?” “It’s a habit,” he said simply. “Feeding people who don’t know how to slow down.” They ate in silence, seated at opposite ends of the long communal table. The rain fell harder, cloaking the windows in grey streaks. She didn’t thank him. He didn’t expect it.
As they cleaned up, his hand brushed hers while reaching for the paper cups. She didn’t pull away immediately. For a fraction of a second, their eyes locked. Neither spoke. The air was thick—not with words, but the kind of tension that doesn’t ask permission. He moved first, stepping back, offering her space. “We should probably draw some lines,” he said. She crossed her arms, lips pressed tight. “Why? Scared of what happens if we don’t?” He smiled—slow, not smug. “No. Just curious who you become when they disappear.” Her breath caught, but she held his gaze. “Don’t assume you know me, Neel.” He nodded, eyes still on hers. “I don’t. But I’m listening.” And with that, he turned and walked out, leaving behind the scent of wet earth, hot chai, and a question she didn’t know how to answer.
4
The tension simmered for days, buried beneath deadlines and device screens, but it didn’t vanish—it evolved, spreading like invisible heat between them. The office thrived on momentum, each team chasing deliverables with caffeine-fueled precision, and yet every hallway brush, every accidental email thread between Tanya and Neel, crackled with subtext. The team barely noticed; they were too focused on the upcoming demo day where potential angel investors would see the new app for the first time. Tanya was relentless in prep mode, barking changes, editing pitches late into the night, her perfectionism dialed to eleven. But on the morning of the internal rehearsal, something slipped. A design inconsistency—minor, but obvious to her—had made it into the slide deck. And Neel, ever calm, brushed it off as “non-critical.” That was her breaking point.
The words flew sharper than necessary. “It’s not about what users notice. It’s about what I notice,” Tanya snapped, her voice slicing through the open-plan space like a whip. The room fell into a stunned hush. Neel didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened. “Noted,” he said, closing his laptop with controlled quiet. Rishi tried to lighten the mood with a joke, but the moment had burned itself into the room. Neel left the space without another word, and the team dispersed slowly, exchanging nervous glances. Tanya remained standing by the projector screen, heart pounding, half from anger, half from something she refused to name. Hours passed. The rain started again, light this time, tapping on glass like a drumbeat of guilt. By dusk, the office had emptied. Tanya was about to leave when she noticed the light still on in the storage room they’d repurposed for equipment. She pushed the door open.
Neel stood near the shelves, rolling up a tangled HDMI cable, his back straight, movements crisp. She cleared her throat. “I came to—” He turned, not smiling. “To what? Explain why I got dressed down like an intern?” She stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind her. “I was out of line.” He raised an eyebrow. “You think?” Silence. Then: “You were right about the screen,” he added. “I just didn’t want to fight in front of everyone.” Tanya nodded slowly. “I know.” A beat passed. Their eyes locked. The room was small, the walls too close, and the air too charged. “Why do you do that?” Neel asked, stepping forward. “Sabotage connection every time it threatens to get real?” She bristled. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.” “Fine,” he murmured, now inches away. “Then feel it instead.” And before she could reply, he leaned in—slow, deliberate, giving her space to pull away. She didn’t. His lips met hers with a hunger that had waited too long, and her hands, traitorous and trembling, found the edges of his shirt.
There was no tenderness in that moment—only fire. Neel’s kiss deepened, one hand sliding to her waist, the other pressing against the door behind her, caging her in without trapping. Tanya’s body responded before her mind could resist, her fingers tightening in his collar. She felt the edge in his movements, the control he held so quietly until now, and it didn’t scare her—it thrilled her. He broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, “Still think I don’t take this seriously?” Her breath came ragged. “I think you’re dangerous.” He smiled against her throat. “Only if you ask me to be.” She pulled him closer, the heat between them undeniable, unstoppable. Minutes passed like seconds. It wasn’t until her phone buzzed with a reminder—Investor Zoom in 20—that they both froze. She stepped back, face flushed, hair disheveled, blouse askew. Neel didn’t say a word. Tanya adjusted herself, grabbed the door handle, and turned without looking at him. “This doesn’t happen again.” Her voice was tight. “Whatever you say,” he replied, voice low. But even as she walked away, she knew neither of them believed it.
