Something hurts

The sun hadn't quite cleared the horizon when the first rumble of the heavy machinery vibrated through the pavement. The twelve hours were up.

Keerthi was running on nothing but the lingering caffeine of the cardamom tea and a stubborn sense of duty. She had spent the last four hours hauling the final crates of the community center’s records to the curb. Her head felt heavy, like it was filled with cotton wool, and the world kept tilting at a three-degree angle every time she stood up too fast.

Advaita Singh stood by his black SUV, his arms crossed over his chest. He had changed into a fresh suit, but his eyes were fixed on the girl staggering out of the basement. He noticed the way her steps faltered. He noticed the way she gripped the doorframe for a second too long.

"Miss Arora, you’re done," he called out, his voice sharp. "Get behind the safety line."

Keerthi didn't even have the energy to snap back. "Just... one more. The registers... they’re still on the desk."

Before Advaita could stop her, she disappeared back into the maw of the building.

At that exact moment, the foreman, misinterpreting a hand signal, gave the order. The wrecking ball didn't swing, but the secondary demolition crew began the localized "punch-through" of the rear wall.

A dull thud shook the earth. Inside the basement, the vibration was a roar. Dust erupted from the ceiling in a choking cloud.

Advaita’s heart didn't skip a beat—it stopped. "Keerthi!"

He didn't think about his shoes or the dust. He moved. He was inside the threshold just as Keerthi emerged from the back room, clutching a heavy ledger. The shockwave of the wall coming down nearby sent a fresh wave of vertigo through her. Her knees simply buckled. The world went grey, and she began to slide toward the floor.

She didn't hit the ground.

Advaita caught her mid-fall, his arm hooking firmly around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. Her head hit his shoulder with a soft thud.

He didn't scream her name or shake her. He was a man of action, not hysterics.

He lifted her easily, his movements efficient and steady, and carried her out into the fresh morning air just as the dust settled behind them. He sat her down on the backseat of his SUV, keeping the door open.

Keerthi's eyes flickered open, blurry and unfocused. She saw the sharp line of his jaw and felt the steady, rhythmic thrum of his pulse against her hand.

"The... the books..." she muttered, her voice a faint rasp.

"The books are safe. Close your eyes," Advaita commanded. It wasn't an endearment; it was an order.

He didn't call for a doctor immediately. He reached into the small refrigerator in the console of his car, pulled out a bottle of chilled water, and unscrewed the cap. He didn't pour it over her; instead, he took his own silk handkerchief, soaked it, and began to press it against the back of her neck and her temples.

His touch was surprisingly gentle for a man who looked like he was made of stone. He didn't say 'Are you okay?' or 'You scared me.' He just focused on the physical reality of her heatstroke.

"Drink," he said, holding the bottle to her lips.

Khushi took a sip, the cold water clearing the fog in her brain. She looked up at him. His face was a mask of cold professionalism, but his fingers were still holding the damp cloth to her neck, ensuring her temperature dropped.

"You're covered in dust," she whispered, noticing the grey powder coating his expensive dark coat.

Advaita glanced down at his ruined sleeve and then back at her. For a split second, his grip on her shoulder tightened—just a fraction.

"It’s just a suit, Miss Arora," he said, his voice level and devoid of sentiment. "But if you faint on my property again, I’ll have you sued for trespassing. Now, sit still until your pulse stabilizes. That is not a request."

He stayed there, standing between her and the sun, providing the only shade she had, his hand never leaving her shoulder until the color returned to her cheeks. He wasn't expressive, and he wasn't kind, but he didn't let go.

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