When he walked away toward the lift, she felt something heavy in her chest.
Not longing.
Not love.
Something sharper.
Because she had seen that look before.
Too many times.
She reached his place that same evening.
Not dramatic. Not crying.
Just serious.
He opened the door. "You again?"
She didn't sit.
She didn't smile.
"If you want to like me," she said directly, "then like me from a distance. Don't ever try to come close. And don't touch me."
Silence.
His expression didn't change for two seconds.
Then it did.
Not calm.
Not amused.
Angry.
"What?" he asked slowly.
She folded her arms. "I know how this works. I've seen it. First attention. Then closeness. Then excuses to touch."
His jaw tightened visibly.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm pretty. I'm not blind. I've dealt with it before. The looks. The slow approach. The 'accidental' touches. I don't like it."
The air shifted.
Hard.
He stepped forward, eyes darker now.
"Did I ever touch you?"
She hesitated.
"No."
"Did I ever try?"
"No."
"Did I ever even stand close enough without you allowing it?"
Silence.
His voice rose — not shouting, but controlled anger.
"Without your permission I wouldn't have even looked at you twice. And you're standing here accusing me?"
She swallowed but didn't step back.
"You don't know how guys can be."
"And you don't know me," he snapped.
That hit.
She looked away for a second.
"Many have," she said quietly. "Many have tried. I've seen how bad it gets. I don't like when anyone touches me. I don't trust it."
He stared at her like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"So that's what you think of me?" he asked.
"I don't know what to think," she replied. "You look at me intensely. You come close. What am I supposed to assume?"
He ran a hand through his hair — frustrated now.
"Not once," he said firmly, "not once was it about touching you."
His voice steadied — but the anger remained.
"I noticed you slowly."
She looked at him.
He continued.
"First thing I noticed? You pretend you're careless — but you're not. You observe everything. In meetings, you stay quiet, but you remember details nobody else does. You correct mistakes without making people feel small."
She didn't expect that.
"Second," he went on, eyes fixed on hers, "you work harder than you let people see. You act like things come easy to you. They don't. I've seen you stay back. I've seen you redo work quietly so no one gets blamed."
Her throat tightened slightly.
"And third," his voice dropped, "you act innocent — but you're strong. You don't flirt for validation. You don't laugh just because someone expects you to. You hold your ground."
He stepped back slightly.
"I didn't like you because you're pretty. Yes, you are. But that's not why."
His jaw clenched again.
"I liked watching you think. I liked the way you argue without raising your voice. I liked that you don't try to impress anyone."
He exhaled sharply.
"And you think I wanted to touch you?"
The disbelief in his face hurt more than anger.
She looked conflicted.
"You don't understand what it's like," she whispered. "To always be watched like that. To always assume there's an intention."
"And you don't understand," he replied, voice tight, "what it feels like to be accused of something you never even thought about."
Tension again.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
"So if you want to like me," she said stubbornly, "do it from a distance."
He laughed once — not amused.
"I was leaving anyway," he said.
Her heart skipped.
"Leaving?"
"Office. This place. Everything. I didn't tell you because I didn't owe you that."
That silence again.
"But before I go," he added, voice firm, "don't reduce what I felt to something cheap."
She stood still.
"And don't blame me for things other men did."
That one landed.
Hard.
He picked up his keys.
"You were wrong about me," he said calmly now — not fake calm. Real, hurt calm.
"And you were scared," he added quietly.
She didn't respond.
Because maybe she was.
He walked past her.
This time she didn't stop him.
Big fight.
Big confession.
Big misunderstanding.
And for the first time—
Neither of them felt powerful.
Only misunderstood.