5
Monday arrived with a deceptive calm. The air in the office felt lighter, crisper after the weekend rain, but Tanya sensed a storm brewing beneath it all. She walked in early, as always, her black heels sharp against the polished floor, her face composed. And yet, she hadn’t slept properly in days. The moment in the storage room replayed on a loop in her mind—his mouth, his grip, the way her body betrayed everything she stood for. Tanya buried herself in spreadsheets and call logs, hoping that discipline would drown desire. But when she stepped into the war room for the strategy sync, Neel was already there. He looked up as she entered—nothing overt, just a pause, a flicker in his gaze—but it was enough. The memory crackled back like static in her blood. They said nothing. Worked like strangers. The others didn’t notice, but Aanya, the ever-perceptive HR head, did. She lingered outside the meeting room longer than usual, eyes flicking between them. Tanya caught the glance, pretended it meant nothing, and went back to reviewing launch projections with robotic precision.
Later that afternoon, Aanya knocked on Tanya’s cabin door and stepped in, file in hand, tone polite but pointed. “Thought we could do our regular check-in,” she said, settling into the chair across from her. Tanya straightened. “Of course.” The next ten minutes were surface-level—a review of hiring policies, mental health initiatives, workplace boundaries. But then, Aanya leaned forward. “Tanya, this isn’t formal. I just wanted to ask… everything okay between you and Neel Bhattacharya?” The words dropped like cold water on overheated skin. Tanya kept her expression blank. “Yes. Why?” Aanya gave a practiced HR smile. “Just a vibe. Some of the junior staff have noticed tension. And, you know, it’s always better to be ahead of perception.” Tanya’s jaw tensed. “There’s nothing to address.” Aanya nodded, accepting the lie on the surface but not in spirit. “Alright. Just… remember how quickly culture can shift. You set the tone.” She left, and Tanya exhaled only when the door clicked shut.
That night, Tanya went to Pri’s place. Her best friend—therapist, queer, impossibly grounded—lived in a studio full of plants and soft lighting, a safe space where Tanya didn’t have to be CEO. She sipped ginger tea and stared at a stack of unread fiction on Pri’s table. “You ever want something that makes you feel stupid?” Tanya asked quietly. Pri looked over her glasses. “Every day. Why? Yours wear glasses and say smart things in conference rooms?” Tanya almost laughed, but it came out hollow. “It’s not a crush. It’s… more visceral than that. He gets under my skin.” Pri leaned forward. “Does he respect your no?” Tanya hesitated. “Yes. And that’s what terrifies me. Because I don’t want to say no. But I should.” Pri nodded slowly. “Consent isn’t just permission. It’s comfort. If it makes you feel like you’re losing power, ask yourself if that power was ever real. Or just armor.” Tanya looked away, the words slicing too close to the truth.
Back in her apartment, alone beneath warm lamplight and unfinished pitch decks, Tanya opened her laptop and stared at the latest UX prototypes. Neel’s updates were flawless—clean, intuitive, elegant. His notes were neutral. No post-its. No winks. No hidden meanings. Professional. Exactly what she’d asked for. And yet, it felt like a door had quietly closed. She scrolled further and saw a shared file—“Chai_v4_final”—and next to it, a comment from Neel: “Softness can still convert well. Don’t underestimate its impact.” She hovered her cursor over the note, then closed the laptop with a sigh that trembled at the edges. The problem wasn’t him. It was what he made her confront—desire wrapped in respect, control balanced by surrender, passion laced with consent. Tanya Rao wasn’t afraid of scandal. She was afraid of wanting. And Neel had become the one secret she couldn’t manage like a metric.
6
The following week passed in a haze of silent truce. Tanya buried herself in metrics, media kits, and mock investor calls, while Neel moved like a phantom—present but unreachable, contributing with effortless excellence, never stepping too close, never too far. The tension didn’t vanish; it simply became more precise. During a team review session, Tanya caught him watching her—not in that hungry way from before, but with calm, clinical detachment. It rattled her more than desire ever had. That night, after everyone had left and the cleaner’s broom whispered in a far corner, she found herself walking past the design bay with no real purpose. He was there, headphones on, sketching something analog again—ink bleeding onto the page like thoughts too heavy for a screen. She stood silently until he noticed her. “You want to yell at me again or something new this time?” he asked, voice dry but not unkind. She didn’t rise to it. “We need to talk.” He closed his notebook slowly, as though preparing for a difficult subject. “Finally.”
