The cursor blinked on his monitor, a green pulse he'd been staring at for the last ten minutes without seeing. The office had emptied around him—the hum of the floor reduced to the distant whine of a vacuum somewhere down the hall, the click of a dying fluorescent tube. Saan's fingers rested on the keyboard, motionless, the half-written report a wall of text he couldn't parse anymore.

He was thinking about the kitchen. The morning light. The way Tarannum had held his hand like she was afraid he'd slip away.

Then the doorway shifted—a presence, a shadow moving where no shadow should be—and he looked up.

Seema stood there, one hand braced against the doorframe, her sari slipping off her shoulder in a slow, deliberate slide of fabric. The blouse underneath was deep green, the kind that caught the office light and held it. Her eyes were dark and tired, ringed with liner that had smudged at the corners, and she smiled at him like they shared a secret he'd forgotten he was part of.

"You're still here," she said. Not a question.

"Seema ma'am." He straightened, his hand leaving the keyboard. "I was just—"

"Robin sent me." She stepped into the room, her heels clicking once, twice, three times against the tile. "He needs the files from the Apex contract. Said you'd know which ones."

"The Apex contract." Saan nodded, already reaching for the drawer. "They're in—"

Her hand closed over his wrist, stopping him. The touch was light, but it pinned him in place like a weight.

"Don't." Her voice was low, almost amused. "I'm not in a hurry."

She leaned close, and the sari slipped further, the fabric pooling at her elbow, exposing the curve of her shoulder, the strap of her blouse cutting into her skin. Her scent washed over him—jasmine and something else, something warm and private.

"He's in a meeting," she said. "He'll be in there for hours."

Saan's throat moved. "Ma'am—"

"Seema." Her fingers tightened on his wrist. "You've called me Seema before."

He had. Once. In a hallway, when she'd cornered him about a report and her hand had found his shoulder and lingered, and he'd said her name without thinking, and she'd smiled like she'd been waiting for it.

"The files," he said, his voice thinner than he wanted it to be.

"In the car." She straightened, but her hand stayed on his wrist, sliding down to his palm, her fingers interlocking with his for a single, deliberate moment. "I parked in the back lot. Robin said you'd have to show me which ones are his."

She let go. The absence of her touch was a cold that spread up his arm.

"Come on," she said, and walked out of the doorway without looking back.

He followed.

The back lot was nearly empty, a strip of cracked asphalt behind the building where the light from the office windows didn't quite reach. Seema's car was a dark sedan, unremarkable, the kind that disappeared into traffic. She unlocked it and slid into the driver's seat, and Saan stood on the pavement, his hands in his pockets, the cold November air biting at his ears.

"Get in," she said through the open door.

"The files—"

"Are in the back seat. Get in."

He got in.

The interior was warm, the heater already running, the leather seat cold against his back. She pulled out of the lot without looking at him, her hands steady on the wheel, and the city slid past the windows—storefronts shuttered for the night, streetlights flickering on one by one, the grey November dusk settling over everything like a blanket.

She didn't speak. Neither did he.

The car turned down a side street, then another, the buildings thinning out, the road narrowing until they were on a quiet lane lined with trees that had lost their leaves. The streetlights here were few and far between, the spaces between them pools of dark. She pulled over at a curve where the road widened just enough to fit a car, and killed the engine.

The silence rushed in.

"Seema," he started, but her hand was already on his thigh, her fingers pressing through the fabric of his trousers, and the word died in his throat.

"Robin doesn't touch me anymore." Her voice was flat, tired, like she was reading a weather report. "He hasn't in months. He comes home, he eats, he watches television, he sleeps. On his side. With his back to me." Her fingers moved, a slow, circular press against his leg. "Do you know what that does to a woman?"

"Seema—"

"I'm not asking for your pity." Her hand slid higher, her thumb tracing the seam of his trousers. "I'm asking for something else."

She turned in her seat, her other hand reaching for the buttons of his shirt. The first one came undone, then the second, her fingers working with a practiced ease that made his breath catch. The third button, the fourth, and then her palm was flat against his chest, her skin warm against his, her fingers spreading through the hair there.

"He used to look at me," she said, her voice softer now, almost dreamy. "When we were first married. He used to look at me like I was the only thing in the room. Do you know how long it's been since a man looked at me like that?"

