Beyond the Stars, Between Us.

"Yeh dooriyan... In raahon ki dooriyan...

Nigahon ki dooriyan... Humraahon ki dooriyan."

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 Umang's POV

The building was too quiet this morning.

Each click of my heels echoed off the clean, glass walls as I made my way through the ISAC corridors. I tried to steady my breathing, my thoughts. I had meetings lined up, profiles to review, a project schedule that was already tighter than my nerves. Today had to be smooth. Controlled. Professional.

But the moment I opened my cabin door, my composure wavered.

He was already inside.

Rakshit stood by my desk, sleeves rolled up, fingers lightly tapping the edge of a file as if he owned the space. His charcoal-grey shirt clung just enough to hint at the hours he clearly hadn't skipped at the gym. His hair was damp, probably fresh from a shower, and he wore those sleek glasses—the ones that made him look maddeningly sharp and undeniably hot...too hot.

And way too familiar.

He looked up, nodded. "Good morning, ma'am."

The voice was polite. Distant. Not a trace of the boy I used to know.

"Morning," I replied, careful to match his tone.

Then he stepped forward and held out a takeaway cup. "Your cappuccino. No sugar. Extra shot Umi......sorry ma'am. As you mentioned it."

Umi, so he remembers that name.

I hesitated just a second too long before taking it. My fingers brushed his—warm skin against the chill of the cup. I muttered a "Thanks. Mr. Rakshit" and moved past him to my chair like it meant nothing.

We got to work fast. Reviewed profiles, shortlisted names and passed files back and forth with clipped and professional remarks. From the outside, we probably looked like a well-oiled team. Efficient. Synchronized.

But every few minutes, I felt that tension simmering under the surface. Like something held back. Unspoken.

And then, of course, my body decided to join the chaos.

The cramp hit just past mid-morning—sharp, low, and relentless. I shifted in my chair, trying to hide the way my muscles tensed. Tried to keep my voice steady as I pointed out another CV on the screen. But I knew my face was giving me away—the crease between my brows, the way my hand subtly curled under the table to press against my lower stomach.

He noticed.

"You okay?" Rakshit asked, eyes lifting from the file.

"I'm fine," I said, too quickly. My gaze stayed glued to the screen.

He didn't argue. Didn't press. Just quietly pulled out a familiar strip of painkillers from his bag and placed it near my water bottle.

I stared at the pill for a second too long. So, he remembered this also, this way I look when I face cramps. Of course.

No thank you. No eye contact. I just picked it up, swallowed it dry, and tried to keep my expression neutral.

But my heart wasn't neutral. Not even close.

The rest of the day crawled past in a haze of filtered resumes and aching muscles. My stomach twisted with a dull ache, my patience wore thin, and my appetite completely disappeared. I barely even noticed when the office around us emptied, and the sun sank below the skyline.