Page 83 of No Boss
Each blow thudded against his chest, but none of them stayed there. They went deeper, past bone, past muscle, settling somewhere that tightened with every word she forced out between breaths.
This was not the Meera who argued with precision and sharp logic. This was raw. Unfiltered.
Her hand stilled. Then both hands caught his collar, twisting the fabric, pulling him closer as if she needed something solid and had chosen him.
“Say something.”
Her voice broke.
“Explain how you can stand there and listen to all of that and just…”
The rest dissolved into a sob.
“This is my home…”
Her head dropped. Shoulders shaking, breath uneven, breaking through her control. The anger remained, but she could not keep it together.
Abhinav had taken every word, every strike, without flinching. But this… this he could not stand through.
The moment her voice broke, something in him broke as well. His chest hurt, like a crack running through something he had always relied on being solid.
And it undid him in a way nothing else had.
His hand closed around her wrist. Careful, soft, measured.
She gasped, trying to pull back. His grip didn’t tighten. It loosened, yet holding without trapping.
“Sit.”
The word came low. Not a command. Not even close. Something… softer.
Her resistance slipped.
He guided her back, his hand still around her wrist. She sank into the chair, unsteady, another sob forcing its way out. His grip eased once she was seated. He reached for water, poured a glass, held it toward her.
She shook her head, tears still falling.
He did not press. He placed the glass within her reach instead.
Then, he stepped closer and lowered himself in front of her, slow, deliberate, until he was on his knees, level with her.
It felt instinctive.
Her face was flushed, tears streaking down her cheeks. Her lips trembled under the weight of words she could not say. Her breath came in pieces. Her hands rested in her lap, shaking, fingers curling into themselves as if they had nowhere left to go now that the fight had drained out of her.
And something in his chest tightened further.
He reached for her, both hands rising to her face. His palms settled against her cheeks, warm, grounding. His fingers slid into her hair, guiding her face up toward him.
She stilled.
Her breath caught.
His thumbs moved over her cheekbones, catching the tears as they fell. It was not only comfort. It was recognition. Of what she had made him feel. Of what it had done to him.
He closed the distance, his gaze locked on hers, open in a way he did not allow often. “I prefer you fighting to crying.”
Her lips parted. No words followed.