Her eyes met his, and in the dim light of the car, they were dark and hungry and terribly, terribly lonely.

"You looked at me," she said. "That day in the hallway. You looked at me like you saw me."

His shirt hung open now, the cold air from the vent raising goosebumps on his skin. Her hand was still on his chest, her thumb brushing over his nipple, and he could feel himself hardening against the fly of his trousers, a heat that was half shame and half something else.

"Seema," he said again, and his voice came out rough, scraped.

"Don't tell me no." Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer. "Just this once. Just this one time. I need to feel like a woman again."

She leaned across the console, her mouth finding his, and the kiss was hungry and desperate and tasted like the salt of tears she hadn't cried yet. Her hand slid down his chest, over his stomach, and found the button of his trousers.

"Get in the back," she said against his mouth. "I want to feel you inside me."

The back seat was cramped, the vinyl cold against his bare thighs as she pushed his trousers down and climbed over him, her sari hitching up around her hips, her thighs bare and warm as she straddled him. She was already wet—he could feel it through the thin fabric of her underwear, a slick heat that soaked through and made his cock twitch against her.

"Yes," she breathed, grinding down against him. "God, yes."

She reached between them, her fingers finding the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down, and then her hand was around his cock, stroking him, her grip tight and sure. He gasped, his hips bucking up into her grip, and she smiled—a slow, wicked smile that transformed her tired face into something younger, something fierce.

"You're big," she said, her voice low and approving. "Robin was never this big."

She guided him to her, the head of his cock pressing against the soaked fabric of her underwear, and she moaned as she rubbed herself against him, her clit catching on the ridge of his shaft.

"Take these off," she said, and he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her underwear and pulled, and she lifted her hips and let them slide down her thighs and fall somewhere into the dark of the footwell.

Then she was bare against him, her cunt slick and hot, the lips of her pussy parted around the head of his cock, and she looked down at him, her eyes dark, her sari slipping off her shoulder completely.

"I'm going to ride you," she said. "And I'm going to come so hard I forget my own name."

She lowered herself onto him.

The heat of her was overwhelming—a tight, wet grip that clenched around him as she sank down, inch by inch, her mouth falling open in a silent gasp. He felt her stretch around him, felt the resistance and then the give, felt the way her cunt gripped him like it was trying to pull him deeper.

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, God."

She sat still for a moment, impaled on him, her thighs trembling on either side of his hips. Her breasts rose and fell with her breath, her blouse clinging to them, the deep green fabric dark with sweat at her sternum.

"You feel—" She shook her head, her eyes closing. "You feel like—"

She lifted her hips and slammed back down, and the sound that came out of her was a cry, sharp and desperate, swallowed by the fogged-up windows.

"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, yes."

She rode him like she was starving. Her hips moved in a desperate, grinding rhythm, her cunt clenching around him with every stroke, her nails digging into his shoulders through his open shirt. Her breasts swayed with the motion, heavy and full, the fabric of her blouse slipping further and further down until her bra was visible, white lace stretched tight over the swell of her.

Saan's hands found her hips, gripping the soft flesh there, guiding her rhythm. She was so tight, so wet, so hot that he could feel every inch of her, every ridge and pulse, and the pressure was already building in his gut, a coil of heat that threatened to snap.

"Slow down," he gritted out. "You're going to make me—"

"Good." She rode him harder, her head thrown back, her throat exposed. "Come inside me. I want to feel it."

She reached behind her and unhooked her bra, letting it fall away, and her breasts spilled out—full and heavy, the nipples dark and hard, the skin slick with sweat. She took his hands and pressed them to her chest, and he cupped the weight of her, his thumbs finding her nipples, rolling them between his fingers.

"Yes," she moaned. "Yes, touch me, squeeze me—"

She leaned forward, her breasts pressing against his chest, her mouth finding his. The kiss was sloppy, desperate, all teeth and tongue, and she rode him through it, her hips never stopping, her cunt clenching around him in waves.

"I'm close," she gasped against his mouth. "I'm so close—"

"Come," he said, his voice ragged. "Come on me, Seema."

She cried out, her body arching, her cunt clamping down around him so hard he saw stars. She came with a scream that she swallowed against his shoulder, her teeth sinking into his skin, her hips grinding against him in small, desperate circles as the orgasm tore through her.

