The office was unusually calm that evening.
Zoha had stayed back to organize files for an upcoming meeting. Ezra had fallen asleep earlier on the couch in Zafar's private office, his tiny arms wrapped around his favorite blanket. The air was silent except for the soft hum of the AC.
Zafar watched from behind his desk, his gaze not on his laptop—but on Zoha.
She was kneeling on the floor, sorting documents, her hair tied up, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Focused. Gentle.
He didn't know when it started—this habit of watching her.
Maybe it was the way she handled his son, no fear, no fake sweetness. Maybe it was the way she never demanded anything—never asked questions when he snapped, never crossed lines.
Or maybe… it was the way she smiled even when she was sad.
"Zoha," he called out.
She looked up. "Yes, sir?"
He hated how she still called him that.
"Come here."
She stood, brushing her hands clean, and walked toward him with quiet grace.
"Yes?"
"Sit."
She blinked. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No."
There was a long pause. Then, softly, Zafar asked, "Why do you never ask about my past?"
Zoha looked surprised. "Because it's yours. If you want to share, you will."
He studied her face, the softness in her eyes, the honesty in her voice.
"My wife left after Ezra was born," he said suddenly. "She said she never wanted a child. Said I'd ruined her life."
Zoha's chest tightened.
"I came home from the hospital with Ezra… and she was gone. Left a note and a house full of silence."
Zoha didn't speak. She just listened.
Zafar continued, slower now. "I've been raising him alone. Not because I'm strong. But because I had no choice. I don't trust anyone around him. Not anymore."
He looked at her.
"But I trust you."
Zoha's breath caught.
"I don't know what that means," he muttered, "but it's true."
She smiled, just a little. "Maybe it means you're healing."
He looked away.
"I don't want to."
"Why?"
"Because if I heal… I might fall. And I don't know how to survive another fall."
There it was—his truth. Raw. Unfiltered.
She reached across the desk, her fingers barely brushing his.
"Then don't fall," she whispered. "Let yourself feel. Slowly. Safely. No one's asking you to jump."
Later that night, as Zoha walked to the car, Zafar stood at his office window, watching her go.
For the first time in years, he whispered to himself—
"Maybe… this isn't just business anymore."
And deep inside, a feeling began to grow.
Soft.
Warm.
Dangerous.