Leila chooses the farthest corner of the Sinclair Enterprises courtyard — a small stone bench beneath a narrow row of olive trees, barely visible from the main glass building.
It's her new favorite hiding spot.
Out of habit, she checks her surroundings before sitting, making sure no one — especially not Elias — sees her. She wants quiet. Space. And most of all… distance.
Because this isn't just a workplace crush. It's something dangerously undefined.
And they come from different worlds — not just culturally, but spiritually, fundamentally. No matter how gently someone steps, some lines are sacred.
I need to protect him from this too, she thinks, biting into the warm chicken cheese paratha she packed for herself earlier this morning.
The smell alone brings her memories back in a flood — crisp Lahore mornings, the comforting chaos of Liberty Market, and the reckless thrill of bunking class with her friends just to have breakfast at their favorite dhaba(restaurant).
She chuckles quietly to herself, wiping her fingers on a napkin as she sips from the steel thermos of chai(tea).
Leila unlocks her phone, swipes into her gallery, and starts scrolling.
There they are — Areeba, Huda, Sana. Faces shining with the confidence of youth. The picture was taken outside their favorite café. She still remembers the caption Areeba made her write for that one:
"Four girls, two parathas, endless dreams."
A wistful smile pulls at her lips.
"I wonder if Sana still wants to open that book café," she murmurs aloud. "And Huda… I hope she got that Fulbright."
She sighs, then clicks on a short video. Laughter fills the air — hers included — as they tease each other in messy Urdu-English code-switching.
"Leila, marry first, PhD later!"
"Excuse me, food first, heartbreaks never!"
She laughs again, softer now. "I miss this."
Behind her, just out of sight, Elias stands under the shade of an adjacent awning, hands tucked into his coat pockets. He watches — not to spy, but because he can't help himself anymore.
He thought if he gave her space, the distance would quiet something inside him.
But it's only made it louder.
She avoids him now — never rudely, never overtly — but with a subtlety so sharp it could cut bone. He notices the way she always times her coffee breaks before or after his. How she turns her face just enough when she senses him approaching.
And yet, here she is — alone, smiling at her phone like she's briefly somewhere else. Somewhere warm and golden and untouched by the grey of this world he knows.
"She's keeping me out," Elias mutters.
"What was that?" Kai, who had followed him unnoticed, asks as he leans against the pillar beside him.
"Nothing," Elias lies, but his eyes remain fixed on her.
"She brought her own lunch again?" Kai observes. "Looks like some kind of desi wrap."
"Chicken cheese paratha," Elias answers without thinking.
Kai raises an eyebrow. "You Googled that?"
Elias doesn't respond.
Instead, he watches as Leila brings the thermos of tea to her lips, the steam curling upward like incense in a quiet prayer.
"She never eats meat from the cafeteria," Elias says more to himself. "Won't even touch it."
Kai squints at him. "You're way too invested in her dietary habits, bro."
Elias ignores the jab. He watches her one last time before she stands, tucking her phone away and gathering her container.
As she turns, something in the air shifts. She pauses — her eyes flick toward the corner where he stands, hidden by distance but not by feeling.
For a second — just one second — their gazes meet.
It's not a jolt. It's not a firestorm.
It's a quiet ache. Recognition. Restraint.
Leila quickly looks away. Her pace picks up.
Elias doesn't move.
Kai exhales beside him. "If you're not going to say anything soon, I swear I'm gonna—"
"She's protecting something," Elias interrupts. "Not just herself."
Kai frowns. "From what?"
Elias shakes his head slowly.
"From me," he whispers.
The sound of Leila's footsteps fades behind him, light but purposeful. Elias remains still, eyes fixed on the bench where she had just been — a single paper napkin fluttering in the breeze, left behind like the last whisper of her presence.
He turns slowly, walking back toward the main building with the weight of something he can't name pressing down on his chest.
She's not like the others.
He's told himself this more than once now — like a refrain, each time with a little more certainty. But today, watching her alone in her own world, smiling at her memories with a kind of sadness only the past can bring — it did something to him.
It made him feel... uninvited.
Unwelcome in a place that felt more sacred than anything he's ever touched.
Why does that bother me so much?
He passes the mirrored hallway just outside the elevator and catches his reflection — sharply dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, every line crisp, every detail deliberate. The image of control.
Power.
Dominance.
And yet…
Elias slows, standing before the glass. He searches his own eyes, like they might explain what's happening to him.
"She doesn't even try to draw attention," he mutters to himself.
She doesn't play games. She doesn't perform. She doesn't flirt, or manipulate, or chase. Her world moves in silence — structured, graceful, disciplined.
And yet, she has the kind of presence that commands notice without demanding it.
That bench. That smile. That tea. That sadness behind her eyes.
Elias exhales, shoulders stiff. It's infuriating, this unspoken way she makes him feel unworthy. Not by judgement — but by the stark contrast she creates just by being herself.
The elevator dings open. Kai is already there, leaning against the back panel, arms crossed.
"Well?" Kai asks, raising an eyebrow as Elias steps in.
Elias doesn't answer immediately.
Kai presses the button for the executive floor. "So... you gonna tell her?"
"Tell her what?" Elias says flatly.
Kai snorts. "That she's got you spiraling into poetry over her chicken cheese paratha."
Elias doesn't even crack a smile. His jaw is tight.
After a pause, he says quietly, "She deserves peace."
Kai turns, studying him more closely now. The teasing fades from his voice.
"You think you can't give her that?"
"I know I can't."
The elevator opens. They step out in silence, the soft thud of their footsteps muffled by the carpet.
Elias halts just before his office door.
He clenches his jaw and speaks, almost to himself.
"I live in a world where loyalty is currency, and trust is a weakness. Where peace is a lie we buy for a moment before war catches up."
Kai doesn't respond.
"She's not built for this," Elias adds. "And I'm not built for her world either."
Another pause. Then Kai says, "Maybe. Or maybe that's exactly why you noticed her in the first place."
Elias pushes open his office door, but doesn't enter.
Instead, he looks down the long hallway — the one that leads past the conference room, past the labs, to the department where she's probably returned now.
He can't see her. But he feels her.
And for the first time in years, Elias Sinclair — the man everyone fears and follows — feels like a boy again. Lost in a storm he doesn't know how to weather.
But he wants to learn.