He felt it—the clench, the flood, the way her whole body shuddered around him—and it pushed him over the edge. He grabbed her hips and thrust up into her, burying himself as deep as he could go, and came with a groan, his cock pulsing inside her, spilling deep into her cunt.

She stayed on top of him, her body trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps against his neck. The car was silent except for the sound of their breathing, the tick of the cooling engine, the distant hum of the streetlamp outside.

Her hand came up and clamped over his mouth, her fingers pressing against his lips. He hadn't realized he'd been making noise.

"Shh," she whispered. "Someone might hear."

He felt her smile against his skin. Then she lifted her hips, slow and deliberate, and his cock slipped out of her, wet and spent, and she settled against his thigh, her forehead resting against his, her breath warm on his lips.

"Thank you," she said, and the words were quiet, almost shy. "I needed that."

The fog was building on the inside of the windshield, a thin film of condensation that blurred the world outside. Somewhere down the lane, a single window glowed yellow in the dark, and neither of them looked at it twice.

Her breath was still warm against his neck, the rise and fall of her chest slowly evening out. The sweat cooling on his skin made him shiver, and he felt her lips curve into a smile against his throat, as if she could feel it too.

"That was—" he started, but her fingers pressed against his lips, silencing him.

"Don't." She lifted her head, her dark eyes finding his in the dim light of the car. The streetlamp outside cast a pale glow across her face, catching the smudge of her liner, the tiredness at the corners of her eyes that hadn't quite left even after what they'd just done. "Don't say anything yet."

He nodded, his throat too tight for words anyway.

She shifted on top of him, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips that made his spent cock twitch inside her, and he felt the first flicker of sensation—not arousal, not yet, but something that remembered the shape of it.

"You're still hard," she said, and there was wonder in her voice, something almost girlish. "God, you're still—"

"Not for long." His voice came out rough, scraped. "I just—"

"Shh." She placed her palm flat against his chest, over his heart, and he could feel the thrum of it through her skin. "Let me."

She lifted herself off him slowly, his cock slipping out of her with a wet sound that made both of them inhale sharply. She settled back onto his thighs, her bare cunt pressed against his skin, and he could feel the slick heat of her, the evidence of what they'd done smeared between them.

Her hand drifted down his stomach, fingers tracing the line of hair that led from his navel to the base of his cock. He watched her—watched the way her eyes followed her own hand, the way her tongue came out to wet her bottom lip.

"Seema—"

"I want more." Her fingers wrapped around his cock, and he felt it—the first stirring of blood, the first pulse of response. She stroked him slowly, her grip firm, and his hips bucked up into her hand before he could stop himself. "I want you to take me from behind."

The words landed in the dark of the car like stones in still water. He felt them ripple through him, felt the heat of them settle in his gut, felt his cock harden in her grip as she said it.

"Here?"

"Here." She leaned forward, her mouth brushing his ear, and her whisper was low and hungry, the voice of a woman who had been waiting months for this. "I want to feel you deep. I want to feel you so deep I can't walk straight tomorrow. I want to feel you—" Her teeth grazed his earlobe, and he shuddered. "—and I want to watch your face while you do it."

His hands found her hips, gripping the soft flesh there, and she made a small sound—a whimper that she swallowed against his neck.

"You want to watch?"

"I want to see what you look like when you lose control." Her hand tightened around his cock, stroking him fully hard again, and he was painfully aware of how quickly his body responded to her. "I want to see the moment you forget I'm Robin's wife." She paused, her eyes meeting his in the dark. "I want to see the moment you forget everything."

He didn't answer. He couldn't.

She released him and shifted, climbing off his lap and turning in the cramped space of the back seat. The sari had long since pooled around her waist, the deep green fabric bunched and forgotten. Her blouse hung open, her breasts bare, the nipples dark and hard in the cold air of the car. She turned onto her hands and knees on the seat, facing the window, and looked back over her shoulder at him.

"Well?" Her voice was steady, but he could see the tremor in her thighs, the way her whole body was braced for his answer. "Are you going to make me wait?"

He moved.

The space was cramped—his knees pressed against the back of the front seat, his shoulder brushing the window—but he positioned himself behind her, his hands finding her hips, pulling her back toward him. She was so wet that when the head of his cock pressed against her, it slid through the slick heat of her, catching on her clit, and she gasped.