They sat in the unused breakout nook, the city’s lights painting their faces in slow pulses through the glass. Tanya didn’t ease in. “I don’t blur lines at work. Ever.” Neel nodded. “Noted. You’ve made that very clear.” She exhaled. “But what happened… that night… it wasn’t just impulse.” He tilted his head, studying her. “No, it wasn’t. That’s why I haven’t pushed.” Silence stretched like a taut string. Then she asked, quieter, “Who are you when the doors close?” Neel didn’t flinch. “Still me. Still respectful. But I have a dominant streak, yes. And I’m careful with it. I don’t play games. Not with people’s trust.” Tanya’s mouth went dry. “And what makes you think I’d want that?” He looked at her, level and warm. “I don’t think anything. I listen. I watch. And you didn’t say stop. But you did leave.” Her eyes flashed. “Because I’m not someone who loses control.” Neel’s voice softened. “Control isn’t lost when it’s given freely. That’s the difference.” The words settled between them like smoke—familiar, intimate, dangerous.
She didn’t speak again until later, when they stood facing each other outside the elevator, the office now emptied of everything but tension and night air. “Say we try this,” she said carefully. “It has rules. No emotional bleed into the workspace. No assumptions. No exposure.” He nodded. “Consent, always. Privacy, always. Clarity—always.” She hesitated, then added, “And if I want to stop at any point—” “You stop,” he interrupted. “And I will never ask you to explain it.” That startled her more than anything. It wasn’t what she was used to—no bargaining, no push. Just space. Respect. Understanding. She stepped into the elevator and turned before the doors closed. “We define this. Not anyone else.” He held her gaze. “You already are.”
Later, in the privacy of her flat, Tanya sat cross-legged on her bed, the windows open to the Bengaluru night. She thought of all the men before—how they’d tried to tame her, label her, prove something to themselves through her strength. But Neel didn’t want to win. He wanted to meet her where she was. The thought was terrifying. Electrifying. She didn’t want to need anything from anyone. But maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t need. Maybe it was choice. Deliberate. Informed. Safe. She opened her phone and typed a message—short, exact, not flirtatious. “Thursday. My place. After 9. No expectations, but I want to see who you are when it’s just us.” She didn’t wait for his reply. She set the phone down, exhaled deeply, and let herself feel the heat—not of chaos, but of control. This time, hers to give.
7
The monsoon rain tapped rhythmically against the glass walls of the co-working space, casting a grey veil over the buzzing city outside. Tanya sat in the corner booth, her MacBook open but forgotten, her eyes fixed on the words Neel had sent her the night before: “We need to talk. Not as colleagues.” The message had lingered in her mind like a question without punctuation. She hadn’t replied. The storm outside mirrored the unease within her—questions swirled like wind, fierce and persistent. Was this still a workplace dalliance or had they crossed into something deeper, messier, more real? When Neel arrived, his eyes scanned the space until they found hers. No smile, no small talk—just purpose. He slid into the seat across from her, rainwater dripping from his curls. “I want to pitch something,” he said, voice low, laced with tension. Tanya blinked. “To investors?” she asked, her mouth dry. “To you,” he corrected. And then, with a single breath, he laid it bare: “Let’s stop pretending this is casual. You know it isn’t. Let’s see where it can actually go.”
She didn’t speak immediately, her mind spinning in rapid loops. What did it mean for a startup founder to fall for a designer on her team? Would it be read as weakness? As distraction? She had spent years clawing her way to this point, shattering assumptions in boardrooms and batting away advances masked as mentorship. And now, here was Neel—serious, honest, vulnerable in a way that made her knees tremble more than any of their stolen moments ever had. “You’re not making this easy,” she said finally, her voice clipped but soft around the edges. He smiled, and for the first time in days, it wasn’t smug or teasing—it was nervous. “No. But neither are you,” he replied. The words sat between them, raw and suspended, as the sound of thunder rumbled somewhere far away. Tanya looked down at her hands. Her fingers itched to touch his. She didn’t. Instead, she asked the hardest question: “And what if it goes wrong?” Neel’s answer was a whisper, but it cracked through the silence. “Then at least we tried, instead of pretending it didn’t matter.”
Later that evening, Tanya stood by her apartment window, wine glass in hand, watching the rain make rivers of light down the glass. Her phone buzzed. It was a message from Neel—no pressure, just: “Whatever you decide, I’ll respect it. But I hope you decide for you, not the world watching.” She exhaled, long and slow. He was right. This wasn’t about optics or startup gossip or unwritten HR rules. It was about the pull that had become undeniable, the charge that hadn’t faded with time, but intensified. Tanya wasn’t a woman who made decisions from fear. She built products that disrupted systems. Maybe it was time to do the same with her own walls. With one motion, she picked up her phone and typed: “Tomorrow. My place. 9 PM.” She didn’t sign it. She didn’t have to.