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, right there—"

He guided himself to her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her, and he could feel her—the heat, the tightness, the way her whole body seemed to open for him. She pushed back against him, trying to take him in, and he held her steady, teasing her.

"Please," she said, and the word was wrecked, desperate. "Please, I need—"

He thrust into her.

The sound she made was raw, animal, a cry that she bit off against her own forearm as her body arched. He felt her clench around him, felt the way her cunt gripped his cock like it was trying to pull him deeper, and he had to grip her hips hard to keep from coming right there.

"Fuck," he gritted out. "You're so—"

"Tight?" She laughed, a breathless, broken sound. "It's been months. Robin doesn't—" She shook her head, her hair spilling over her shoulders. "Don't talk about him. Not now. Not when you're inside me."

He pulled out slowly, until only the head of his cock remained inside her, and then thrust back in, deeper this time, and she cried out again.

"Yes," she moaned. "Yes, like that—"

He set a rhythm, slow and deep, each thrust pushing him deeper into her, and she met him with a push of her own, her hips rocking back against his. The seat creaked beneath them, the sound muffled by the fogged windows, by the dark of the lane, by the distance between them and the rest of the world.

"Look at me," she said, and her voice was different now—not the tired, flat voice of a neglected wife, but something fierce, something hungry. "Look at me while you fuck me."

He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her back, his hand sliding up her spine to the nape of her neck. He curled his fingers into her hair, pulling gently, and she tilted her head back, her throat exposed, her eyes finding his over her shoulder.

"You want to watch?" His voice was low, rough. "Watch this."

He thrust into her harder, and she gasped, her eyes fluttering shut before forcing themselves open again. He kept his eyes on hers, watching the way her pupils dilated, the way her mouth fell open, the way her whole face softened and sharpened at once with the pleasure of it.

"There," she breathed. "Right there, don't stop—"

He didn't stop. He drove into her with a rhythm that was almost punishing, each thrust pushing her forward until her hands braced against the window, her palms fogging the glass. The car filled with the sound of skin against skin, of her gasps, of his own ragged breathing, of the wet, obscene sound of his cock sliding into her again and again.

"You feel—" She couldn't finish the sentence. She tried again. "You feel—"

"What?" He leaned closer, his mouth against her ear. "Tell me."

"Like I'm alive again." Her voice cracked. "Like I've been dead for years and you're—you're bringing me back—"

He reached around her, his hand finding her clit, and she cried out, her body shuddering around him. Her cunt clenched so hard he had to stop moving, had to grip her hip and wait for the wave to pass.

"Don't stop," she begged. "Please, don't stop—"

He started moving again, slower now, his fingers circling her clit in time with his thrusts. She was trembling beneath him, her whole body a live wire, and he could feel the edge approaching—the way her breath came in shorter and shorter gasps, the way her cunt gripped him tighter with each stroke.

"I'm going to come," she said, and it was a warning, a plea, a prayer. "I'm going to—"

"Come," he said against her ear. "Come on me, Seema."

She did.

Her body arched, her head thrown back, and she came with a cry that she swallowed against her own fist, her cunt clamping down around him in waves so intense he saw white. He kept thrusting through it, kept his fingers on her clit, and she shook with the force of it, her whole body convulsing around him.

"Oh, God," she gasped. "Oh, God, oh, God—"

He felt himself tip over the edge with her, his cock pulsing inside her, spilling deep into her cunt as he buried himself to the hilt. He came with a groan, his forehead pressed against her shoulder, his breath hot against her skin, and she held him there, her hand coming up to cradle the back of his head.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The car was silent except for their breathing, the tick of the cooling engine, the distant hum of the streetlamp outside.

Then she laughed—a soft, wondering sound that vibrated through her chest and into his.

"Well," she said, her voice hoarse. "That's one way to end a Tuesday."

He laughed too, a breathless, surprised sound, and she turned her head to look at him, her eyes bright in the dark.

"Thank you," she said again, and the words were different this time—fuller, warmer. "For not asking questions. For not—" She gestured vaguely at the fogged windows, at the car, at everything they'd just done. "For this."

He pulled out of her slowly, and she made a small sound at the loss, settling onto her side on the seat. Her sari was a wreck, her blouse hanging open, her skin flushed and slick with sweat. She looked at him—really looked at him—and for a moment, he saw something in her eyes that wasn't hunger or loneliness or need.

It was something like hope.

"You should get dressed," she said finally, her voice soft. "Robin's meeting will end soon."

He nodded, reaching for his trousers, and she watched him with a quiet, unreadable expression. When he was dressed, she pulled her sari back into place with practiced hands, smoothing the fabric over her hips, tucking the loose end back over her shoulder. In a matter of minutes, she looked almost presentable—except for the flush on her cheeks, the swollen curve of her mouth, the way her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the door handle.

"Seema."

She paused, looking back at him.

"What happens now?"

She smiled—a small, tired smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Now, you go back to your desk. I go back to my husband. And we pretend this never happened." She opened the door, the cold air rushing in. "But I'll remember this. Every time I close my eyes, I'll remember this."

She stepped out of the car, and he watched her walk around to the driver's side, her heels clicking against the cracked asphalt. She got in, started the engine, and pulled away without looking back.

He stood alone in the dark, the cold November air biting at his skin, and watched her taillights disappear around the curve of the lane.

He stood there longer than he meant to, the cold seeping through his jacket, watching the empty curve of the lane where her taillights had vanished. The silence of the back lot pressed in around him—the distant hum of the highway, the rustle of dead leaves skittering across the asphalt, the faint buzz of the dying fluorescent tube he could still hear from the office window above.

He buttoned his shirt with fingers that felt clumsy, tucking it back into his trousers, and the fabric was cold against his skin, the sweat already drying. His hands smelled like her—jasmine and something warmer, something private—and he rubbed them against his thighs as if he could scrub the evidence away.

The walk back took him through the service entrance, a grey corridor lined with pipes and the smell of cleaning solvent. His footsteps echoed off the concrete walls, and he kept his head down, counting the tiles, trying to remember the shape of his report, the half-finished paragraph he'd been staring at when Seema appeared in his doorway.

The office floor was quieter than he'd left it. The vacuum had stopped. The dying fluorescent tube still flickered at the far end of the hall, a greenish pulse that made the shadows jump. His desk was where he'd left it—monitor still on, cursor still blinking, the half-written report a wall of text he no longer understood.

He sat down heavily, the chair creaking under him, and reached for the keyboard. His fingers hovered over the keys. The green pulse of the cursor blinked at him, patient, indifferent.

The Apex contract. Seema had said Robin needed the files. He opened the drawer and pulled out the folder, the cardboard worn at the edges, the tabs marked in his own handwriting from three weeks ago. He set it on the desk, next to the monitor, and stared at it.

He was still staring at it when the doorway shifted again.

Not a shadow this time. A man.

Robin stood in the frame of the office door, his silhouette filling it, the light from the hall behind him cutting a hard line around his shoulders. He was a big man—not fat, just solid, the kind of build that came from years of sitting in meetings and never missing a meal. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his face had the worn, tired look of a man who had spent the evening in a room with no windows.

"Saan." His voice was flat, unhurried, the voice of a man who expected to be answered. "There you are."

Saan's hand moved before his brain caught up, sliding the folder to the edge of the desk, covering the corner of it with his palm. "Sir. I thought you were in a meeting."

"It ended early." Robin stepped into the room, and the light from the hall followed him, pooling at his feet. He didn't sit. He stood at the edge of the desk, looking down at the folder, then at Saan, then at the empty chair across from him. "I sent Seema to get the Apex files. She hasn't come back."

The words landed in the quiet of the office like stones in still water. Saan felt them ripple through him, felt the cold spread up his spine, felt his throat tighten around the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"She—" He stopped. Started again. "She came by. Earlier. She said you needed the files."

"And?"

"I got them." He tapped the folder with his finger, the cardboard rough under his thumb. "She said she'd take them to you. I assumed she did."

Robin's eyes were dark and flat, the kind of eyes that had spent years learning to read people in conference rooms, in negotiations, in the long silences between words. He looked at Saan for a long moment, and Saan felt the weight of that gaze like a hand on his chest.

"She's not answering her phone," Robin said. "You didn't see her leave?"

The question hung in the air between them, and Saan felt the lie rising in his throat, smooth and ready, a practiced thing that came out before he could stop it.

"I saw her walk toward the back lot," he said. "She said she had to make a call. I didn't want to interrupt."