The next day was a blur. Every Slack notification felt irrelevant. Every investor call just white noise. At exactly 8:59 PM, her buzzer rang. She opened the door without asking who it was—his presence filled the threshold like a challenge and a promise. Neel wore a simple white shirt and jeans, but his eyes had that unmistakable glint. He stepped in, closing the door behind him, and then stood there as if waiting for permission. Tanya took a step forward, slowly, deliberately. “If we do this,” she said, placing her hand on his chest, “it’s on my terms too. Equal fire. Equal rules.” Neel leaned in, his breath grazing her cheek. “That’s the only way I want it.” And with that, the storm outside faded into the distance, drowned out by the one they unleashed within.
8
The rain hadn’t stopped since the night Neel left her apartment with nothing more than a tight-lipped promise—“We’ll talk tomorrow”—but tomorrow had come and gone. Tanya sat at her desk in the near-empty office, long past working hours, the blue light from her monitor illuminating her tired face. The pitch deck on the screen stared back at her like a ghost of the world she used to control with ease. Her mind, however, was tangled elsewhere—in the sudden shift in Neel’s gaze after their last encounter, in the way his words had lost their warmth, replaced by something colder, more distant. She hated this feeling, this suspended animation, like she was waiting for someone to decide how the rest of her week, maybe her life, would go. That wasn’t her. That was never her. She clicked through slides, typed two sentences, then deleted them. Every line she composed felt wrong, forced, like trying to hold a conversation underwater.
She finally gave in and texted him: “Want to talk? No games. Just clarity.” The message turned green, then faded into silence. Tanya threw her phone onto the desk, leaned back in her chair, and stared at the ceiling. The air conditioning hummed like an unwelcome lullaby. She replayed everything—from their coffee meetings to that night in her apartment, from the teasing tension in the elevator to the last thing he said before walking away. What had changed? Did he feel manipulated? Had she crossed some invisible line between assertive and demanding? Or worse, had she misread him entirely? She was too used to owning her space, defining her own rules, and Neel had seemed like someone who respected that, who even liked it. But desire had layers. And sometimes, layers hid fractures.
The door clicked open. Tanya turned, startled, only to find Neel standing at the threshold, soaked in rain, his eyes searching her face like a man stepping back into a room that haunted him. “You’re still here,” he said, voice rough, like it had been caught in his throat too long. “So are you,” she replied, standing up slowly. There was no warmth in her tone, but no ice either—just an exhausted truce. He took a step closer, then paused. “I didn’t know how to respond. That night… it wasn’t just sex for me. And I think I panicked, which is stupid, because I’ve never run from something that felt that good.” Tanya watched him, trying not to show the relief trembling behind her ribs. “Then why did you?” she asked. He exhaled, dropped his wet bag on the floor, and shrugged. “Because it felt like the beginning of something I wouldn’t be able to control. And you, Tanya, you don’t just walk into people’s lives. You take up space. You burn. And I wasn’t sure I could keep up.”
She crossed the room in three steps and stopped just short of touching him. “You don’t have to keep up. But you can’t keep running, either.” Their eyes locked, and something unspoken passed between them—an apology, a plea, a promise. Neel’s hand found hers, tentative at first, then firm. “No running,” he said. She pulled him closer, kissed him like punctuation, fierce and final. Then softer. Then slower. Rain tapped against the glass walls of the office, a steady rhythm behind the storm inside them settling into something more intimate. They stood in the middle of their chaos, tangled not just in want but in recognition. Neither one fully whole, but perhaps whole enough for each other—for now.
9
Tanya hadn’t expected the day to start with silence. Usually, Neel would be waiting at the coffee machine with his sarcastic smile or drop a cryptic Slack message about her outfit being “too founder-chic.” But today—nothing. The tension from the night before had clearly seeped into their work life. They had crossed an invisible line when she’d followed him to his apartment and let herself unravel in his arms, whispering things she hadn’t even admitted to herself. Now, in the sunlight, everything was fragile. She walked into the office like she was stepping onto a minefield. Neel was at his desk, head down, headphones on, fingers flying across his keyboard. Not even a glance. No cheeky smirk. No heat in his eyes. She hated how much it bothered her. She told herself this is exactly what she wanted—boundaries, professionalism, clarity. But the hollowness inside her told a different story.
The board meeting was brutal. Investors were asking pointed questions about scalability, burn rate, and UX bottlenecks—things that usually energized Tanya. But today, she stumbled. Words felt heavy, and her thoughts scattered too easily. Neel presented his part flawlessly, concise and insightful as always, but his tone was clinical, almost cold. It stung more than she wanted to admit. After the call, she locked herself in the glass meeting room, pressing her fingers to her temples. The last few weeks had unraveled something inside her—something fierce and tender at the same time. Was it just sex? Was it about losing control? Or was it about someone finally seeing through her armor and still wanting more? She didn’t know. But she knew one thing—this distance, this ice between them—it was unbearable.