The words came out too smooth. He heard them as if from a distance, heard the easy cadence of them, the way they settled into the silence like something that had always been there. His hand stayed on the folder, his thumb pressing into the cardboard, and he forced himself to meet Robin's eyes.

Robin's gaze didn't move. The fluorescent tube flickered, a green pulse that made the shadows jump, and for a moment the office was a different place—a smaller place, a darker one, a place where the walls pressed in from all sides.

"A call," Robin repeated. The word was flat, neutral, giving nothing away.

"She said it was important." Saan's voice held steady. "Family, I think. She didn't say."

Robin nodded slowly, a single, deliberate dip of his chin. He reached out and picked up the folder from the desk, his fingers closing around it, and Saan let go of it with a relief he couldn't show. The cardboard was warm from his palm.

"The Apex contract," Robin said, flipping it open. His eyes scanned the first page, the second, the third. "You've been thorough."

"I try."

"Try harder." Robin closed the folder and tucked it under his arm. "The client's coming in tomorrow. I need the numbers clean."

He turned toward the door, and Saan felt the breath leave his chest in a slow, silent rush. The lie had worked. The smooth, practiced words had done their job, and Robin was walking away, the folder under his arm, the meeting over, the night almost done.

Then Robin stopped.

He stood in the doorway, his back to Saan, one hand on the frame. The light from the hall cut around him, and for a moment he was just a silhouette, a shape against the brightness, impossible to read.

"Saan."

"Sir?"

"Seema's been different lately." The words were quiet, almost to himself. "Happier. She laughs more than she used to." He turned his head, just enough that Saan could see the profile of his face, the tired line of his jaw. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

The question landed like a weight. Saan felt it settle in his chest, felt the cold spread through him, felt his throat close around the answer he couldn't give.

"No, sir," he said. "I wouldn't."

Robin looked at him for a long moment. The fluorescent tube flickered. The shadows jumped. And then Robin nodded, a small, almost imperceptible dip of his chin, and walked out of the doorway without looking back.

The silence rushed in behind him.

Saan sat at his desk, his hands flat on the surface, his heart hammering against his ribs. The cursor still blinked on his monitor, the green pulse patient and indifferent. The folder was gone. The office was empty. The night pressed in around him, cold and dark and full of the things he couldn't say.

He looked down at his hands. They smelled like jasmine.

He reached for the keyboard, and his fingers hovered over the keys, and he thought about Seema—the way she'd looked at him in the car, the way she'd said his name, the way she'd told him she'd remember this every time she closed her eyes. He thought about Robin's flat, tired voice, the way he'd said Seema's been different lately, the way he'd asked the question like he already knew the answer.

The cursor blinked.

The office hummed.

And somewhere in the dark of the back lot, a single window glowed yellow in the night, and Saan didn't look at it twice.

He sat there for a long time after Robin left, the silence of the office settling around him like dust. The cursor kept blinking, green and patient, and he watched it without seeing it, his mind turning over the same images like stones in a river—Seema's mouth on his, the way her hips had moved against him in the back seat of her car, the way she'd whispered his name like a secret she couldn't keep.

His hands were still flat on the desk, and he could smell her on them still, jasmine and something warmer, something that made his chest ache. He turned them over, palms up, and looked at the lines there, the creases that had pressed into the leather of her seat, the faint marks where her nails had dug in. He closed his eyes, and the memory came back unbidden—the curve of her throat, the way she'd bitten her lip when she'd looked at him, the way she'd said, I'll remember this every time I close my eyes.

He opened his eyes. The office was still empty. The fluorescent tube at the far end of the hall had finally given up, a last green flicker and then nothing, leaving the corridor darker than before. The hum of the building was quieter now, the distant sound of a door closing somewhere, the groan of pipes in the walls, the soft hiss of the heating system kicking on.

He thought about Robin's face—the tired line of his jaw, the way he'd said Seema's been different lately like it was a confession, like he was asking for something Saan couldn't give. He thought about the way Robin had looked at him, the long, flat gaze that had seemed to see through the lie and then, inexplicably, let it stand. He didn't know if that was mercy or strategy, and the not-knowing was worse than either.

The folder was gone, but the desk still held the ghost of it—a paler rectangle where the cardboard had rested, a faint ring of warmth that had already faded. He ran his thumb over the spot, feeling the grain of the wood, the smooth worn place where his palm had rested for three weeks of late nights and early mornings.

He pulled his keyboard closer, and his fingers found the keys, but the words wouldn't come. The half-written report glowed on the screen, a wall of text that had made sense an hour ago, before Seema had appeared in his doorway in her dark coat and her perfume, before she'd taken his hand and led him out into the cold night and the back lot and the car with its warm interior and its back seat that smelled like leather and her.

He typed a sentence. Deleted it. Typed another. The cursor blinked, indifferent, and he watched it for a long moment, feeling the weight of the night pressing in around him.

There was a sound at the far end of the hall—a door opening, footsteps on the concrete. He looked up, his heart lurching, but the footsteps passed the office door without stopping, a janitor with a bucket and a mop, his shadow moving across the wall and then gone. The silence returned, thicker than before.

He sat back in his chair, and the chair creaked, and he looked at the window. The night was black out there, the city a scatter of distant lights, and somewhere in the dark of the back lot the single yellow window still glowed. He hadn't looked at it twice, but he could feel it now, a warm point in the cold, a reminder of what he'd done and what he couldn't undo.

His phone buzzed on the desk, a single vibration that made him jump. He picked it up, and the screen lit up with a number he didn't recognize, and he stared at it for a long moment, his thumb hovering over the answer button. Then the buzzing stopped, and the screen went dark, and he set the phone down on the desk, face-down, and didn't look at it again.

The office hummed. The cursor blinked. And Saan sat there with his hands in his lap, the smell of jasmine fading slowly from his skin, and waited for the night to end.

The phone buzzed again.

Not a single vibration this time—a sustained, insistent hum against the wood of the desk, the screen lighting up face-down, a pale glow bleeding into the grain. Saan's hand moved before he decided it would, reaching across the desk and turning the phone over.

Same number. Unknown. The digits meant nothing to him, a string of numerals that could belong to anyone—a wrong number, a telemarketer, a colleague from another floor. But the buzzing continued, patient, deliberate, and something in the back of his throat tightened.

He answered it.

"Hello?"

Silence. Then a breath—low, uneven, the sound of someone who had been holding it.

"Saan."

His name, spoken like a hand closing around his wrist. He knew the voice before the word finished, knew it in the way the syllables curved, in the slight rasp at the edge, in the way it dropped at the end like a stone into still water.

"Seema." He said it quietly, his eyes moving to the open doorway, the empty hall beyond it. "You shouldn't—"

"I know." Her voice was breathless, threaded with something that made his skin prickle. "I know I shouldn't. I told myself I wouldn't." A pause, and he heard the faint hum of an engine in the background, the soft tick of a cooling car. "I drove away. I got to the end of the lane. I told myself to keep going."

He said nothing. His thumb pressed against the edge of the phone, the plastic warm under his skin.

"I didn't keep going." Her voice cracked on the last word, a fissure in the steady, tired calm she'd worn all evening. "I'm still here. In the back lot. The engine's running." Another pause, longer this time. "I can't—"

The sentence died. He heard her exhale, a shaky sound that seemed to travel down the line and settle in his chest.

"I can't drive away," she said finally, and the words were small, almost childlike. "I tried. I put my hands on the wheel. I told myself to just—" She stopped. "But I keep thinking about your hands. The way they felt on my hips. The way you looked at me when you—"

"Seema." He said her name like a warning, like a door he was trying to close.

"I know." Her voice was steadier now, but only just. "I know. I'm not asking you to—" She paused, and he heard her swallow. "I'm not asking you to save me. I'm not asking you to fix anything. I just—" A long breath. "I just need you to come back. Just for a little while. Just until I can—"

The sentence hung in the air between them, unfinished, heavy.

Saan looked at the open doorway. The hall was empty. The fluorescent tube at the far end had given up, leaving the corridor dark. The office hummed around him, the cursor blinking on his monitor, patient, indifferent.

He thought about Robin. The flat, tired voice. Seema's been different lately. Happier. The way he'd asked the question like he already knew the answer, and then let it stand. He thought about the folder under Robin's arm, the way the older man had walked out of the doorway without looking back.

"Seema," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he meant it to, the name scraping against something tender in his throat. "I'm at work. I have a report—"

"I know." She cut him off, not sharply but gently, the way you'd soothe a nervous animal. "I know you have a report. I know you have a desk and a cursor and a hallway full of fluorescent lights that don't work. I know all of it." A pause, and he heard the engine idle, a low, patient thrum. "But I'm still here. In the back lot. The engine's running, and I can't make my hands turn the key."