Later that evening, as most of the team had trickled out and the co-working space dimmed into its soft amber afterglow, Tanya found herself walking toward him, almost involuntarily. Neel didn’t look up until she stood beside him. He pulled off his headphones and raised an eyebrow. “Need something, boss?” The mockery in his tone wasn’t playful tonight—it was a weapon. She took a breath, steadying herself. “We need to talk.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “I thought we already did. Last night. Loudly.” The sharpness in his words cut deep. She sat across from him, eyes locked. “I meant—this distance. I can’t work like this.” Neel studied her for a moment, his gaze unreadable. “Tanya, you said no strings. You wanted power kept outside the bedroom. I agreed. So why does it feel like I’m the one breaking the rules by following them?” That stopped her cold. He was right. She had built walls around herself, and now she was bleeding from the inside, wondering why no one was reaching in.
After a long silence, Tanya whispered, “Maybe the rules were flawed.” Something shifted in Neel’s expression—a flicker of hope beneath the cool exterior. “Then say what you really want,” he said, voice low, almost a dare. Tanya looked at him, no longer the CEO trying to manage outcomes, no longer the woman pretending to have it all figured out. “I want you,” she said simply. “Not just behind doors. Not just when it’s easy. I want the chaos. I want your mind, your strength, your anger, your silence. I want all of it. And I’m terrified.” Neel stood slowly, walked around the desk, and knelt in front of her. “I’m scared too,” he admitted. “But I’m not walking away—not unless you ask me to.” She didn’t. She leaned down instead, touched his face, and in that moment, everything softened. The silence wasn’t distance anymore. It was safety.
10
The rain had returned to Bengaluru, a soft patter on the glass walls of the co-working space as Tanya sat in her cabin, staring at the blinking cursor of an unfinished email. The team had wrapped up the product demo the night before, and the launch had been a roaring success. But Tanya felt hollow inside, as though the very thing she had chased so hard—her startup’s success—suddenly didn’t feel complete without one pair of familiar eyes watching her from across the room. Neel hadn’t come in that day, his desk empty, his Slack status a quiet, stoic “offline.” The silence between them after that argument had stretched for days, each one heavier than the last, and Tanya had stubbornly clung to her decision to remain detached. But the truth gnawed at her. She missed him. Not just his touch, but the conversations, the teasing, the quiet way he saw her—not just the ambitious founder, but the complicated woman underneath.
That evening, she found herself outside Neel’s apartment, umbrella in hand, her heels clicking with purpose and uncertainty. He opened the door in a worn-out tee and sweatpants, surprised but not cold. The air between them was taut, yet tender. Tanya stepped in without asking, and he let her. “You left,” she said plainly. “You pushed me away,” he replied. The simplicity of the exchange stripped away all pretense. They stood across from each other, stripped emotionally, more vulnerable than they’d ever been. “I didn’t want to fall for someone at work. But I did. I do,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the truth she had denied too long. “And I didn’t want to be just your distraction,” Neel said, stepping closer. “But I’d rather be your risk than your regret.” The kiss that followed wasn’t lust-driven. It was soaked in relief, in apology, in raw, frightening emotion.
The days that followed weren’t easy. They didn’t try to pretend everything was perfect, nor did they announce their relationship in a LinkedIn-worthy post. Boundaries were carefully discussed—when to talk about work, how to keep professionalism intact, how to be equals inside and outside the office. Tanya, once allergic to vulnerability, found strength in being emotionally available, and Neel, always careful not to overstep, now took up space with more confidence, supported by her openness. Their chemistry no longer had to hide in stolen glances or late-night Slack chats. There was no game now—just love, tender and imperfect, fierce and freeing. The tension between dominance and surrender still simmered between them, but now it was chosen, not fought.
Six months later, they were still building—products, boundaries, trust, and a relationship that had started as a spark behind glass doors and bloomed into something unapologetically their own. One late evening, as Tanya leaned back against the bean bag in their shared office corner, sipping ginger chai, Neel sat beside her, laptop perched on his thigh. “I love this version of us,” she murmured. “Messy. Honest. Still us.” He smiled, brushing her hair from her cheek. “Still fire and sweat and secrets,” he said, “but with less hiding.” Outside, the city buzzed, alive with ambition and caffeine and monsoon rain. Inside, they had found their own rhythm—a space of love, chaos, and control, beautifully blurred.
End