He stood up. He didn't decide to—his body simply moved, the chair scraping back against the linoleum, his hand still holding the phone to his ear. The monitor glowed at him, the half-written report a wall of text he couldn't remember composing. "How long have you been sitting there?"

"Long enough to know I'm not leaving." Her voice had lost its crack, settled into something quieter, steadier, like water finding its level. "Long enough to know that if I drive away now, I'll spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if I'd stayed."

He heard himself speak before he'd decided the words, the phone still pressed to his ear, the warmth of her voice still pooled in his chest. "How long is the back lot going to stay lit?"

A pause. Then a sound that might have been a laugh, small and broken at the edges. "The pole light shuts off at two. The one by the fence stays on all night."

He glanced at the clock on his monitor. 11:47. The office was empty, the building's hum the only company he'd kept for hours. The report could wait until morning—it had waited through dinner and the movie he hadn't watched and the long, jasmine-scented hour in the back seat of her car, and it would wait a little longer still.

"The gate by the loading dock," he said. "Is it locked at night?"

"I don't think so. The night guard does his rounds at midnight, but he always takes his tea break after. He's probably in the canteen by now."

He set the phone down on the desk, not hanging up, just laying it flat so her voice could sit in the room with him while he moved. The jacket hung on the back of his chair, and he shrugged it on, the fabric cold against his shoulders. The cursor blinked on his monitor, and he reached out and pressed the power button, watching the screen collapse to black.

The hallway was darker than before, the dead fluorescent tube at the far end leaving a stretch of shadow he had to walk through. His footsteps echoed on the concrete, and he kept his pace steady, unhurried, the way you'd walk through a house you didn't want to wake. The loading dock door was where he remembered it, heavy and metal, and it swung open with a groan that seemed too loud in the empty building.

The cold hit him first—a November wind that cut through his jacket and made him pull the collar up. The back lot stretched out before him, a wide slab of asphalt with a few cars scattered under the pole lights. The one by the fence was still on, a sickly yellow cone of light falling across the gravel and the chain-link where the weeds grew tall. And there, at the edge of that cone, half in the light and half out, sat her car.

The engine wasn't running anymore. The headlights were off. But the interior light was on, a soft amber glow spilling through the windows, and he could see her silhouette behind the wheel, her head turned toward the loading dock, waiting.

He walked toward her. The gravel crunched under his shoes, and the wind pulled at his jacket, and the yellow light from the fence post made his shadow stretch long and thin across the asphalt. He didn't hurry. He didn't slow down. He just walked, his hands in his pockets, his breath fogging in the cold air, until he reached the driver's side door.

She had rolled the window down a crack, and her perfume reached him before her voice did—jasmine, warm and familiar, the same scent that had clung to his skin for the past two hours. Her hands were in her lap, folded, still. Her eyes were dark and wet in the amber light, and she looked at him through the crack in the window like she was looking at something she'd been afraid she'd never see again.

"You came," she said. The words were barely a breath.

He didn't answer. He reached for the door handle, and the door opened, and the warmth of the car's interior rushed out to meet him, carrying her scent and the soft tick of the cooling engine and the faint, lingering smell of leather. She didn't move as he slid into the passenger seat, didn't reach for him, just sat with her hands in her lap and her eyes on his face, and the door clicked shut behind him.

The silence between them was thick, heavy with everything that had been said and everything that hadn't. The interior light cast a soft glow over her face, over the curve of her cheek and the line of her jaw, over the dark coat she'd pulled tight around herself. She had been crying—he could see the faint shine on her cheeks, the slight redness at the rims of her eyes—but her voice was steady, and her hands were still, and she looked at him like she was memorizing his face.

"I didn't think you'd come," she said quietly. "I told myself you wouldn't. I told myself I'd sit here until the light went out, and then I'd drive home, and that would be that." A pause. "But I kept hoping."

He said nothing. His hands were in his lap, and he could feel the warmth of the car seeping into his cold skin, the faint vibration of the heater she must have turned on before the engine died. The dashboard clock read 11:52.

"What changed?" she asked. "Between the phone call and the door—what made you decide?"